Brains ... BRAAAAAINNNNNSSSS!!!!!

And that's my Halloween tribute.

Sorry, but I think I've quite successfully killed any creative impulses I had, by the costume I made for T2, and the cupcakes I made for T1's Halloween party. I will, however, pass on a Very Important Announcement to those lucky bastards who subscribe to Starz cable network. Unless you have a major aversion to bunnies, I strongly suggest you watch this. For the rest of us, who don't have the cash or the braiiiins (sorry), to subscribe to such a fine network, this will have to suffice.

Another Public Service Message

For all you undecided folk out there, here's yet another reason to vote Bush OUT of office: All the cool kids are doing it.

Disturbing Thought of the Day:

"Dear God, I hope that's a Cocoa Puff on the floor."

Lucy, You Got Some 'Splainin' To Do

Things I don't understand:

*Why that young gentleman I saw at Wal*Mart this weekend thought it would be a good idea to wear a TAIL in public.

*Why my mother's helpful advice generally ends with a recipe for roast beef.

*Dust.

*The appeal and/or the reasoning behind aspic. It looks like clear snot, and doesn't taste like anything.

*Why the people who invented white chocolate and carob haven't been executed, or beaten, or made to live with Anna Nicole Smith.

*Anna Nicole Smith.


There it is. Anyone?

Stitches in Time

I have a sickness. Since I lack a medical degree, and I like to make stuff up, I'll name it 'Ennuitis-Shit-for-Brains Syndrome.' This is a progressive disease: First I decide that I'm too creative for my own good, and why should I sully my creativeness and BUY stuff, when I can MAKE it? Then, when Christmas rolls around, I decide that I'll make something simple, like these, for a few people on my list. It starts out as just a few, but once I hit the fabric store, I see that, holy cow! Fleece comes in more than one color and pattern! Who woulda thunk, right? So, the short list which previously may have consisted of my mother, husband and an aunt or two, immediately expands to everyone on the Western Hemisphere who owns a phone. Still good, still reasonably do-able, still have over a month to get them all done. Cut back on an hour or so of sleep a day, no problem.

Then, just past the flannel section of the store, I see that they have cross-stitch patterns. And beyond that, quilting material, and embroidery thread, and macrame and rug making kits ... and ... and ... Before I know it, the list has grown to include everyone on the planet with the letter B somewhere in their name, and I'm embroidering the names of all their pets underneath hand-painted quilt blocks depicting their entire family. I have opted to stop eating food that can't be sucked through a straw, haven't slept since the first seasonal showing of It's a Wonderful Life appeared, and have begun to wear empty Kleenex boxes as shoes. The day before Christmas, I have stopped eating entirely, my hair is sewn to my shirt, and I have begun referring to myself as Miss Havisham and attend Midnight Mass in my wedding gown.

Since becoming unemployed, I've noticed that the disease isn't seasonal, either. I've started collecting projects to do, such as the Scout Newsletter, the Halloween costume that won't die, this blog and the Street, and volunteering to do cupcakes for and help with school parties. I've also been busy stealing my friend Llama's ideas, and will start on this for T2's birthday. I'm not even going to talk about Christmas ...

Last weekend at church, after the service they were doing a volunteer sign-up thing downstairs. Rows and rows of tables set up, begging for young, healthy and terminally bored people to devote their time and talents in various enterprises. I wandered around, dazed and slightly drooling. Luckily, my husband spotted me, just as the crazed look came into my eyes, and shot me with a tranq gun before I charged, snorting and foaming, into the Ladies Guild table, selling myself into indentured servitude, making and selling hand embroidered hankies for the rest of my life. He didn't get the shot off quite in time, however, and I will be helping out with the craft fair in November, but I will only be manning the table for a few hours, not making anything.

The wedding dress is optional.

Good News/Bad News

First, the bad news.

Now for the good news: This means there's an opening for someone ELSE to make money and win awards and recruit minions, just for writing about boogers! (Pssst, Miami Herald People-In-Charge-of-Hiring-Booger-Columnists? Call me!)

It Had to Happen

You start a blog. You give that blog a clever and painfully witty name. People put up golden icons in your honor.
Then, the bastards steal it.

It's That Time Again!

It's Friday Funnies over at The Street again. The Peanut Gallery and other assorted nuts are gathering over there to scare away the Soccer Moms and piss off the religious zealots. Or, we're gonna make everyone laugh. Get thee hence, and read. And bring a change of underwear. (Because we can't afford our own.)

And the Cow Goes MOOOO

T2's Halloween costume is nearly finished. There has been some concern about it, what with certain steps/items needed, such as horsehair and yoke. I wasn't sure if I should take her trick-or-treating or enter her in the State Fair Livestock Division.

Then she tried it on. And DAMN, SHE LOOKED BEAUTIFUL. It literally made my heart hurt, looking at her in her dress. Then, when I mentioned as such, she looked at me, very somberly, took my face in her hands, and told me that she did not want to break my heart. No, she did not. I figured it wouldn't do any good to let her know that she just did. Yes, she just did.

To Appease the Masses

and to prove that, yes, I CAN post something that doesn't have to do with my cat. Here's a little something I didn't do, but would readily take credit for, if it weren't for that pesky anti-plagiarism ethic, and those stupid copyright laws.

Enjoy.

It's All Fun and Games Till Somebody Loses a Finger

My life has just sunk below pathetic and is edging towards stagnant. The downward trend is expected to continue into next week, with possible downpours of intelligent thought and random synapse firings over the weekend. Now, here's Me with the local news.

My cat has something stuck in his throat. I'm an expert on cats with something in their throats, because A)I have cats. B) All cats frequently (read: from the moment they wake up till the moment they die) have objects stuck in their throats. C) When cats have something in their throats, they will expel said objects forcibly yet slowly from their throats.

What many people fail to understand is that cats are able to hold objects in their throats for an extended amount of time. It has been rumored that cats are cross-bred from chipmunks and camels, but has never been scientifically proven. Another little known fact is that cats operate on a point system, much like this one. (The reference to 'Cat Taunting' is just a ruse, to dissuade any actual scientists from proving that there has been any hanky panky between the species. Crafty little buggers.) The points are awarded depending on how long the object is actually held in the throat, how forcibly and how far it travels once it comes out of the throat, and how much damage, financial or emotional, it causes once it reaches it's destination. (After, of course, being expelled from the throat.)

My cat is apparently trying to win the Gold in the Cat Olympics, in the Object Holding and Puking event. For the past two days, I've spotted him occasionally doing either a very bad Joe Cocker impersonation, or he's trying to expel something roughly the size of a small hen. I've tried looking into his mouth, to see if I can spot and remove the object, but this is very difficult to do alone, since as I may have mentioned, he's roughly the same size and weight of a Volkswagen Beetle, only with claws and fangs. So, without the aid of my husband, full body armor, and various power tools, I'm forced to watch and wait for him to expel what may be the Lindburgh baby. If it doesn't happen by tomorrow, I'll be forced to call a vet, and they can first reach in and extract whatever miscellaneous object is in his throat, and then they can reach in and extract various miscellaneous objects from our wallet.

Buy Something, or the Kitten Gets It*

I've joined the Dark Side, and have opened a CafePress store (see link to side, under my e-mail me link). The store is somewhat bare, it currently has only two items, and a depressingly boring 'storefront'. This will be remedied shortly, once I get my creative mojo up and running, and churn out a logo to end all logos. Then, you too, can own a piece of the Tater. A french fry, perhaps, or, if you're feeling generous, you could order a side of hash browns.

I'll stop with the potato references now.


*Not really.
(But buy something, anyway. You know you want to.)

Alias-Season 3~What the HELL?!?

Fine, I'm an Alias junkie. I admit it, I won't stop, you can't make me, and not till I hit rock bottom and start proclaiming that I am actually Sydney Bristow, will I stop. (Of course, once that happens, I'll be locked away for clothes-lining people at the local Wal-Mart because I feel ... no, I KNOW that they have hidden in their shoe microchips containing the plans for a giant espresso machine that will steam and froth the entire planet.)

But, I'm not Sydney Bristow, I'm just hooked on the show. And I have never clothes-lined anyone at Wal-Mart. Maybe at Target, once or twice, at the clearance rack, but never Wal-Mart.

Ok, but the SHOW! I just finished watching the end of the season 2 DVDs, and ... what the HELL?!? (Spoiler alert, if you are also watching, and don't want to ... get it spoiled, stop reading NOW.)

...

...

...

...

(Are they gone? They are? Good.) As I was saying, what the HELL?!? She shoots and kills the evil double of Francie, in a fight scene that rivals the 7 minute one from They Live, falls against the wall, beat up and exhausted, and wakes up in an alley in ... Hong Kong? I was thinking they were pulling a Dallas 'It was all a dream' cliffhanger over on us, but turns out it's actually two years later, Vaughn is married, her apartment burned down, Will is alive, her father is in prison, Sloane is a good guy, and talking apes have taken over the world. (Fine. Talking apes have not taken over the world, but you have to admit, it would be pretty cool if they did.)

So. In case you missed it, WHAT THE HELL?!?

Ya Learn Something New Every Day

I had the meeting with T2's teachers and the special ed counselors. We sat around a table, and one by one they detailed what they had tested him for, how they did everything, and what their results were. All had the same findings, that he is either at or above where he should be, and no one there believed he needed any special help, at all. One of them, who had observed him last year, when this whole thing started, asked me if I had any idea what had happened, and why he was doing so well now when he wasn't last year. I tried to take the high road, honest I did. For about 5 seconds, in my head. The gist of my answer was that I never felt he was a candidate for special ed, and his dragging his feet in writing was either due to stubbornness, boredom, or immaturity, most likely a combination of all three. And, wow, guess I was right.

So, that brings the score:

Overly Concerned Newbie Teacher: 0
Overly Concerned Cynical Mother: 1

I did my best not to point fingers (although I did draw nasty pictures of certain individuals with their fingers in their noses), because she was honestly concerned about him. Maybe a bit too quick to jump on the 'Oh, dear, he's not paying attention and not doing his schoolwork. Let's MEDICATE HIM!' bandwagon, but her intentions were good. Or so she's led me to believe ...

Enforced Insomnia

I can't sleep. Not because I have a lot on my mind. Not because I'm overly depressed, worried, or tense about anything. Not because I didn't spring for the Serta Comatose Deluxe, either.

No, I can't sleep because I have a tiny, black, fuzzy assassin jumping on MY FACE. My feet proved to be too hard to get to, my hands didn't have enough meat, but, oh my dear, MY HEAD! It's large, easy to see, and mostly unprotected. It also makes the most delightful squealing noises when 10 needle-like claws are sunk into it, especially during a 3 a.m. sneak attack.

Kittens are SUCH fun.

Debate Follow-Up

Nobody died. Georgie didn't burst into flames (although, at one point, I was concerned that he may have been having a stroke), and Kerry laughed. No, not at the non-burning Bush, I'm just making an observation. And, you wanna know what the best part is? It's OVER.

Have a Drink on Me

Since I'm the blogger that cares, I will go to great lengths to keep you, my legion of loyal readers, entertained and happy. I might even be wiling to go down the street to get you a Subway sandwich, but you'd have to pay for gas. So, with that thought in mind, I present to you:

The Tater Drinking Game

The rules are quite simple:

Whenever I use CAPITAL LETTERS to illustrate that something is supposed to be humorous, (for example: 'I have done Extensive Research...' or 'Anna Nicole Smith'), take one drink.

Whenever I use a string of words connected by dashes (ex.: '... Martha-Stewart-Wanna-Be-Who-Is-Really-Rush-Limbaugh-In-Drag...), take two drinks.

Whenever I stutter or mention 'Haliburton' ... no, wait, that's another drinking game. Ignore this one.

And, finally, whenever I dive right off into the deep end, and starting spouting out stories and facts about Things-That-Only-Happen-In-The-Land-Of-The-Purple-Sky-People*, grab whatever bottle is nearest to you, and down the entire sucker as fast as humanly possible.

Now, since this is not televised, obviously you can't play it like other types of drinking games. What I would suggest, is at least 2 weeks before the party, you get a list of people who you like to drink with. Invite these people. Then, once you have the guest list squared away, and you have a pretty good idea of how many people will be in attendance, you then print all of my entries, and make enough copies for everyone. (It would probably be a good idea to make a few extras, in case more show up than expected.) Now, in order to save time, if your friends tend to be a bit slow on the uptake, you may want to go through and highlight the different things they need to look out for. Use different colors, and then print out a separate color key. For example, you could assign the color blue for the all caps, and have the number three in blue on the color key.

Then, everybody can sit down, read the posts, and the hilarity will soon ensue. Of course, you may also need to have one person read it first, and then have them do the drinking, with someone else reading over their shoulder, to prevent any cheating ... but then that would leave one drunk person and a group of sober people. Hmmm ... or you could all just read it aloud, and then drink simultaneously ... but then you would have to put down the papers to drink, and you may lose your place...

You know what? On second thought, this was a phenomenonally stupid idea. I'm sorry I had you all read this. I thought it would work. Let's just forget this whole thing, and drink ourselves into a stupor the old-fashioned way, sitting on our asses in front of the TV.

*Attentive Tater readers would have noted this was one of the situations calling for a drink, and would have already have this printed and highlighted in the correct color code. But, since we've already determined this whole thing is a colossal waste of time, Even-More-Attentive readers are already 3 sheets to the wind and can't see the monitor anymore, anyway.

Wash Your Hair or Go to Jail

In light of recent bile-spewing and hate mongering posts, I thought I'd change direction a bit, and, since I am a reasonably intelligent and well-read woman, and there is the debate going on tonight, I'd discuss something of Great Importance.

Hair products.

There are several different kinds, and, from what I gather from television commercials, if you pick the wrong one, you are doomed to be a sexless, frizzy haired freak of nature. Dogs will cower in your presence, infants will cry at your approach, the villagers will parade 'round your house with pitchforks and torches. You will, in fact, turn into this.

My husband knew that I was out of shampoo, and that my shampoo comes in a green bottle. He didn't know that I use Conditioning Shampoo for Damaged Hair. He got Volumizing for Thin Hair. Not, I'm not a shampoo expert, by any means, nor do I want to be one. Being a Shampoo Expert involves years of training, selling your soul to this man, and a frontal lobotomy. (This is not totally true. It actually only takes about 6 months, but there was math!) I don't know if I'm prepared to make such a commitment.

Now, you may be asking yourself: What does this mean? But are more likely asking: Why am I still reading this? You may be even asking: What's shampoo?

This means, that I'm not sure what using Volumizing for Thin Hair will do to me. I may become one of the Big-Haired People, and will have to change my name to Thelma Bob Sue Jean, and listen to country western music.

You are still reading this because it's Important to Know, and what else are you going to do? Read books? Exercise? VOTE?!?

And, finally, if you don't know what shampoo is, boy, are YOU in the wrong place. Maybe these people can help you. Or it can turn you into an anime fan, in which case, you're REALLY in the wrong place.

This Just In:

The world is run by a bunch of howling, incompetent and downright STUPID asswipes. I got a call from the counselor at T1's school, who will be at the Inquisition, I mean 'Team Meeting' later this week. She introduced herself, and then asked the single worst phrased question I have heard (and, this being an election year, that's saying a lot). "Hi, I'm Mrs. A., and I'm the Highly Trained Yet Remarkably Useless Waste of Oxygen That Will be Evaluating Your Son. I would just like to ask, do you have any concerns, social or emotional, that are preventing him from being as successful as he can be?" This is, apparently, the politically correct way to inform someone that your kid is a basket case, and you should just take that college fund and blow it all on hats. After assuring her that A)I do have a fully functioning brain, and B) that no, I don't, she told me that she had talked to his teacher and the other Highly Trained Wastes, and they had told her the same thing. Leaving me wondering: what the hell are we having a meeting for, then?

Then she said something that floored me. She HASN'T MET HIM YET. She is one of the people who will be deciding if and how much special help he needs, yet she is going on hearsay. Boy, it's a good thing she has a Highly Impressive Title, or I might have been tempted to freak right the hell out. When I mentioned that maybe it might be a little bit, oh I don't know, presumptous to label someone as having special needs when you haven't even SEEN them yet, she immediately assured me that she will be observing him in the classroom before the meeting. I wonder, did she make a beeping noise, backing up that fast?

But, not to worry. See, I'm part of a 'team', and the 'team' will jointly decide what is best for my son. And if the majority of the 'team' is making decisions based on various notes on Post-Its on his record, I have nothing to worry about.

Right?

So I Married an Axe Murderer

My husband will say, even on pain of death, that he hates kids (except ours) and all people (except us) and that he will cross the street to kick a puppy (we don't have any puppies, but I can reasonably assume that, if we did, he'd exclude it). He's also a BIG FAT LIAR. He is in reality a big gooby pile of sweetness, but I let him grump around, muttering and scowling while I kiss him on the top of his rapidly growing forehead.

I'll present the evidence, and let the jury decide.

We used to have neighbors on the floor above us, and, if I were to be nice, I'd call them less-than-stellar parents. However, today I have no interest in being nice, so I'll just call them self-absorbed and insensitive asswipes. Let's move on, shall we?
They had two kids, one close to my son's age, and a newborn daughter. The boy was from the mother's first marriage, and the girl was the mother's and the stepdad's. I never asked about the boy's father, because of course that would be rude and presumptious of me, and no information was ever offered. However, from the way the son was treated, I can only imagine he was a direct descendant of Hitler.
The couple's work schedule didn't coordinate with the school's, and I wasn't working at the time, so I would babysit occasionally after school until the father came home. Now, here's where it gets interesting.
The son had a TV, a computer, and 2 video game players in his room. He would stay in there, until his mother was ready to leave, and he would pop out and kiss her goodbye, then disappear back into his room. Then the husband would come home, he would kiss and adore the daughter, who was in the living room with me. The boy would wander out, get all puppy-eyed and adorable and hurl himself at the father. He would then be barked at, told "Get off me. I just came home, I'm tired, leave me alone." So he would hide back in his room, and stayed there while the dad continued to be a good dad, to the baby. Anyway, when I babysat from then on, he was NOT allowed to play video games, and instead was forced to play board games with me, or color pictures for me, and several other cruel and unusual punishments, some involving Play-Do and Legos.

Now, after awhile, the dad's job here was downsized out of existence, so he had to look for work in another state. He left first, and the mother stayed behind, in order to give her notice and settle affairs here. I helped out with babysitting (she was working nights now), and she mentioned in passing to me that her son's birthday was coming up, and she 'regretted' that she wasn't going to have much time to do anything for him. Ok, Pinocchio, would you kindly get your nose out of my eye, now? Thank you. (Here comes the gooby-pile-of-sweetness part.) I told my husband about this, and he immediately said "Let's give him a cake! We'll bake it now, and we'll put up the Happy Birthday banner, and we'll send T1 up there, just to ask him to play, but we'll really have the cake as a surprise ... "

The defense rests.

Imagine A Real Cause

This would be a really good idea(http://www.petitiononline.com/Imagine/petition.html) if it would actually accomplish something. Call me a cynic, but in all honesty, creating a day to honor John Lennon would not make people everywhere suddenly to throw down their weapons, put aside their differences, and dive right into a cluster fuck. What would be more likely to happen is smaller groups of people use it as an excuse to get stoned, and practice unsafe cluster fucks. I'm sure I could put it in more eloquent terms if I tried, but I'm having a really crappy week, so I'll leave it up to the rest of you.

Beware the Jabberwock, My Son!

Her Royal Kittenness may look very cute, fluffy and SMALL, but she's the Devil incarnate. You don't believe me, ask my children. I leave the room, she's curled up on the couch, innocent and purring. I come back, 5 minutes later, and she has my son trapped on the table. ON THE TABLE. He outweighs her approximately 10 to 1, yet he's sitting in the middle of the dining room table, while she's sitting directly beneath, staring at him and drooling. My daughter refused to leave my lap all day today, because every time she walked across the room, the cat materialized from vapor and attacked her. I can't sleep at night, because she's either trying to make a nest in my hair, or tunnel through my skull so she can eat my brain. And, just now, she wrestled the Boss Kitty, who weighs more than MY CAR, off the couch. Hmmm. Pray for me, loyal readers, I'm calling the exorcist.

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!

My son may have a learning disability. Although, I think it is just a speech disability, and whatever learning disability there was, he's outgrown or just never had one to begin with.

He had the same teacher for 1st and 2nd grade, and she had mentioned that she believed that he had a disability, and asked if I would mind if she brought in a specialist to observe him. Here's the gist of the conversation:

Me: "Um, okay, if you really want to. But I don't think it's warranted."

Her: "Oh, really? Why?"

Me: "Well, he's doing fine in every other subject, and is even doing excellent in most of them."

Her: "Yes, but his writing skills aren't very good."

Me: "I know, but he's really very stubborn. If he doesn't want to do something, he will do everything to NOT do that."

Her: "Yes, I've noticed that. Whenever I get after him to do his writing, he comes up with one excuse or another."

Me: "Right. So, that's why I don't think it's a disability, I think he just needs to start doing his work, whether he wants to or not."

Her: "So. I'll bring in the specialist then, okay?"

Me: *blinks* "Um, okay ... "

Did you catch it? She AGREED with me, then went ahead and completely disregarded everything I said. Because, I clearly had my head in the sand, and was completely blind to the fact that my son was bound for the short bus and special helmet, and had done absolutely no research AT ALL about ADD, ADHD, Asperger's, Autism, Dyslexia, speech delay, cognitive development, NOTHING, and I was just a big, dumb girl.

So, fast forward to this summer, and I get a very insulting letter from the school adminstration, basically implying that I can either willingly consent to having him tested, or I can have the decision made FOR me. Now, before I even received the letter, we had decided that we would go ahead and get him tested. Then that letter came, and I damn near pulled him out of school and homeschooled him just because of the letter and it's not-so-subtle threats. I calmed down, signed it, and he started the pre-evaluation the second or third week of school, to see if he qualified for an IEP (individualized education program). Then, the ink is barely dry on the page, when he starts doing his writing. And doing it WELL! Very interesting, especially since he has a different teacher this year, and, hmmm, maybe he WAS just bored? And, stranger things have happened, I suppose, but maybe his mother did know him better than a bunch of over-educated dillholes?

So, he was tested, his writing skills have improved drastically in the interim, but they're still having a meeting this week about his eligibility. Um, okay. I do agree, there may be some faulty wiring where his speech is concerned, but they have asked for information that seems like they are looking for information if he's a serial killer. They asked about my pregnancy, if there were any complications, how long it took him to sit by himself, when he started walking, talking, if he ever bit off anyone's ear and mailed it to them ... (OK, so they didn't ask this last question. But I could tell they WANTED to.)

Then I get a letter detailing the meeting to determine his eligibility, when and where it will be. It also ran off a whole list of people who will either be there or they are encouraging me to bring. This part was a little unclear, but the roster was quite impressive: Teachers, para-professionals, social workers, speech therapists, a NASCAR pit crew, the entire cast of Cats, and Emeril from the Food Network. I don't know, but doesn't this smack of being just a tad overdone? I mean, I almost expect them to wheel my son out on a hand cart wearing a hockey mask and a strait jacket.

And, still not sure how much of this testing is because they are truly concerned about him, or the No Child Left Untested monstrosity. Not to mention the insulting implications that I have no concern toward my child, that I have no valid reasoning behind questioning the Great and Powerful Oz, and, this most significantly, the scare tactics and outright bullying if I fail to comply, that really gets me.

10+ Things I Hate About You

I apologize, I was temporarily under the spell of Her Tiny Kittenness, and totally forgot my calling, which is calling out the idiots and wankers of the world who need heavy objects dropped from tall buildings onto their big stupid fat heads. (I think it may have originally been spreading peace and global understanding using vegetable oil and chicken wire, but screw that!)

So, here it is:

Dual-gender couples who cheerfully exclaim, "We're pregnant!" Not "We're having a baby!" or even the more accurate "She's having a baby. I'm going to do my best not to hurl on top of her head, and simultaneously be helpful and supportive by reminding her to breathe and not letting the others in the room know she's had my nuts and berries in a Kung Fu death grip for the last 15 minutes." Unless I've been horribly led astray, (and, if so, UH is in for SUCH a beating) only one of you is pregnant, pal!

People who buy a new car, then park it at an angle in parking lots to avoid dings on the side. Gee, I hope the guys at the impound lot are as considerate, when I have the POS towed for illegal and dumbass parking.

People who think it's cute, charming and/or funny to insult my children. It's a term of endearment when I call them my little pig droppings, when you do it, it's time to notify your next of kin.

Retail store owners who disallow their employees to show nose or facial piercings of any sort while working. As if it's SO much more attractive to stare at a huge Curad on the side of someone's nose.

Finally, people who, during certain times of the month, who tell me the pain is "all in my head" or that "exercise will help." Yeah, that's JUST what I want to do, go for a jog when I have a set of vise grips attached to my lower abdomen and a railroad spike shoved in my spine. I have a better idea. Why don't I just RUN YOU OVER WITH MY CAR? Yeah, that'll fix everything up straight away.

That's all I have for now. Wanna make something of it?

Love Me NOW, or I WILL HAVE YOU KILLED.

As previously reported, we have a new kitten. This was done chiefly to get the Boss Kitty, who is a fat, dumb lardass wrapped in fur who I love beyond reason, off his fat dumb lardass (that I love beyond reason) and prevent him becoming a fatter lardass (the 'dumber' bit isn't possible.) The second reason I got her was because she's just really really itty bitty and cute, and drove any bit of financial sense or logical reasoning completely out of my head. The kids need coats? We don't have any food in the house? Well, okay, but she's got a fuzzy widdle nose!

Since she has moved in, she has quite figured out the pecking order in the house. "The Boss Kitty is to be admired and meowed at from a distance, the children are squealing little maniacs and must be destroyed, feet first, the man makes strange noises when sleeping, and most likely will need to be destroyed, but THE WOMAN. Oh, THE WOMAN is just catnip and cream on toast. She must be loved, worshipped, climbed upon, and nuzzled at any possible opportunity. She needs no sleep, she needs wet purry kisses at 3 am, and needs to have her hair (OH! Her HAIR!) wrapped around my little body several times and I can just DIE IN HER HAIR."

She also has a nasty case of ear mites, and I spent the morning swabbing out the black crud. Urk.

Things To Do When You're Dumb

Eat a whopping 3 bites of chicken for dinner. Then, (and this is important), as quickly as humanly possible, suck down half a bottle of wine. Then, lie down on the bed for a half hour catnap, but wake up a good 8 hours later, fully dressed and totally confused.

Ok, now that I've got the unemployed bit down, and I'm clearly well on my way to the alcoholic part, it's just a hop and a skip away from the Jerry Springer show. Except that I have all my original teeth, do not have or have no desire to have, a mullet. So, there goes that plan.

What I did today, that didn't involve a trip to the local detox center: Went shopping for the last pieces of the costume. I discovered what horse hair is, and it is not actually HORSE HAIR. Good to know. I also got a kitten, who has been busy destroying evil socks and fingers and kitchen floor rugs all afternoon, and is sleeping the sleep of the very tired fighters of all evil things.

And, in a truly bizarre yet par for the course conversational twist with the friend I went shopping and kitten-napping with today, (who shall henceforth be referred to as Squishy, for reasons that will become clear in about 2 sentences) she dared me to discuss her breasts on my blog tonight. So, without further ado, here it is:

She has breasts. Two of them. And they are very LAAAAARRRRGE BREEAASSSSTS.

I aim to please.

I Have It! Uh, No, I Don't ... Wait, Yeaah ... No, I Got Nothing

I won't tell you how long I sat in front of my computer screen last night, although it was for nearly two hours. My ever-helpful friend Llama told me, when I commented that I was sitting here freaking out about writing for The Street, not to get "writer's block over that 'whole writing for a large audience of strangers'". I quickly assured her that I was not doing any such thing. I was, in fact, way past that and quickly on my way to 'having an aneurysm over the whole writing for a large audience of strangers.' I did not actually have an aneurysm, I was able to post something, whether it made any sense or not, or was even funny, remains to be seen. Boy, I'm sure glad I haven't been sitting here all day, hitting the refresh button, to see if any comments come up. That would just be way too sad and demoralizing to even consider.

Anyway, back to my other life, the one where politics and humor and writing don't matter, so long as I have a small and persistent human surgically attached to my left hip.

I have made huge progress on the costume, and it is starting to resemble an actual piece of clothing, albeit a piece of clothing that looks, at this stage, like a tiny pink prow of a ship. That's fine, after Halloween we can take it rafting.

The Boy Scout Mafia has not come through with the promised newsletter 'work.' I have asked Don Martha a few times, and she says a lot of words that don't actually mean anything. I have figured it out, if I am the one doing the newsletter, then that means SHE WON'T BE. And that would result in SOMEBODY ELSE THAT IS NOT HER DOING SOMETHING. So, I can reasonably expect not to be doing the newsletter, after all. I have also figured out, that if I want to be involved in T2's Girl Scouts, or her life in general once she starts school, I have to get involved NOW. It's cutting it close, I know, but since she starts kindergarten in a little over 2 years, I may be able to get indoctrinated into the system just in time.

UH is working his fanny off, getting caught up and caught up IN his work, and he worked the last Saturday, and he has been coming home late every night this week. Which is all well and good, I understand his situation. And I hope he understands my situation, if I don't get to leave this house by myself this weekend, I end up smothering him with a pillow.

Performance Anxiety - Part 2

Well, apparently the good folk over at The American Street have collectively lost their minds, and have asked Your Very HappyFunBall-ness to contribute on a regular basis. That, or they are under the mind control of an evil Overlord Who Shall Not Be Named After 6:00 or On National Holidays. Whatever the case, it's a pretty sweet deal; all the cookies I can eat (provided I bake 'em myself, and promise to share), I don't have to worry about commuting or daycare, and I can work in my underwear. Not that I would, necessarily, but it's good to know that the option exists.

And, to think, it all came from getting fired by the Bastards That Canned Me, and starting this blog, whining to a group of complete and total strangers. So, I would like to take this opportunity to say, to the Bastards That Canned Me:

UP YOURS!!!

I Fought the HTML, and the HTML Won

Well, all the comments are present and accounted for, in a sense. I have switched to HaloScan, for a more accessible comment section. I haven't figured out how to both show the comment count on the first page, without losing my previous posts. And, I don't think there's a way to do that, so I'll just have to not care, so much. It works, I rule, I tired.

Crap.

I'm busy trying to fix my comment portion, so the comments are not only for people with memberships here. However, in the process, I think I may have lost the previous posts. I have copied the previous template, and am busily trying to put them back. Anyone vexed, fretting, or just totally freaking out, don't. I have them SOMEWHERE. Just don't leave any comments for awhile, if you want them noted and kept.

This is so very important, I know.

Because I'm the Mom that ROCKS!

I'm also the mom that should be kept isolated from the rest of normal society.

Thing 2 has requested a Very Special Costume for Halloween, and, being Wonder-Crazy-Mom, I opted to make her a costume, instead of, say, cheating and buying her one. Now, the costume she requested has 2 patterns, the Easy-to-Sew one, and the Supposed-Easy-to-Sew-But-Is-Actually-the-Plans-For-the-Invasion-of-Crete. Guess which one I bought? (Here's a clue: I'm INSANE.)

Anyway, we first went to the 'good' fabric store, the one where the Sewing Nazi sales associates look at you like you just vomited on the floor when you ask for help. When we finally beat the necessary information out of the least helpful yet slowest running clerk we could find, we found the correct material. And then we vomited on the floor. The material for the bottom half of the costume alone would have run close to $50.00. And that was just the material, it wasn't including the lining, the thread, the navigational charts, etc ... I was about to start asking Thing 2 if she wouldn't rather be the Unknown Comic for Halloween, but then decided to have a go at Wal-Mart, instead.

That's where we spent the next day (see previous post). The entire costume, including the material, notions, land-to-air missiles, ended up coming to approximately $25.00. At that price, I could quite easily be persuaded to attack Rhode Island, as well.

So, I'm home, I'm happy, and quite pleased with myself. Then I open the pattern, and everything is shot to hell. What the hell is horsehair, and why in God's name am I putting it anywhere near my child's body? These aren't notches, these are triangles, where are the scissors, are these people on acid? AND HOW IN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO RE-FOLD THIS PATTERN SO IT CAN FIT BACK IN THE ENVELOPE?!? Yet, after copious swearing, more temper tantrums than I care to admit to, and quite a few calls to people who understand how to conquer small islands, I was able to get over my unreasonable hatred towards and recognize the importance of taffeta, and even managed to cut out some pattern pieces.

Now all I need to do is find out where Crete is.

Balloons Are a Gift From God

And they should be treated as such. They should be gazed at rapturously, and held on to so very tight when the benevolent Balloon Man hands them to you ... then they should most definitely NOT be attached, in any way, shape or form, to any part of your anatomy, despite the stupid advice your so stupid adults-in-residence give you, because they're STUPID. Then, while you are gazing rapturously at a Commando Barbie that says "Prepare to meet your maker!" and has
pink coordinating bubblegum scented hand grenades, you should LET GO of the balloon. And, when it floats to the ceiling of Wal-Mart, you should begin to scream. Loudly and repeatedly, until the adults in residence retrieve it from the ceiling using a tennis racket and a Power Puff Girl pillow. Then and only then should you allow it to be tied to the shopping cart. After this, you should scamper off in search of ice cream with your father, leaving your mother to wander around the store with a bright pink balloon bobbing near her face. This is so the other shoppers, especially the ones who are smirking behind their hands at her approach, can see she is not so stupid, after all.

Has Success Spoiled Robert Rodriguez?

I just tried watching Once Upon a Time In Mexico. The best thing I can say about it is that, since it's the DVD copy, I don't have to waste any MORE time rewinding it.

Willem Dafoe, in Perma-Tan pancake make-up, with his lines dubbed in to get the Mexican accent right. Even Johnny Depp couldn't save this, although he tried, with lines like "Are you a Mexi-CAN or a Mexi-CAN'T?" In one of his signature quirky bits, he killed a cook because he made the best roast pork he's ever tasted. He shoulda skipped that, and killed his agent instead.

Yes! We Have Arrived!

The Tater is finally at the top of the Google list, for the keywords Rampant Incestuous Llama Porn and Michael Jackson's Discarded Facial Parts.

I'm calling my mom.

The Debate-Hidden Truths

What the Powers That Be (and by Powers That Be, I mean Kathie Lee Gifford and my 3rd grade teacher, Ms. Hogswallow) don't want the American public to know is that, although the Bush/Kerry debate was supposedly broadcast live, the Canadian public actually edited the hell out of it, cutting out key phrases from the candidates. Key phrases that would make them both sound just really really stupid, thus scaring the beejezus out of Americans, causing a massive fleeing-in-terror to the Northwest, the likes of which hasn't been seen since the 60's. And, since one of those fleeing-in-terror Americans may have included Macauley Culkin, the Canadians engineered this whole scam, to prevent such a tragedy.

Crafty devils, to be sure, but not on my watch!

So, without further ado, I'm including the missing parts of the debate, which will be shown in parenthesis. (And by parenthesis, I mean the little half-circle things that resemble G.W. Bush's ears.)

Bush:" ... I believe I'm going to win, because the American people know I know how to lead. I've shown the American people I know how to lead. (I know the American people know I know they know I know how to lead...")

(Kerry: -Scribbling madly - ... "Wrapped up like a douche ... No, that can't be what they're singing ...")

Bush: "... Ten million citizens have registered to vote. It's a phenomenal statistic. They're given a chance to be free, and they will show up at the polls. Forty-one percent of those 10 million are women. (Carry the two, A over B times Y = ... " -Glances at Kerry's notes - "What the hell ARE they singing, anyway?")

Kerry: "... where they're going out on the Internet to get the state-of-the-art body gear to send to their kids. Some of them got them for a birthday present. (The rest got a pony.")

(Al Gore: "I invented the Internet!")

(Security: -Body slam!-)

(Al Gore: "Ow.")

(Bush: - Scribbling more madly - "John ... Kerry ... is ... a ... fugly ... butt-wiping ...")

(Canadian public: -Smashes in door- Scufflesmashdrag!)

(HappyFunBall: "Damn, they found me!" Wrestlebitewhimper)

The real HappyFunBall: "This is just a hoax. Just for fun and giggles. The Canadians had NOTHING to do with this. We .. I mean, THEY love Macauley Culkin. So, go back to your lives, eh?"

*Dave Barry for President.*

But, That Would Involve Movement.

I haven't been getting out much. Uber-Husband has a new job, which makes enough to cover what I'm not bringing in, but also requires him to keep the car. So, since actually going anywhere would involve putting on shoes and possibly changing out of my sweats, I haven't been doing this much. (See, when I drive anywhere, people are so amazed that I'm actually allowed to operate a motorized vehicle, they forget I'm dressed like an escaped mental patient. It's a very good plan.)

It's actually not all bad, I've been spending a lot of time with my daughter, bonding and teaching her Very Important Things, such as reading, counting, putting a mirror under Mommy's nose before calling 911 ... I haven't been writing any 'real' stuff, but I am Seriously Thinking About It. Sometimes for 10 minutes at a time. Stephen King, watch your back. I have been getting some interesting e-mails pertaining to this blog, though, and one may lead to actual work. Or it may lead to a large Cambodian man with a penchant for wearing ladies' undergarments doing unspeakable acts to himself while reading my reply.

Whatever the case, I'll be sure to notify y'all, or the authorities.