Just Kind of an Irate Circle

We're living in an apartment. I hate living in an apartment. It's not a bad apartment, but it still IS AN APARTMENT. As in, NOT A HOUSE. There are benefits to living in apartments that are not houses; such as not having to do maintenance when things go bump and bang and fall apart in the night (tenants not included). Easy access to such amenities as exercise equipment, swimming pools, movie stars (but the movie stars are only at certain California locations). So, why do I hate living in an apartment, if it's so all-fired-up orgasmically wonderful, then?

Because, in case I haven't mentioned yet, it's NOT A HOUSE. And, being not a house, we have no backyard, and no where to boot the kids safely when they are getting uppity. There is also no place to plant flowers, vegetables, dead frogs, etc. What we have is a small square 'patio' that can fit a BBQ grill and 2 chairs. No people, because the chairs are taking up all the space.

My biggest gripe in this whole not a house situation is the toilet in the kid's bathroom. It looks, and for all practical purposes, works like a normal toilet should. And if you happen to be a family of ground squirrels, and have ground squirrel-sized ... pooh, it works great. However, if you may have noticed, we are not ground squirrels, nor is our ... pooh. What this means, is at least once a week, I'm forced to unclog our not-for-ground-squirrel toilet when anyone tries to flush anything larger than a mini-marshmallow. This usually is done while screeching down the hall at the interloper to get his/her butt back in here and wash his/her hands and for chrissakes put the damn towel back on the rack this time, what, were you raised by ground squirrels?!?

But, I digress. I had a job, and we were planning on using the money I made from this job to help in getting a house. HAH! After the daycare cost, we could afford a house ... one of those spiffy cardboard ones found on the corner down the street from the local homeless shelter. This is not to say that we are bad off, UH has a good job, and keeps us fed and with a roof over our head, and can even keep the ground squirrels at bay. But, on the getting a house front, let me reiterate my point: HAH!

So, there it is. If we want a house, I need a job. This is where I start to have a problem. I am trained in customer service. I can do a whole lot of a helluva more than this, but this is where the majority of my experience (at least the experience I'll willingly admit to on a resume) lies. What this means is, I have to don an apron/uniform/nametag and work behind a counter or a tray, or be chained to a phone 8 hours a day. Since both of these options make a Clorox cocktail with a Drano chaser look enormously appealing, I have to look into other options.

Like going back to school. But for what? Anyone paying a modicum of attention knows that I don't have the best history with school. I tend to start something, get distracted by something shiny, and another year is down the drain. Now that I'm bumping up on 35, I don't have this luxury anymore, because I have a family that needs me, and I could be dead soon. It's best to attain at least one degree before that happens, it makes the graduation ceremony go much smoother.

So, here I am. Stuck between a clogged toilet and a hard place like home.

The Bitch is Back

And I'm sure you all missed me, just terribly. However, in keeping with the title, I'm opting to NOT write a post of any substance whatsoever, and instead just use this space to point out someone dumber than me.

Once the turkey and cranberry induced delusions wear off, I may write more.

Dubious Honor Du Jour

Gratitutious. Someone googled this, just the one word and came up with me. I'm number 4 in the Gratitutious Lottery. I guess that's some sort of accomplishment. But, still. Gratitutious ... what?

(*After typing gratitutious several times, the word loses all meaning.)

It LIIIIIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is a test. This is also a drunken Anna Nicole Smith. Aren't you lucky?

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink Bleach

So. My mom has gone home. And that's all I'm going to say about that. The original plan was that we would go home with her today, spend a few days, and leave before the bleach cocktail starts to look too appealing. However, in a clear bid for an allowance hike, T1 came home with a fever. A fever and a cult-member-like malleability. Trip cancelled, regrets all around, and Mom whirling out of here like a tornado in the dead of night, to miss the storm.

Crisis averted; now here's a plug for a buddy of mine. Everyone, go here now, read all about her great and wonderful life events. Then come back here, we'll drink beer and talk about her behind her back. Because that's what friends do.

Ok, now let's talk about the important stuff. T2's birthday was a success. She got every My Little Pony imaginable, a handful of My Little Glue Factory knock-offs, and the doll. She was an extremely happy little pickle, all day. Oh, and there was some cake and ice cream involved, as well.

Score.

Positive Thinking

When the first words out of your mother's mouth, when she walks in the door, are: "What's that smell?" the visit has nowhere else to go but up. Right?

Well, Slap a Penis on Me, and Name Me George

This is just a bit upsetting. I took the quiz, and it seems that I write like a man. After all this time, thinking I was writing like Calamity Jane. Damn.

(*Thanks to Flamingo Jones for the link.)

Say What?

I started this blog, ostensibly, to chronicle my life after unemployment. I also started it as an excuse to use words like ostensibly. However, after a few short weeks (and I'm being generous here) I realized that there just isn't a whole lot to talk about. There was one week when I delighted and thrilled everyone detailing my cleaning schedule. There was another glorious week when I let everyone know about the ins and outs of my cat. After that, well, it just went downhill.

I cleaned like a mo fo. I cleaned like a pimp. At one point, I even cleaned like a llama, but the neighbors complained about the smell, and the saddle started to chafe. I went all Stepford on you, and even did a bit of Martha Stewart. I even, for a tiny little regrettable time, went political. Yet, the people kept coming in droves, couldn't get enough tales about what my cat regurgitated, what I actually did find in the back of my refrigerator, and waited and watched with bated breath to see my daughter's Halloween costume turned out okay. I can only come to one conclusion from this:

Damn, but I'm fascinating. Ostensibly.


(*I will also be posting sporadically, if at all, for the next few days. My mother is coming for a visit, and I will be very busy having my will to live drained out of me.)

More Words of Wisdom

This comes from The People's Court. Parents/caregivers/toilet users everywhere, heed these words:

"The natural position [for a toilet seat] is down. You let a 2 year old fall in the toilet one time, you learn that the natural position is down."

Now, however wise and enlightening this statement is, the case itself was about an elevator. I don't know what toilet seats have to do with it, but I'm sure Geraldo Rivera will be all over this, once he gets my e-mail.

War of the Words

Those clever Swedes are now aiming to market their poetry to aliens.

Since Americans are not to be outdone by anyone, they have also sent out full transcripts of Nicholas Sparks books. Since it will take 25 light years for it to reach the target, and presumably 25 more years to get any sort of response, we have approximately 50 years before Earth is destroyed.

Rivendell: The Lord of the Dance

So, I'm reading LOTR: The Fellowship of the Ring. So far, despite several warnings, I have not slit my wrists out of sheer boredom. Either I'm really hard up for entertainment, or my geekiness is far worse than previously believed. I do have one problem, though. What is up with all the singing? Frodo sneezes, they sing. Sam cuts one, they sing. Merry and Pippen are found embraced in the love that dare not speak its name, they take pictures, post 'em on the Internet, then they sing.

Hobbits! STOP WITH THE SINGING.

Lost in Blogger Translation

I had a wonderful, thought provoking and LONG post that would make you weep and laugh and snort soda pop out of your noses. However, Blogger decided my words were just to rare and precious for the world, and ate it.

So, I'm forced to tell you about Crazy Yoga Lady and her Booger Water.

I've been exercising a little bit. Not too much, since that would interfere with my hectic schedule of sitting around on my ass, eating whatever I can stuff into my piehole, and making fun of Anna Nicole Smith.

So, I found two shows on PBS (we get two PBS stations here) on yoga, that run at the same time. One has an older, sane woman who dresses in sensible gray and blue workout clothing, and does her show from a television studio somewhere. The other one has a younger woman, who dresses in Hawaiian print dresses, does her show on a rock in front of the ocean, and inhales water through her nose and spits it out of her mouth. On purpose. I have never actually seen this, but my son has, and he was quite excited at the prospect of watching Mom recreate this astounding feat of physical strength and disgustingness. Um, yeah, I went with sane gray and blue lady. When I'm bending and twisting and stretching my body into various balloon animals, I prefer to keep my boogers safely ensconsed inside my head.

I wonder what Anna Nicole Smith would say about that?

Random Musings.

Angelina Jolie? Freak.
David Bowie? Mr. Androgynous Yummy Pants.
John Cusack? Mr. Can Camp Out in My Closet and Be My Personal Love Slave ANYTIME Yummy Pants.
MPH? Bastard covered bastard with bastard filling.
Pops? Very into poop, right now.
Flamingo Jones and Monkey? The first strangers to wander into my site, and therefore very cool people.

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It's almost Thanksgiving, when we have an excuse to sit around and stuff ourselves and gather around with the family and give thanks that they live in another area code.

My mother will be coming down for T2's birthday, then we will go to her house for a few days, to celebrate Thanksgiving there. These are wonderful days, when the two of us jump up and down several times, for at least 5 minutes, oh so happy to see each other. Then, every moment after that until 15 minutes before she leaves, we regress to a couple of petulant 3-year olds, whining about how she was mean to me, how she doesn't clean nice, and how do you like having your head flushed down a toilet? (To my credit, this last part is never actually said out loud.) My husband keeps himself busy looking for escape clauses in the wedding vows, and the kids keep their heads down and the television volume up.

It truly is a magical and wondrous time of the year.

Stick a Fork In Me ... Or Somethin' ...

I have finished the doll. Do you hear me, Internet? I HAVE FINISHED THE DOLL. The Definitely NOT Footless Demon Doll With the Vacuous Expression and the Tiny Hostage is DONE. (Oh, and Derek and Serephin, thank you both so much for taking a thoughtful gesture of love and tradition, and PEEING ALL OVER IT. So I didn't have to, cuz, I'm busy, and stuff.)

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Trailer Park ...

but she can still pour gallons of gin down her throat and make an ass out of herself in public.

This Just In:

Best line I've heard today, and possibly ever: "I don't know if he was spanking it to cartoons, or what ... I didn't ask."

Yeah, that's all you're getting out of me.

Hmmmm. How 'Bout This One, Then?

Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's not. But I get the distinct feeling that NO ONE IS READING MY CRAP ANYMORE. Too much preachy, not enough boogery? I don't know, but let's see how many comments/hits I get from this one:

Nestle Caramel Crunch bars may very possibly be the best damn candy on the planet. (This excludes, of course, Nestle's 100 Grand bar, which IS the best damn candy on the planet.

Their Tyranny Must Be Stopped!

I am, of course, talking about models. Super Models, specifically, who earned the title due to their ability to regurgitate a meal faster than a speeding bullet, and to crush a regular woman's self-esteem in a single photo shoot. Apparently, the good folk in New York feel the same way, and have introduced new mannequins that have a little somethin' somethin' extra.

"It is a serious sociological trend that is positive for retailers and customers in that the tyranny of the undernourished perfect model is over," said Rich Rollison of Lifestyle Forms and Display, which designed the pants form mannequin.

Other companies also are developing more realistic mannequins with larger posteriors in maternity and plus sizes.

Now, this is clearly a step in the right direction, moving away from unrealistic Barbie doll images, to more realistic shapes, ones that are built for comfort rather than speed. Yet, there is still a long way to go. As a huge fan of reality, I say the more real-to-life the better. Therefore, pregnancy mannequins should sport not only the larger backside and belly, they also need the swollen ankles, knees clutched together desperately, with a box of Saltine crackers in one hand and a tattered copy of What To Expect in the other.

And it most definitely should not stop there. There's also the PMS one, which can be interchangeable with the pregnancy one, just replace the book with a jumbo sized bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, smear some chocolate on the lips, and strap a heating pad around the abdomen. The exploding head is optional.

And let's not forget about the working women, who spend all or most of the day sitting at a desk, staring at a computer screen. These can just have the bottoms
removed altogether, and replaced with a sheet of flat plywood. Add the beautiful blue varicose veins running up and down both legs, and you've got a winner. (These are actually best viewed under a glass ceiling, by the way.)

New mothers? Comb a little Wesson oil through their hair, dump Goldfish cracker crumbs in their bra, and add a little spritz of Eau de Kool-Aid behind the ears, and I guarantee sales will triple.

There are also the models for us fur-bearers. They come with tiny bits of wax stuck to the eyebrow area (one of which should be nearly gone), red and irritated upper lips from using the depilatory cream that was supposed to be for sensitive skin, and legs covered with razor burn and tiny bandaids.

Finally, there would be the most popular one of all: A mannequin showing a woman who has some or all of these body shapes, but doesn't let it affect her self-esteem. One who accepts and loves herself, not in spite of her body but because of it. One that doesn't rate herself using others standards, looks, or opinions. There's just one problem with this idea, though; finding a woman like this to use as a model.

And I don't mean just for the mannequin.


(Cross-posted at The American Street)

You Try To Expose Kids to the Arts ...

but The Wankers just won't let you.

Now, This Would Just Be Wrong

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - ABC television, backed by Republican Sen. John McCain (news, bio, voting record) and other leading conservatives, sought on Thursday to keep nervous affiliate stations from deserting a Veterans Day broadcast of the acclaimed World War II film "Saving Private Ryan."
Several ABC affiliates, including eight stations owned by the Sinclair Broadcast Group and four owned by the Belo Corp., said they would show other programming, citing concerns about profanity and graphic violence in the film.
Sinclair said the recent crackdown on indecent material by the U.S. Federal Communications Commission (news - web sites) was a major factor in its decision to shun the R-rated film, which ABC is obligated to air without editing or bleeps under a license agreement with DreamWorks SKG, the studio that produced it.

This also brings up a very important question: If the ABC affiliates, (one of which is Sinclair Broadcast Group, of the recent 'It's not partisan to air anti-Kerry documentary days before the election, really!' scandal), is so concerned about keeping indecent material away from the eyes and ears of sensitive American viewers, then why is WifeSwap still on the air?

Gratitutious Double Entendre of the Day

Man shows Queen his family jewels.

Would This Be Considered False Advertising?

Someone found this site looking for this: culkin michael jackson hanky, which is clearly a search for some of the King of Pop's undercover work. Can you just imagine this person's shock and horror, when, judging from the Google blurb, they discovered that a llama and a bunch of Canadians were involved, as well? Then they actually come here, and find infant-swallowing cats, refrigerated Teamsters, and housecleaning pimps. They went looking for depravity, perversion, and crimes against the innocent, and they found this.

I think this person just hit the jackpot.

Well, Let's Not Do THAT Again

I posted what I thought was a clever and humorous post. However, it turned into a huge post, and then morphed into Blogtopia's version of a cockroach: The damn thing refused to leave! I prevailed, and nobody was hurt, and I even went out of my way to make it a nice new home here, where it can run wild and free in fields of white space. Feel free to visit, if you're so inclined. I hope to continue posting the longer spoof posts there, and keep the short(er) ones here.

(To the two gents who read and already commented, I took the liberty of transferring these comments to the new joint.)

Pleased as Punch and Judy

As you may know, I've been working on this for T2's birthday. (Thanks to Llama for the idea, and for not tearing my heart out when I stole it.) I just now finished sewing the hair on, about 10 minutes ago (it's 1:00 am here), and also just woke up UH to show him, because I'm considerate that way. Now all I need to do is finish the apron and the pantaloons and watch some wrestling before I start dying all my clothes pink and dotting my i's with little hearts. But, really, I'm impressed with how it turned out, and could quite possibly become impossible to live with. Plus, it's freed up my schedule a bit, so I can now focus more on writing, in between my sitting and napping.

It's Time to Dust...

when your black cat walks behind the computer and comes out white.

Reading is Fundamental ...

Unless you're some sort of street-wise pervert.

This Post is 99.9% Humor Free

I've been out of sorts lately. And, instead of unloading my bile and venom on the world at large, I've been doing what normal people do: Pushing it way down, deep down, where it won't see the light of day until I finally snap and take out a mini-mall. However, since I don't have any firepower, and Kevlar makes me look fat, I'll go the other route, and just become damn near impossible to live with. THEN, I'll break down and unload my bile and venom on the world at large.

Disclaimer/Fair warning: Those who are sensitive to loud noises, bright lights, and/or unrepentent bitching and moaning, are hereby invited to bite me. And don't be surprised when I bite back.

I'll start off with Things I Want to Say to People That I Legally, Ethically and Logistically Can't:

To the person who calls here every damn day, usually at very odd hours, asking for Raul With-The-Unpronouncable-Last-Name, "No, he doesn't live here. Yes, you have dialed 555-1234. And, if he DID live here, I'm relatively sure he wouldn't want to talk to you, because you are AN IDIOT. Which is probably why he gave you a phony phone number, and I am the lucky one who has to talk to you on a daily basis. On second thought, Raul is a bastard, and you really need to stop trying to get a hold of him, and get another cat."

To the little jerk who pushes my son around on the bus: "Come here. No, a little closer. No, really, c'mere, I have a secret to tell you. STOP PUSHING MY SON AROUND ON THE BUS, BECAUSE I'M A HELLUVA LOT BIGGER'N YOU, YOU LITTLE JERK."

And, finally, to those of you who voted for 'morality purposes': "What the hell's wrong with you? We have people who have been out of work, and can't afford luxuries like health insurance, rent, and food, but, by all means, let's stop gay people from screwing.*"

Now, I'd like to move on to a little ditty I'd like to call "What the Hell's Wrong With Mom?" (No, it doesn't rhyme, cannot be sung in the shower, and has no iambic peramater, whatever the hell that means. Deal with it.)

The condensed version: You can only clean and organize your closets so many times before you go STARK RAVING MAD.
The longer and more bitchy version: If I don't get a vehicle, and find something to do with myself soon, I won't be held responsible for the consequences. I'm not sure what the consequences will be, but I can be relatively certain that they will include a truckload of chenille, a glue gun, and possibly some elastic. Hobby Lobby employees, consider yourselves warned. Various friends and family members, it's a color coordinated combination toilet cover/evening dress/hand towel. Don't you like it? I said, DON'T YOU LIKE IT?!? Tra-la-la-la.

Ahhh, I feel much better now. I can now go back to writing my normal grounded and sane posts. Cross my heart.

(*I'd write 'fucking,' but want to keep this blog family and moral majority friendly.)

An Unnecessary Reminder

Just in case anyone reading this has been living under a rock, or in a cave, for the last few months or so, I decided to post a reminder, that today is voting day.

Unless you're voting for Bush, then you vote tomorrow.

(Thanks to Llama for this tip.)