Life in a jar

You quack me up.

2006-08-18T08:14:00.000-04:00

You know what's really funny? When people find out that I have six kids and they say something about how it's a good thing, because the kids always have somebody to play with.

Whaaaat?

Seriously...you're joking, right?

Let me clarify. I have six kids-two girls, four boys-whose ages span nearly a ten-year range. Kid one is a boy who talks about nothing but video games, South Park, military history and chicks. Kid two wears her hair spiked like Billie Joe Armstrong's, inherited our puppy's old spiked collar, plays guitar incessantly and has a Little Known Billie Joe Fact for every occasion. Kid three never wants to write about anything but sports scores and thinks we should take time off of school to watch ESPN. Kid four refuses to play outside most of the time, is on his way to being a big-time computer hacker and thinks he came from Jupiter. Kid five happens to be kid four's twin, so naturally they're automatic best buds, right? Ha. Five is outside from the time he gets up till the time he goes to bed, climbs the walls when he's inside, and is constantly building things out of old nails and scrap wood. Kid six is all about lip gloss, My little Pony and Disney Princesses, and changes dresses twelve times a day.

Yeah, if that isn't a group that just loves to play together, I dunno what is. It's a nice thought, though, the Brady Bunch or something: 'Let's all go play outside together, a friendly game of Hokeyball, and nobody will cry because she lost or scream and run inside because he spotted a wayward caterpillar.'

In reality, we have this:

"MOVE!! You're in front of the TV and I almost got killed!"

"Waaaaah! Nobody ever wants to play Dora with me!"

"Make him quit hammering! TOO LOUD TOO LOUD TOO LOUD!"

"Can you tell her to quit playing that stupid guitar? I can't hear when the cops are sneaking up on me."

"You've been playing that game all day! I need to check the baseball scores...TURN IT OFF!"

"God, can you keep your stupid ponies off my side of the bed?"

"He broke the shelf I just built!"

"Hey! You can't unplug my amp just so you can hear your stupid Barbie CD, brat!"

Ah, yes...the sounds of familial bliss...

This place is a madhouse.

2006-08-17T09:39:00.000-04:00

No, seriously. I don't mean like on TV when Perfect Sitcom Mom shakes her head with a rueful smile on her face as her teenagers declare war by placing a line of masking tape down the middle of the room and the toddler puts her entire dinner in the blender and turns it on, hysterically leaving off the lid.

'Tch. This place is a madhouse!' she'll say.

Ha.

Let me tell you about a madhouse.

The psychotic hound puppy just made the acquaintance of our three borrowed chihuahuas. (The fact that we have borrowed chihuahuas should tell you something.) They're barking their little bug-eyed heads off-well, two of them are; the other one is making this bizarre squeaking noise-while Dexter, the hound, leaps around and tries to sniff every inch of their little bodies. Sebastian freaks out and starts screaming that Dexter is going to eat the chihuahuas, so I explain that dogs get to know each other by sniffing each other, but apparently I'm not quite as observant as some members of the family, like Zoey. "Yeah, they sniff each other and they lick each other's weiners too!" she says. It's true, our little houseguests seem to be a bit on the gay side, but why did the kid have to pick today to start wearing her glasses and actually paying attention to what goes on around her?

Jeremy is wearing one of his great-grandfather's old shirts over his usual long-sleeved shirt and pants, because it despite being the middle of August, he's freezing. He's in his room emitting a high-pitched shriek, broken up by cries of "I want my pencil!"

Sebastian is out in the driveway spinning his arms and yelling unintelligible sounds at himself.

Dylan takes a break from his schoolwork to ask me if I know some obscure bit of military history. No, I tell him, but you're supposed to be doing your book.

Now Jeremy has a wooden axe that Zac built, trying to get Sebastian to give up The Pencil.

Anyway. Back to Dylan. Do I know that whatever happened whenever?

"No Dylan. I did not know that. But you're supposed to be in the kitchen working."

"Yeah but did you know that?"

"No, I didn't. Now go back and finish your math."

"Yeah I'm gonna but how could you not know that? That was like really important."

"Well, I don't know much about history, honestly. That's why you get to teach it to your siblings. Now you need to go finish working. Maybe you could write about that event later during free study time."

"Why would I want to write about that? I already know all about it. Everybody knows that. God."

"Dylan, you have to-JEREMY! PUT THE AXE DOWN!-go do your math."

"I'm gooooing, god, you never have any patience. Oh and did you know that Florida is more racist than North Carolina?"

"Dylan, GO!"

"Fine, if you don't care about a bunch of racists in your home state."

He finally goes, supposedly working on his math while informing his sister that she's a bullshitter because she wears a spiked dog collar and also doesn't care about racists in her home state. First, though, he has to stop and touch The Pencil, which Jeremy finally found, which of course sends Jeremy into a new howling fit.

Now Jess has evolved from being a bullshitter to a Bolshevist, according to Dylan.

Jess yells from the kitchen, "Hey Mom, did you know there are child labor laws?"

From Dylan: "They don't apply to chores, genius."

From a very sad Jess: "Oh...well...never mind then."

The Bolshevik conversation resumes.

I remember that I was supposed to take Jeremy to the dentist, and didn't. Oh well. I don't like those people anyway.

Random sounds:

YOU HAVE TO BE NICE TO ME!

I AM BEING NICE TO YOU, ARE YOU STUPID? DUH!

Why do the doggies do that, anyway?

So are chihuahuas real dogs or are they like a crossbreed between a rat and like a poodle or something?

Could a rat even mate with a dog?

Well yeah, look how little this one is.

Yeah but I mean could they like breed?

No!

Too bad, that would be cool.

Where's the turtle? I think the big one ate the little one.

Oh yeah, we need dog food. And crab food.

Um...who used the bathroom last? I need to know if it flushed then. Cause now, like...yeah. It kinda looks like it might overflow. I mean it might not, but yeah, it kinda looks like it will.

I'm not an omnivore. I'm not an omnivore! I AM NOT AN OMNIVORE!!

Hey...where's Mom going? Why does she have a suitcase? And what's with all the Hawaiian shirts? Mom...mommm...hey guys, now we can have mustard and Froot Loop sandwiches for lunch!

new blog

2006-08-10T10:43:00.000-04:00

I've started a blog to follow our progress in getting real diagnoses for Jeremy and Sebastian...something that makes sense and isn't the blanket ADHD diagnosis every kid in America gets. It'll also follow the ups and downs of their therapies and daily lives. You can access it through my profile...the address is www.fecundswamp.blogspot.com.

Who says you can't control the weather?

2006-07-25T14:50:00.000-04:00

To make a flood:

Plug the drain in the bathroom sink, stick your sister's toothbrush in the little overflow hole, turn the water on full blast, lock the door behind you as you run out. Contain your maniacal laughter just long enough for the floor to become thoroughly covered with water, requiring the use of every just-washed-this-morning towel in the house to clean it up.

To make snow:

Dump the entire contents of the ice bin from the freezer onto the kitchen floor. Dump the contents of the sugar canister on top of the ice. If you do this during the right time of year, right in the middle of summer, the ants that will almost immediately converge on the mess will look like a group of wee skiiers milling around on the slopes.

To make a sudden rainstorm complete with beautiful waterfall:

Turn on the shower. Open both the shower curtain and the liner as far as they will go. Stand under the water at the exact angle that will deflect the water off your body onto the sides of the tub. Watch the water pour over the side of the tub until your father runs up from the basement soaking wet and yells, 'Turn off the damn water! NOW!'

To create a heat wave:

Wake up at 2 a.m. and decide that you are freezing. Turn the heat on, and push the little temperature control button up until it won't go any higher. Go back to sleep. Be thankful when your parents wake four hours later that they are stuck to their sheets with sweat and can't get up to send you to the desert far, far away.

The best laid plans

2006-07-24T17:39:00.000-04:00

This was not the day I had in mind. Swimming lessons with clean, well-behaved children in the morning, errands after, then home to a tidy house and sweet but mischievous children who are fun, yet know their boundaries...that was the plan, oh, fifteen years ago or so.

This is the reality: swimming lessons with not-too-filthy, well-behaved children, one of whom has to get in the water fully dressed in pants and long sleeves and won't remove his shoes till he reaches the water's edge. The teenaged lifeguard who is teaching the boys' group is patient and kind, and I'm sure the girl teaching Zoey's group is only pretending she doesn't notice the snarls in her hair and the dirt under her toenails. It takes forever to get to the truck afterward because Jeremy's legs are frozen and he walks stiff-legged, on his heels, the whole way to the parking lot. Back home the wet clothes are exchanged for dry after a frantic search for clean undies and then I'm off in search of a broom to replace the one somebody broke last week. If I'm lucky I'll get to use it this afternoon. I leave amid hugs and kisses and threats if the house isn't cleaned up by the time I return, and the little people are left in the care of their older siblings. Back home I am greeted by slightly less messy house and we get to work. I attempt to get Sebastian to take a new herbal remedy that might help him with his outbursts, rage and refusal to listen, and of course that turns into an all-out war; fifteen minutes of Mom versus Ten-year-old, complete with the boy screaming, running out of the house and deliberately spilling water down the front of his shirt. Jeremy can't beat one of the games on his new Batman computer and loses his mind, throwing boxes at everone and shrieking at the top of his lungs. A nasty comment gets Sebastian sent to his room where he screams and kicks the door; the noise is too much for Jeremy who loses it again, running around with his hands over his ears and crying. While my back is turned, Zoey adds her 'special ingredient'-clay-to the meat I'm cooking for dinner. It's only a tiny bit, and I don't care. I stir it in and it looks like onions. There is a ukelele with no tune, a teenager begging Can I? CanICanICanIMomComeonplease, some kind of tinny music, an argument over where to keep the Batmen, an adolescent drummer, and a needy five year old all fighting for space in my ears and my head. If I say yes to one I'm doing wrong by another. If I say no to one, I'm an evil bitch.

This was not the plan, but I'll adjust, and if you have a spare valium or seven I'll take that too.

Oops.

2006-07-19T08:12:00.000-04:00

If you have a craving for an egg salad sandwich, make sure you pay attention while the eggs are boiling.

Otherwise all the water in the pan will evaporate and then the eggs will begin exploding, shooting steaming hot ovid projectiles all over the kitchen. You will get to play 'dodge the missile eggs' while trying to slam a lid onto the pot. You will be laughed at by children who still think the height of comedy is a nice loud armpit fart. You will never get your damn sandwich.

And burned eggs stink.

Democracy at its finest

2006-07-06T20:37:00.000-04:00

ALBANY, N.Y. - The highest courts in two states dealt gay rights advocates dual setbacks Thursday, rejecting same-sex couples' bid to win marriage rights in New York and reinstating a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage in Georgia.

*sigh* Right...because love and commitment are bad...good thing we have people like this to make sure our country does things the right way...you know, blowing shit up...killing, hate and racial profiling, that's what we're all about. Not a bunch of homos who have the audacity to want the same rights everyone else has...

Oh and why the hell is it always 'gay rights'? What about simply 'human rights'?

I'm done now...gonna go kiss a girl and give a politician a well-deserved stroke...;)

Sigh

2006-07-01T21:46:00.000-04:00

I miss my friend Michelle...she's exactly like me only beautiful and cool...we even eat the same thing for breakfast and both have NIN-damaged boots...and it's been a shitty day and if she was here we could go outside and open a bottle of wine and lean on each other and get giggly...and she would just get it, cause she's like that...

Die, pervert

2006-07-01T07:14:00.000-04:00

A new law has been passed in South Carolina. It states that anyone convicted twice of raping a child under 11 can be executed. As a most-of-the-time flaming liberal, I should be outraged, but as the proud parent of four people under11 and two who have luckily passed that age without something like that happening to them, all I can say is Hell Yeah. I don't know why they have to wait until the second conviction. If they have irrefutable proof that this person did this horrible thing, the first time should be enough to allow them to be wiped off the face of the earth. I don't think the death penalty is a deterrent. I don't believe in 'an eye for an eye'. I believe if you do something like that to a kid-or to anybody, but especially a kid-you deserve far more than the government will ever legally be able to do to you. So if the worst we can do is make you live in fear, knowing your death is imminent, then so be it. Ideally, we'd let the perverts suffer at the hands of the victims' parents, but that will never happen.

Fathers Day

2006-06-14T17:20:00.000-04:00

My dad is a tall, wiry guy...your typical old surveyor, he looks younger than he is. He wanders around his property in what has become his uniform: Billy and the Boingers t-shirt, faded old jeans, flannel jacket and boots, and like Steve Dallas in one of his favorite comics his cigarette is always dangling from his lip. He doesn't talk much and most of what he says leans toward the cynical or sarcastic. He is a master at cooking seafood, makes a killer barbecue sauce, habitually and rhythmically flicks the pages of the books he's always reading. When we were kids, he kept a garage full of snakes, listened to Pink Floyd at top volume through his top-of-the-line headphones, tooled around in his little yellow Honda Civic. I loved riding with him, despite the black vinyl interior and no air conditioning in the South Florida heat; it had a faulty exhaust so you couldn't breathe too deeply while you were cruising, but he kept the music loud and drove fast. He called me Sugarplum and Skunkfur and bought me an iguana when I was ten. He's not into all the mushy stuff, so I'll keep this short and simple:

Happy Fathers Day, you old goat. I love you.

Hey, hey, you don't know what you're missing

2006-06-12T12:28:00.000-04:00

Cracker's coming to Bele Chere this year...it's supposed to be a free street festival; they just started charging for the headlining shows a couple years ago, but I don't care, call me a sell-out, I'm going. I'll be the one right up front in the Eurotrash Girl tank top and faded red sneakers trying to calculate the exact level of awesomeness involved in being out in the summer heat screaming along with David Lowery as he spits on his generation...ah, bliss...

In related news, the new CD, Greenland, is excellent. You can order it from www.pitchatent.com.

Check out the band at www.crackersoul.com

Soldier boy

2006-06-02T09:00:00.000-04:00

My friend's little brother is headed to Iraq in July.

As I have said before, I'm vehemently anti-war, but at the same time I respect the soldiers and want them all to be able to come home to their families where they belong.

Please, pray or light a candle or do whatever you can to wrap Eric in love and positive energy and keep him safe.

Thank you.

Remembering things lost

2006-05-31T07:54:00.000-04:00

"The death of one is a tragedy...the death of millions is just a statistic."

Memorial Day was a couple days ago. Let's see how many American soldiers our esteemed leader has killed since the start of his war.

http://www.antiwar.com/casualties/

And george bush isn't a terrorist? Hmmm...let's go see, shall we?

http://www.iraqbodycount.net/

Looks like terrorism to me.

I have a whole rant brewing right now, a tirade in my head against the entire bush administration, but I'll keep it there, in my head for now. I'm going to log off here and go hug my children and take a minute to thank the people who truly sacrificed their lives for our freedom and to pray for the people who lost everything for a bunch of lies and a crazy Texan. And hopeless as it seems, pray for an end to this War of Terrorism.

To clarify...

2006-05-29T14:04:00.000-04:00

Emmy, you should know this, it's my favorite song...here's where the title came from-my very favorite song-'Sappy', by who else but Nirvana. The last verse:

And if you fool yourself
You will make him happy
He'll keep you in a jar
Then you'll think you're happy
He'll give you breathing holes
Then you will seem happy
You'll wallow in the shit
Then you'll think you're happy now

I'm still here...

2006-05-27T20:58:00.000-04:00

Just changed the title of this dumb thing to fit it better, that's all.

Now back to your regularly scheduled whatever.

Why it's better to be pretty than smart

2006-05-27T20:30:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid I was supposed to be some sort of genius or something. Here's what that means:

In kindergarten you get to read to the class and sit out in the hall with a Big Kid doing fifth-grade work, because nobody knows what to do with you.

In first grade you get to be the youngest kid placed in the gifted program, because nobody knows what to do with you.

In fifth grade you pretend not to know how to spell 'exercise' so you can get the hell off the plywood stage set up in the mall for the regional spelling bee, and nobody knows what to do with you.

In middle school you get kicked out of the gifted program, because you refuse to behave like a Gifted Student, and nobody knows what to do with you.

In high school you give up and quit, because you're smarter than the teachers, bored and destructive, and nobody knows what to do with you.

At thirty you end up lost, because everyone knows what to do with you, but you.

Damn.

2006-05-22T17:55:00.000-04:00

How can I be so bad at something I really, really want to be good at?

I suck at this.

Moving to the country...

2006-05-19T09:33:00.000-04:00

So I guess I'm going to be selling a house that I thought was going to be It, the place I was going to Be Forever. It isn't a nice house, really, and it isn't big, but it has built-in bookshelves and a funny-shaped living room and it's old and laid out funny and full of personality and life. It has me all over it. If I was a house, I'd be this house. But I'm going to sell it. I'm buying some land from my parents and putting a house up there.

Does anyone else appreciate the irony here? That when my only two options appeared to be the boy, or the parents, I picked the boy (well, not really picked, just landed, I guess) and now I'm going back to the parents, with the boy? And I don't mind going back, I want to live more out in the country, and I get along with my parents really well now and I think it will be great for the kids to grow up there. But still...

So I'm thinking we'll get the land and build a house, right? And I'm thinking it will take years, we'll stay here and build our new house a little bit at a time, as we get the money to do each part, and then we'll move in and live in it while we finish the inside and then sell this one. I'm thinking all of us working together and if I get old I can look back and say look, this is the board that Dylan cut crooked or whatever. It would take a long time but it would be ours, a house for us.

So Jackey gets me all into this idea, I drag my lazy butt up the mountain to look at the spot Dad wants to sell, start to think, OK, this could work, and even find a plan for a cute little house with a front porch that I think would work. And then I get shot down again. It's too big, too expensive to build.

So here's what's going to happen. We'll buy the land. We'll get a great little prefab fucking modular with no more room than we have now and I'll spend the rest of my life in somebody else's house listening to everyone complain about how it isn't big enough for all the junk we have. And if I'm ever someplace else and get homesick I can just find a middle-class neighborhood and see a house just like mine -ooo, but with green shutters, nice!-and feel right at home again.

I can't wait. Nice pristine white sheetrock walls for me to clean each and every day so I never get bored...and I can watch those big, strong men with their big strong machines putting up the walls to the the prefab hell I get to live in. Won't that be lovely. And I can shop at the Gap and oh, I can get little matching sweater sets for me and the girls and of course that silly Kurt Cobain poster I have, well, I can keep it in the shed with my worn out red sneakers and my NIN t-shirt and my thousands of books, and peek at them once in a while to remind myself that I used to be human.

What ever happened to Corey Hart?

2006-05-17T12:09:00.000-04:00

I talked to my old friend Nikki last week. I've known her since we were in kindergarten; in third grade we were mortal enemies; in fifth grade we became best friends, inseparable, as they say.

Nik and I were always opposites. She was the first one in our fifth grade class to wear a bra; I was the last...I mean the last, ever; in fifth grade I was years from needing one. Hell, I'm still years from needing one. But Nik did then, and I remember the kids teasing her, saying she stuffed. (Yes, my life really was a Judy Blume novel.) We caught ringneck snakes in our yards and took them to school in pencil boxes, tucked into nests of grass and leaves. We sat in her yard and pretended not to watch the boys across the street while we listened to her music (Starship and Prince) and mine (Motley Crue and Cyndi Lauper). She taught me everything she knew about life and sex (which I suppose, looking back, must have been second-hand info from her older friends and stepsister) and most of it left me completely grossed out. By the time we hit middle school the guys who were teasing her the year before had changed their tune, and though she had her share of crushes and boyfriends, she gave most of the boys nothing more than a cold glare, tossing her long red hair as she walked away from them. She was glamourous, I thought, in her long skirts and high heeled shoes, upswept hair and trendy glasses. I was her smaller shadow, nerdy and flat, my short hair beginning to grow out at weird, wavy angles. My legs were too long and my style-if you could call it that-was just strange. I wore bright yellow Chuck Taylors when the other girls wore pink and white Nikes; my version of the mid-80s preppy style was wearing one of my dad's button-up shirts over a pair of bright patterned tights and those nice yellow sneakers. Nikki was smart and got good grades, ran on the track team in high school. I was smart and got good pot on occasion, and ran from the teachers when I was skipping class. When I was 14 she fixed me up with a friend of her boyfriend, a scruffy surfer who I don't remember much about other than that he drove a truck and introduced me to Anthrax. He gave me a pair of expensive sunglasses that I lost or threw away or something. Not long after that I moved with my family, twelve hours away to North Carolina.

I missed the sun, the salt and orange smell of the air, the hot pavement under my bare feet. I missed the girls across the street who were like sisters to me, right down to the fights we'd have over Barbie dolls and boys. I missed the brand-new high school, all open and Spanish design with our cool football team name-the Wildcats. My school in North Carolina was old and small and all closed in, and we were called the Patriots, of all the stupid things. It was full of voices I didn't know, shaped by an accent I didn't understand. Most of all, I missed Nikki. If she had been with me on that first day, she would have held her head high and I could have gone in behind her, unnoticed. My new room wouldn't have felt so far away from everything if Nik had been there with me, if we could have laughed together about the funny things the hick kids said, if I had had someone I knew.

I only saw Nikki once after that; she and her family stopped by briefly on the way to somewhere else. I barely remember the visit. By then, I had settled in, made it through the first scary few days without her there. I had known that to the boys in Florida, Nik was Something Different, and I was surprised to find out that a small blonde nobody, if she came from someplace warm and sunny and kind of exotic-sounding, had that same Something Different in the eyes of the local trouble-making guys. So I'm sure the visit was spent mostly comparing notes, who was going out with whom, sharing pictures, and probably making vague, distant plans to Do Something When We Turned Eighteen. And then she was gone again, and that was it.

We've kept in touch sporadically over the years, and it's funny, when she calls I still recognize her voice instantly, and each time we talk it's like we just saw each other the day before. We change from busy, tired, overworked moms to just Old Friends. We are still the same, the two of us, goofy and comparing notes, and laughing over the dumb things that happen to us every day.

She says she's going to take a vacation and come visit. If she does, I'm clearing my calendar for as long as she's here and taking some much needed Ape and Nikki time. I plan on staying up late and drinking wine, bringing out the old yearbooks and the photo albums of our kids, and giggling, giggling like I haven't done in years.

Nikki, if you're reading this...hurry up, OK? I miss you.

This is freaking brilliant.

2006-05-16T16:02:00.000-04:00

Yet another example of how screwed up our government and society are. Check this out:

WASHINGTON - Seventeen years after it was withdrawn from U.S. markets, a synthetic version of the active ingredient in marijuana is going back on sale as a prescription treatment for the vomiting and nausea that often accompanies chemotherapy, its manufacturer said Tuesday.
Valeant Pharmaceuticals International hopes to begin selling Cesamet in the next two to three weeks, company president Wes Wheeler said.
The Costa Mesa, Calif. company received
approval Monday to resume sales of the drug, which it bought from Eli Lilly and Co. in 2004. Valeant currently sells the drug, also called nabilone, in Canada.
Lilly originally received FDA approval for nabilone in 1985 but withdrew it from the market in 1989 for commercial reasons, Wheeler said. Valeant, since purchasing the drug, has revised its label and updated its manufacturing process, he added.
The drug will compete with Marinol, made by Belgium-based Solvay SA. Marinol, another synthetic version of tetrahydrocannabinol, the active ingredient in marijuana that's more commonly known as THC. It also received FDA approval in 1985.
Synthetic THC acts on the brain like the THC in smoked marijuana, but eliminates having to inhale the otherwise harmful smoke contained in the illegal drug, Valeant said.
Cesamet is a Schedule II drug, meaning it has a high potential for abuse. The 1-milligram tablets are meant to be taken twice daily before cancer patients undergo chemotherapy and up to 48 hours following treatment. Side effects include euphoria, drowsiness, vertigo and dry mouth.
The FDA last month said it does not support the use of marijuana for medical purposes.

Let me just make sure I have this straight. Marijuana is less toxic than potatoes and is not addictive, it helps a myriad of ailments, and it's a natural antidepressant that doesn't cause any of the freaky side effects the pharmeceutical antidepressants do. Marijuana does not cause cancer. People are far less likely to have an automobile accident while they're high than when they're drunk. The FDA recognizes that THC is a good thing, but they will only approve a version of it that is made by a drug company, because the smoke that would normally carry it into your blood stream is harmful. And yet, despite the millions of people who are killed and made sick by cigarette smoking (including children and other people affected by the second-hand smoke), cigarettes are still perfectly legal. Alcohol is available at every corner store.

Now explain this: doctors can go on TV, in medical journals, wherever, and tout the benefits of alcohol in moderation-the same alcohol that can cause people to lose their jobs, homes, lives. But we can't have legal access to marijuana which has far more benefits than alcohol and far fewer negative side effects.

Does anyone else see how ridiculous this is?? I'm not saying cigarettes and beer should be illegal. I'm just saying it doesn't make sense and it drives me crazy, and this latest thing is just further proof that our country is run by big money and that the people in charge don't care about anything but whose pockets they can get their greedy hands into.

Rant over; you may now resume your governmentally approved activities.

He did it!!!

2006-05-14T12:48:00.000-04:00

JEREMY TIED HIS SHOES!!!!

All by himself...he decided to do it, and just sat down and taught himself. He got pretty frustrated in the process, but he kept at it and he did it! I am so proud of him...he can do anything.

My baby is AWESOME!

Happy Mothers Day

2006-05-14T11:59:00.000-04:00

To everyone who has ever tried to have a child of her own and couldn't, and gave her mama love to the children around who didn't have enough...

To everyone who had plenty of her own but spread her mama love out to include one more, and then another...

To everyone who had one she couldn't care for, and called on all her mama love to let the child go to someone else...

And to everyone who changed their ideas of mama love to take in the one who was let go...

To everyone whose mama love means green kool-aid and Snickers bars, and to those whose mama love means organic lemonade and whole-wheat crisps...

To everyone whose mama love means making sure the kids have lunch money when they get on the school bus, and to those whose mama love means scrimping and saving to pay for private school, and to those whose mama love means keeping them at home to learn...

To everyone whose mama love means getting up with the baby every time she cries, and to those whose mama love means telling her partner 'It's your turn' before rolling back over for some much needed sleep...

To everyone whose mama love means sharing the breast as long as the child needs it, and to those whose mama love means mixing formula and warming it to just the right temperature...

To everyone whose mama love means buying sweet, matching outfits and making sure every hair is in place before they go out, and to those whose mama love means letting the child choose their own, and trying to smooth out that wild lock of hair with a handful of spit...

To everyone whose mama love has kept them up all night, holding or helping or worrying...

To everyone whose mama love has felt weak and left them doubting whether she was really good enough...

To everyone whose mama love has gotten buried in anger, and later in regret...

To everyone who has too much mama love and no one to give it to...

To everyone who has ever felt mama love...

Happy Mothers Day.

In related news

2006-05-09T08:10:00.000-04:00

I heard on the news this morning that george bush's approval ratings are at an all-time low...something like 31%. Whatever it was, it was like a point higher than Nixon's was just before he resigned.

I know, I know, hope is a dangerous thing...and this idiot is far too egocentric to ever actually do the right thing. I think he's proven that he's actually incapable of doing anything right, or good, or human.

But maybe if a bunch of us go stand outside his house and yell 'jump...jump...jump...'

Oh hell, here come the feds...anyone care to start a collection for my bail?

You must have been...high

2006-05-09T07:50:00.000-04:00

Speaking of music...

My brother brought me Tool's new CD, '10,000 Days'. There's a song on it called 'The Pot', with Maynard howling about how you must have been high. That has me grinning like a maniac, cause whenever Dylan does something dumb we ask him if he's on the pot again. (I think we picked that up from That 70s Show, where Kitty was asking Eric if he was on the pot, but I'm not sure.) Anyways...my own dorkiness aside, it's a killer CD. The nurse sounds like the same one on the Dead Kennedy's 'Plastic Surgery Disasters,' which can't be, cause that came out like 25 years ago. It sounds good through these dinky computer speakers, so I can't wait to get the kids outside and put it in the good stereo and get it cranked. (And yes, Bil, I'll turn down the bass.)

I bought the new Pearl Jam CD which is just as good as the Tool, but totally different, of course. Eddie Vedder is amazing. The only complaint I have is that it didn't come out a couple years ago, so I could have heard some of the songs live. You can't really describe a Pearl Jam album, so I'll just leave it at this: go buy it. It's one of their best, and they've never done anything that was less than incredible.

This is funny

2006-05-09T07:39:00.000-04:00

I don't listen to these guys, but my daughter likes them, and as far as I can tell they're one of the many little faux-punk bands out there following along behind Green Day. They might be good, I dunno. I guess the point here is...If I was the city of Charlotte and I read this, I'd be pissed at the idiots who live there and speak for the morality of the town.

An angry parent has written an email to Fall Out Boy's label, Island Def Jam Records, after taking her daughters to see the band last Tuesday (May 2) in Charlotte, North Carolina. The woman wrote that she was enraged by bassist Pete Wentz's "personal political testimony" onstage, complaining that "the ticket said 'all ages,' and your band was very foul-mouthed and anti-morals. Charlotte is not the demoralized city that liberal San Francisco and other cities across the North and West are...this was a concert, not some liberal homosexual rally."
The woman promised to contact national news organizations and other venues where Fall Out Boy would be playing, claiming that the band would lose "a lot of financial support" as a result. She concluded, "Your responsibility was to sing your songs. When you opened your mouth to talk, you blew it...By the way, my children will not be a part of your sick idea of family."
Wentz posted the letter at Fall Out Boy's website, along with his own response. The bassist wrote, "The only thing I said in Charlotte was, 'You can leave this show and say, ‘I think this guy is an arrogant jerk,’ or think, ‘This band is better than this one,’ because these are your opinions. The only thing we consider unacceptable is for you to engage in sexist, racist or homophobic behavior. If you do, we don't want you as a fan.'"
Wentz did offer an apology for any profanity he might have used, but did not change his stance, adding, "I encourage fans of our band to grow up to become good people and to change the world. Unfortunately, I don't believe that treating other people as inhuman is acceptable. (Our show) is not a liberal homosexual rally, but at the same time, it will never be a Ku Klux Klan rally."

(I pulled this article off Yahoo News, and I copied it in flaming lavender on purpose. ;) )