Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Goodbye
If I do post again on here, it certainly won't be any time soon. Go ahead and update your bookmarks.
It's been swell.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
It's Bad
My mother has been going downhill -- rapidly -- since she began receiving "comfort" care a little under a month ago.
It has been unbelievably hard for me to see her this way. Most days, I do not want to visit her. The cancer is obviously in her brain now. Sometimes, she speaks like a six-year-old. Sometimes she calls out for her mommy.
And there are other things too awful to mention.
We finally found a good hospice house that will take her in, and I'm supposed to meet with them next Tuesday, but I feel in my bones she won't be leaving the hospital.
You know, I've witnessed loved ones go through the dying process before, but I've never, ever seen the agony my mother is going through.
I thought that was the stuff of fiction.
I swear to god, never saw anything like it...
It has been unbelievably hard for me to see her this way. Most days, I do not want to visit her. The cancer is obviously in her brain now. Sometimes, she speaks like a six-year-old. Sometimes she calls out for her mommy.
And there are other things too awful to mention.
We finally found a good hospice house that will take her in, and I'm supposed to meet with them next Tuesday, but I feel in my bones she won't be leaving the hospital.
You know, I've witnessed loved ones go through the dying process before, but I've never, ever seen the agony my mother is going through.
I thought that was the stuff of fiction.
I swear to god, never saw anything like it...
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Chemtrails Are Pretty!
These pictures were taken in my backyard at approximately 10:30 a.m. Thursday morning.
These criss-crosses, which were observed by me, my kids, and my brother, were also seen in the skies while driving to see my mom in the hospital around 11:00 a.m. The otherwise clear, blue skies were covered in these patterns.
When we returned, those trails were still visible, though dispersed and "fattened," at approximately 12:30 p.m.
Although I've noticed this phenomenon for a couple of years now, it has been occurring more frequently in the last year or so.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I Now Know Who My Favorite Candidate Is
Eh, I've been posting little content and many videos lately, but due to my visiting Mom at the hospital almost every day -- lengthy visits at that -- I haven't the time to think and write clearly enough for neither intelligent commentary nor pithy anecdotal shlimjollipers, yet I still feel the need to communicate what lurks within my addled brain...
Mom'll soon be moved to a lovely "comfort home," which will be most excellent. Where they have her now (palliative care unit) is so craptastic, it defies explanation. No private bathroom (there's a darling little potty that pulls out from the wall, though -- how grand), and no real walls to separate patients (particle board partitions). I mean, really, you can hear the old guy next door when he farts, for god's sake.
Used to be a neonatal intensive care unit, see, but they jerry-rigged it into some semblance of a hospice facility. This will not do.
We're just waiting for an opening at the comfort house right now.
Anyway, I enjoyed the below video immensely.
Go Hill!
I'll bet my last Blue Light that Hill could drink that skinny ol' Barack under the table any day.
Strong constitution equals strong leadership. Well, in my book, at least...
FYI: Her favorite beer is Blue Moon with orange slices.
Mom'll soon be moved to a lovely "comfort home," which will be most excellent. Where they have her now (palliative care unit) is so craptastic, it defies explanation. No private bathroom (there's a darling little potty that pulls out from the wall, though -- how grand), and no real walls to separate patients (particle board partitions). I mean, really, you can hear the old guy next door when he farts, for god's sake.
Used to be a neonatal intensive care unit, see, but they jerry-rigged it into some semblance of a hospice facility. This will not do.
We're just waiting for an opening at the comfort house right now.
Anyway, I enjoyed the below video immensely.
Go Hill!
I'll bet my last Blue Light that Hill could drink that skinny ol' Barack under the table any day.
Strong constitution equals strong leadership. Well, in my book, at least...
FYI: Her favorite beer is Blue Moon with orange slices.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
My Girlhood Crushes
I totally wanted to marry Peter Frampton, Jackson Browne, Spock, and...
(Apologies for the Nipple Dude...Yes, he's sickening, but what can you do? It was the seventies, after all...)
Watching their performance with Fergie on Idol Gives Back, however, just made me really, really mad. I hate Fergie with such a passion, I have visions of maiming her with a jar of mayonnaise.
So, what? They had to put froggy-face in there to jump and flounder about in her tight leather for the low-brained twats out there in American TV Land that must have some not-fat eye-candy? Is that what the deal is?
I no longer watch American Idol. I'd been growing bored of that flumpy flappydoodle of a show for a while now, but this last shulpcramp is the straw that broke this camel's back.
***sigh***
Think I'll watch the above Heart video once again, and dream of when they were mine...
(Apologies for the Nipple Dude...Yes, he's sickening, but what can you do? It was the seventies, after all...)
Watching their performance with Fergie on Idol Gives Back, however, just made me really, really mad. I hate Fergie with such a passion, I have visions of maiming her with a jar of mayonnaise.
So, what? They had to put froggy-face in there to jump and flounder about in her tight leather for the low-brained twats out there in American TV Land that must have some not-fat eye-candy? Is that what the deal is?
I no longer watch American Idol. I'd been growing bored of that flumpy flappydoodle of a show for a while now, but this last shulpcramp is the straw that broke this camel's back.
***sigh***
Think I'll watch the above Heart video once again, and dream of when they were mine...
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Don't Bother With This...
If you don't have an intelligence quotient above that of a chimpanzee's.
Been concerned about certain...Things. Been worried, a tad afraid...Been that way for some years now.
I've avoided posting about my concerns, because I don't want to be seen as some "conspiracy nut," but my concerns are being validated more and more each day.
Unfortunately.
Your world is not what you think it is.
Investigate, learn, think, open your eyes...
I plan on posting more about my concerns in the future, with verifiable references, other videos, and my completely awesome and always creepy-good insight.
The world, she is a-changin'. What a shame that most of us will not see it until it's too late.
ADDENDUM: That last sentence is a bit dramatic, isn't it? Sorry. I don't believe the world is ending soon or anything like that, nor do I see it as suddenly spiraling out of control and causing its occupants to suffer mondo vertigo. I don't think we're in the "end times," as my personal beliefs side with the "bullshit and poppycock" folks, but...Something's in the air -- literally and figuratively. Major shifts involving socioeconomic/political/religious climes will occur during our lifetimes, as to the point where they are unavoidably noticeable (changes have been underway for a very, very long time, but many of us just haven't paid attention), and possibly, to some of us, detrimental to our overall well-being.
The best way to tolerate extreme change is to prepare for it. Knowledge lends preparedness and, preparedness lends peace of mind.
Been concerned about certain...Things. Been worried, a tad afraid...Been that way for some years now.
I've avoided posting about my concerns, because I don't want to be seen as some "conspiracy nut," but my concerns are being validated more and more each day.
Unfortunately.
Your world is not what you think it is.
Investigate, learn, think, open your eyes...
I plan on posting more about my concerns in the future, with verifiable references, other videos, and my completely awesome and always creepy-good insight.
The world, she is a-changin'. What a shame that most of us will not see it until it's too late.
ADDENDUM: That last sentence is a bit dramatic, isn't it? Sorry. I don't believe the world is ending soon or anything like that, nor do I see it as suddenly spiraling out of control and causing its occupants to suffer mondo vertigo. I don't think we're in the "end times," as my personal beliefs side with the "bullshit and poppycock" folks, but...Something's in the air -- literally and figuratively. Major shifts involving socioeconomic/political/religious climes will occur during our lifetimes, as to the point where they are unavoidably noticeable (changes have been underway for a very, very long time, but many of us just haven't paid attention), and possibly, to some of us, detrimental to our overall well-being.
The best way to tolerate extreme change is to prepare for it. Knowledge lends preparedness and, preparedness lends peace of mind.
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Perfect Word
I accompanied my mother to her doctor's appointment today -- THE appointment. The appointment that we were dreading, even though we knew what was to come of it.
As the oncologist flashed her peculiarly inappropriate smile (I call it her "picnic smile" because the woman, brilliant as she may be, is a freaking loonball whose smile exudes sunshine and barbecue while uttering phrases like "last ditch effort" and "less than five percent chance), she calmly, between bites of her roasted wienie (in my imagination) explained that there is nothing more medicine can do for Mom.
I already knew this in advance, but Mom, although knowing deep within this was it, still could not accept that fact without hearing it from the doctor's mouth.
I watched my mother intently as the doctor cheerily rattled off the many facets of palliative care, the whats and the what-to-comes, and with each syllable, my mother's face, which has changed so very much in the last month or so, grew more and more unrecognizable until she took on the appearance of someone else's mother.
Mom has lost so much weight that the once-snug pink pullover shirt she wore today hung loose about her frame, the neckline fluid, sliding off over her left shoulder. I gazed at the nape of her neck as the doctor sang of chemo pills and home health care aides, and was startled by the yellowness of the skin, the slight hump that was never before a part of her bodyscape. I looked at her face again, wondering about the yellow. Her face didn't look yellow, but there was a disquieting artificiality to the tone...I peered harder, focused as much as my pitifully hyperopic eyes could, and realized that she had applied so much makeup, the yellow cast was hidden beneath layers of Cover Girl.
And as the doctor chirruped on about how very strong Mom was, and how impressed she was by what Mom had endured, how she'd seen patients half Mom's age endure much, much less, and OHfuckingBLAHblahblah, I stared at the nape of my mother's neck and thought about what it will be like to live in this world without her.
We are not close, for various reasons, and I still struggle daily with my life experience playing on a perpetual loop, the sights, sounds and smells just as clear as the day they were produced, but she is my only mother, and I love her.
And I have so many wishes that I'd hoped would be granted during our lifetimes, many of which have been waiting patiently since I was a little girl. Those wishes, I now realize, will never come true, but that doesn't stop me from believing in them. Because she is my only mother.
When the doctor left the room, Mom put her head near my shoulder -- not on, near, kind of bowed her head and moved it toward me, and so I leaned in, put my arm around her shoulders, and patted, patted, patted. It felt awkward, alien, and in that moment, I forgot how to feel.
The patient advocate walked in just then, and I, grateful for the interruption, quickly removed my arm. The woman was pleasant, just the right kind of cheerful (no barbecue), and genuinely compassionate. She asked Mom how she was taking today's news, and my mother, perplexed, asked what she meant by that. The woman gently reworded the question, adding "Many people have a hard time coming to terms with this."
Mom didn't answer her, so I spoke up, said "I think this is all still so surreal for her." The woman nodded vigorously and said that that was a "perfect word" for this situation.
Surreal. Not real. Someone's else's reality. Someone else's face, someone else's skin, someone else's pain. Bizarre. Dreamlike.
Someone else's mother.
And all the years between 1965 and 1989.
And strange lights in the sky, and whispers of goodbye in the dead of night, and laughter around an oval table, puppies, lasagna, and secret journals hidden beneath someone else's bed, the phantoms that visited us both, the angels with no names, the charcoal sketches and pastel ribbons, the houses in suburban tracts, the hope, and one thousand tiny wishes that will always be alive...
All still so surreal.
As the oncologist flashed her peculiarly inappropriate smile (I call it her "picnic smile" because the woman, brilliant as she may be, is a freaking loonball whose smile exudes sunshine and barbecue while uttering phrases like "last ditch effort" and "less than five percent chance), she calmly, between bites of her roasted wienie (in my imagination) explained that there is nothing more medicine can do for Mom.
I already knew this in advance, but Mom, although knowing deep within this was it, still could not accept that fact without hearing it from the doctor's mouth.
I watched my mother intently as the doctor cheerily rattled off the many facets of palliative care, the whats and the what-to-comes, and with each syllable, my mother's face, which has changed so very much in the last month or so, grew more and more unrecognizable until she took on the appearance of someone else's mother.
Mom has lost so much weight that the once-snug pink pullover shirt she wore today hung loose about her frame, the neckline fluid, sliding off over her left shoulder. I gazed at the nape of her neck as the doctor sang of chemo pills and home health care aides, and was startled by the yellowness of the skin, the slight hump that was never before a part of her bodyscape. I looked at her face again, wondering about the yellow. Her face didn't look yellow, but there was a disquieting artificiality to the tone...I peered harder, focused as much as my pitifully hyperopic eyes could, and realized that she had applied so much makeup, the yellow cast was hidden beneath layers of Cover Girl.
And as the doctor chirruped on about how very strong Mom was, and how impressed she was by what Mom had endured, how she'd seen patients half Mom's age endure much, much less, and OHfuckingBLAHblahblah, I stared at the nape of my mother's neck and thought about what it will be like to live in this world without her.
We are not close, for various reasons, and I still struggle daily with my life experience playing on a perpetual loop, the sights, sounds and smells just as clear as the day they were produced, but she is my only mother, and I love her.
And I have so many wishes that I'd hoped would be granted during our lifetimes, many of which have been waiting patiently since I was a little girl. Those wishes, I now realize, will never come true, but that doesn't stop me from believing in them. Because she is my only mother.
When the doctor left the room, Mom put her head near my shoulder -- not on, near, kind of bowed her head and moved it toward me, and so I leaned in, put my arm around her shoulders, and patted, patted, patted. It felt awkward, alien, and in that moment, I forgot how to feel.
The patient advocate walked in just then, and I, grateful for the interruption, quickly removed my arm. The woman was pleasant, just the right kind of cheerful (no barbecue), and genuinely compassionate. She asked Mom how she was taking today's news, and my mother, perplexed, asked what she meant by that. The woman gently reworded the question, adding "Many people have a hard time coming to terms with this."
Mom didn't answer her, so I spoke up, said "I think this is all still so surreal for her." The woman nodded vigorously and said that that was a "perfect word" for this situation.
Surreal. Not real. Someone's else's reality. Someone else's face, someone else's skin, someone else's pain. Bizarre. Dreamlike.
Someone else's mother.
And all the years between 1965 and 1989.
And strange lights in the sky, and whispers of goodbye in the dead of night, and laughter around an oval table, puppies, lasagna, and secret journals hidden beneath someone else's bed, the phantoms that visited us both, the angels with no names, the charcoal sketches and pastel ribbons, the houses in suburban tracts, the hope, and one thousand tiny wishes that will always be alive...
All still so surreal.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Cozy Guy
My oldest daughter's boyfriend, Adam, is 6'5", weighs approximately 220 pounds, plays bass for an up and coming local hardcore band, and has many, many, many, many (many) tattoos, but that doesn't stop my boy from giving Adam big ol' bear hugs every time he visits.
I wonder if my son imagines that Adam is like a great fairytale giant who has wandered into our Lilliputian land, whose tallest citizen, King Lar (my husband), is just 5'7", and feels that the great giant is lonely and confused, thus needing hugs.
Anyway, today was no exception with the hug, and, as always, I couldn't help but beam like an idiot while watching my darling little guy grab hold of Adam's tree trunk-like leg and shrieking "HI, ADAM! HI! HI, ADAM! Aaaaadaaaam, HI!"
Honestly, the cuteness is just...Beyond. My son looks like a tiny aphid affixed to this tremendously large rocker dude's leg. A wee mite. A minuscule, loud, pesky little sprite who is next to impossible to shake. And Adam stands quite still, awkwardly pats my son on his head, and blushes like a school girl who's just dropped her lunch tray. Too sweet, really.
But what my boy said after giving Adam his usual "hello" hug today was so charming, my teeth clenched, began tingling in that familiar "I must bite something now" way that is both frightening and strangely satisfying, until I did, in fact, bite something (a rubber dinosaur).
He said: "Oooh, Mommy, Adam is so cozy! He's just a cozy, cozy guy!"
Well, I must tell you that the moment veered right, departed Cuteville doing sixty miles an hour, headed straight into Adorable Town, and screeched to a halt in front of Mr. Fluffy Pants Maguire, Mayor of Adorable Town.
I bit the dinosaur in two, yes I did.
FACT: They don't make rubber dinosaurs like they used to.
I wonder if my son imagines that Adam is like a great fairytale giant who has wandered into our Lilliputian land, whose tallest citizen, King Lar (my husband), is just 5'7", and feels that the great giant is lonely and confused, thus needing hugs.
Anyway, today was no exception with the hug, and, as always, I couldn't help but beam like an idiot while watching my darling little guy grab hold of Adam's tree trunk-like leg and shrieking "HI, ADAM! HI! HI, ADAM! Aaaaadaaaam, HI!"
Honestly, the cuteness is just...Beyond. My son looks like a tiny aphid affixed to this tremendously large rocker dude's leg. A wee mite. A minuscule, loud, pesky little sprite who is next to impossible to shake. And Adam stands quite still, awkwardly pats my son on his head, and blushes like a school girl who's just dropped her lunch tray. Too sweet, really.
But what my boy said after giving Adam his usual "hello" hug today was so charming, my teeth clenched, began tingling in that familiar "I must bite something now" way that is both frightening and strangely satisfying, until I did, in fact, bite something (a rubber dinosaur).
He said: "Oooh, Mommy, Adam is so cozy! He's just a cozy, cozy guy!"
Well, I must tell you that the moment veered right, departed Cuteville doing sixty miles an hour, headed straight into Adorable Town, and screeched to a halt in front of Mr. Fluffy Pants Maguire, Mayor of Adorable Town.
I bit the dinosaur in two, yes I did.
FACT: They don't make rubber dinosaurs like they used to.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Jules
I can't stop watching this.
I am so fascinated, it's bordering on weird.
I'm all teary-eyed, and my chest feels funny.
I think I found my one and only true "soul" mate.
The folks who created Jules.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The 1st Amendment + Handcuffs = Chicken Lips
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.
If this picture doesn't kick you in the balls, then you have none.
Note the marquee. How fucking priceless is that?
Go here for more amazing shots captured March 19th during a peaceful war protest here in Rochester.
If this picture doesn't kick you in the balls, then you have none.
Note the marquee. How fucking priceless is that?
Go here for more amazing shots captured March 19th during a peaceful war protest here in Rochester.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Hill Has That Effect on Men...
I was watching Hillary Clinton's D.C. speech on CNN this morning, and my boy, who'd been playing on the computer in the next room, piped up with:
"Mommy, are you watching a scary show?"
Now, I don't know why he thought I was watching a "scary show," as there were no shrieks of terror, no theremin, no monster growls or evil cackling -- just Ms. Clinton giving an excellent (I thought) speech regarding her plans for ending the Iraq "war."
I said, "No, honey, I'm not."
A few moments later, he said, "Are you sure you're not watching a scary show?"
"No, baby, I am not watching a scary show."
Well, he obviously did not believe me, as he took the trouble to interrupt his computer game, and walk into my room. He stood there for a moment, then said, "Oh. It's the news. Okay." And as he walked back to the computer, he said, more to himself than to me, "Geez. Sure sounded scary..."
"Mommy, are you watching a scary show?"
Now, I don't know why he thought I was watching a "scary show," as there were no shrieks of terror, no theremin, no monster growls or evil cackling -- just Ms. Clinton giving an excellent (I thought) speech regarding her plans for ending the Iraq "war."
I said, "No, honey, I'm not."
A few moments later, he said, "Are you sure you're not watching a scary show?"
"No, baby, I am not watching a scary show."
Well, he obviously did not believe me, as he took the trouble to interrupt his computer game, and walk into my room. He stood there for a moment, then said, "Oh. It's the news. Okay." And as he walked back to the computer, he said, more to himself than to me, "Geez. Sure sounded scary..."
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Doctor Moreau Bra?
In case you haven't heard, Victoria's Secret has toppled the scientific community on its ear, and perhaps changed life as we know it forever and ever, by way of their brand new "BioFit Bra."
Yes, the BIOFIT bra. Hmmm. Very perplexing, that name. Does "BioFit" mean "biologically designed"? "Bio-friendly"? "Biologically enhanced"? "Bio-Hazard"? (A sure way to keep unwanted gropers at bay.) Or, mayhap, "biogenetically created to infiltrate one's ta-tas, causing said ta-tas to magically lift, separate, and grow to ten times their natural state"?
Not sure, really, but it certainly does intrigue me.
What I've ascertained, however, is that this bra ostensibly enhances one's figure via cutting edge science, wherein the mysterious fibers woven into this ghastly garment have been grown in a laboratory by an evil geneticist named Dr. James D. Foote, best known for his work in the field of bovine mammarology. The mysterious fibers, of which there are two known types (the third is top secret, and may, if revealed, threaten national security), 36-D and 40-D-D, somehow intertwine with human physiology in such a way that alters DNA, thus producing instantaneous metamorphoses of the molecular structure.
Now, if you haven't yet seen the advertisement for this monstrosity, I can only say that it is so mind-bogglingly, stupendously insulting to any woman who has ever grown a pair of breasts, it may just cause those of us with a brain larger than Janet Jackson's nipple to never shop Victoria's Secret again.
Or even worse, put ridiculous images in our heads -- especially women like me, who imagine ridiculous things on a daily basis.
Case in point: While watching the BioFit commercial last night, ridiculous images did abound, images like...
!) A BioCat bra that makes use of feline DNA. Fabulous, really, what with the cute, furry cat heads strategically placed on each cup. What woman doesn't love cute, furry creatures, huh? Never be lonely again! And no boob-freeze EVER! Sure, it may take some getting used to, what with the cat faces eerily outlined though one's blouse (not recommended for use under tank tops), but the benefits outweigh the eerie cat heads. Puuurfection.
?) The revolutionary BioFruit Bra, which, depending on how much the organically grown pump is squeezed, gives the wearer either a luscious melon-like bobble, a perky orange bounce, or sprightly apricot wiggle.
And finally...
&) The first Victoria's Secret line for men! Gentlemen, you will be amazed and delighted with the BioButt Briefs, made with all natural fibers derived from the wee-tui-tui cactus, which will automatically bond with your gluteus maximus muscles by way of a special epidermal-cacti transference enzyme, so that your buttocks will take on a tight, rounded, almost bulbous richness.
But that's not all! Why not go hog-wild and pair the BioButt Briefs with the sure-to-turn-heads BioTrunk Jock! The BioTrunk is the must-have accoutrement for any man on the make! Constructed with heavy duty pachydermal microbiofibers, this strap-on, breathable cup guarantees comfort, while increasing package size to mammoth proportions.
Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. I have disturbed even my own self way too much today, so enough. Enough.
Yes, the BIOFIT bra. Hmmm. Very perplexing, that name. Does "BioFit" mean "biologically designed"? "Bio-friendly"? "Biologically enhanced"? "Bio-Hazard"? (A sure way to keep unwanted gropers at bay.) Or, mayhap, "biogenetically created to infiltrate one's ta-tas, causing said ta-tas to magically lift, separate, and grow to ten times their natural state"?
Not sure, really, but it certainly does intrigue me.
What I've ascertained, however, is that this bra ostensibly enhances one's figure via cutting edge science, wherein the mysterious fibers woven into this ghastly garment have been grown in a laboratory by an evil geneticist named Dr. James D. Foote, best known for his work in the field of bovine mammarology. The mysterious fibers, of which there are two known types (the third is top secret, and may, if revealed, threaten national security), 36-D and 40-D-D, somehow intertwine with human physiology in such a way that alters DNA, thus producing instantaneous metamorphoses of the molecular structure.
Now, if you haven't yet seen the advertisement for this monstrosity, I can only say that it is so mind-bogglingly, stupendously insulting to any woman who has ever grown a pair of breasts, it may just cause those of us with a brain larger than Janet Jackson's nipple to never shop Victoria's Secret again.
Or even worse, put ridiculous images in our heads -- especially women like me, who imagine ridiculous things on a daily basis.
Case in point: While watching the BioFit commercial last night, ridiculous images did abound, images like...
!) A BioCat bra that makes use of feline DNA. Fabulous, really, what with the cute, furry cat heads strategically placed on each cup. What woman doesn't love cute, furry creatures, huh? Never be lonely again! And no boob-freeze EVER! Sure, it may take some getting used to, what with the cat faces eerily outlined though one's blouse (not recommended for use under tank tops), but the benefits outweigh the eerie cat heads. Puuurfection.
?) The revolutionary BioFruit Bra, which, depending on how much the organically grown pump is squeezed, gives the wearer either a luscious melon-like bobble, a perky orange bounce, or sprightly apricot wiggle.
And finally...
&) The first Victoria's Secret line for men! Gentlemen, you will be amazed and delighted with the BioButt Briefs, made with all natural fibers derived from the wee-tui-tui cactus, which will automatically bond with your gluteus maximus muscles by way of a special epidermal-cacti transference enzyme, so that your buttocks will take on a tight, rounded, almost bulbous richness.
But that's not all! Why not go hog-wild and pair the BioButt Briefs with the sure-to-turn-heads BioTrunk Jock! The BioTrunk is the must-have accoutrement for any man on the make! Constructed with heavy duty pachydermal microbiofibers, this strap-on, breathable cup guarantees comfort, while increasing package size to mammoth proportions.
Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. I have disturbed even my own self way too much today, so enough. Enough.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Hillary's New Campaign Ad
(Fade in, red velvet background)
(Ravel's "Bolero" plays softly, increases volume as each photo is displayed)
(Helen Mirren's voice) It's three a.m.
And your children are safe and asleep
The phone rings...
In the White House...
You know which phone I mean...
Something horrible is happening in the world...Something so awful, so unbelievably gruesome, so utterly catastrophic...
Who do you trust will be home to answer that phone?
(Abruptly end "Bolero," begin silent photo montage of cloudless blue skies, fields of daisies, kittens, babies sleeping, and an old person eating a bowl of clam chowder)
Hillary Clinton...
She doesn't have a penis.
(Ravel's "Bolero" plays softly, increases volume as each photo is displayed)
(Helen Mirren's voice) It's three a.m.
And your children are safe and asleep
The phone rings...
In the White House...
You know which phone I mean...
Something horrible is happening in the world...Something so awful, so unbelievably gruesome, so utterly catastrophic...
Who do you trust will be home to answer that phone?
(Abruptly end "Bolero," begin silent photo montage of cloudless blue skies, fields of daisies, kittens, babies sleeping, and an old person eating a bowl of clam chowder)
Hillary Clinton...
She doesn't have a penis.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Ancient-Speak
I had the most delightful conversation of the semantical kind with my middle daughter, Sarah, and my mother's friend, "J" (the one who is classy and beautiful, but swears like a grizzled sea merchant) tonight. It went something like this:
Telephone: Ring Ring
Me: Hello?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Hey.
Me: Hey!
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: So, I'm going to be in town Saturday morning, will call when I get settled.
Me: 'Kay.
[Delete unimportant chitchat and personal doodads]
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Gawd, remember how thin I was? Gawdjesus, fucking hell, now I'm a goddamned dirigible!
Me: Did you just say, "dirigible"?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Yeah, you know, a blimp?
Me: I know that! It's just that I'm a bit stunned that you used the word "dirigible." I mean, how old are you, really? Ninety-seven?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant" [sputtering] Wha...? [laughs] C'mon, what's wrong with "dirigible"?
Me: Dude, if you have to ask, then it's pointless for me to carry on this line of conversation.
After I hung up, my daughter, who'd been listening, asked why I was laughing so hard, and when I explained to her that "J" was using Ancient-Speak, and with NO SHAME WHATSOEVER, she said, "Ooooh! I get it! It's like when Great Grandma Spinelli says 'Davenport' instead of 'couch,' right?"
We then proceeded to roll about the place laughing hysterically at the many examples of Ancient-Speak that have been foisted upon our modern ears by various teachers, grandparents, and an assortment of curmudgeonly neighbors, words such as:
Icebox (Ancient-Speak for refrigerator)
Duvet (Ancient-Speak for comforter)
Post (Ancient-Speak for mail, as in "I'm going to put the letter in the post before three shakes of a lamb's tail!"
Parlor (Ancient-Speak for living room)
Land Sakes! (Ancient-Speak pertaining to great surprise or disappointment)
And on it went, until we both wept copious tears of pure, word-related joy.
Jeepers, how I love the English language!
Telephone: Ring Ring
Me: Hello?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Hey.
Me: Hey!
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: So, I'm going to be in town Saturday morning, will call when I get settled.
Me: 'Kay.
[Delete unimportant chitchat and personal doodads]
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Gawd, remember how thin I was? Gawdjesus, fucking hell, now I'm a goddamned dirigible!
Me: Did you just say, "dirigible"?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Yeah, you know, a blimp?
Me: I know that! It's just that I'm a bit stunned that you used the word "dirigible." I mean, how old are you, really? Ninety-seven?
"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant" [sputtering] Wha...? [laughs] C'mon, what's wrong with "dirigible"?
Me: Dude, if you have to ask, then it's pointless for me to carry on this line of conversation.
After I hung up, my daughter, who'd been listening, asked why I was laughing so hard, and when I explained to her that "J" was using Ancient-Speak, and with NO SHAME WHATSOEVER, she said, "Ooooh! I get it! It's like when Great Grandma Spinelli says 'Davenport' instead of 'couch,' right?"
We then proceeded to roll about the place laughing hysterically at the many examples of Ancient-Speak that have been foisted upon our modern ears by various teachers, grandparents, and an assortment of curmudgeonly neighbors, words such as:
Icebox (Ancient-Speak for refrigerator)
Duvet (Ancient-Speak for comforter)
Post (Ancient-Speak for mail, as in "I'm going to put the letter in the post before three shakes of a lamb's tail!"
Parlor (Ancient-Speak for living room)
Land Sakes! (Ancient-Speak pertaining to great surprise or disappointment)
And on it went, until we both wept copious tears of pure, word-related joy.
Jeepers, how I love the English language!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Like the Phoenix, or a Zombie, She Rises...
There's still some life left in The Hill.
I'm glad. Not because she's my definite pick, but because I'm still undecided.
All right, enough politics for today. I can hardly think straight enough to form one simple, cohesive sentence let alone a political opinion worthy of your eyeballs.
Man, I've been so sick this week. Anyone else going though this lingering cold/flu/parasitic/plague-like/Cthulhu-related bug? Darned thing's been hanging on my buttocks for weeks now. Goes away, comes back worse, goes away, comes back twice as worse. Now it's in my chest something awful, got the fever, the whole shebang. Which sucks, because now I'm too sick to visit my mom, even if I wear a mask (she's neutropenic). If I dare go to the hospital today, I'm afraid the nurses will insist I wear a welder's helmet, and I really can't go there. Dear GOD, not THE HELMET!
Think I'd best stay in bed as much as possible for the next couple of days.
I must be better by Saturday, because one of Mom's good friends, a woman she's known since girlhood, is flying in from Chicago to see her, is supposed to pick me up Saturday afternoon. I must go, come hell, high water, or welder's helmet, I must go. This reunion is incredibly important, and I will make damn sure it happens.
Mom, you see, hasn't exactly been open to visitors (or phone calls) outside of immediate family for many, many months now, and I'm tired of repeatedly telling concerned folks "I'm sorry." Apparently, Mom's friend, whom I will refer to as "J," is tired of being told "I'm sorry," and decided to just barge right in -- and I'm glad she is.
When she and I spoke on the phone last, she said to me "Tell your mother to put on her fucking eyebrows, 'cause I'm coming to see her," which made me laugh. "J," although very classy and beautiful, with the unmistakable bearing of those "ladies who lunch," also has a mouth like a grizzled sea merchant who's been on a bender for five years in a row.
She also said, "Goddamnit, Lori, I'm not going to wait until your mother's lying in a sonofabitching casket." Which made me cry.
ADDENDUM: Speaking of crying, if you didn't see the premiere of New Amsterdam, which aired last night at 9:00 EST on Fox, I strongly urge you to catch the next episode. Seriously, I watch little television outside of documentaries, Lost, American Idol, and CNN, but I was too sick and weak to change the channel after AI ended...Almost makes me glad I'm about an inch from the grave.
"New Amsterdam" is beautifully written, gorgeous to look at, intelligent, thought-provoking, unique, and the lead actor is hot. So is the lead actress, who plays the role of Amsterdam's partner. Enough said (for now).
Another Addendum: Just noticed I used the word "glad" way too many times in this post. You know Ms. Lori is sick when she is unable to make use of various other synonyms.
I'm glad. Not because she's my definite pick, but because I'm still undecided.
All right, enough politics for today. I can hardly think straight enough to form one simple, cohesive sentence let alone a political opinion worthy of your eyeballs.
Man, I've been so sick this week. Anyone else going though this lingering cold/flu/parasitic/plague-like/Cthulhu-related bug? Darned thing's been hanging on my buttocks for weeks now. Goes away, comes back worse, goes away, comes back twice as worse. Now it's in my chest something awful, got the fever, the whole shebang. Which sucks, because now I'm too sick to visit my mom, even if I wear a mask (she's neutropenic). If I dare go to the hospital today, I'm afraid the nurses will insist I wear a welder's helmet, and I really can't go there. Dear GOD, not THE HELMET!
Think I'd best stay in bed as much as possible for the next couple of days.
I must be better by Saturday, because one of Mom's good friends, a woman she's known since girlhood, is flying in from Chicago to see her, is supposed to pick me up Saturday afternoon. I must go, come hell, high water, or welder's helmet, I must go. This reunion is incredibly important, and I will make damn sure it happens.
Mom, you see, hasn't exactly been open to visitors (or phone calls) outside of immediate family for many, many months now, and I'm tired of repeatedly telling concerned folks "I'm sorry." Apparently, Mom's friend, whom I will refer to as "J," is tired of being told "I'm sorry," and decided to just barge right in -- and I'm glad she is.
When she and I spoke on the phone last, she said to me "Tell your mother to put on her fucking eyebrows, 'cause I'm coming to see her," which made me laugh. "J," although very classy and beautiful, with the unmistakable bearing of those "ladies who lunch," also has a mouth like a grizzled sea merchant who's been on a bender for five years in a row.
She also said, "Goddamnit, Lori, I'm not going to wait until your mother's lying in a sonofabitching casket." Which made me cry.
ADDENDUM: Speaking of crying, if you didn't see the premiere of New Amsterdam, which aired last night at 9:00 EST on Fox, I strongly urge you to catch the next episode. Seriously, I watch little television outside of documentaries, Lost, American Idol, and CNN, but I was too sick and weak to change the channel after AI ended...Almost makes me glad I'm about an inch from the grave.
"New Amsterdam" is beautifully written, gorgeous to look at, intelligent, thought-provoking, unique, and the lead actor is hot. So is the lead actress, who plays the role of Amsterdam's partner. Enough said (for now).
Another Addendum: Just noticed I used the word "glad" way too many times in this post. You know Ms. Lori is sick when she is unable to make use of various other synonyms.
Friday, February 29, 2008
From the Mouths of Babes & Idiots
1. "Mommy, why does the Queen look like a king?"
Well, son, because she has a terrible stylist.
2. "If I go poop in the potty for five hundred weeks in a row, will you buy me a computer? Oh, wait... [giggles] I would be a grandpa by then, wouldn't I"
Yes, you would. But you must continue to poop in the potty, whether you receive prizes or not, even for five hundred weeks in a row, or you may one day find yourself strapped to a wheelchair and shoved in front of a television, where you will only be allowed to watch The Price is Right.
3. "You know, Mommy, you should really try being a boy -- it's fun!"
Awesome. I'm so glad that you enjoy being a boy, honey. Now please take your hand out of your pants, remove your finger from your nose, stop kicking the cat, and go sit on the potty.
4. "A long, long, long, long, long, long, loooong time ago, why were white people mean to black people?"
Well, let's see...Maybe because the white people back then were assholes?
5. "Four dollars a gallon? Where'd you hear that? Some kinda goldang expert or sumpin'?"
Mr. President, I believe that I heard it from the ghost of Captain Kangaroo, who, unbeknown to many, was not only the beloved host of a longtime-running children's television program, but was also a brilliant economist.
Well, son, because she has a terrible stylist.
2. "If I go poop in the potty for five hundred weeks in a row, will you buy me a computer? Oh, wait... [giggles] I would be a grandpa by then, wouldn't I"
Yes, you would. But you must continue to poop in the potty, whether you receive prizes or not, even for five hundred weeks in a row, or you may one day find yourself strapped to a wheelchair and shoved in front of a television, where you will only be allowed to watch The Price is Right.
3. "You know, Mommy, you should really try being a boy -- it's fun!"
Awesome. I'm so glad that you enjoy being a boy, honey. Now please take your hand out of your pants, remove your finger from your nose, stop kicking the cat, and go sit on the potty.
4. "A long, long, long, long, long, long, loooong time ago, why were white people mean to black people?"
Well, let's see...Maybe because the white people back then were assholes?
5. "Four dollars a gallon? Where'd you hear that? Some kinda goldang expert or sumpin'?"
Mr. President, I believe that I heard it from the ghost of Captain Kangaroo, who, unbeknown to many, was not only the beloved host of a longtime-running children's television program, but was also a brilliant economist.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
American Idol Judges Are Embarrassing
Truly cringe-worthy.
So the other night, while watching American Idol with my girls, one of the female contestants induced mass hysteria and projectile vomiting while she crucified the 1961 hit "Where the Boys Are." That was bad enough. But then Randy Jackson had to be all doggy and shit and tell the woman that she can't compare to Patsy Cline, or something along those lines. I can't even remember what he said well enough to paraphrase comfortably due to my forehead exploding when he said "Patsy Cline."
Anyone with a brain larger than Simon's left titty would know that Connie Francis sang "Where the Boys Are."
Dog. Oh, dog, dog, dog, DOGGY dog!
What's going on, dude. Seriously, I'm like, WHAT? How's it going, man. WHAT? Hey, how you feelin' dog-a-dog-a-lamby lamb, huh? Feeling good?
WHAT? How's my dog, dog?
I just had to get this off my chest, dogs. Like, man, I really, really, man-oh-man, like, really, really had to shake this bad mojo swingin' 'gainst my groove, y'all.
But then Simon had to go and embarrass himself, too, by interjecting a painfully ignorant, and utterly beautiful "yes, that song must have a bit of a twang," which I assumed meant that he, too, believed Patsy sung "Where the Boys Are."
To my knowledge, the wonderful Ms. Francis never employed a twang in any of her songs. I know this to be fact. I am Connie Francis' biggest fan. Used to take my mom's old 45s, especially "Lipstick on Your Collar" and "Where the Boys Are," and sit in my bedroom listening to them over and over. And over. While staring at pictures of Connie.
I was all of seven years old.
When I finally got to see the movie "Where the Boys Are," sometime around age ten or so, I was riveted -- RIVETED, I say -- to the television screen.
Say what you will about a weird little girl with four-inch-thick glasses who was obsessed with Connie Francis, a pop star whose fame rose well before the creepy little girl had even been born, but I'll have you know that that little creep with four-inch-thick glasses would not have embarrassed herself on national television by confusing two of America's greatest female singers of all time.
So the other night, while watching American Idol with my girls, one of the female contestants induced mass hysteria and projectile vomiting while she crucified the 1961 hit "Where the Boys Are." That was bad enough. But then Randy Jackson had to be all doggy and shit and tell the woman that she can't compare to Patsy Cline, or something along those lines. I can't even remember what he said well enough to paraphrase comfortably due to my forehead exploding when he said "Patsy Cline."
Anyone with a brain larger than Simon's left titty would know that Connie Francis sang "Where the Boys Are."
Dog. Oh, dog, dog, dog, DOGGY dog!
What's going on, dude. Seriously, I'm like, WHAT? How's it going, man. WHAT? Hey, how you feelin' dog-a-dog-a-lamby lamb, huh? Feeling good?
WHAT? How's my dog, dog?
I just had to get this off my chest, dogs. Like, man, I really, really, man-oh-man, like, really, really had to shake this bad mojo swingin' 'gainst my groove, y'all.
But then Simon had to go and embarrass himself, too, by interjecting a painfully ignorant, and utterly beautiful "yes, that song must have a bit of a twang," which I assumed meant that he, too, believed Patsy sung "Where the Boys Are."
To my knowledge, the wonderful Ms. Francis never employed a twang in any of her songs. I know this to be fact. I am Connie Francis' biggest fan. Used to take my mom's old 45s, especially "Lipstick on Your Collar" and "Where the Boys Are," and sit in my bedroom listening to them over and over. And over. While staring at pictures of Connie.
I was all of seven years old.
When I finally got to see the movie "Where the Boys Are," sometime around age ten or so, I was riveted -- RIVETED, I say -- to the television screen.
Say what you will about a weird little girl with four-inch-thick glasses who was obsessed with Connie Francis, a pop star whose fame rose well before the creepy little girl had even been born, but I'll have you know that that little creep with four-inch-thick glasses would not have embarrassed herself on national television by confusing two of America's greatest female singers of all time.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Well, DUH!
How grammatically correct are you? (Revised with answer key)
You are a GRAMMAR GOD!
Congratulations! If your mission in life is not already to preserve the English tongue, it should be. You can smell a grammatical inaccuracy from fifty yards. Your speech is revered by the underlings, though some may blaspheme and call you a snob. They're just jealous. Go out there and change the world.
Take this quiz!
Quizilla |
Join
| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code
I look great in a thong, too.
And I can blow smoke rings through my left eye, tame wild asses, and simulate fellatio on a summer squash without gagging.
Also, I have been known to disable weaponry of all kinds by sheer mental force.
Truly, I am special.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
I Think We All Could Use Some Cute Today...
Unfortunately for me, while watching this, I bit into my forearm so hard, my right hand is now lying in a pool of blood at my feet. And it's twitching.
Not so cute.
Friday, January 25, 2008
My Latest Contribution to the English Language
So yesterday, while watching this (don't bother going there unless you're into the whole UFO thing, and have two hours to spare), I said aloud to myself this: "Corn!"
I shocked myself with this utterance, as my mind was actually screaming "cornucopia!"
Strange that I only vocalized part of my newly invented exclamation of surprise and joy, but there you go. "Cornucopia," to me, embodies the various emotions and physical sensations involved in an intriguing, fulfilling experience -- and if you think about it, it makes sense. Cornucopias are horns of plenty, filled with wonderful things, a delightful gift, its treasures revealed slowly, i.e., remove the visible apple from the mouth of the horn, and an orange rolls out; remove the orange, and a bottle of Absolut tumbles forward. And so on, and so forth.
However, though the word itself captures the feeling of spectacular goodness stuffed all in one tidy, decorative centerpiece, shouting "cornucopia" is a bit daunting. The many syllables trip the tongue, dampen the moment of discovery and excitement. Hence "corn!"
Here are but a few examples in which one may employ both "corn!" and "cornucopia!":
1) Say you happen across a fifty dollar bill while taking a stroll through your neighborhood. You might pick up the bill, stare at it lovingly, and say "Holy cornucopia! I'm the luckiest person alive!"
2) If you ever find yourself in a situation whereupon the woman or man of your dreams professes their undying love, and also offers to gift you a brand new Porsche, just for the heck of it, you should most definitely shout "That is so corn!"
3) While viewing an especially entertaining film, concert, or stage production, proclaiming (aloud) that it is "the corn!" would be more than appropriate.
4) If excited by the thought of an upcoming event, whether it be a job promotion, marriage, or unusually large tax refund, feel free to show your excited anticipation by saying "I am so corned!"
5) Perhaps a loved one has achieved something grand -- graduated from school, been elected president, won a contest of some sort -- you will, I guarantee, feel tremendous glee were you to shout (loudly, in their face), "Cornucopia! That is so fantastic!"
You are so very, very welcome.
I shocked myself with this utterance, as my mind was actually screaming "cornucopia!"
Strange that I only vocalized part of my newly invented exclamation of surprise and joy, but there you go. "Cornucopia," to me, embodies the various emotions and physical sensations involved in an intriguing, fulfilling experience -- and if you think about it, it makes sense. Cornucopias are horns of plenty, filled with wonderful things, a delightful gift, its treasures revealed slowly, i.e., remove the visible apple from the mouth of the horn, and an orange rolls out; remove the orange, and a bottle of Absolut tumbles forward. And so on, and so forth.
However, though the word itself captures the feeling of spectacular goodness stuffed all in one tidy, decorative centerpiece, shouting "cornucopia" is a bit daunting. The many syllables trip the tongue, dampen the moment of discovery and excitement. Hence "corn!"
Here are but a few examples in which one may employ both "corn!" and "cornucopia!":
1) Say you happen across a fifty dollar bill while taking a stroll through your neighborhood. You might pick up the bill, stare at it lovingly, and say "Holy cornucopia! I'm the luckiest person alive!"
2) If you ever find yourself in a situation whereupon the woman or man of your dreams professes their undying love, and also offers to gift you a brand new Porsche, just for the heck of it, you should most definitely shout "That is so corn!"
3) While viewing an especially entertaining film, concert, or stage production, proclaiming (aloud) that it is "the corn!" would be more than appropriate.
4) If excited by the thought of an upcoming event, whether it be a job promotion, marriage, or unusually large tax refund, feel free to show your excited anticipation by saying "I am so corned!"
5) Perhaps a loved one has achieved something grand -- graduated from school, been elected president, won a contest of some sort -- you will, I guarantee, feel tremendous glee were you to shout (loudly, in their face), "Cornucopia! That is so fantastic!"
You are so very, very welcome.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
First it Was a Bag of Garbage, Now it's My Husband
Upon leaving my mother's hospital room last night, I ventured on to the usual pick-up place to wait for Lar. Was supposed to meet him at 6:30.
Surprised but not alarmed (yet) that he wasn't there, I waited just outside the hospital main entrance, assuming he'd drive up any minute. It was bitterly cold, but I figured I'd better wait where I had a good view of the pick-up circle, as the view was obstructed inside by large pillars and other visitors milling about. So I waited, then waited some more.
After about, oh, I don't know, twenty and one half hours, my fingers began to stiffen into Witchy Poo claws, and the tips of my ears fell off, so I went inside to warm my bones, paced and fretted, worried and sniffed, went back outside, paced and sniffed, ignored the odd looks I was receiving from other waiters (I had been talking to myself at that point), for another forty-two hours, then hightailed it back up to Mom's room.
Sadly, I think I may have frightened Mom, the way I whooshed into her room like some sort of freeze-dried Bat Woman, coat flying out behind me, my hair askew, my nose crumbling ala Michael Jackson, expression frozen into a hideous, teeth-bared mask of pure pain and hatred.
Although I knew I'd startled my mother, I didn't care -- I wanted her phone, and did not give one whit who I startled, or which nurses were calling security at that moment. I wanted the phone, I wanted to find Lar, and I wanted to be warm, home, and curled up with a dictionary and a bag of Wendy's. That is all.
My oldest daughter answered the phone and told me that "Dad called and said he's been waiting forever."
This was my reply: ???????????????
Then: *******************************************
I ran back down to the main entrance in record time (no small feat considering the size of this frigging hospital), and frantically searched for any sign of an unusually large head-shadow looming behind the wheel of a champagne-colored H3, but no deal. I walked back and forth, over and around, spoke aloud to whomever was responsible for this nightmare, asked he or she or it to kindly fuck off and thanked them very much.
At this stage, I was near death, and angels appeared from on high to trumpet my welcome, but I'm a fighter, so I shooed most of them away and once again ran back inside.
A hospital employee was waiting there as well, and one of the angels, a stubborn, feisty Latina named Yolanda, whispered in my ear this: "Ask the lady if there is another entrance that leads to the lobby..."
So I did, and she answered.
Here was my reply to the kind hospital employee lady: !!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here is what Lar said to me when I sheepishly hopped into the car: %&$(#(#)@*@*@*((((@@@@@@@@@@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Surprised but not alarmed (yet) that he wasn't there, I waited just outside the hospital main entrance, assuming he'd drive up any minute. It was bitterly cold, but I figured I'd better wait where I had a good view of the pick-up circle, as the view was obstructed inside by large pillars and other visitors milling about. So I waited, then waited some more.
After about, oh, I don't know, twenty and one half hours, my fingers began to stiffen into Witchy Poo claws, and the tips of my ears fell off, so I went inside to warm my bones, paced and fretted, worried and sniffed, went back outside, paced and sniffed, ignored the odd looks I was receiving from other waiters (I had been talking to myself at that point), for another forty-two hours, then hightailed it back up to Mom's room.
Sadly, I think I may have frightened Mom, the way I whooshed into her room like some sort of freeze-dried Bat Woman, coat flying out behind me, my hair askew, my nose crumbling ala Michael Jackson, expression frozen into a hideous, teeth-bared mask of pure pain and hatred.
Although I knew I'd startled my mother, I didn't care -- I wanted her phone, and did not give one whit who I startled, or which nurses were calling security at that moment. I wanted the phone, I wanted to find Lar, and I wanted to be warm, home, and curled up with a dictionary and a bag of Wendy's. That is all.
My oldest daughter answered the phone and told me that "Dad called and said he's been waiting forever."
This was my reply: ???????????????
Then: *******************************************
I ran back down to the main entrance in record time (no small feat considering the size of this frigging hospital), and frantically searched for any sign of an unusually large head-shadow looming behind the wheel of a champagne-colored H3, but no deal. I walked back and forth, over and around, spoke aloud to whomever was responsible for this nightmare, asked he or she or it to kindly fuck off and thanked them very much.
At this stage, I was near death, and angels appeared from on high to trumpet my welcome, but I'm a fighter, so I shooed most of them away and once again ran back inside.
A hospital employee was waiting there as well, and one of the angels, a stubborn, feisty Latina named Yolanda, whispered in my ear this: "Ask the lady if there is another entrance that leads to the lobby..."
So I did, and she answered.
Here was my reply to the kind hospital employee lady: !!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here is what Lar said to me when I sheepishly hopped into the car: %&$(#(#)@*@*@*((((@@@@@@@@@@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Oh. My. God.
I think I just sent the boy off to school with a bag of garbage.
It is a smallish bag meant for the bin outside (it's garbage collection day).
It smells terribly.
It has a poop diaper in it and a bag of cigarette butts.
It is not normal garbage.
It is garbage that would shame even the heartiest of souls.
It is garbage you would never, ever want your child's teacher to see.
Brandon, unfortunately, was having a bit of a tantrum before the bus came, wouldn't put his coat and boots on, wouldn't cooperate whatsoever, so I was frazzled, hurrying to get him suited up and out the door, bag of garbage in hand, which I was going to put in the bin, situated curbside -- right where we wait for the bus.
I remember that my son ceased with his tantrum soon as he saw the bus come round the bend. I remember that he melted my heart with a trembly "I love you, Mommy" and a kiss goodbye. I remember slipping his backpack onto his back -- something I don't normally do, as he has to sit in the bus seat.
Why did I do that? So that his tiny hands would be free to carry the garbage?
I remember nothing else as to the whereabouts of the bag of garbage. The stinking, shameful bag of garbage that no child should venture near, let alone hold.
It is not in the bin. It is not in the house. It is not on the front step, or the driveway.
I have concluded, much to my horror, that the bag of garbage is indeed clutched in my boy's clean, innocent hands.
My boy is going to open the bag, my friends, and there before the eyes and nostrils of his fellow kindergartners, instead of a special baked treat for the whole class, or perhaps a magical dancing bear, or a wombat named Fred, or a host of any other delightful possibilities, my son will present a bag of garbage, its contents culled from the depths of Hell.
Courtesy of Brandon's stupid, preoccupied, not-right-in-the-head mommy.
UPDATE:
E-mail to Brandon's teacher --
Subject: Re: Report Card Conference
January 22 at 2:45 is perfect, Jim.
Oh, and please don't think me insane or anything, but...Did Brandon come to class today with a stinking bag of garbage?
If so, I apologize a thousand times.
It was meant for the garbage bin, which is situated curbside near the bus stop. The bus came early, and I had the bag in my hands as I was getting Brandon on the bus, and...That's the last I remember of the bag. It is not in the bin, nor anywhere in or near the house.
If Brandon did not come to class with a bag of garbage today, then please forget you ever read this. ;-)
Reply from Brandon's teacher --
HAHA I was laughing out loud as I read that. :)
I did not notice the bag of trash at all today. Maybe it is in his backpack??
Take care,
Jim
FINAL UPDATE: The whereabouts of the bag of garbage remains a mystery.
It is a smallish bag meant for the bin outside (it's garbage collection day).
It smells terribly.
It has a poop diaper in it and a bag of cigarette butts.
It is not normal garbage.
It is garbage that would shame even the heartiest of souls.
It is garbage you would never, ever want your child's teacher to see.
Brandon, unfortunately, was having a bit of a tantrum before the bus came, wouldn't put his coat and boots on, wouldn't cooperate whatsoever, so I was frazzled, hurrying to get him suited up and out the door, bag of garbage in hand, which I was going to put in the bin, situated curbside -- right where we wait for the bus.
I remember that my son ceased with his tantrum soon as he saw the bus come round the bend. I remember that he melted my heart with a trembly "I love you, Mommy" and a kiss goodbye. I remember slipping his backpack onto his back -- something I don't normally do, as he has to sit in the bus seat.
Why did I do that? So that his tiny hands would be free to carry the garbage?
I remember nothing else as to the whereabouts of the bag of garbage. The stinking, shameful bag of garbage that no child should venture near, let alone hold.
It is not in the bin. It is not in the house. It is not on the front step, or the driveway.
I have concluded, much to my horror, that the bag of garbage is indeed clutched in my boy's clean, innocent hands.
My boy is going to open the bag, my friends, and there before the eyes and nostrils of his fellow kindergartners, instead of a special baked treat for the whole class, or perhaps a magical dancing bear, or a wombat named Fred, or a host of any other delightful possibilities, my son will present a bag of garbage, its contents culled from the depths of Hell.
Courtesy of Brandon's stupid, preoccupied, not-right-in-the-head mommy.
UPDATE:
E-mail to Brandon's teacher --
Subject: Re: Report Card Conference
January 22 at 2:45 is perfect, Jim.
Oh, and please don't think me insane or anything, but...Did Brandon come to class today with a stinking bag of garbage?
If so, I apologize a thousand times.
It was meant for the garbage bin, which is situated curbside near the bus stop. The bus came early, and I had the bag in my hands as I was getting Brandon on the bus, and...That's the last I remember of the bag. It is not in the bin, nor anywhere in or near the house.
If Brandon did not come to class with a bag of garbage today, then please forget you ever read this. ;-)
Reply from Brandon's teacher --
HAHA I was laughing out loud as I read that. :)
I did not notice the bag of trash at all today. Maybe it is in his backpack??
Take care,
Jim
FINAL UPDATE: The whereabouts of the bag of garbage remains a mystery.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Did I have Another Boychild in '02....
And not know about it? Is that even possible? Did I bear twins, and some evil nurse spirited one of them away?
Can't be...It just can't...Yet, how to explain this?
Fine, so it's not possible that this is my flesh, my blood, but my God, I love that child as if he were my own. He even speaks of the ORECK!
The ORECK!
Oh, be still my fluttering, charmed, vacuum cleaner-obsessed heart...
Rock on, sweet prince of vacuums. You shall remain a part of my soul forever...
Can't be...It just can't...Yet, how to explain this?
Fine, so it's not possible that this is my flesh, my blood, but my God, I love that child as if he were my own. He even speaks of the ORECK!
The ORECK!
Oh, be still my fluttering, charmed, vacuum cleaner-obsessed heart...
Rock on, sweet prince of vacuums. You shall remain a part of my soul forever...
Friday, January 11, 2008
And Now, a Bit of Comic Relief...
I don't exactly understand why, but that makes me giggle like a drunken sailor.
Also, good news regarding me mum -- she's now in a different hospital, Strong Memorial, which is affiliated with the University of Rochester, and will be undergoing inpatient clinical trial treatment. The docs there say that if she doesn't respond to that, they have one more trick up their crisp, white sleeves.
If one of the treatments can get her into remission, even for a few days, they will attempt a bone marrow transplant, which is surprising news considering bone marrow transplants are usually reserved for those under sixty (older patients don't fare as well as younger ones, and can die due to complications). She has two brothers willing to test for compatibility, but if they don't match, she'll be put on a waiting list.
When I'd asked one of the docs if I could test, he looked at me kind of funny and said, "Well, is there intermarriage in your family?" (meaning incest), and I, horrified yet laughing, said NO! "Okay, then," said the good doctor, "you will not be a possible match -- only siblings with the same mother and father are candidates. "
Wow. You learn something new every day.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I've Got Rants in my Pants, and the F-Bomb, Too!
Didn't sleep last night, which sucks, because I really needed the shut eye. Having trouble focusing, everything seems dreamlike, hazy and disjointed. Christ, I'd be thrilled with at least five consecutive hours, but no doing. Been a long time since I last slept for more than three hours without waking -- not anomalous for me, as I'm a lifelong insomniac, but I usually manage to crash quite well after a couple of weeks sans sleep. Not lately, though.
I'm about to ramble on here, and I apologize for any run on sentences, grammar errors, or extreme boredom you may encounter.
My grandma called me last night with the news that my mother was rushed to the hospital via ambulance due to spiking fever. Not surprised. Why the docs let her go home in the first place is a mystery to me and everyone else concerned. I mean, here she is, over sixty, with refractory acute myeloid leukemia, just finished her THIRD try at chemotherapy, which, as with the other two tries, did nothing to stop the blast cells from furiously multiplying, and she's sick as hell, no immune system, and the dumbass doctors, instead of taking her straight to another hospital on Monday for last-ditch effort clinical trial treatment, as was planned (her decision -- emphatically decided upon, by the way), her oncology team suddenly throw their hands in the air and start talking gibberish. Babbling, useless, stupid idiots, the whole lot of them.
This is the same hospital where my Nic was treated, then died, October 28th. Without warning. Like, totally without warning. Sure, she had late stage breast cancer, and sure, she was nearing end stage, but...This is the same hospital that, two days before she died, when she went in emergency complaining of loss of sensation in her lower extremities and incontinence, kept her waiting, lying on a crappy ED bed for EIGHT HOURS before she was taken care of. Eight hours. No one bothered to even ask her if she needed to use the toilet until her seventh hour of waiting, and the person that asked her was...Me. She looked at me, cocked her head and said, "Uh, yeah, probably a good idea, that." So her daughter runs to get a nurse -- anybody -- to help take Nic to the bathroom. And we waited. Then waited some more.
Fucking dickwads finally sent someone over after her daughter LOUDLY protested while she and I attempted to carry/drag poor Nic to the bathroom ourselves.
But Nic, other than incontinence and inability to walk, was her old self, full of spunk, piss (pun!), and vinegar, and finally making her plans for palliative care. The last thing we discussed, the night before she passed, was our Halloween plan. We were planning our traditional Halloween night, my brother Rob included, where scary movies, Snickers bars, and potato chips with onion dip are de rigueur.
How could someone go from laughing and joking and anticipating a fun Halloween to death OVER NIGHT?
Oh, and I forgot to mention that right before my brother and I were leaving that night, Nic told me that she'd been left to sit in her own waste for a long time that day. Despite repeated beeps to the nurse's station. And the dildos KNEW she was incontinent...And when I confronted one of the nurses before I left, she said to me this: "Impossible. Waniece has trouble with time perception."
Yeah. Okay, sister.
It's always the patient's fault, isn't it?
Just like it's my mom's fault for WANTING TO FUCKING LIVE.
Look, I realize that hospitals are understaffed. I get that nurses and doctors are overwhelmed. I understand that successful treatments for cancer are WOEFULLY slim pickings. I get all of that. But I have absolutely NO faith whatsoever in the current medical establishment. None. It's all dictated to by insurance and pharmaceutical companies. Hey, and I'll throw in government "intervention" as well.
See, If I were in charge of things, it would be mandatory that all cancer patients receive a box of fatties, unlimited pain meds of their choice (my mom, when she asked a nurse if she could have a Vicodin last weekend, was told she'd have to wait until the nurse "got permission" from some mysterious fuckwit or other -- strange, considering Mom's never had to go through secret channels before just to get a fucking VICODIN! -- so they sent in a couple of TYLENOL instead. Tylenol? That's like putting a cockwiping Band Aid on a broken leg!), and an advocate assigned to each and every patient. Yeah, I know the family is supposed to advocate, but, jeepers, fuck. We kind of HAVE OUR HEADS UP OUR ASSES AT THE MOMENT? We sort of AREN'T FUCKING DOCTORS who know WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? And we certainly have NO FUCKING CONTROL over mind-blowingly callous CUNT-FACED INSURANCE COMPANIES and their evil twins, the NOT-SO-FUNNY PHARMS!
Okay, breathe, Ms. Lori...Breathe...
All better.
Right, then. I'm off to get my boy ready for school. And then I've a nice, cold six pack to cuddle up to.
Screw everything until later. Today, for a while, I shall wallow. By the time the kids come home, I'll be right as rain, house will be spic 'n' span, dinner in the oven, my makeup did, my smile in place. Then it's off to visit my mother.
I'll be wearing my "Buck Fush" T-shirt.
I'm about to ramble on here, and I apologize for any run on sentences, grammar errors, or extreme boredom you may encounter.
My grandma called me last night with the news that my mother was rushed to the hospital via ambulance due to spiking fever. Not surprised. Why the docs let her go home in the first place is a mystery to me and everyone else concerned. I mean, here she is, over sixty, with refractory acute myeloid leukemia, just finished her THIRD try at chemotherapy, which, as with the other two tries, did nothing to stop the blast cells from furiously multiplying, and she's sick as hell, no immune system, and the dumbass doctors, instead of taking her straight to another hospital on Monday for last-ditch effort clinical trial treatment, as was planned (her decision -- emphatically decided upon, by the way), her oncology team suddenly throw their hands in the air and start talking gibberish. Babbling, useless, stupid idiots, the whole lot of them.
This is the same hospital where my Nic was treated, then died, October 28th. Without warning. Like, totally without warning. Sure, she had late stage breast cancer, and sure, she was nearing end stage, but...This is the same hospital that, two days before she died, when she went in emergency complaining of loss of sensation in her lower extremities and incontinence, kept her waiting, lying on a crappy ED bed for EIGHT HOURS before she was taken care of. Eight hours. No one bothered to even ask her if she needed to use the toilet until her seventh hour of waiting, and the person that asked her was...Me. She looked at me, cocked her head and said, "Uh, yeah, probably a good idea, that." So her daughter runs to get a nurse -- anybody -- to help take Nic to the bathroom. And we waited. Then waited some more.
Fucking dickwads finally sent someone over after her daughter LOUDLY protested while she and I attempted to carry/drag poor Nic to the bathroom ourselves.
But Nic, other than incontinence and inability to walk, was her old self, full of spunk, piss (pun!), and vinegar, and finally making her plans for palliative care. The last thing we discussed, the night before she passed, was our Halloween plan. We were planning our traditional Halloween night, my brother Rob included, where scary movies, Snickers bars, and potato chips with onion dip are de rigueur.
How could someone go from laughing and joking and anticipating a fun Halloween to death OVER NIGHT?
Oh, and I forgot to mention that right before my brother and I were leaving that night, Nic told me that she'd been left to sit in her own waste for a long time that day. Despite repeated beeps to the nurse's station. And the dildos KNEW she was incontinent...And when I confronted one of the nurses before I left, she said to me this: "Impossible. Waniece has trouble with time perception."
Yeah. Okay, sister.
It's always the patient's fault, isn't it?
Just like it's my mom's fault for WANTING TO FUCKING LIVE.
Look, I realize that hospitals are understaffed. I get that nurses and doctors are overwhelmed. I understand that successful treatments for cancer are WOEFULLY slim pickings. I get all of that. But I have absolutely NO faith whatsoever in the current medical establishment. None. It's all dictated to by insurance and pharmaceutical companies. Hey, and I'll throw in government "intervention" as well.
See, If I were in charge of things, it would be mandatory that all cancer patients receive a box of fatties, unlimited pain meds of their choice (my mom, when she asked a nurse if she could have a Vicodin last weekend, was told she'd have to wait until the nurse "got permission" from some mysterious fuckwit or other -- strange, considering Mom's never had to go through secret channels before just to get a fucking VICODIN! -- so they sent in a couple of TYLENOL instead. Tylenol? That's like putting a cockwiping Band Aid on a broken leg!), and an advocate assigned to each and every patient. Yeah, I know the family is supposed to advocate, but, jeepers, fuck. We kind of HAVE OUR HEADS UP OUR ASSES AT THE MOMENT? We sort of AREN'T FUCKING DOCTORS who know WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? And we certainly have NO FUCKING CONTROL over mind-blowingly callous CUNT-FACED INSURANCE COMPANIES and their evil twins, the NOT-SO-FUNNY PHARMS!
Okay, breathe, Ms. Lori...Breathe...
All better.
Right, then. I'm off to get my boy ready for school. And then I've a nice, cold six pack to cuddle up to.
Screw everything until later. Today, for a while, I shall wallow. By the time the kids come home, I'll be right as rain, house will be spic 'n' span, dinner in the oven, my makeup did, my smile in place. Then it's off to visit my mother.
I'll be wearing my "Buck Fush" T-shirt.
Monday, January 7, 2008
They're Baaaaack!
More weirdness abounds in the Young household. We'd been relatively weirdness-free for the past two years, with the exception of my cat doing her "peering down the heating vent in my bedroom" thing, but alas, the weirdness is back with a vengeance. And this time, even Lar agrees that it's something odder than odd should ever be.
If you want to read a bit of background, please go here. There's another link in that post that will take you to my first post regarding weirdness.
In hindsight, I now realize that shit was about 1/4 inch from hitting the fan on New Year's Day. December had been a truly beautiful time for me, despite the bad, bad things that had gone on in recent months. Some of you know what I'm talking about, yeah? Anyway, beginning on January 1st, there definitely was a change of atmosphere, a palpable heaviness in the air. Everyone in the house seemed more on edge than usual, the kids whinier, easier to set off, Lar began brooding more than usual, and I felt an uneasiness, an irritation, a profound sadness...All of which I attributed to the end of the holidays, back to school, bills, and my mother's worsening condition.
Emotions are easily explained away.
But then, this morning, after Lar told me of last night's events, I recalled the very real, very cold, totally inexplicable breeze that blew over the left side of my body a few days ago. Seriously, it was a breeze, folks. An icy, forceful wind that made my sleeve push against my arm. I'd been standing at the wall table in the living room (the one in our addition -- the light bulb-exploding one I wrote about in the link above), dusting my brand new Egyptian knickknacks, gazing into the mirror above the table (I love myself way too much), when I felt that breeze just slam into me.
Okay, well, I thought to myself that although strange, it wasn't anything to think about for more than a minute, regardless of the fact that the kids were in their rooms, Lar was at work, and nobody had entered the home nor left. Doors were all locked, and it was a calm albeit cold afternoon -- no wind.
Aiiiiiii! That ghostie-thing was announcing its return, I guess, because this morning, Lar -- practical, stoic, skeptical, Stonehenge-headed Lar -- said to me, "Hear the ghost last night?"
Well, I just about dropped my coffee mug. "Huh? Whaaa...?"
"The ghost...You didn't hear it?"
"Uh...No? What the hell are you talking about?"
Impatient now, Lar raised his voice and gestured toward the hallway. "The damn ghost! You didn't hear all that noise last night?"
"Apparently not, else I would be screeching like a loon right about now."
According to Lar, around 4:00 this morning, he woke to banging noises coming from the main part of the house (our bedroom is in the addition), so he got up to investigate, figuring it was one of the kids, or the cat. Unfortunately, everyone was asleep, and the cat was in my oldest daughter's bedroom, which is right next to our bedroom.
Finding nothing, Lar heads on back to our room, but is stopped in his tracks by another loud bang/thump, then another. He could not figure out where they were coming from, as the thumps seemingly reverberated throughout that part of the house, including the game room/bar directly beneath. He searched high and low, went to the basement and up again, but found nothing.
So Lar, probably pooping his pants at that point (hee hee), went back to our bedroom, drowsed off, but was woken by sounds in OUR room now. (AAAAAAiiiiiiiii!!!!)
The cord on the back of our new flat screen TV, which sets on a highboy across from our bed, was thrashing wildly against the back of the highboy, as if, in Lar's words, "it was trying to get our attention."
Holy butthole! Strong words coming from a man who thinks I am mildlyinsane amusing with my strong belief in the paranormal.
In fact, if he knew I was making public his newfound belief (which, truth be told, most likely isn't all that strong -- he's just a bit spooked right now), he'd scowl really HARD at me and then not speak to me for, like, days.
Hopefully, the kids' toys won't go off in the middle of the night (a recurrent problem with us, beginning in our first home, when our firstborn was around two years old). Really, I simply hate that. Exploding light bulbs, televisions turning on and off, thrashing cords, thumps I can deal with, but toy cars and talking dolls having a party at three a.m.? Awful.
If you want to read a bit of background, please go here. There's another link in that post that will take you to my first post regarding weirdness.
In hindsight, I now realize that shit was about 1/4 inch from hitting the fan on New Year's Day. December had been a truly beautiful time for me, despite the bad, bad things that had gone on in recent months. Some of you know what I'm talking about, yeah? Anyway, beginning on January 1st, there definitely was a change of atmosphere, a palpable heaviness in the air. Everyone in the house seemed more on edge than usual, the kids whinier, easier to set off, Lar began brooding more than usual, and I felt an uneasiness, an irritation, a profound sadness...All of which I attributed to the end of the holidays, back to school, bills, and my mother's worsening condition.
Emotions are easily explained away.
But then, this morning, after Lar told me of last night's events, I recalled the very real, very cold, totally inexplicable breeze that blew over the left side of my body a few days ago. Seriously, it was a breeze, folks. An icy, forceful wind that made my sleeve push against my arm. I'd been standing at the wall table in the living room (the one in our addition -- the light bulb-exploding one I wrote about in the link above), dusting my brand new Egyptian knickknacks, gazing into the mirror above the table (I love myself way too much), when I felt that breeze just slam into me.
Okay, well, I thought to myself that although strange, it wasn't anything to think about for more than a minute, regardless of the fact that the kids were in their rooms, Lar was at work, and nobody had entered the home nor left. Doors were all locked, and it was a calm albeit cold afternoon -- no wind.
Aiiiiiii! That ghostie-thing was announcing its return, I guess, because this morning, Lar -- practical, stoic, skeptical, Stonehenge-headed Lar -- said to me, "Hear the ghost last night?"
Well, I just about dropped my coffee mug. "Huh? Whaaa...?"
"The ghost...You didn't hear it?"
"Uh...No? What the hell are you talking about?"
Impatient now, Lar raised his voice and gestured toward the hallway. "The damn ghost! You didn't hear all that noise last night?"
"Apparently not, else I would be screeching like a loon right about now."
According to Lar, around 4:00 this morning, he woke to banging noises coming from the main part of the house (our bedroom is in the addition), so he got up to investigate, figuring it was one of the kids, or the cat. Unfortunately, everyone was asleep, and the cat was in my oldest daughter's bedroom, which is right next to our bedroom.
Finding nothing, Lar heads on back to our room, but is stopped in his tracks by another loud bang/thump, then another. He could not figure out where they were coming from, as the thumps seemingly reverberated throughout that part of the house, including the game room/bar directly beneath. He searched high and low, went to the basement and up again, but found nothing.
So Lar, probably pooping his pants at that point (hee hee), went back to our bedroom, drowsed off, but was woken by sounds in OUR room now. (AAAAAAiiiiiiiii!!!!)
The cord on the back of our new flat screen TV, which sets on a highboy across from our bed, was thrashing wildly against the back of the highboy, as if, in Lar's words, "it was trying to get our attention."
Holy butthole! Strong words coming from a man who thinks I am mildly
In fact, if he knew I was making public his newfound belief (which, truth be told, most likely isn't all that strong -- he's just a bit spooked right now), he'd scowl really HARD at me and then not speak to me for, like, days.
Hopefully, the kids' toys won't go off in the middle of the night (a recurrent problem with us, beginning in our first home, when our firstborn was around two years old). Really, I simply hate that. Exploding light bulbs, televisions turning on and off, thrashing cords, thumps I can deal with, but toy cars and talking dolls having a party at three a.m.? Awful.
Friday, January 4, 2008
I'm Optimistic...
Albeit cautiously so...Thrilled as I am that my boy, John Edwards, won second place in Iowa, I was hoping he'd top Obama. I like Obama, truly I do, but at this stage in his (young) political career, I also believe that he's not quite ready for primetime, something I concluded while watching the '07 debates, wherein he, in my humble opinion, was trumped by both Edwards and Clinton. I appreciate his youth (please, dear Jeeves, no more of the "old boys," which includes Hillary "Special Interest" Clinton), and he appears to have a wonderful vision, an enthusiasm for real change, as well as possessing a gift for inspirational eloquence, but...
Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank here -- forget the inexperience angle...
It's his hair. Obama just doesn't have the hair to lead this country. Perhaps in a few years, yes, if he allows it to fill in, grows it a bit longer, uses a smidgen of product. Until then, however, Edwards has him beat by a mile.
I feel confident that, with John Edwards in office, his bouncy, glimmering locks will be a bright beacon, a floodlight of cinnamon-scented hope that shall lead us down the path toward a better America.
God, I'm an asshole. I am nothing but a superficial, hair-loving asshole.
Aaaanyway.
Let's be serious for a moment here. John Edwards must be president. It is imperative that he be in charge, and here's why: The man will bring change to America; the man will bring our troops home; the man will see to it that our children receive affordable health care, and the man will dig us out of the seemingly endless pit of debt, corruption, and universal hatred. The man will rescue the drowning middle class, breathe life back into it, maybe give it a cherry Popsycle.
Don't have faith? Well, that may be because you haven't been watching, reading enough Edwards (mayhap his hair blinded you with its brilliance?), but I implore you to do so now. Listen to what he says, and not just for a few minutes here and there. Really listen to what he says, how he says it, read his statements, watch his mannerisms (ignore his blinky eyes, if you can -- hell, we all have quirks, a tic or two, don't we?), pay attention to his body language, all of which not only sound and look sincere, they are sincere.
Plus, he's got balls of iron.
Take into consideration what folks like
this have to say about the candidates instead of, um, Oprah.
"I absolutely believe to my soul that this corporate greed and corporate power has an ironclad hold on our democracy."
--John Edwards
Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank here -- forget the inexperience angle...
It's his hair. Obama just doesn't have the hair to lead this country. Perhaps in a few years, yes, if he allows it to fill in, grows it a bit longer, uses a smidgen of product. Until then, however, Edwards has him beat by a mile.
I feel confident that, with John Edwards in office, his bouncy, glimmering locks will be a bright beacon, a floodlight of cinnamon-scented hope that shall lead us down the path toward a better America.
God, I'm an asshole. I am nothing but a superficial, hair-loving asshole.
Aaaanyway.
Let's be serious for a moment here. John Edwards must be president. It is imperative that he be in charge, and here's why: The man will bring change to America; the man will bring our troops home; the man will see to it that our children receive affordable health care, and the man will dig us out of the seemingly endless pit of debt, corruption, and universal hatred. The man will rescue the drowning middle class, breathe life back into it, maybe give it a cherry Popsycle.
Don't have faith? Well, that may be because you haven't been watching, reading enough Edwards (mayhap his hair blinded you with its brilliance?), but I implore you to do so now. Listen to what he says, and not just for a few minutes here and there. Really listen to what he says, how he says it, read his statements, watch his mannerisms (ignore his blinky eyes, if you can -- hell, we all have quirks, a tic or two, don't we?), pay attention to his body language, all of which not only sound and look sincere, they are sincere.
Plus, he's got balls of iron.
Take into consideration what folks like
this have to say about the candidates instead of, um, Oprah.
"I absolutely believe to my soul that this corporate greed and corporate power has an ironclad hold on our democracy."
--John Edwards
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)