Daily Diatribes

My book group met tonight at Barnes and Noble. I thought I had arrived early, so I took a few moments to peruse the shelves. Turns out I was actually the next to the last to arrive, but I enjoyed my perusing!! And I was horrified to see the Jessica Seinfeld cookbook is still on the bestseller list.

I bear Jessica no ill will whatsoever. Well done her for nabbing Jerry and making an honest man out of him. And I’m sure their children are lovely. But did she need to write a cookbook? It isn’t enough to be the wife of a rich and famous comic? To have more money than fifty families could spend in a lifetime? Is writing a cookbook so much more fulfilling??

And it’s not just any cookbook. No, it’s a book on how to slip your children more veggies when they’re not looking. Let me tell you I smacked myself on the head when I heard that one. I made a beeline for the grocery store so I could stock up on brussels sprouts to hide in their brownies! What, you mean I can boil the sprouts, puree them, mix them into the brownie batter and the children will never even notice?? They’ll get the recommended daily allowance of vitamin C in the form of a delicious treat! OMG!!!!! Which unfortunately, as an expression, does not adequately convey my sarcasm.

In my opinion, this book sums up the sad direction in which our country is heading. Little Johnny doesn’t wike his vegetables, so we are going to disguise them in this yummy, nummy brownie!! Little Johnny can’t read either, but it’s because his ADHD medication makes him vewy cranky. And he can’t hold down a job, but that’s ok because he can move in with mummy and daddy and live in the basement until he’s 47 and play X-Box all day long!!! Why not? It’s the American way!!!

Maybe I’m exaggerating a trifle, but hiding vegetables? I am an old fashioned parent. I am bringing up my kids the way I was raised. I am not a short order cook. I’m not running a restaurant here. If I make it you’re damn well gonna eat it. Or starve to death in the process!! Thanks to my excellent mothering skills, my children eat all varieties of vegetables, cooked and raw. Because they know they have no choice.

Since when did parenthood become a democracy? I don’t give my children choices in anything. Children don’t want choices, and even if they do, it’s irrelevant. I give them orders and I expect them to obey. In this army, there’s no room for dissenters. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. You eat the peas I put in front of you, or you’re on your own, fair game for enemy fire. There is only one choice here in my home: do what you’re told or get out. Eat your vegetables or starve. There will be no broccoli brownies here. No parsnip pudding. No green bean ganache. Just good old cooked peas, plain and simple, just like mother used to make.

Mind you, I am being a complete hypocrite here. My mother was an awful cook when it came to vegetables. She always used canned vegetables and she boiled them within an inch of their lives. And for some unknown reason, gone to the grave with her, she cooked peas with lots of milk and butter. Trust me when I say there is nothing more repulsive than canned English peas boiled alive in buttery milk sauce. Makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. At least I feed my kids fresh or frozen vegetables. I do not buy canned veggies…ever. My childhood scarred me for life.

Here is a typical mealtime exchange in our house: Kid…what’s for dinner? Me…chicken and rice and peas….Kid…I don’t like that! Me…fine, don’t eat it. Kid…but I’m hungry! Me…Then that’s what we’re having! Kid…but I don’t want that. Me….then you don’t eat. Kid….Alright. Moral…See how easy that was??

I love the parents who worry that Johnny won’t get enough to eat. ‘He has to eat something,’ they say anxiously as they try to coax another bite into Johnny’s smirking mouth. We have so many blessings here in America and one of the many is an over abundance of food. Um, hello, childhood obesity problem anyone?? Trust me, Johnny is in no danger of starvation even if he appears to eat nothing more than three grains of rice and a sliver of apple in a 24 hour period. In my house, Johnny would eat his damn peas or I’d beat his butt. Simple really. In my house, it’s eat what I put in front of you or die!

The heck with the cookbook, I am going to write a parenting book. I’m going to call it “If You Beat Little Johnny’s Butt Once in Awhile, He’ll Do What You Tell Him To Do”, with a subtitle “A Good Ass Whuppin’ Never Hurt Anyone.” I think it would be an instant bestseller. I bet Oprah would endorse it! Doctor Spock just wishes he had come up with that title.

I wish Jessica all the best with her runaway bestseller. It must be so rewarding for her to puree butternut squash and mix it into jello pudding and have her children crow with delight over their “special” dessert. Me, I’m going to continue my regime of threats and suppression of democracy. It seems to have worked pretty well so far.

I just haven’t felt like posting. Last week I felt hungover. I guess it was a combination of stress, jet lag, and DT’s from the Xanax, but I wanted to sleep all week. I left the clothes in the suitcases in the middle of the floor. I left the dishes in the sink. I left the posts unwritten. My brain was idling. 

This week, however, reality is staring me in the face. School starts next week, always a bittersweet event. It means the children will be gone all day (hooray) but it also means another precious year is slipping by. As my kids are getting older, I realize each Halloween we celebrate is one closer to the time when they will not be bugging me for costumes and they won’t want to tramp around the neighborhood collecting Fun Size Snickers for me to eat. As much as I want my kids to grow up and get out, I understand a chapter in my life will close forever. The beginning of the school year always brings that into focus.

HOWEVER….this week, both girls have soccer camp and Napoleon has band camp. So my schedule for the week is as follows: 9:00: MA and the goddess both start camp, at different ends of the city; 11:30 Napoleon must be picked up; 12:00, MA must be picked up; 1:00, Napoleon must be dropped off; 4:00 the goddess must be picked up; 6:00, MA and Napoleon must be dropped off at different places; 9:00, MA and Napoleon must be picked up. I’m sorry; did I say I was going to miss them???? 

I have a precarious series of carpools worked out to get everyone where they need to be, but the whole thing could come tumbling down at any moment. And I love that I have to drive all over the city in the Suburban which gets 6 miles to the gallon. I’ll be hooking for gas by the end of the week; Fellatio Fuels!!!! Ewwwwww, couldn’t help myself there!!

I forgot to tell you about my wild animal sighting in New Mexico. I did very little hiking, but I did make the trek to see the only verified T-Rex track in North America. I mean, I had to see that, right?? Anyway, we are hiking along and I am contemplating curling up on the trail and dying because I am very out of shape, when we see a creature up ahead. Everyone got very excited because they all thought it was a prairie dog. Very sad if you think about it; what a bunch of stupid city slickers, getting excited over a freakin’ prairie dog!! Everyone got their cameras out, ready to snap a picture of the gen-u-ine wildlife. It sat up on its hind legs, regarding us calmly, most likely thinking we were the biggest dumbasses on the planet. Because as we got closer, we realized it was a SQUIRREL!!!! Yep, even in New Mexico, those little varmints cause me trouble!! 

Oh, and this past Saturday, I had a gnome sighting. Yep, that’s right, a gnome. Gina and I went to the movies and then dinner. I treated her to the movie (dollar movie) and she treated me to to dinner at the Olive Garden with her gift card she got for doing an internet survey. I was allowed to order anything at all, as long as we kept it under $25. Do we know how to live or what?? The Olive Garden is located next to the mall, and it being Saturday night, the mall was packed. I parked across the street from the OG and we hiked over. As we crossed the street, I happened to catch sight of a man playing with his gnome. Yes, that’s right, he was fondling his gnome. His window was open, so of course I blurted out “I like your gnome.”He looked up, smiled and said “thanks”! Then he put the gnome on the roof of his car and drove away.

Let me stress that I had consumed no alcohol. And still I saw a man in broad daylight, at the Galleria, playing with a gnome. I thought it was the Travelocity gnome, but Gina assured me it wasn’t, she being conversant in the study of gnomes. I thought about calling the police because I am pretty sure it’s illegal to fondle your gnome in public, but my cell phone was buried in my purse, so I shrugged it off and we continued on to OG. Where we ordered two different types of cheesy dip and ate cheese till we wanted to puke. It was a nice evening.

Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have to go wake up different children so they can begin preparing for their round of activities. If you’re getting paid to do a job, think about me driving my children around as you sit in your air conditioned cubicle. If you are at home watching day time TV while I make the rounds, you suck. If you’re blogging, you’re doing God’s work, so carry on!!! Going to soccer now!!! 

We actually got home on Saturday night, but I finally feel human enough to sit down and post. I had to take a LOT of Xanax to get home, so I needed a few days to recuperate!

I miss camp. Yes, I am not ashamed to admit it. Sunday was so confusing. I had to go in the kitchen and prepare food. There was no walking up, grabbing a tray, and handing it to some wholesome looking boy scout to fill. No, I had to fill it myself. After I cooked. Very traumatic.

And then, after the food was consumed, the dishes piled up in the kitchen. At camp, we shoved the trays through a window and a smiling boy scout took them to wash. Here, my boy scout did not smile when I asked him to do the dishes. He moaned and carried on and ultimately managed to weasel out of doing them. They are still in the sink awaiting attention. I miss camp.

The view outside of my bedroom door is not majestic mountains, covered in mist. No, it’s a stack of majestic suitcases waiting to be carried up the stairs by their respective owners. At least the bathroom is just a few feet away. However, there are more suitcases to navigate. And piles of dirty clothes. The shower is private though!!

I am happy to be back in my bed. Nothing can compare to being in your very own bed. Unfortunately, Hugo is in it as well, which detracts just a bit. I slept with MA at camp and I did NOT miss his snoring. Of course, someone in the tent behind us snored loudly enough that everyone in our entire row could hear it. The first morning, one lady confided in me she actually thought a bear had gotten into camp. She was only semi-relieved to discover it was a fellow camper; we could have gotten rid of the bear!!

We are home and life is slowly returning to normal. Now comes the mad dash to get the kids ready for a new school year. It’s amazing how the summer flies by so quickly. I am ready for some peace and quiet!!

I know many of you are wondering about the bathhouse I am being forced to use.  I can’t complain too much because at least we have indoor plumbing!  Napoleon took a small orange shovel with him so he can dig his own latrine.  A bear may sh*t in the woods, but I don’t!!  I am grateful to have a bathhouse, rustic though it is. 

The door to the bathhouse is always open, so any number of insects make their home in it.  No one ever comes in to sweep them up either.  You haven’t lived until you’ve brushed your teeth and spit onto dead bugs in your sink.  And don’t even get me started on the giant black beetles that abound up here.  They are positively prehistoric looking, with giant pincers and beady, beetle eyes.  They lumber around the bathhouse with no apparent purpose, which is of course, a cover. 

I am savvy enough to discern they are actually evil emissaries of the Mosquito Queen.  The beetles are spies and as soon as a female is foolish enough to enter the bathhouse, the beetle scurries off to report.  “Your majesty,” he huffs, “I bring news.  A fresh human has entered our trap!!  Much tasty flesh has been exposed!” 

“Well done,” she buzzes, preparing herself for flight.  She heads to the bathhouse with her vile, winged conspirators, to sting some unsuspecting female in the butt. 

The bugs really aren’t the worst of it.  The bathhouse was obviously designed by men.  Upon entering, you turn left for the toilets, or right for the showers.  A happy little note is posted on the wall of the shower area, advising us not to dress in the main room.  Each shower stall has a curtained dressing area we are supposed to use.  Only problem is that on the middle stalls, there is a block of wood extending out from the poured concrete walls.  The shower curtain rod is suspended between those.  Which is not a problem, except there is a three inch gap between the curtain and the wall.  You might as well be dressing in the main room because there is no privacy. 

And I am very private.  No one sees the Great White Underbelly.  No one.  Except my husband and I try to make those sightings as infrequent as possible.  The world is not ready to view the Great White Underbelly.  So I need a private dressing area. 

The stalls on either end have curtains flush with the walls, so they are more desirable.  Everyone knows this and there are probably many catfights over who is going to get the end stall.  This morning, I came in late and discovered the end stall was empty!!  Hooray! 

I hurried in with my clothing, chortling to myself over my good fortune.  Alas, it was not to last.  There is a single hook on the wall for us to hang our clothing.  Again, some stupid man decided that one hook was big enough to hang a pair of boxer shorts on so he left it at that.  I hung my shirt up and it immediately fell to the ground, into the handy puddle of standing water that always seems to be in the dressing area. 

This immediately caused some bad words to fly out of my mouth, words which are not in compliance with the Scout Oath and Law.  I did not say “oh shucks” although what I said certainly does rhyme.  I snatched the shirt up, took it out and laid it on a bench.  Luckily, it didn’t get too wet, and I was pretty sure I would be able to wear it.  So I went back into the stall and turned on the shower.

I love a hot shower as much as the next person, but the showers here have two temperatures:  scalding and boiling.  And the water doesn’t come out in a trickle, it spews forth in a geyser.  I think Old Faithful is about fifty degrees cooler than these showers.  It’s probably why there is so much standing water on the floor outside of them.  You have to keep moving constantly to avoid third degree burns. 

So I get the washing up done and step back outside.  I grab my towel, dry off, then reach for my undies.  Which splat to the ground, into the puddle.  This time, I managed to hit the section of the puddle that’s filled with mud.  I said a few more words that would have made Baden Powell’s hair stand on end as I surveyed my sopping, muddy underwear.  Cursing under my breath, I grabbed the dirty ones and put those on instead. 

Dressing in the tiny little dressing area is quite challenging.   It requires much physical strength and intesnse concentration.  First, you stand on one foot and lift the other as high in the air as possible to get it out of the water. Then you gingerly insert it into the leg of the underwear, trying not to let your foot come into contact with the undies. Since my undies were dirty, I just yanked them on, swearing some more. I pulled on my shorts and defiantly stomped out into the main room in my bra. Screw it, I thought, if I have to put on a wet shirt, I’m going to do it right here!!! Damn Boy scouts!

So this is definitely what they call “roughing it”. I think at this point, I probably could dig a hole and bury my poo. It wouldn’t faze me a bit!! After I dressed, I walked out to the goddess who looked at me, wrinkled her nose and said “your feet are dirty.”

“Just shut up,” I snarled. Dirty feet were the least of my problems; the underwear was MUCH worse!!

I am sitting here in my tent thing. It’s cold. There are bugs in my tent. But I have internet access. I give it 1/2 a thumbs up!!

Dinner was bad. I will be losing weight here at camp. This may be the ultimate fat farm experience. Luckily, I ate enough Mexican for three people while we were in Santa Fe, so I can live off that until Saturday.

Napoleon is gone. He is going to be trekking the back country this week. With the bears. And the mountain lions. We took a lot of pictures of him before he left, just in case.

MA is suffering severe physical withdrawal symptoms, because she has been separated from her phone. No texting at boy scout camp. I am afraid we may ultimately have to hospitalize her. Her thumbs keep waving around in space randomly, seeking keys to press. It’s not pretty.

Hugo thinks it’s all wonderful. I think he would sell everything and move up here tomorrow to join the boy scout cult. I can only imagine how much worse he will be after he attends a couple of training sessions. He’ll be channeling Lord Baden Powell, telling us all to be “CHEERFUL DAMMIT…A SCOUT IS CHEERFUL!!!” The scout motto is a bit problematic for me. I’ll never get the thrifty part down!!

The goddess has been miraculously healed. This may be because we visited the Santuario de Chmayo and she rolled around in healing dirt. Or it may be because it was just a virus. Regardless, she is feeling better, but engaged in a prolonged whining session today. I am smearing her with bacon grease tomorrow and sending her out on a hike into the back country. “Lions and Tigers and Bears….OH MY!!!”

It’s lights out now and I am afraid of the repercussions should I be caught with them on. I will fall asleep, dreaming of the breakfast that awaits me….powdered eggs and dry toast!! Yum!!!

Let’s just call this one the vacation of never ending vomit. From Wednesday afternoon, through this morning, I have been on vomit patrol. It started at MA’s soccer session on Wednesday afternoon. The girl she trains with threw up all over the place and I felt compelled to help clean up while her mother took care of her. I’m just stupid that way.
That night, MA started vomiting and she continued into the night. She woke up feeling better on Thursday and away we flew. I approve this message: Xanax is good for flying! I cried when we took off, but once we were in the air, I was sort of mellow and happy. I took a half Xanax before we left for the airport, a half in the airport and another half between flights. I was going to chase each half with a martini, but I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up and they’d have to get one of those cart things to transport me through the airport. So embarrassing!
Friday we went sightseeing. New Mexico is a place of raw and vital beauty. Also of extremely winding roads, which caused the goddess to get carsick. We pulled over and she threw up on the side of the road. We stopped at a weaving studio to watch rugs being woven and she threw up in the gift shop, on the sidewalk and in the grass. On the way home, she threw up in a gallon size Zip lock bag. Thank goodness yellow and blue make green or we would have all been throwing up with her!
Last night, she seemed better, so we left her with MA and went out to dinner. She ate two pieces of pizza and some cookies and was bouncing off the walls when she went to bed. This morning, however, she woke up at 5:00, moaning and thrashing about, and within minutes, the spewing began. Every 7 to 10 minutes, like clockwork, she threw up. She heaved and heaved and coughed and spit. I felt so bad for her, yet all I could do was hold the bowl. She was a trooper and after each episode, she would quietly subside into a fitful sleep.
I broke the cardinal rule of friendship with a doctor and called Renee at home at 8 a.m. Saturday morning. I felt really bad about it, but I was worried the goddess might need to go to the ER. Because we are leaving for camp tomorrow. Children never get sick in the middle of the week, in their own home. No, they wait until the weekend, when they are several hundred miles away from any physician who knows how to file the insurance correctly.
Renee is a goddess among women, though, and she listened to me patiently and said it was probably viral. The only good I would get out of a doctor visit was a prescription for Phenergan. Since I did not necessarily feel like trying shove a suppository up my child’s backside, I decided we would tough it out.
It’s been over an hour since she last puked and she is sleeping soundly. Or she’s in a coma. Would I know if she was in a coma??? Is the difference between a sound sleep and a comatose state obvious to the untrained eye?? Maybe I need to call Renee again.
Regardless, the question now hovers over my head, like a dark, ominous cloud over the New Mexico desert: WHO WILL BE NEXT???? What could be more fun than a stomach virus at boy scout camp? Being dismembered by a maniac with a butter knife? That’s about the only thing that comes to mind right now!!
This will probably be my last transmission as we are leaving civilization tomorrow. Off to Phiomont we will trek, with vomit bags in hand ready to conquer the untamed wilderness. If we can lift our heads from the toilet long enough!!

On Thursday my family is flying to New Mexico. I hate flying. Well, actually, I hate the idea of plummeting 50,000 feet to the ground, but you can’t have one without the other! In preparation for my flight, I have visited Dr. Renee and she has supplied me with some mind altering medications that will supposedly keep me from freaking out during take-off. We’ll see if they’re potent enough.

In case I don’t make it back alive, I would like to leave a few bequests on my blog. I don’t know if they will stand up in court, but I can at least try!! So here goes:

To Nancy M, I leave my cookbook collection and all my spices. Maybe she will learn to cook in honor of my memory. And accidentally burn her house down. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

To Kiki, I leave all my books, including the Harlequin romance collection in the attic. Plus my Readers Digest Condensed books….and there’s more were those came from!!!

To Dr. Renee, I leave all my medical journals, including all issues of “Ladies Home Journal” which is where I get most of my information. Also, my password to WebMD which is where I get the rest.

To Gina, I leave LuLu, the world’s dumbest Golden Retriever. This is the dog who would not get the paper yesterday b/c she was afraid of the balloon on the mailbox. I guess she thought it was an alien invader. Gina also gets the rights to all of my unpublished works. Including the epic saga “Wen Wid Da Wind’” which we wrote together when we were 13. It was all about Harlot Mascara and her lover, Rhett Valet. Yes, we were extremely bizarre children.

To Joe, I leave all of the non-working electronics around my house. This includes all broken computers, telephones, cameras, cell phones, etc. I would leave him the Batman shaped potato chip Napoleon and I found and were going to sell on E-Bay, but MA crushed it to death with a cup. It was supposed to fund Napoleon’s college education. Guess it doesn’t matter since the plane is going down anyway.

To Teensy, I leave all my unused prescription medications. Lord knows she’ll probably be having another surgery before the end of the month. That girl is the most operated on person I know!! Teensy, do you have ANY organs left inside???

To Rita, I leave all my girl scout stuff, including the 357 extra patches I have that I never got around to handing out or returning. Oh, and the 125 boxes of leftover cookies in my garage. You’ll never have to go to the girl scout shop again!!

To Kathy M, I leave all my political bumper stickers. Well, I don’t actually have any, but if I did, they would be yours!! I would leave you the garden squirrel you gave me, but Lulu managed to eat it. Not sure how, but she managed!!

To Satan, I leave one of my most prized possessions: the Fish n Chips emblem from the rear window of my behemoth Suburban. It sums up our ideology so well, doesn’t it?

To Allison, I leave all my books on dealing with teenagers. And my teenagers, if they survive the crash!!

To Blue Momma, I leave my Alabama Adventure coupons. Someone might as well enjoy that free jumbo pretzel!!

To Creepy Don, my cyberstalker whom I dearly love, all of my dirty clothes. Sniff away buddy!!

To Willow Tree, my dog obedience books. Like they did me any good. Maybe you can teach Belle how to look both ways before she crosses the street.

To all the rest of you, I leave $50 in cash and my safety deposit box key. Of course, you’ll have to come over and find them!! Good luck with that!! I love you all!!

When more than one person inhabits any given space, it stands to reason things will be misplaced. For every action there is separate and equal reaction or something like that, so if I put something down on the table, someone in the family will be sure to relocate it to another place. And it will never be seen or heard from again. This is called The Law of Family Living.

As a family scientist, I am conversant with this and other laws, such as A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place and the ever important Put it Back Where You Found it and it Won’t Get Lost. I spend many hours a week instructing my family in these laws. Unfortunately, science is not a strong point around here and they don’t seem to be comprehending these important theories.

In the last couple of weeks, we have lost the key to our safety deposit box and $50 in cash. My husband would probably much rather lose me than the cash; I’m insured. And the key? Well, there’s no telling how much it’s going to cost to drill out the box. It’s not like there’s anything important in there, other than our social security cards, passports, etc. Things you hardly ever need, but when you do need them….well, you’re going to be showing up at the bank with a drill!!

The cash was supposedly on top of his dresser when it disappeared. Suspicion was immediately focused on me. Which I resent. I’m not in the habit of stealing his cash; I just transfer it out of his checking account. That’s why we have internet banking. I can barely see the top of his dresser so I didn’t even know it was up there. It’s not like I ever dust up there. And I don’t lie about important things like money. I only lie about backing my car into stationary objects. Which is pretty stupid on my part since I inevitably get caught when he discovers the dents. No, the cash is “missing” and it’s not his fault. He couldn’t have misplaced it, so therefore, it’s been “stolen”. Call CSI immediately because we have a crime scene here.

As for the key, it is usually in the desk where I am typing this diatribe. However, it has disappeared and, again….MY FAULT!! Even though I have no reason to open the safety deposit box. I don’t have a passport. I don’t go anywhere other than the grocery store and various soccer complexes around the state. And I don’t need my social security card. I don’t even have a job so it’s not like I need the card. No, Hugo has lost the key himself, but he refuses to accept responsibility.

For the last two weeks, he has been stalking around the house like a deranged man, opening and closing drawers, muttering under his breath and striking fear into the hearts of all who unfortunately reside here. “grrr…smsmm….money….grr…msshffashfsffs…..key….grr…..” is mostly what we hear from him these days. I’ll be sitting here innocently checking my Facebook and he’ll pop up behind me and roar “HAVE YOU FOUND THAT KEY YET????!!!!”

“NO,” I roar back, “AND I HAVEN’T FOUND YOUR CASH EITHER!!” He subsides and stalks away muttering furiously. I am afraid we may have to have him committed, but we probably need his birth certificate for the process and it’s in the safety deposit box.

And I mean it when I say we have looked everywhere. We’ve looked in every drawer and every cabinet. We’ve torn apart closets and overturned tables. We’ve searched the cars all to no avail. Although may I digress here and say you could feed a small country on the fossilized french fries beneath the mats in my car? They are vanished, lost in the night, gone forever.

And then there’s the pearl earrings he got me. We took them to the jeweler and he had them reset, along with an old pair of diamond studs he gave me years ago. The jeweler made them into one pair of earrings. When Hugo gave them to me, I took them with me to the car, intending to put them on, but I couldn’t get the posts in my lobes because I don’t wear earrings very often. So I set them down in the car. He chastised me, saying I would lose them if I left them there, to which I replied sharply “don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take them upstairs when we get home.” And of course I forgot. And now I only have one earring. I bet the other one is with that key, somewhere in the cosmos.

So here I sit, $50 poorer, unable to access my important documents and unadorned with jewelry. On the bright side, it’s given me something to blog about. I’m not sure Hugo appreciates the lengths I go to for inspiration. Maybe if someone pays me $50 for this post, we can cut our losses and move on. So call now; operators are standing by!!

I have nothing to blog about so I am going to free associate. After all, some of the most creative minds in history used this method to create their masterpieces. Like e.e. Cummins (or is it Cummings….what the hell do I know??). And Robin Williams. So why shouldn’t I take this approach to blogging and see what I produce?

I feel really sorry for the mother of the teenager who was decapitated on Saturday at Six Flags. Had I been his mother, I would have arrived on the scene, picked up the head and smacked it around a lot and screamed at it. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING??? IF YOU WEREN’T ALREADY DEAD, YOU WOULD WISH YOU WERE!!! NO MORE COMPUTER FOR YOU MISTER!!!” He jumped a fence for God’s sake. Two fences. Fences are usually erected for a reason. They weren’t decorative. I would hate to go down in history as the mother of the stupid kid who got his stupid head cut off. Dumb shit.

We pulled into the parking lot at church last week and saw a family with triplets crossing the parking lot. Napoleon rubbed his hands together with glee. “Oooooh, triplets,” he said, “let’s get them and we can make some money off of them. You get all kinds of free stuff with triplets.” I stared at him. What the hell goes on his mind?? I guess he thought we could tour them around the country like an exhibit and charge money. Because triplets are sooooo rare and people will pay gobs to see them. He is a weird kid. Then again, he pees musically so what do you expect?

MA has two volumes: loud and screech. There is a third, LOUD SCREECH, but you have to be an expert to discern between the three. She is currently stomping around the house, screeching, because “I HAVE TO DO ALL THE WORK AROUND HERE NO ONE ELSE DOES ANYTHING AND I HATE YOU ALL!!!” Really, that translates into “thank you for giving me the gift of life and I love you all so much it hurts.” It really does. I promise.

Yesterday, I picked up the goddess’s swim team ribbons. She had a really pretty red one and it proudly declared she had won 12th place. Wow, there’s one for the wall of fame! Don’t think you won’t be seeing her in the 2016 summer olympics!! It was from last year and she is doing much better this year. I believe she’s moved up to 10th place.

We are going to Alabama Adventure today with Nancy. Blue Momma, I forgot to tell you….it’s not too late for you to meet us!! I love Alabama Adventure. I couldn’t find our passes, though, so I had to search through my car. It has been condemned by the health department. I found a First Communion gift I bought for someone two years ago. Maybe I can give it to her for Confirmation. I found the baggie of condoms I got at the Gay Pride Parade: Safe Sex is Good Sex! I found one pearl earring, which means the other one is still in the car somewhere. I finally found the passes wedged between the seat and the console, in a puddle of ketchup. Condoms and Condiments…my car is a veritable smorgasbord of alliteration!!

I am going to wrap this up without even bothering to go back and check it to see if it makes sense. I figure that just adds to the mystique, right? I’m going to go and wash the ketchup off my hands and duct tape MA’s mouth. Have a great day!!