Ok, so the day continued in Chicago. My niece's next request was a Brazilian restaurant, the kind where they bring stabbed meat to your table constantly. Those restaurants kick ass, and this one was no exception. Many meats were brought, the salad bar was beautiful and delicious, and all was well. The restaurant was elaborately decorated and quite opulent. For instance, we were seated facing a two-story glass wall, behind which was a giant rack of wines. Cool, I thought. Many wines.
Suddenly, my world changed completely because inside the wine cellar (above ground, maybe not a cellar? Not sure.) a woman dressed in tight red velvet was getting hitched to a series of wires and pulleys. She then was lifted into the air, posing decoratively all the while. While in the air, she would flip and twist and then stop and pose, kind of in a midair ballet/circus. She was an aerial wine dancer.
I seriously laughed as hard as I ever have. I mean, tears streaming from the eyes laughter. And I couldn't stop because every time I would calm down a bit she would flip over and over, ending in a dramatic pose. Again, she was not kidding or doing this ironically. She was expressing herself through wine dancing. It ruled.
So during this day I started thinking about jobs, like Doll Physician and Wine Dancer. In this day and age people use the internet to date, and in describing oneself, those are a little different as occupations go.
I think one might have to modify them, like leave off the Doll part of Physician, or say you're a Health Care Specialist in the field of Plastics, or maybe even Curator of Health for Victims of Circumstance. For the wine dancer you'd have to be more creative, maybe Physical Interpreter of Wine Nuance, or Airborne Purveyor of Wine (with Expressive Movement), or possibly even just Wine Cellar Ballerina: Ascending.
All in all it gave me a new perspective on life, and I've enjoyed thinking about people's online job descriptions ever since. Balloon animal man on the street? Pediatric Sculpture Artist: Medium, Latex. The spray painted statue standing on a milk crate? Stillness Advocate. You see what I'm doing here? Just try it; it's life-changing.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Affliction
I can't believe I forgot to write about the funniest day I've had in some time. I have a niece, and she recently turned 10. She is the only girl in a family of many boy cousins, so she has been my only girly outlet for a long time. I thought that for her 10th birthday we should commemorate the progress into double digits with an excursion--a girly, pink, sparkly excursion.
She elected to have her best friend join us, and two other little girlies met us down in Chicago. So we had a cadre of estrogen, and my niece decided that we would begin our day at the American Girl store. For those of you who don't know, AG dolls are a really big deal. They are sometimes historical and sometimes not; always, though, they are wholesome strivers for the good of all girlkind. The AG store is really more of a tiny specialty mall focused on parting parents from their money. There is a museum-like area, where the historical dolls are set in glassed-in tableaus with expensive antique tiny furniture; then there is the shopping area (that's actually everywhere, salted among displays, information, and feel-good homilies); and finally there is the Most Amazing Area Ever.
There is a little street, but not a street, more like a winding pink path, that has a number of stops one can make with her doll. For instance, there is the pet shop and the cupcake area. But more awesomely there is a Hair Salon, where people can get their doll's hair done in all kinds of styles. I don't know if I made it clear that people who do this have to pay for it. A doll hairstyle. Like springy curls or, I don't know, ponytails or something. Again, requiring money. Instead of struggling through it at home, one can just have a professional attend to it. As I recall the main event in doll-playing-with was doing hair, no? Maybe I just had a weird stylist ambition.
Even more awesome was right next to the salon. It was the Hospital. At first I thought they were just being ironic. No, no, they were not. I started becoming aware of this when I noticed tiny stethoscopes around white-coated doll physicians. Nurses too. I got my initial snickering under control long enough to approach the triage area. I asked, "Um, what kind of things do dolls mostly come to the hospital for?" The doll physician responded (seriously), "We see a lot of dog bites here." After I contained my rising snort I asked, " So what happens then?", thinking that maybe they gave them a fake rabies shot and threw in a few stitches. She said, "We generally just replace the arm, depending on the severity of the bite." I scooted out of there quick, aware that I was about to burst with unkind mocking laughter.
Dude. They were dead serious. They were not working at their jobs hilariously. They were truly concerned for doll health, probably even took courses in doll anatomy and maybe even doll amputation/mangling repair surgery. It was really beyond comprehension and altogether too much for me. I lost my shit numerous times throughout the AG experience but the hospital took the cake.
I will continue the day in a separate post, as it is totally unrelated and right now I'm still in AG mode.
She elected to have her best friend join us, and two other little girlies met us down in Chicago. So we had a cadre of estrogen, and my niece decided that we would begin our day at the American Girl store. For those of you who don't know, AG dolls are a really big deal. They are sometimes historical and sometimes not; always, though, they are wholesome strivers for the good of all girlkind. The AG store is really more of a tiny specialty mall focused on parting parents from their money. There is a museum-like area, where the historical dolls are set in glassed-in tableaus with expensive antique tiny furniture; then there is the shopping area (that's actually everywhere, salted among displays, information, and feel-good homilies); and finally there is the Most Amazing Area Ever.
There is a little street, but not a street, more like a winding pink path, that has a number of stops one can make with her doll. For instance, there is the pet shop and the cupcake area. But more awesomely there is a Hair Salon, where people can get their doll's hair done in all kinds of styles. I don't know if I made it clear that people who do this have to pay for it. A doll hairstyle. Like springy curls or, I don't know, ponytails or something. Again, requiring money. Instead of struggling through it at home, one can just have a professional attend to it. As I recall the main event in doll-playing-with was doing hair, no? Maybe I just had a weird stylist ambition.
Even more awesome was right next to the salon. It was the Hospital. At first I thought they were just being ironic. No, no, they were not. I started becoming aware of this when I noticed tiny stethoscopes around white-coated doll physicians. Nurses too. I got my initial snickering under control long enough to approach the triage area. I asked, "Um, what kind of things do dolls mostly come to the hospital for?" The doll physician responded (seriously), "We see a lot of dog bites here." After I contained my rising snort I asked, " So what happens then?", thinking that maybe they gave them a fake rabies shot and threw in a few stitches. She said, "We generally just replace the arm, depending on the severity of the bite." I scooted out of there quick, aware that I was about to burst with unkind mocking laughter.
Dude. They were dead serious. They were not working at their jobs hilariously. They were truly concerned for doll health, probably even took courses in doll anatomy and maybe even doll amputation/mangling repair surgery. It was really beyond comprehension and altogether too much for me. I lost my shit numerous times throughout the AG experience but the hospital took the cake.
I will continue the day in a separate post, as it is totally unrelated and right now I'm still in AG mode.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Pass The Cake
For Thanksgiving today my older sister decided to bake a cake for my younger sister. Under most circumstances that is not a big deal but in this case, my younger sister is allergic to pretty much everything that makes cake exist. So my older sister had to find a way to make an eggless, wheat-less, dairy-less, and delicious-less dessert because my younger sister is always deprived of sweets.
The thought behind this was very nice. A kind gesture from an older sister to a younger, more food-deprived one. She really put some effort into it. My younger sister was excited to have dessert for once instead of always just looking forlornly at everyone else enjoying themselves.
My younger sister was full of anticipation when she saw the lusciously frosted chocolate-y looking cake. She insisted on taste testing. One forkful later, she was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes, but she was unable to speak because the cake had glued her trap shut. In the spirit of solidarity, I took the next bite. I, too, was struck with severe laughing the instant my mouth sensors shot information to my brain. I am talking about the kind of laughter where all of one's abdominal muscles are taxed to their limit, in spite of one's six pack.
I will try to describe the horror baked into that cake. It is hard to determine which assaulted me first, the taste or the texture. They were equally traumatizing but I'm just trying to be accurate. With that kind of extreme sensation, though, sequencing is difficult.
The moment the cake was in my mouth I knew it was going to be tragic. The cake was dry and crumbly, but adhered by a bitter non-chocolate frosting with the consistency of synovial fluid. So even though it disintegrated rapidly, possibly allowing me a moment of hope that it would be over soon, the "frosting" caused the entire mouthful to linger, similar to how a "fecal impaction" might cause an intestineful to linger. Though I chewed through tears and laughter, the cake did not respond to saliva or teeth. It remained crumbs of anguish suspended in a slurry-like frosting medium. Swallowing was inhibited by the inability of my mouth and throat muscles to identify and adapt to the situation, and also primal fear at ingesting such a fucked up substance. I continued to chew in the hope that the cake would be rendered neutral. Alas it was not but I managed to overcome my instincts and force it down.
I had expected that once I swallowed the cake, my ordeal would be over. Instead the flavor continued to grow and change in spite of the fact that the cake was no longer present in my mouth. It went from rancid, gritty, and devastating to bitter, determined, and inescapable. Even though I was still laughing, in the back of my mind I felt trapped and began to wonder if I would ever escape the taste.
My sister had used her regular cake recipe, but checked online for replacements for most of the ingredients. For instance, instead of normal flour she had to use the ground essence of Hell. No sugar at all--clearly it was sweetened with the triumph of Chairman Mao. For eggs, I'm not sure what she used. Maybe a different type of egg, like basilisk or something. Instead of normal frosting ingredients, she used a sweet(ish) plant extract, memories of war crimes, and curare. The frosting (that I call Hate) also had speckles, which I later found out was particles of vegan non-butter that refused to meld with the other terrible ingredients. All in all it tasted like ass, but worse, like ass that had been sauteed in prison wine.
We passed that cake around all day, enjoying the reactions of relatives and friends who thought they knew what they were getting into but did not, because the full range of human experience could not equip anyone for that cake. It sounds morally questionable and un-holiday-like to do that but it was done with full disclosure. Taste this gross cake, we said. It really sucks, we told them. And they did, and laughter came upon them. And us.
That cake was the highlight of our Thanksgiving. The Cake From Gitmo.
Chocolate cake, yes
It seems like it might be good
No no no it's not
Kind loving sister
Makes cake worse than death and pain
It's the thought that counts
Crumbs stuck to the roof
Of my mouth oh sweet Jesus
Moth feces plus frosting
The thought behind this was very nice. A kind gesture from an older sister to a younger, more food-deprived one. She really put some effort into it. My younger sister was excited to have dessert for once instead of always just looking forlornly at everyone else enjoying themselves.
My younger sister was full of anticipation when she saw the lusciously frosted chocolate-y looking cake. She insisted on taste testing. One forkful later, she was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes, but she was unable to speak because the cake had glued her trap shut. In the spirit of solidarity, I took the next bite. I, too, was struck with severe laughing the instant my mouth sensors shot information to my brain. I am talking about the kind of laughter where all of one's abdominal muscles are taxed to their limit, in spite of one's six pack.
I will try to describe the horror baked into that cake. It is hard to determine which assaulted me first, the taste or the texture. They were equally traumatizing but I'm just trying to be accurate. With that kind of extreme sensation, though, sequencing is difficult.
The moment the cake was in my mouth I knew it was going to be tragic. The cake was dry and crumbly, but adhered by a bitter non-chocolate frosting with the consistency of synovial fluid. So even though it disintegrated rapidly, possibly allowing me a moment of hope that it would be over soon, the "frosting" caused the entire mouthful to linger, similar to how a "fecal impaction" might cause an intestineful to linger. Though I chewed through tears and laughter, the cake did not respond to saliva or teeth. It remained crumbs of anguish suspended in a slurry-like frosting medium. Swallowing was inhibited by the inability of my mouth and throat muscles to identify and adapt to the situation, and also primal fear at ingesting such a fucked up substance. I continued to chew in the hope that the cake would be rendered neutral. Alas it was not but I managed to overcome my instincts and force it down.
I had expected that once I swallowed the cake, my ordeal would be over. Instead the flavor continued to grow and change in spite of the fact that the cake was no longer present in my mouth. It went from rancid, gritty, and devastating to bitter, determined, and inescapable. Even though I was still laughing, in the back of my mind I felt trapped and began to wonder if I would ever escape the taste.
My sister had used her regular cake recipe, but checked online for replacements for most of the ingredients. For instance, instead of normal flour she had to use the ground essence of Hell. No sugar at all--clearly it was sweetened with the triumph of Chairman Mao. For eggs, I'm not sure what she used. Maybe a different type of egg, like basilisk or something. Instead of normal frosting ingredients, she used a sweet(ish) plant extract, memories of war crimes, and curare. The frosting (that I call Hate) also had speckles, which I later found out was particles of vegan non-butter that refused to meld with the other terrible ingredients. All in all it tasted like ass, but worse, like ass that had been sauteed in prison wine.
We passed that cake around all day, enjoying the reactions of relatives and friends who thought they knew what they were getting into but did not, because the full range of human experience could not equip anyone for that cake. It sounds morally questionable and un-holiday-like to do that but it was done with full disclosure. Taste this gross cake, we said. It really sucks, we told them. And they did, and laughter came upon them. And us.
That cake was the highlight of our Thanksgiving. The Cake From Gitmo.
Chocolate cake, yes
It seems like it might be good
No no no it's not
Kind loving sister
Makes cake worse than death and pain
It's the thought that counts
Crumbs stuck to the roof
Of my mouth oh sweet Jesus
Moth feces plus frosting
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Duck, Dutch, Duck
Every night my littler one has to read to me out loud for 20 minutes. He usually picks nonfiction and I like it because I learn interesting facts, like that beluga mothers shoot hot creamy milk into their babies' mouths. That little morsel made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but most other times I expand my knowledge rather than feel like taking a shower.
For quite a few days in a row he was reading a biography of Ronald Reagan. I know. It was Dutch this and Dutch that, and was pretty boring as biographies go. What I'm saying is that Ronald Reagan is no Clara Barton. Anyway, one day he got to the exciting assassination attempt. I listened that day because it was finally interesting.
He read, "The president and his aides got into the car." He then stopped, puzzled.
"I didn't know Ronald Reagan had AIDS, Mom."
I had to explain to my child of the new millenium that it was not, in fact, HIV to which they referred but instead a helper sort of person employed by the important among us. Lest it sound like I remained calm, let me assure you that I nearly shot protein bar out of my nose in a failed attempt not to crack up.
For quite a few days in a row he was reading a biography of Ronald Reagan. I know. It was Dutch this and Dutch that, and was pretty boring as biographies go. What I'm saying is that Ronald Reagan is no Clara Barton. Anyway, one day he got to the exciting assassination attempt. I listened that day because it was finally interesting.
He read, "The president and his aides got into the car." He then stopped, puzzled.
"I didn't know Ronald Reagan had AIDS, Mom."
I had to explain to my child of the new millenium that it was not, in fact, HIV to which they referred but instead a helper sort of person employed by the important among us. Lest it sound like I remained calm, let me assure you that I nearly shot protein bar out of my nose in a failed attempt not to crack up.
Monday, November 14, 2011
One Simple Thing
That post title is actually the title of a song from the 90s I think. I was pretty amazing in the 90s so I know cool stuff like that.
One thing I have been sucking at really bad lately is blogging. The main reason for that is school, which I guess most reader(s) of this blog would know. This blog is turning into one big excuse for not blogging. I have decided not to feel guilty about it.
I don't think I've ever posted about my jiu jitsu instructor and his tendency to say horrifying things while teaching. He will drop a total bomb and not even notice. I usually look around to see who is snickering with me: mostly no one. So either people are devoid of human speech comprehension or have no sense of humor at all, or possibly I'm a 15 year old boy incognito. Some examples:
While teaching a head and arm triangle (my head right next to his, my arms wrapped around his neck and arm to choke him): "Nope, not feeling it. Nope, nope....give me more head, more head, more head." At this point I collapse in giggles. He realizes that might have been awkward. Maybe find a different way to ask for greater head pressure next time.
While trying to pass a guy who is crunched down in a disaster-like position, on knees with head and arms crunched into mat (turtle): "So when he moves, I'm just going to beat him off to the side." On this one, someone did ask with incredulity mixed with snorting, "You're going to what?" He realizes that might have been awkward.
While trying to get my partner to perform x-guard on me: "Dude, just stick it in there. You've got to really give it to her." We rupture, trying not to laugh. He walks away, unaware that he pretty much just taught porn instead of jiu jitsu.
What's funny here, aside from everything, is that this is a guy who stumbles over the word crotch, when it is clearly the only word that will convey where one needs to have one's legs, or arms, or whatever. He feels it is not a nice word.
One thing I have been sucking at really bad lately is blogging. The main reason for that is school, which I guess most reader(s) of this blog would know. This blog is turning into one big excuse for not blogging. I have decided not to feel guilty about it.
I don't think I've ever posted about my jiu jitsu instructor and his tendency to say horrifying things while teaching. He will drop a total bomb and not even notice. I usually look around to see who is snickering with me: mostly no one. So either people are devoid of human speech comprehension or have no sense of humor at all, or possibly I'm a 15 year old boy incognito. Some examples:
While teaching a head and arm triangle (my head right next to his, my arms wrapped around his neck and arm to choke him): "Nope, not feeling it. Nope, nope....give me more head, more head, more head." At this point I collapse in giggles. He realizes that might have been awkward. Maybe find a different way to ask for greater head pressure next time.
While trying to pass a guy who is crunched down in a disaster-like position, on knees with head and arms crunched into mat (turtle): "So when he moves, I'm just going to beat him off to the side." On this one, someone did ask with incredulity mixed with snorting, "You're going to what?" He realizes that might have been awkward.
While trying to get my partner to perform x-guard on me: "Dude, just stick it in there. You've got to really give it to her." We rupture, trying not to laugh. He walks away, unaware that he pretty much just taught porn instead of jiu jitsu.
What's funny here, aside from everything, is that this is a guy who stumbles over the word crotch, when it is clearly the only word that will convey where one needs to have one's legs, or arms, or whatever. He feels it is not a nice word.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Unrest
My sister texted me last night to say that she saw a sign for Occupy LaCrosse. You know, LaCrosse, WI where all the heavy financial moguls live. Of course I support civil unrest and protesting, and I understand that people from small cities have political feelings too, but that cracked me up. Then she texted me again, and it was on:
Sis: "The Amish out here will have signs that say 'Fuck Wall Street, they wear fancy zippers.'"
Me: "We are the 1%. The percent with home-canned relish."
Sis: "Our horses will shit on your Wall Street."
Me: They will occupy the creamery.
Occupy!!!!!!
Sis: "The Amish out here will have signs that say 'Fuck Wall Street, they wear fancy zippers.'"
Me: "We are the 1%. The percent with home-canned relish."
Sis: "Our horses will shit on your Wall Street."
Me: They will occupy the creamery.
Occupy!!!!!!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Dorklet
As in, tiny small nerd offspring. My elder son, the one who formed obscene Mesopotamian sex toys in art class, just informed me that he thought that project was dumb. Hell yes, I thought. "Why is that, love?" I asked, expecting some kind of answer about either rolls of clay being boring, or fake cuneiform not being accurate, or even Mom it looks like a penis.
Instead, he told me, with scorn in his tone, that the Hammurabi code part was written onthe dildo a Cyrus cylinder. Evidently Hammurabi was keepin' it real in Babylon way earlier than Cyrus. The historical inaccuracy of the item was clearly not working for him. Two people, whether they presided over the same land (kind of, geographically not kingdom-ly) over time, should not be joined together in an art project that falsely presents them to be unified when in fact they were like 10 generations apart. I support his disregard for flights of fancy like that.
Proud day, this.
Instead, he told me, with scorn in his tone, that the Hammurabi code part was written on
Proud day, this.
Oh My God I Almost Forgot
Dear Girl Who Is Now On My List of People Who Are Very Dumb,
One does not pronounce the "H" when one is saying herbal medicine. It would be like pronouncing the
"K" in knuckle sandwich. Which is what you're having for lunch tomorrow.
One does not pronounce the "H" when one is saying herbal medicine. It would be like pronouncing the
"K" in knuckle sandwich. Which is what you're having for lunch tomorrow.
Demotivational
Another semester. As usual I have been tortured by syllabi, dumb stupid questions, and obnoxious members of my cohort. Of course there are the friends I was happy to see again, a new and difficult course that I like, and a few professors that may kick ass.
One thing about this semester is that I am burning out on Giving A Shit. I'm looking for minimum effort required, bare necessities only. Not because it's a crazy million credit semester like last spring, but because apparently my recovery time from that plus Vagina class in the summer is very slow. I'm just not on board, as evidenced by my mediocre grade of 88 on a recent exam. I did win the exam, though, by probably 5 minutes or so. Suckers didn't even know what hit them.
Oh well. I plan to carry on in spite of my ennui. Journey of a thousand miles and all that. But let it be said that while I am plugging along I will be feeling hostile feelings whenever I can care enough to muster them up.
One thing about this semester is that I am burning out on Giving A Shit. I'm looking for minimum effort required, bare necessities only. Not because it's a crazy million credit semester like last spring, but because apparently my recovery time from that plus Vagina class in the summer is very slow. I'm just not on board, as evidenced by my mediocre grade of 88 on a recent exam. I did win the exam, though, by probably 5 minutes or so. Suckers didn't even know what hit them.
Oh well. I plan to carry on in spite of my ennui. Journey of a thousand miles and all that. But let it be said that while I am plugging along I will be feeling hostile feelings whenever I can care enough to muster them up.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Tool Shed
So we're on the backpack theme still. Because I did not yet share the elder son's backpack story. Time to remedy that, because it's important not to suffer alone.
So elder's backpack was more benign, less rotted than the younger one's. More full of papers, permission slips, flash drives, and pencil hoarding. That was all fine, I tossed what needed tossing and organized the rest into an intuitive yet precise backpack modality. It took me a little deep breathing to do the final pass of hand through the deepest, darkest parts of the main compartment, though, because that was where I had met my waterloo in the other backpack (Satan's peaches, sent from the depths of hell to unbalance my sense of security in fruit aging). Alas, I was not spared in this second backpack, but my fingers encountered something entirely different. A firm, cool cylinder, approximately 6 inches in length, 1.5 inches diameter. It was heavy.
Ipulled it out studied the item. Upon it were scratchy letterish markings. "Cuneiform", I thought, "A talisman." I could maybe summon a demon or charm my house so it is impervious to hand prints! I kind of just gave it one last, what the fuck is that? look and placed it on the counter.
A little while later my son called. We talked for a minute, then I remembered the clay cylinder. I asked him what the fuck it was. More nicely than that, though. I think I said what the hell. He told me it the words were "No man must be in an association," or something like that. He said it was Mesopotamian, and was, indeed in cuneiform, but just English that looks like cuneiform. I spent a moment patting myself on the back for my accurate identification of fake cuneiform, because a lot of people would just go right to heiroglyphics even though they look totally different (cuneiform: no birds). But then a sense of horror descended over me as I realized what I had on my kitchen counter: It was Hammurabi's dildo. My kid had made, in art class, a clay phallus with important parts of the oldest code of law written on it. A righteous sex toy, that's what I was looking at. Tell me the art teacher didn't laugh inside all.day.long. as she was baking those fuckers in the kiln.
This, too, needs some haiku. Not yet rated:
Hammurabi's dong
Sitting there looking at me
Ancient fake penis
Long ago code guy
Thinks he is so full of law
Takes it in the butt
So elder's backpack was more benign, less rotted than the younger one's. More full of papers, permission slips, flash drives, and pencil hoarding. That was all fine, I tossed what needed tossing and organized the rest into an intuitive yet precise backpack modality. It took me a little deep breathing to do the final pass of hand through the deepest, darkest parts of the main compartment, though, because that was where I had met my waterloo in the other backpack (Satan's peaches, sent from the depths of hell to unbalance my sense of security in fruit aging). Alas, I was not spared in this second backpack, but my fingers encountered something entirely different. A firm, cool cylinder, approximately 6 inches in length, 1.5 inches diameter. It was heavy.
I
A little while later my son called. We talked for a minute, then I remembered the clay cylinder. I asked him what the fuck it was. More nicely than that, though. I think I said what the hell. He told me it the words were "No man must be in an association," or something like that. He said it was Mesopotamian, and was, indeed in cuneiform, but just English that looks like cuneiform. I spent a moment patting myself on the back for my accurate identification of fake cuneiform, because a lot of people would just go right to heiroglyphics even though they look totally different (cuneiform: no birds). But then a sense of horror descended over me as I realized what I had on my kitchen counter: It was Hammurabi's dildo. My kid had made, in art class, a clay phallus with important parts of the oldest code of law written on it. A righteous sex toy, that's what I was looking at. Tell me the art teacher didn't laugh inside all.day.long. as she was baking those fuckers in the kiln.
This, too, needs some haiku. Not yet rated:
Hammurabi's dong
Sitting there looking at me
Ancient fake penis
Long ago code guy
Thinks he is so full of law
Takes it in the butt
Backpack, Backpack
Haha. Awesome Dora the Explorer moment for me up there in the title. I really liked that show. My favorite part was the pauses, the pregnant pauses. It was nice how they gave kids a chance to answer, as if they were really interacting. Friendly, like.
Anyway. That is not what I am writing about today. No, today I write about my sons' backpacks and the shit I find within them. Some of you on facebook may have seen the photo of the apples, but for those who have not I offer descriptive prose:
I decided to clean out the boys' backpacks on Labor Day, as it seemed like a Labor that befitted the fall implications of the holiday. I may or may not have supervised the end-of-school cleanout, which came back to not only bite my in the face but give me rabies as well. Note to self: little boys have no morals when it comes to the contents of backpacks. Also they lack judgment in which things should be removed, i.e. organic materials.
I started with my younger son's pack. I found the most random collection of shit, from tiny alien action figures to math flash cards to a wad of thread. Nothing alarming, though. Until I got to the Bottom of the Main Compartment. That was when my life took a turn for the more infectious. I reached in and pulled out what I thought looked like a squashed Snickers bar, mini size. A friend was visiting and she pointed out that the snickers bar had a fruit sticker on it, so either it was grown in Paraguay or that fucker was actually an apple. It took me a moment to accept what I was seeing. I was seeing clear evidence that apples can pass time differently than one might expect, though I should have known that already from my dad's long term pasttime of aging fruit on the shelves of his office, the Office of Random Nerd Objects. Anyway, it was not slimy. Points for that.
I moved on to the darker deeper recesses of the Middle Compartment. There I found, and by found I mean was visually assaulted by, something similar to the Snickers apple but blacker and slightly furred. I pulled it out with shrieks and maybe a squeal or two. I do not know what it was, as the sticker was long gone. I mean, it was a fruit originally. But now it was more like a lightweight piece of coal with hair and wrath.
I took pictures of these items, Satan's peaches as I now think of them, and posted the pictures on facebook. I felt like the world needed to know what I went through on Labor Day. Also I was hoping that someone would offer carbon dating so I could more accurately assess the state of decay of the fruits. A timeline would help me make sense of things, I think.
A little therapeutic Haiku:
Fruit in the backpack
Forgotten for a long time
Looks like shit with hair
Mom sees Devil Fruit
It sends shivers down her spine
Fuck my life
I will be discussing my elder son's follies in another post.
Anyway. That is not what I am writing about today. No, today I write about my sons' backpacks and the shit I find within them. Some of you on facebook may have seen the photo of the apples, but for those who have not I offer descriptive prose:
I decided to clean out the boys' backpacks on Labor Day, as it seemed like a Labor that befitted the fall implications of the holiday. I may or may not have supervised the end-of-school cleanout, which came back to not only bite my in the face but give me rabies as well. Note to self: little boys have no morals when it comes to the contents of backpacks. Also they lack judgment in which things should be removed, i.e. organic materials.
I started with my younger son's pack. I found the most random collection of shit, from tiny alien action figures to math flash cards to a wad of thread. Nothing alarming, though. Until I got to the Bottom of the Main Compartment. That was when my life took a turn for the more infectious. I reached in and pulled out what I thought looked like a squashed Snickers bar, mini size. A friend was visiting and she pointed out that the snickers bar had a fruit sticker on it, so either it was grown in Paraguay or that fucker was actually an apple. It took me a moment to accept what I was seeing. I was seeing clear evidence that apples can pass time differently than one might expect, though I should have known that already from my dad's long term pasttime of aging fruit on the shelves of his office, the Office of Random Nerd Objects. Anyway, it was not slimy. Points for that.
I moved on to the darker deeper recesses of the Middle Compartment. There I found, and by found I mean was visually assaulted by, something similar to the Snickers apple but blacker and slightly furred. I pulled it out with shrieks and maybe a squeal or two. I do not know what it was, as the sticker was long gone. I mean, it was a fruit originally. But now it was more like a lightweight piece of coal with hair and wrath.
I took pictures of these items, Satan's peaches as I now think of them, and posted the pictures on facebook. I felt like the world needed to know what I went through on Labor Day. Also I was hoping that someone would offer carbon dating so I could more accurately assess the state of decay of the fruits. A timeline would help me make sense of things, I think.
A little therapeutic Haiku:
Fruit in the backpack
Forgotten for a long time
Looks like shit with hair
Mom sees Devil Fruit
It sends shivers down her spine
Fuck my life
I will be discussing my elder son's follies in another post.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Horses, Part Deux
I'm not a big fan of the I-Told-You-So but in this case I will make an exception. My sister recently was vacationing in the Appalachians and decided that horseback riding would be a good adventure for her, her two sons (my most amazing and adorable nephews), her sister-in-law, and the children of said sister-in-law. Of course she was wrong because horseback riding involves horses, the most unreliable creatures ever to populate the earth even going all the way back to sabertooth tigers who usually look pretty insane. My sister is comfortable with both horses and Appalachia, which means that she is either crazy or just has really big cojones. As expected, horse drama ensued.
At first everything was fine and everyone enjoyed scenic views on horseback, clip-clopping along with only coconut sounds to disrupt the beauty of nature around them. That could only last for so long, though, since horses are unstable and pretty much prone to chaos at any moment. Sure enough, my younger nephew's horse wanted to be in the woods more than on the trail, and tried to exercise its will in that direction. Fortunately Nephew was able to reign that fucker back in, but he is probably now aware of the fickle and uncontrollable nature of the horse. My sister's horse wanted to lead not follow so it kept trying to overtake other horses. Since she had rural friends as a teen she knew what to do. It worked. I myself do not know what to do with an overtaking horse; my methods would probably run to pinching its neck and screaming, maybe even jumping off.
Those are just the small incidents, though. My sister's sister-in-law was tooling along, or whatever horse walking is called (I think it is so obnoxious that their walking and running get special names.) when her horse actually fell over. It totally fell over with her on the horse. Unacceptable. And it faltered a few more times over the course of the ride. SSIL was okay, albeit slightly bruised and highly distrustful of horses from here on out (as she should have been to begin with had she taken even a moment to look into their crazy ass eyes). As it turns out SSIL's horse was broken. Broken! A broken horse is so much worse than just a regular functioning horse. My sister saw the whole incident from right behind the broken horse. Its leg actually collapsed, causing that giant ton of crazy to fall on its side even though it was supposed to not fall because it was carrying a person. My sister told the Horse Whisperer that the horse's leg was faulty, but this information was disregarded. So this broken horse kept having its leg collapse, because clearly it had horse polio or something, and my SSIL had a stressful unrelaxing nature trail experience. At the end my sister again pointed out that the horse was only three quarters successful in not collapsing its legs, only to be met with further brushing off by the Horse Whisperer.
That is all kinds of fucked up. Not taking horse collapsing seriously, what is that? I would be all over it in two seconds, if I cared about horses and was in charge of taking them on trails with unsuspecting humans on their backs. Those prancy prehensile lips-having equine danger pods are already pretty much on the verge of killing people; why would the person in charge of them accept even further instability? And weed out the Overtaker and the Forest Escaper, too. That's not on; scenic trail horses should follow the scenic trail only, not think independently about improving their position or finding greener pastures. All in all I do not accept the attitude of these proprietors of horseback riding.
At first everything was fine and everyone enjoyed scenic views on horseback, clip-clopping along with only coconut sounds to disrupt the beauty of nature around them. That could only last for so long, though, since horses are unstable and pretty much prone to chaos at any moment. Sure enough, my younger nephew's horse wanted to be in the woods more than on the trail, and tried to exercise its will in that direction. Fortunately Nephew was able to reign that fucker back in, but he is probably now aware of the fickle and uncontrollable nature of the horse. My sister's horse wanted to lead not follow so it kept trying to overtake other horses. Since she had rural friends as a teen she knew what to do. It worked. I myself do not know what to do with an overtaking horse; my methods would probably run to pinching its neck and screaming, maybe even jumping off.
Those are just the small incidents, though. My sister's sister-in-law was tooling along, or whatever horse walking is called (I think it is so obnoxious that their walking and running get special names.) when her horse actually fell over. It totally fell over with her on the horse. Unacceptable. And it faltered a few more times over the course of the ride. SSIL was okay, albeit slightly bruised and highly distrustful of horses from here on out (as she should have been to begin with had she taken even a moment to look into their crazy ass eyes). As it turns out SSIL's horse was broken. Broken! A broken horse is so much worse than just a regular functioning horse. My sister saw the whole incident from right behind the broken horse. Its leg actually collapsed, causing that giant ton of crazy to fall on its side even though it was supposed to not fall because it was carrying a person. My sister told the Horse Whisperer that the horse's leg was faulty, but this information was disregarded. So this broken horse kept having its leg collapse, because clearly it had horse polio or something, and my SSIL had a stressful unrelaxing nature trail experience. At the end my sister again pointed out that the horse was only three quarters successful in not collapsing its legs, only to be met with further brushing off by the Horse Whisperer.
That is all kinds of fucked up. Not taking horse collapsing seriously, what is that? I would be all over it in two seconds, if I cared about horses and was in charge of taking them on trails with unsuspecting humans on their backs. Those prancy prehensile lips-having equine danger pods are already pretty much on the verge of killing people; why would the person in charge of them accept even further instability? And weed out the Overtaker and the Forest Escaper, too. That's not on; scenic trail horses should follow the scenic trail only, not think independently about improving their position or finding greener pastures. All in all I do not accept the attitude of these proprietors of horseback riding.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Campy
I'm at girl grappling camp right now, which is awesome and also in Minnesota, which is nice because I miss my home state. People here don't say bubbler which I will never accept nor adopt. Anyway, I heard some reports last night at our pre-camp dinner that the Brazilian bikini wax post has been read by many, including male members of the species, and that is cool. However, that whole post is an overshare. So there are people out there in this world, people whom I have never met and therefore with whom I would not discuss pubes or pube removal, who have read or heard a detailed account of my pubic escapades. Including haiku. So far I feel ok with that, which is good because I am the one who wrote that post and disseminated it to the world so if I'm bothered by it I have no one to blame but my waxed-cooch-having self.
Anyway, camp! So excited for a week of the grapple, cool women, and everything about it really. And hotel room all alone! By myself! I like that. I've always felt a certain kinship with Ted Kaczynski and his commitment to isolation and also math. I feel less drawn to his bombing of people. And if I wrote a manifesto it would be less about the industrialized world and its rape of nature and human freedom and more about the unacceptable nature of entitlement and stupidity seen on some of the HGTV shows. I mean really, on House Hunters, there are people who are all, "I don't like this one, look at the paint color in that bathroom", but are all,"OMG this house is so great. Even though that wall looks like it has cancer and the septic tank is in the living room." That is just stupid because paint is not a big deal but feces in your living room, contained or free, is unsanitary as evidenced by the tank being called septic rather than disinfected or uncontaminated.
On that note it is time for the breakfast buffet and I am all about performance at a buffet so I must stretch a little and also get dressed. Nudity is frowned upon at Minnesota hotels.
Anyway, camp! So excited for a week of the grapple, cool women, and everything about it really. And hotel room all alone! By myself! I like that. I've always felt a certain kinship with Ted Kaczynski and his commitment to isolation and also math. I feel less drawn to his bombing of people. And if I wrote a manifesto it would be less about the industrialized world and its rape of nature and human freedom and more about the unacceptable nature of entitlement and stupidity seen on some of the HGTV shows. I mean really, on House Hunters, there are people who are all, "I don't like this one, look at the paint color in that bathroom", but are all,"OMG this house is so great. Even though that wall looks like it has cancer and the septic tank is in the living room." That is just stupid because paint is not a big deal but feces in your living room, contained or free, is unsanitary as evidenced by the tank being called septic rather than disinfected or uncontaminated.
On that note it is time for the breakfast buffet and I am all about performance at a buffet so I must stretch a little and also get dressed. Nudity is frowned upon at Minnesota hotels.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Super Soaker
Today was an interesting day. It was my birthday, about which I do not give a shit, but that did not deter me from insisting that it was my day and I got to decide whatever we did. I have the kids all weekend, as their dad is off buying pointy shoes in Vegas. Actually, that's not true. He's getting facials, massages, and manicures. This is true real information; he texted me this morning. I'm not judging but it seems like some people may want to consider that they are not just in the closet to examine the Versace jeans, if you know what I'm saying. Though that type of narrow minded gender pigeonholing could effectively place me in said closet as well, if you consider fighting sports, a well stocked tool box (that I made myself in metal shop), and slightly indelicate language an indicator for The Gay. Which I do not. There are just too many ways to be a girl for any of them to indicate anything, and it's a little obnoxious to assign the less-typically-girly ones to one end of the spectrum. I don't care personally, like what people assume about me, but overall the concept is interesting. So have your facials, Ex, and expect no more teasing from me! For at least one week!
Total unintended digression but reflection upon society is always useful, is it not? My real intentions for today were to chronicle an occurance which, had I not experienced it firsthand, I would not have thought possible.
My younger son, excited about his new squirt gun (or water weapon, as it is more badassedly known), brought it to jiu jitsu to assault the world with while I rolled. There is an outdoor area and parking lot where he could execute slick moves. He is reliable, not assailing people without their consent. I felt all was well.
Alas it was not. My elder son, with the zeal of the righteous, came and informed me mid-roll that the younger had peed into his squirt gun. You know, so that it would be shooting pee. It took me a moment to assimilate this information because as a girl, actually as a human being versed in the general mores of our society, I would never have thought of filling a squirt gun with anything other than water. And if I had, it would not have been pee. Is that because of the limitations of the female urinary apparatus or because I am uncreative? That I do not know. I do know this, however--I cracked the fuck up. I then called for my piss-wielding heathen of a son, straining mightily to maintain a firm, unwavering stinkeye. I asked him to confirm that he had peed into the squirt gun. Yes, he had, he confessed. Sometimes as a parent I try to ascertain the reasons behind an action before I deal with it. In this case, reason was clearly not present and I did not seek it. Also I was having a hard time not laughing. I said that that was unacceptable and the gun would have to be disposed of, probably in a level 4 biohazard facility not just because of the pee but because of the tearing of the fabric of society, the fabric woven of not peeing into things that then shoot pee.
He felt the sadness of the loss of the gun, and also possibly the bewilderment from the lack of kudos toward his innovative spirit. I could tell that inside he was charmed by his own brilliance and success in taking the pee gun from concept to reality. There were tears and I think they were shed more for the crushing of his enthusiasm than my evil glare, because you know he was out there shooting pee into the parking lot thinking, "This is awesome. Other boys will admire this concept. I am the first to have peed into my gun. I am a soldier of pee."
In the end I hugged him and told him that we've all had ideas that seemed pretty great in our heads, but might not come out so well in the real world, and since he's just a kid he's still learning about that. And I do admit, there was a part of me, a small, grossed out, slightly horrified part, that was proud of his avant garde approach to backyard toys.
Total unintended digression but reflection upon society is always useful, is it not? My real intentions for today were to chronicle an occurance which, had I not experienced it firsthand, I would not have thought possible.
My younger son, excited about his new squirt gun (or water weapon, as it is more badassedly known), brought it to jiu jitsu to assault the world with while I rolled. There is an outdoor area and parking lot where he could execute slick moves. He is reliable, not assailing people without their consent. I felt all was well.
Alas it was not. My elder son, with the zeal of the righteous, came and informed me mid-roll that the younger had peed into his squirt gun. You know, so that it would be shooting pee. It took me a moment to assimilate this information because as a girl, actually as a human being versed in the general mores of our society, I would never have thought of filling a squirt gun with anything other than water. And if I had, it would not have been pee. Is that because of the limitations of the female urinary apparatus or because I am uncreative? That I do not know. I do know this, however--I cracked the fuck up. I then called for my piss-wielding heathen of a son, straining mightily to maintain a firm, unwavering stinkeye. I asked him to confirm that he had peed into the squirt gun. Yes, he had, he confessed. Sometimes as a parent I try to ascertain the reasons behind an action before I deal with it. In this case, reason was clearly not present and I did not seek it. Also I was having a hard time not laughing. I said that that was unacceptable and the gun would have to be disposed of, probably in a level 4 biohazard facility not just because of the pee but because of the tearing of the fabric of society, the fabric woven of not peeing into things that then shoot pee.
He felt the sadness of the loss of the gun, and also possibly the bewilderment from the lack of kudos toward his innovative spirit. I could tell that inside he was charmed by his own brilliance and success in taking the pee gun from concept to reality. There were tears and I think they were shed more for the crushing of his enthusiasm than my evil glare, because you know he was out there shooting pee into the parking lot thinking, "This is awesome. Other boys will admire this concept. I am the first to have peed into my gun. I am a soldier of pee."
In the end I hugged him and told him that we've all had ideas that seemed pretty great in our heads, but might not come out so well in the real world, and since he's just a kid he's still learning about that. And I do admit, there was a part of me, a small, grossed out, slightly horrified part, that was proud of his avant garde approach to backyard toys.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Conversion
It's finals week, and I am at a coffee shop studying my little brain out. And by studying, I mean writing a new blog post. To be fair, though, I am just taking a short break. Then it will be back to heart valves and the many ways we can fuck them up.
Over the past week or so I've decided that maybe Cultural Diversity for Health Professionals was not such a dumb class after all. The reason behind my change of heart is not that I am encountering more and more patients of diverse backgrounds, but that the chapter on voodoo seems increasingly pertinent as I move through the world. There is so much to be said for private fake stabbings of soft dolls representing individuals. I feel that I would be more efficient as a person if I had a little more knife-wielding, or in this case, pin-wielding that poses as a metaphor for actual real violence, in my life. Rather than wasting mental energy on being irritated with the more obnoxious members of my cohort, I could just plan for an evening of vigorous stabbing, reveling in the private knowledge that I will later be releasing my ire upon a form which really doesn't look like them at all but you just use your imagination and then it works out.
I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to the voodoo than just stabbing, and I'm also pretty sure that the stabbing is not the main part of the religion. There are also gris-gris, which I am willing to explore. I could get some hairballs from the jiu jitsu mats (I admit that the hair on our mats is mainly mine, but still other people have hair too so I shouldn't always be blamed at clean up time) and tie them to sticks, then leave them on the chairs of the annoying. Without special voodoo blessings it probably wouldn't turn them into other stuff, but it would definitely gross them out which would be satisfying. Maybe that's the power of the gris-gris.
Back to the books. The respite has been good. But first, some haiku:
Stabbing with pins, yes
Dolls not real but still awesome
Poke poke poke poke poke
Study the systems
Think of the rectal exam
It's in the butt, yo
Endocarditis
Your heart is completely fucked
Sad but so are you
Over the past week or so I've decided that maybe Cultural Diversity for Health Professionals was not such a dumb class after all. The reason behind my change of heart is not that I am encountering more and more patients of diverse backgrounds, but that the chapter on voodoo seems increasingly pertinent as I move through the world. There is so much to be said for private fake stabbings of soft dolls representing individuals. I feel that I would be more efficient as a person if I had a little more knife-wielding, or in this case, pin-wielding that poses as a metaphor for actual real violence, in my life. Rather than wasting mental energy on being irritated with the more obnoxious members of my cohort, I could just plan for an evening of vigorous stabbing, reveling in the private knowledge that I will later be releasing my ire upon a form which really doesn't look like them at all but you just use your imagination and then it works out.
I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to the voodoo than just stabbing, and I'm also pretty sure that the stabbing is not the main part of the religion. There are also gris-gris, which I am willing to explore. I could get some hairballs from the jiu jitsu mats (I admit that the hair on our mats is mainly mine, but still other people have hair too so I shouldn't always be blamed at clean up time) and tie them to sticks, then leave them on the chairs of the annoying. Without special voodoo blessings it probably wouldn't turn them into other stuff, but it would definitely gross them out which would be satisfying. Maybe that's the power of the gris-gris.
Back to the books. The respite has been good. But first, some haiku:
Stabbing with pins, yes
Dolls not real but still awesome
Poke poke poke poke poke
Study the systems
Think of the rectal exam
It's in the butt, yo
Endocarditis
Your heart is completely fucked
Sad but so are you
Saturday, April 23, 2011
It's Happening Here
Once again long hiatus. When I look back at 2009 I kicked ass with many posts, less in 2010, and so far miserable failure in 2011. Since I barely have time to eat most days I guess it's just par for the course right now.
To make my life easier in the fall, I am taking one of my classes in the summer. Fall semester is supposed to be the worst of all, with 17 credits including some really hard classes. So I'm doing OB/GYN this summer to knock off four of those. Good plan, except that the summer class is 7 hrs, 10 days. Those are some long ass days to be knee deep in vaginas.
Next winter term (short term over winter break) I have the opportunity to go to Costa Rica for a sustainable gardening and nutrition venture with the college of nursing. My favorite professor, the research lesbian master composter, is heading the trip. I am hoping I can make it work. Tricky, though; I think it's about a 3 week trip.
Aside from classes my life remains full of little dudes and their sports, and my own training. I had the fantastic experience of lifting weights the other day next to a dude who was seriously the most self-contradictory individual ever. He was kind of...non-fit, I guess, but geared up like the world champion of weight lifting. In addition to that he was lifting really wussy amounts, not judging because I am probably lifting less, but he drew attention to it by his extreme, and I do mean extreme, grunty counting. Like imagine a grunt combined with a loud forced expiration plus pooping out a picnic table. It sounded like that. And when you make important physical exertion sounds you should back it up with bad ass weight lifting. Which this guy did not. He had bad ass armpit stains, though, so that took it to some level of awesome, at least.
And we still have Spongebob Loosepants there every Friday, bench pressing with his wide-legged running shorts gaping open as he spreads his legs for maximum testicular freedom. There is no way this guy doesn't know that he is totally Out There. One thing I like to do is find him, which is not hard because he's distinctive and also people give him a wide berth because of his genitals hanging out so there's a zone of clearance around him, then give a "psst...nine o'clock....lookie there" to my trainer. Every single time it's funny. He looks and then gets an eyeful of the Scrotum hanging out on the bench and kind of gags. It's awesome, never gets old.
Continuing on with the gym theme, I was in the locker room before my last training session, standing there, getting dressed. An older lady, because Friday mornings are aqua aerobics so it's all old ladies in the locker room at that time, was right next to me. Like one foot away. And suddenly she farted. Then farted some more, like with trailing notes and everything. It was not a subtle fart, nor was it delicate. And it was seriously like 6 inches from my leg, which means that my leg got some fart on it. Here's the crazy part: she did not acknowledge the fart in any way. No apology, no look of shame, no surprised expression like it escaped without her consent, no penicillin offered. I felt like I was in another universe, a universe where it is acceptable to tear ass right near other people's legs and act nonchalant rather than humiliated and full of biohazard precaution offers. So I guess in that other universe I should have reacted with something other than stunned silence and avoidance; maybe a "Jesus Intestinal Christ, did you know you just farted all over my leg?" combined with a towel snap to the kidneys. That would have shown her, all right, the dirty fart letter.
To make my life easier in the fall, I am taking one of my classes in the summer. Fall semester is supposed to be the worst of all, with 17 credits including some really hard classes. So I'm doing OB/GYN this summer to knock off four of those. Good plan, except that the summer class is 7 hrs, 10 days. Those are some long ass days to be knee deep in vaginas.
Next winter term (short term over winter break) I have the opportunity to go to Costa Rica for a sustainable gardening and nutrition venture with the college of nursing. My favorite professor, the research lesbian master composter, is heading the trip. I am hoping I can make it work. Tricky, though; I think it's about a 3 week trip.
Aside from classes my life remains full of little dudes and their sports, and my own training. I had the fantastic experience of lifting weights the other day next to a dude who was seriously the most self-contradictory individual ever. He was kind of...non-fit, I guess, but geared up like the world champion of weight lifting. In addition to that he was lifting really wussy amounts, not judging because I am probably lifting less, but he drew attention to it by his extreme, and I do mean extreme, grunty counting. Like imagine a grunt combined with a loud forced expiration plus pooping out a picnic table. It sounded like that. And when you make important physical exertion sounds you should back it up with bad ass weight lifting. Which this guy did not. He had bad ass armpit stains, though, so that took it to some level of awesome, at least.
And we still have Spongebob Loosepants there every Friday, bench pressing with his wide-legged running shorts gaping open as he spreads his legs for maximum testicular freedom. There is no way this guy doesn't know that he is totally Out There. One thing I like to do is find him, which is not hard because he's distinctive and also people give him a wide berth because of his genitals hanging out so there's a zone of clearance around him, then give a "psst...nine o'clock....lookie there" to my trainer. Every single time it's funny. He looks and then gets an eyeful of the Scrotum hanging out on the bench and kind of gags. It's awesome, never gets old.
Continuing on with the gym theme, I was in the locker room before my last training session, standing there, getting dressed. An older lady, because Friday mornings are aqua aerobics so it's all old ladies in the locker room at that time, was right next to me. Like one foot away. And suddenly she farted. Then farted some more, like with trailing notes and everything. It was not a subtle fart, nor was it delicate. And it was seriously like 6 inches from my leg, which means that my leg got some fart on it. Here's the crazy part: she did not acknowledge the fart in any way. No apology, no look of shame, no surprised expression like it escaped without her consent, no penicillin offered. I felt like I was in another universe, a universe where it is acceptable to tear ass right near other people's legs and act nonchalant rather than humiliated and full of biohazard precaution offers. So I guess in that other universe I should have reacted with something other than stunned silence and avoidance; maybe a "Jesus Intestinal Christ, did you know you just farted all over my leg?" combined with a towel snap to the kidneys. That would have shown her, all right, the dirty fart letter.
Rat Poison
It turns out that one of our original rats, the Christmas rats, is a serial killer. Deadpool has now murdered 3 of his friends and I am wondering if Twoface wasn't his first victim. After Twoface I got Twoface2, who died within a week. Then we got two more rats because Deadpool would be lonely otherwise, and I woke up this morning to find the cage wrapped in yellow tape and Justin and Nicodemus outlined in chalk. Deadpool looked guilty as hell.
The first time a replacement rat died I figured maybe whatever killed Twoface had remained in the cage and killed it too. I was right, as it turns out, but I was thinking more microbial than serial. We have to face facts now though--Deadpool clearly had some fucked up earlier times in life and now is taking out his rat rage on his cagemates.
X X X X X X X
Oh Holy Shit. I wrote this post a little bit ago but left it until now to finish. Upon closer inspection of the departed rats, it became clear to me that Deadpool is one sinister motherfucker of a rat. Nicodemus' intestines were strewn about the cage and Justin's head was nowhere to be found. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodomg I can't deal with this. Must take deep breaths. I am not disturbed so much by the carnage as by the extreme change in form of the rats. I freak out completely with dead animals that are my pets, because they used to be alive and now they changed into dead, which is the ultimate form change. I lost my shit once when my fish went belly up. And now this is so much worse, because Justin doesn't have a head where he used to have a head. And Nicodemus' intestines are out rather than in. And when I pick them up, even though it will be with tongs not my hands, they will not feel like regular rats but like dead rigor mortis ones. I am hyperventilating now. Must go deal with severe situation before sons witness scene and become serial killers.
X X X X X X X
I have dealt with and disposed of the dead and their strewn about parts. No further information on Justin's head. It appears to have disappeared altogether, possibly either stuffed into Nicodemus' eviscerated body or ingested by the evil Deadpool. I am feeling very hostile to that rat bastard and he will be held without trial until his death. I will continue to feed him, but only non-rat items, and care for him as the state cares for prisoners. No luxuries. I will no longer be making him special Rat Casserole (tiny single serving hummus with many veggies stuck in upright). He is dead to me. Cannibal ass rat.
The first time a replacement rat died I figured maybe whatever killed Twoface had remained in the cage and killed it too. I was right, as it turns out, but I was thinking more microbial than serial. We have to face facts now though--Deadpool clearly had some fucked up earlier times in life and now is taking out his rat rage on his cagemates.
X X X X X X X
Oh Holy Shit. I wrote this post a little bit ago but left it until now to finish. Upon closer inspection of the departed rats, it became clear to me that Deadpool is one sinister motherfucker of a rat. Nicodemus' intestines were strewn about the cage and Justin's head was nowhere to be found. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodomg I can't deal with this. Must take deep breaths. I am not disturbed so much by the carnage as by the extreme change in form of the rats. I freak out completely with dead animals that are my pets, because they used to be alive and now they changed into dead, which is the ultimate form change. I lost my shit once when my fish went belly up. And now this is so much worse, because Justin doesn't have a head where he used to have a head. And Nicodemus' intestines are out rather than in. And when I pick them up, even though it will be with tongs not my hands, they will not feel like regular rats but like dead rigor mortis ones. I am hyperventilating now. Must go deal with severe situation before sons witness scene and become serial killers.
X X X X X X X
I have dealt with and disposed of the dead and their strewn about parts. No further information on Justin's head. It appears to have disappeared altogether, possibly either stuffed into Nicodemus' eviscerated body or ingested by the evil Deadpool. I am feeling very hostile to that rat bastard and he will be held without trial until his death. I will continue to feed him, but only non-rat items, and care for him as the state cares for prisoners. No luxuries. I will no longer be making him special Rat Casserole (tiny single serving hummus with many veggies stuck in upright). He is dead to me. Cannibal ass rat.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sons Of Anarchy
My boys are getting bigger. Which is definitely sad at moments, but they are also increasing in awesomeness and personhood to compensate. They are funny and bright and full of opinions and ideas, sometimes opinions that are so heartbreakingly innocent and hopeful that it is painful to know that they will lose that angelic optimism in fairly short order.
The little one is absolutely one of the most easygoing and truly happy people I've ever known. He lives hard and throws his little self into whatever he is doing. Once in a while something makes him sad or angry, and he puts the same amount of self into that too. He's as sincere as they come. Generous, too; always accepting a gift or serendipitous find with the desire to share it with his big brother. He calls him Ah-yee still, left over from when he was just a tiny tuna and called out for his brother each morning saying "Brother, where are you?. It came out "Ah-yee, ah-you?" Even cuter is the fact that his big brother calls him the same thing. Anyway, I see him changing from very little boy to just regular boy, but he remains my littlest baby in spite of his giant, gangly, growing self.
The elder son is on the verge of young man-hood. He is getting very independent in his thoughts, though I still see so much desire to be collegially agreeing with me about grown up topics. He is funny, really truly funny. And it is very, very refreshing to be able to share more and deeper topics with him; less censoring of subjects as his grasp of the world increases. I feel like that age of wanting to shield him from all things unpleasant or overly mature is slowly passing, and I actually enjoy and look forward to our discussions of difficult subjects (thank you, mangled fetus poster people, for guiding us into one a little too soon). He is bright and competent in so many areas--school, music, sports, with people. I just stand back and watch him sometimes, kind of amazed at this person. So many times I catch a moment that reminds me that he has a whole rich life outside of just the three of us. It is expanding and I can see how parents want to fight that away, that narrowing window of our influence as their child's world becomes his own. For me, though, I see that the world I designed for him when he was little just no longer fits. He's outgrown it, and he's ready to stretch and reach and grow into this new one that he's building every day. He's got room for me there, though, and it's a privilege to be a part of it.
Sons of anarchy indeed. I guess that makes me anarchy. Fair enough.
The little one is absolutely one of the most easygoing and truly happy people I've ever known. He lives hard and throws his little self into whatever he is doing. Once in a while something makes him sad or angry, and he puts the same amount of self into that too. He's as sincere as they come. Generous, too; always accepting a gift or serendipitous find with the desire to share it with his big brother. He calls him Ah-yee still, left over from when he was just a tiny tuna and called out for his brother each morning saying "Brother, where are you?. It came out "Ah-yee, ah-you?" Even cuter is the fact that his big brother calls him the same thing. Anyway, I see him changing from very little boy to just regular boy, but he remains my littlest baby in spite of his giant, gangly, growing self.
The elder son is on the verge of young man-hood. He is getting very independent in his thoughts, though I still see so much desire to be collegially agreeing with me about grown up topics. He is funny, really truly funny. And it is very, very refreshing to be able to share more and deeper topics with him; less censoring of subjects as his grasp of the world increases. I feel like that age of wanting to shield him from all things unpleasant or overly mature is slowly passing, and I actually enjoy and look forward to our discussions of difficult subjects (thank you, mangled fetus poster people, for guiding us into one a little too soon). He is bright and competent in so many areas--school, music, sports, with people. I just stand back and watch him sometimes, kind of amazed at this person. So many times I catch a moment that reminds me that he has a whole rich life outside of just the three of us. It is expanding and I can see how parents want to fight that away, that narrowing window of our influence as their child's world becomes his own. For me, though, I see that the world I designed for him when he was little just no longer fits. He's outgrown it, and he's ready to stretch and reach and grow into this new one that he's building every day. He's got room for me there, though, and it's a privilege to be a part of it.
Sons of anarchy indeed. I guess that makes me anarchy. Fair enough.
Lost and Found
Found: one tiny baby male rat, answers to the name of Nicodemus, is tan. Found in the darkest hours, approximately 1:00 a.m. That little turd maker was hiding in an IKEA toy thing, you know, many bins in which you can place random shit and still have it look organized. Anyway, late late last night or early this morning, whichever you prefer, the little rat was accosted and remanded into custody. He is now awaiting food.
Lost: The Oxford Comma. Actually it's not really lost but more just not as used as it should be, which is 100% of all series. I realize that there is some controversy surrounding the serial comma, but as long as there is life in my body I will be using it. According to Wiki there are pros and cons to each convention (with {correct} and without {fucking idiotic}), but their cons are not valid. Why? Because. Here is a new list, one you can live by:
Pros:
1.) It is how things are. Lists are with commas after every item. Otherwise one doesn't get the right pause and also you're left wondering if they just left it out like French people, or if they just don't care that One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other. Why would you go to all the trouble of commas after every item and then just leave one hanging? Even though it gets the "and" that doesn't mean that it is exempt from a pause. With the O.C. the sentence would sound like this:
The favored gifts of the newborn baby Jesus were frankincense, myrrh, and diaper cream.
Now without:
Heoihf aaioer; oiwe rghoirt uoyiutwkn xxohoi, hfoisaajsdgiandyierutosijdkfl.
It's almost unintelligible without the comma because you just don't pause. And pausing, especially pregnantly........can be very, very effective. And think about it--you're talking about the baby Jesus here. Do you want people to be thinking about what they should bring him in Bethlehem to soothe his chapped bum or do you want them all obsessed with whether or not you forgot the comma?
2.) Moral superiority. I'm not sure why this is an advantage of the Oxford comma. Maybe just the pretentious name of the fairly proletariat punctuation mark. At any rate, insisting upon it definitely confers moral high ground.
Now for the cons:
1.) Tapping an extra key. It can be very hard on your right ring finger.
2.) Having people read your sentences with no ambiguity. You can't hide behind a misunderstanding. Your list will be clear, your intentions laid out like an armadillo in the Texas sun. Prepare for that level of sheer nakedness in list-making.
Weighing the pros and cons on the scale of righteousness and universal balance, it is clear that the Oxford comma wins. Only a finger amputation or extreme disenchantment with clarity are excuses to forgo it, and they are lame and unacceptable reasons for non-compliance. I am sure my sister, who is a professional enforcer of rules and standards, has my back here.
Long live the O.C.!
Lost: The Oxford Comma. Actually it's not really lost but more just not as used as it should be, which is 100% of all series. I realize that there is some controversy surrounding the serial comma, but as long as there is life in my body I will be using it. According to Wiki there are pros and cons to each convention (with {correct} and without {fucking idiotic}), but their cons are not valid. Why? Because. Here is a new list, one you can live by:
Pros:
1.) It is how things are. Lists are with commas after every item. Otherwise one doesn't get the right pause and also you're left wondering if they just left it out like French people, or if they just don't care that One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other. Why would you go to all the trouble of commas after every item and then just leave one hanging? Even though it gets the "and" that doesn't mean that it is exempt from a pause. With the O.C. the sentence would sound like this:
The favored gifts of the newborn baby Jesus were frankincense, myrrh, and diaper cream.
Now without:
Heoihf aaioer; oiwe rghoirt uoyiutwkn xxohoi, hfoisaajsdgiandyierutosijdkfl.
It's almost unintelligible without the comma because you just don't pause. And pausing, especially pregnantly........can be very, very effective. And think about it--you're talking about the baby Jesus here. Do you want people to be thinking about what they should bring him in Bethlehem to soothe his chapped bum or do you want them all obsessed with whether or not you forgot the comma?
2.) Moral superiority. I'm not sure why this is an advantage of the Oxford comma. Maybe just the pretentious name of the fairly proletariat punctuation mark. At any rate, insisting upon it definitely confers moral high ground.
Now for the cons:
1.) Tapping an extra key. It can be very hard on your right ring finger.
2.) Having people read your sentences with no ambiguity. You can't hide behind a misunderstanding. Your list will be clear, your intentions laid out like an armadillo in the Texas sun. Prepare for that level of sheer nakedness in list-making.
Weighing the pros and cons on the scale of righteousness and universal balance, it is clear that the Oxford comma wins. Only a finger amputation or extreme disenchantment with clarity are excuses to forgo it, and they are lame and unacceptable reasons for non-compliance. I am sure my sister, who is a professional enforcer of rules and standards, has my back here.
Long live the O.C.!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Oh Rats.
So yesterday we went to the extremely awesome pet store (Hoffer's for you locals) to get a new rat. Deadpool has been lonely since Twoface, and then subsequently Twoface II, died. This pet store kicks ass. It's a combo education, rescue, birthday party, ponds, and pet store. All the people that work there are extremely knowledgeable and mostly look like carnies, I'm not sure why. I'm also not judging carnies.
Anyway, we looked at a lot of rats. One type of rat is the hairless rat. It basically looks like a chicken nugget after you pull the fried part off. It is a disgusting looking animal, and to add insult to injury all the males, and maybe some of the females too, have giant balls. I mean seriously giant. They are dragging those fuckers around. Like if there were a sidewalk, and the bald rat were walking 2 miles on it, the balls would be worn away from the dragging. Or maybe they would swell and then the rat would die from having all of its life force sucked into its already enormous balls.
Of course my kids were fascinated by the balls, and much giggling ensued. Not by me, I'm too mature for laughing at rat balls. I definitely made no jokes about the Rat Sac, and for sure didn't say anything about the Balls That Ate Manhattan. That would be bad parenting and I don't condone it.
The rat we got yesterday is missing. I will be checking the dog's poop for evidence.
Anyway, we looked at a lot of rats. One type of rat is the hairless rat. It basically looks like a chicken nugget after you pull the fried part off. It is a disgusting looking animal, and to add insult to injury all the males, and maybe some of the females too, have giant balls. I mean seriously giant. They are dragging those fuckers around. Like if there were a sidewalk, and the bald rat were walking 2 miles on it, the balls would be worn away from the dragging. Or maybe they would swell and then the rat would die from having all of its life force sucked into its already enormous balls.
Of course my kids were fascinated by the balls, and much giggling ensued. Not by me, I'm too mature for laughing at rat balls. I definitely made no jokes about the Rat Sac, and for sure didn't say anything about the Balls That Ate Manhattan. That would be bad parenting and I don't condone it.
The rat we got yesterday is missing. I will be checking the dog's poop for evidence.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Clinically Insane
Another hiatus. I should just accept that I am becoming a biannual blogger. I'm too stubborn for that, though, so in my mind I'm still cranking posts out regularly. My break is well justified, though, as this semester is clinicals and the amount of work is insane. Projects, exams, papers, and videotaped patient encounters--most weeks it's more than one of these, sometimes even all in one week. What I'm saying is, my house is messy.
As always I have some hate mail for everyone in the world:
Dear Figure Skater Coach in my classes,
Your voice is well-suited to yelling at tiny girls in tutus. I am certain that as they skate by and you shout about how they should have more flow, more fanciness, and more spinniness it travels directly into their ears. I am also certain that they have moments where they would like to remove their sharpened skates and stab the pick part into your carotid artery, forcing jets of blood over their tutus and onto the ice. Figure skaters are not known for violence overall, with the exception of course of Tonya Harding but she hired someone else to do the dirty work which exonerates her from actually hitting people with pipes. However in your case I feel they would make an exception. That is how grating the tone of your voice is. Also you speak up in lecture all the time, often asking questions that I feel should remain in your head.
Aside from all that, though, you seem like you kind of kick ass. I think I like you.
Sincerely,
Your classmate who is probably annoying in her own way.
Dear Clinical Professor,
It is hard for me to figure you out. At times you seem pretty cool. Other times, you seem pretty tense and even rigid. A goal of one of my classmates is to chest bump you by the end of the semester, that is because of the tenseness. Mainly I think you just take your responsibilities very seriously. I respect that. No complaints, I guess.
Sincerely,
Your student who is kind of prickly at times too.
Dear Guy in Nursing School,
Boobs are just boobs. Over the course of your career you will probably see many. Also, important organs that you must place your stethoscope on lie directly under the boobs. It is nice, though, that you are respectful of bosoms.
Sincerely,
A haver of boobs
Dear Physical Exam Professor,
You are earthy. In class you often lift up your shirt or grab your own boob to lift it really high, showing us where one might find certain sounds of percussion or auscultation. It is awkward when you do that. Generally one does not see their teacher's bra or see her grabbing her own boobs. I respect your openness and willingness to flash us in the name of education. Please remember that the units on reproductive systems and rectums are next. It would be best if you find a dummy for that.
Sincerely,
Student in the front row
a.k.a. the puppet for demos
As always I have some hate mail for everyone in the world:
Dear Figure Skater Coach in my classes,
Your voice is well-suited to yelling at tiny girls in tutus. I am certain that as they skate by and you shout about how they should have more flow, more fanciness, and more spinniness it travels directly into their ears. I am also certain that they have moments where they would like to remove their sharpened skates and stab the pick part into your carotid artery, forcing jets of blood over their tutus and onto the ice. Figure skaters are not known for violence overall, with the exception of course of Tonya Harding but she hired someone else to do the dirty work which exonerates her from actually hitting people with pipes. However in your case I feel they would make an exception. That is how grating the tone of your voice is. Also you speak up in lecture all the time, often asking questions that I feel should remain in your head.
Aside from all that, though, you seem like you kind of kick ass. I think I like you.
Sincerely,
Your classmate who is probably annoying in her own way.
Dear Clinical Professor,
It is hard for me to figure you out. At times you seem pretty cool. Other times, you seem pretty tense and even rigid. A goal of one of my classmates is to chest bump you by the end of the semester, that is because of the tenseness. Mainly I think you just take your responsibilities very seriously. I respect that. No complaints, I guess.
Sincerely,
Your student who is kind of prickly at times too.
Dear Guy in Nursing School,
Boobs are just boobs. Over the course of your career you will probably see many. Also, important organs that you must place your stethoscope on lie directly under the boobs. It is nice, though, that you are respectful of bosoms.
Sincerely,
A haver of boobs
Dear Physical Exam Professor,
You are earthy. In class you often lift up your shirt or grab your own boob to lift it really high, showing us where one might find certain sounds of percussion or auscultation. It is awkward when you do that. Generally one does not see their teacher's bra or see her grabbing her own boobs. I respect your openness and willingness to flash us in the name of education. Please remember that the units on reproductive systems and rectums are next. It would be best if you find a dummy for that.
Sincerely,
Student in the front row
a.k.a. the puppet for demos
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tattoozin'
Sigh. So much great ink on chicks at Grapply Camp. Honestly one night in the Jacuzzi it was like a Modern Art Show, Medium: Skin. I've been hankering after another tattoo since shortly after the last one (and by shortly I mean when the pain wore off and I forgot about it, so much less time than with childbirth! Of course the tattoo session didn't involve something the size of a roast chicken coming out of my vagina.) Anyway, the possibilities are endless but include a wide variety of concepts. Like my children's faces, one on each deltoid. Hehe. Maybe not. I will keep you all updated because I know the suspense is hard to handle.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Vital Recital
My elder son had a guitar recital the other day. To my surprise, he kind of rocked. And he has long hair so he really was feeling the part, I think. Very cute overall. Some of the other kids were actually awesome. It was like being at a very small, acne-covered concert. A close personal friend joined me for the event, which occurred in the junior high room of the kids' Montessori school.
The room was of course filled with books, unconventional seating, and peaceful communication. I used "I feel" statements reflexively upon entering ("I feel like sitting over there would make me feel happy. I would like to hear your feelings on our seating arrangement, too."). During the recital my eyes wandered a bit for the less engaging performers. There was a lot to look at---tres buchets, plants, geography posters, and art made of "found objects". In our home we call that art made of "shit I threw away". Anyway, my close personal friend leaned in close at one point and said, "Holy shit. Is it just me, or is that a Willian Shakespeare action figure on top of the bookcase?" Indeed it was. Resplendent in pantaloons, no less. Fancy and thespian, a difficult fashion concept to convey. Adding to the hilarity, which at this point was stifled out of respect for the acne-ridden musicians, was that an Edgar Allen Poe action figure stood at Shakespeare's side. Literary badasses, both of them.
It's no great reflection upon my character that I had to strain mightily not to arrange them obscenely after the concert. In my mind's eye a tableau of the Bard bent over while Poe gave him "the Raven" would have been probably the greatest moment of 2011 thus far.
The room was of course filled with books, unconventional seating, and peaceful communication. I used "I feel" statements reflexively upon entering ("I feel like sitting over there would make me feel happy. I would like to hear your feelings on our seating arrangement, too."). During the recital my eyes wandered a bit for the less engaging performers. There was a lot to look at---tres buchets, plants, geography posters, and art made of "found objects". In our home we call that art made of "shit I threw away". Anyway, my close personal friend leaned in close at one point and said, "Holy shit. Is it just me, or is that a Willian Shakespeare action figure on top of the bookcase?" Indeed it was. Resplendent in pantaloons, no less. Fancy and thespian, a difficult fashion concept to convey. Adding to the hilarity, which at this point was stifled out of respect for the acne-ridden musicians, was that an Edgar Allen Poe action figure stood at Shakespeare's side. Literary badasses, both of them.
It's no great reflection upon my character that I had to strain mightily not to arrange them obscenely after the concert. In my mind's eye a tableau of the Bard bent over while Poe gave him "the Raven" would have been probably the greatest moment of 2011 thus far.
Friday, January 7, 2011
It's News To Me
So the other night my sister and I were watching the evening news. In Milwaukee the news is really shitty. Not the actual happenings, but the news show. I mean it is absolute shit, both in content and delivery. It often looks like a parody of real news. Minnesota was better.
Anyway, my favorite story of all time occurred the other night. It requires a little exposure to both the midwest and uncommon religions, but it's probably funny anyway. The story is as follows:
It started out showing police vehicles dramatically parked askew in front of a church. The reporter is standing in front of the scene. Lights may or may not have been flashing. The reporter begins to talk about the event of the day, which is that a woman openly carried a gun into a church. Not to shoot things up, just to carry. People can be into that here, you know, their right to have a gun anytime just in case some shit goes down in the produce aisle. I'm of the opinion that shit often gets shittier when there are more guns involved, but it seems that the gun havers feel safer with a little steel courage by their sides.
I digress.
So then it cuts to a reporter talking to the gun toting woman inside a sanctuary-looking area. Her name is plastered across the bottom of the screen, but her face is not shown. It feels sinister and hilarious. The woman, who is heavyset and wearing a holiday turtleneck, shows us how she carried her gun. She is wearing a belt with a holster. She snaps the gun in with a diabolical snapping noise. She says that she has the right to carry, and they should not have arrested her. She will sue. The gun snapping into holster is replayed, holiday turtleneck background resplendent.
Cut to a new scene. It is the reverend of the church. We become aware that this is a Unitarian church. My sister and I fall apart laughing. The reverend speaks. She is quite butch, which is totally par for the course in a Unitarian situation. There is usually a high quotient of vegans, political activists, ex-peace corps members, gays and lesbians, liberals, and appreciaters of poetry (as an aside, growing up Unitarian exposed me to possibly some of the best potluck performances of all time, no small feat in central MN). The reverend mentions with great understatement that the peaceful nature of the Sunday service was threatened by the weapon, and in alarm, the Unitarians called the police to deal with the firearm, as Unitarians are not battle trained. The peace corps is not as focused on hand-to-hand combat and disarming intruders as other branches of government service. The reverend looks like she is a little distressed, less by the actual high-intensity incident than by the poor judgment of the woman carrying a gun into the midst of a bunch of Unitarians. She points out that they now have a sign forbidding the entry of weapons into the church. She looks pained that she has to keep talking about firearms.
At this point my sister and I are seriously losing our shit. It was just such an extreme case of the Midwest, Unitarians, and not knowing your audience that all came together in a confluence of awesomeness. It's possible that you have to be from the upper midwest, Unitarian, or maybe just really willing to laugh at people to appreciate the whole thing, but any way we sliced it it was some funny shit.
NO GUNS IN THE UNITARIAN CHURCH
Anyway, my favorite story of all time occurred the other night. It requires a little exposure to both the midwest and uncommon religions, but it's probably funny anyway. The story is as follows:
It started out showing police vehicles dramatically parked askew in front of a church. The reporter is standing in front of the scene. Lights may or may not have been flashing. The reporter begins to talk about the event of the day, which is that a woman openly carried a gun into a church. Not to shoot things up, just to carry. People can be into that here, you know, their right to have a gun anytime just in case some shit goes down in the produce aisle. I'm of the opinion that shit often gets shittier when there are more guns involved, but it seems that the gun havers feel safer with a little steel courage by their sides.
I digress.
So then it cuts to a reporter talking to the gun toting woman inside a sanctuary-looking area. Her name is plastered across the bottom of the screen, but her face is not shown. It feels sinister and hilarious. The woman, who is heavyset and wearing a holiday turtleneck, shows us how she carried her gun. She is wearing a belt with a holster. She snaps the gun in with a diabolical snapping noise. She says that she has the right to carry, and they should not have arrested her. She will sue. The gun snapping into holster is replayed, holiday turtleneck background resplendent.
Cut to a new scene. It is the reverend of the church. We become aware that this is a Unitarian church. My sister and I fall apart laughing. The reverend speaks. She is quite butch, which is totally par for the course in a Unitarian situation. There is usually a high quotient of vegans, political activists, ex-peace corps members, gays and lesbians, liberals, and appreciaters of poetry (as an aside, growing up Unitarian exposed me to possibly some of the best potluck performances of all time, no small feat in central MN). The reverend mentions with great understatement that the peaceful nature of the Sunday service was threatened by the weapon, and in alarm, the Unitarians called the police to deal with the firearm, as Unitarians are not battle trained. The peace corps is not as focused on hand-to-hand combat and disarming intruders as other branches of government service. The reverend looks like she is a little distressed, less by the actual high-intensity incident than by the poor judgment of the woman carrying a gun into the midst of a bunch of Unitarians. She points out that they now have a sign forbidding the entry of weapons into the church. She looks pained that she has to keep talking about firearms.
At this point my sister and I are seriously losing our shit. It was just such an extreme case of the Midwest, Unitarians, and not knowing your audience that all came together in a confluence of awesomeness. It's possible that you have to be from the upper midwest, Unitarian, or maybe just really willing to laugh at people to appreciate the whole thing, but any way we sliced it it was some funny shit.
NO GUNS IN THE UNITARIAN CHURCH
Hiatus Status
My longest absence yet. I'm sure it was painful for many. I know how the blogosphere awaits my missives and it's been quite a while. I had a semester of wrath and despair, though, culminating in severe burnout. Moving one week before finals was tricky. Post-Halloween was a whirlwind of house fixing, house showing, studying, paper writing, training, chauffeuring, parenting, ex-husband managing, bank closing attending, and various other shit that stormed down upon me. I of course handled it with no freak outs at all, smoothly attending to all responsibilities. That was sarcasm, by the way. At one point my hair actually shot out from my head like porcupine quills combined with scud missiles, due to the high intensity pressure buildup of my life. I even called my mom and cried to her for a while one morning. For those of you who know me, that is telling. I do not generally call people and cry to them. No judgment upon those who do, it's just very out of character for me. I'd generally rather a) deal with shit, not cry about it a whole lot unless it's really sad; or b) if it requires crying, let it rip but on my own in private. So pretty disturbing, the whole end of the semester. Anyway, here I am and I have a break until the end of January whereupon my life resumes at a faster more obnoxious pace than ever. I'm looking forward to it.
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