For those of you paying attention....

I'm working on moving the blog. Which means, I'm spending a lot of time cussing at my motherfucking computer.

From now on, new posts will be found here: http://houseofflyingmonkeys.blogspot.com/

You may resume your regularly scheduled programming.

Grand plans and all that rot

I recently decided that I needed to make more of an effort to update this damn blog more often.

It lasted a few days, I think. Which is longer than I lasted as a blonde*, so I suppose it's progress.

I've been crazy busy getting ready for Fell's Point Privateer's Day, which is tomorrow. IT's the most expensive booth we've had so far, so cross your fingers, and your legs, if you're so inclined, that it goes well.

I finally got the insurance on the 35 Plymouth in place, so now, all that is left is to transfer the title, which is going to be a pain in the ASS, and have it towed here. Then we'll work on having all the odds and ends taken care of, to get it up and running. I can't wait to drive that baby. You've seen the picture, wouldn't you?

Off to make more pirate babies happy...

Argh : supahd@gmail.com

*The blonde hair was weird. I bleached it, since I couldn't get the last bit of purple hair dye to wash out, just had a patch of purple on my head. I rapidly went back to red. Oddly enough, I'm just now getting ready to go blue.

Blooger

My niece spent the night Saturday, to keep Lucien company, as it was originally supposed to just be him and I. Knowing I had an assload (seriously. If you don't know how much that is, look it UP) of work to do, I ask Jen if I could borrow her daughter for the evening. The whole night was a bust, but that's another story. Delaney (the niece) spilled a cup of water, all over my new keyboard.

Ouch.

I had to go buy a new keyboard, but I only like "soft" keys...I know it sounds weird, like I expect them to be covered in velvet or something, but I don't like the ones that stick up really high. I also don't like spending more than $20 on one, nor do I want a wireless, because then, it will get lost. Much like the damn TiVo remote.

So, I end up with one that has a semi-ergonomic design, and the keys in the middle are extra long. Seriously. The B N G H buttons have a major superiority complex. I wanted to sign into blogger to tell Lucien's "hammish" story, which, is really, quite funny. But I typed Blooger, accidentally.

It was funny.

An embarassment of riches...

going from this....

http://www.bestbuy.com/site/olspage.jsp?skuId=8398995&type=product&id=1179877253289

to THIS...

http://www.bestbuy.com/site/olspage.jsp?skuId=8661646&type=product&id=1196470439109

Holy shitballs...

I totally missed my chance to freak over my 100th post. Since I can't remember what it was about, not having gone back and read it, I can only assume that it didn't do anything special, like cartwheels, for example.

Lucien just came in, and asked me if I have a problem with my fruits and vegetables going rotten.

I know where this is going.

That child can remember, word-for-word, virtually any commercial he's ever seen. However, he can't remember to feed the dog in the mornings.

This leads to weird conversations, such as the one at the gocery store a few weeks ago, when the cashier, (creature of habit that I am, I've been shopping at the same store for 13 years) complained about some lawyer type thing (while *he* may pay attention, I howeve, do not), he asked her if she was stuck behind the legal rights eight ball.

The child wants me to buy "Green bags".

"It keeps out the fresh air, that makes the fruits and vegetables go bad, momma!"

Little freak.

So, I owe....

a big update to y'all, but there really isn't much to tell. I have my good days, and bad days, though, the bad seem to outnumber the good. I'm out of surreal-land, where it seemed as if it was happening to someone else, which, I suppose is a good thing, but lordisa, it doesn't feel like it. Everything is hard, you know? He stopped by so often, and I talked to him on the phone so much...I just really, really, really miss him. Aidan's party this Saturday (he's gonna be 10, and is 5'3", LOL) is going to be hard. He always came early to eat and help set up...

I'm just sad, and really uncommunicative right now. Jen went to to a Q & A thing last night, she's becoming a mortician, and today she was talking to me about it, and I just had to cut her off.

My mom is still sick. She caught the flu at the funeral, then a secondary infection, and started running a fever 2 days ago, again. She's getting all her papers in order, while we sort through all my dad's things. Since he was a brittle diabetic, and diagnosed so young, he has a lot of small policies ,instead of one large life insurance policy, though, we found one for $163,000 the other day, which takes a huge load off of my mom's mind. We've gone through all his clothes, and boxed them up for the homeless shelter. I took some of the new sweaters she'd gotten him, that still had the tags on, for the boys. I have his watch, and wear it all the time, though it's broken. I'm never on time anyway, so fuck it, LOL.

I'm adding more to the dogtag tattoo that I got. It's a flaming hot rod wheel, with flames and wings (very Sailor Jerry), for the other side of my forearm, and it will have the quote from Shakespere "It is a wise father that knows his own child", along with "Daddy's girl" on it. Cliche, I know, but fuck it. It fits.

So, that's all about me. I had a pretty good day today, until I got in the car and listened to Tori Amos song, "Winter", which has always reminded me of him, turned it off, and got song by Lifehouse that's about barely breathing, with a broken heart that is still beating, which, though I loathe the band, is pretty much my theme song.

Shitfire, everything about this sucks. I'm just so gogdamn fucking sad, and I MISS him, so much. I tried to prep myself for this, but I guess there is no preparing, yk? I just feel crushed.

d
who has no witty remarks to end this on.

Holy shit, y'all....

...no, this is not a post about the trainwreck of a poptart named Britney.

My dad died.

Seriously.

I initially dropped out of NOMOPO-what-the-fuck-ever, when Doug's aunt died, which was closely followed by my 29 year-old SIL had a major heart attack. WTF, right?

December 15th, 8:30-ish, there was a knock at my front door. My daddy was a big fan of the drop-by vists. I usually got a few a week, in fact, he'd been there the day before. I was coming down the steps to answer the door, thinking "dammit, I told him, not before 9 on the weekends!". Doug answered the door first, and it was my dear, sweet uncle, who lives across the street. As I was sporting ratty pj's, and no bra, I turned around to go back to bed. My uncle says, "No Dani, I need you too"...so I followed him into the kitchen. He says (this conversation will be burned into my brain for the rest of my fucking life), "Your mom and your brother have been trying to get ahold of you. Your mom went into wake up your dad (for his shot of insulin) this morning, and he was gone. Your dad is gone.".

I went into imediate and total shock. Doug went to hug me, and I freaked out, backing up and waving my hands, repeating, "but what HAPPENED??"

I called my grandmother, who lives with my parents, and she filled me in, that he was dead when she went to wake him.

I called Jen. Delaney answered the phone, and put Jen on. I spit out, "my dad died", to which she responded, "which cat?"
Me: "huh?"
Her: "Ruby or HotDog?"
Me: "Not a cat. My DAD"
Her: dead silence, since she was already in the car.

This still all seems sureal, like it's not happening to me, but to someone else. The viewings were tortorous. That kind of pain, it isn't for public consumption. It's not meant to on display. I freaked out when I saw him in the casket, but I lost my ever-lovin' shit, when I had to say goodbye. The funeral home was going to seal the casket that night of the last viewing (which we were informed of, that night) so we had to say our goodbyes then. I was shaking so hard, (little lesson in the ABC's of me coming up)that the little inappropriate voice in my head got to wondering if anyone has ever shaken a body right out of the casket? What happens then? I just kept saying, "if I leave, they'll close the lid. They'll close the lid." I had waited for everyone else to be done, and leave, so I could totally melt down without an audience, asking the funeral home all of the pertinent details, etc., so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone on the way out. As I picked up a basket of flowers, and prepped my run to the Machine Of Evil, in 4 inch heeled boots, no less, the funeral director stopped to ask me something. I yelled "NO, I'M FINE", and like to barrelled the poor woman over ,in my bid for freedom.

I had Doug drop me off at home before he picked up the boyos. Upon arrival, I walked into my kitchen, and just started sobbing. I'm not even sure if that's what you call it. if the neighbors were in their yard, I'm sure they thought I was killing a farm animal in there.

This sadness, it's just so pervasive. I'm so sad. All the time. I miss him dreadfully. The holidays...the christmas freak retired I think, this year. How can the holidays ever hold the magic for me, that they used to, when ever year, it'll bring home the day I lost my daddy?

I was tremendously lucky. I know that. He was a rockin' ass dad. A lot of folks don't have that at all. I had it for 32 years. At the moment, that sentiment is ashes in my damn mouth.

Hear the small...

...blue birds flitting around my head, wispering sweet nothings into my lovely pink seashell of an ear?

Me neither.

I woke up, sorta on time, if by on time, you mean, when Marilou knocked on the front door to drop off Question Man. Nothing screams WHITE TRASH like standing on your front porch, smoking with a friend, at 7:20 in the morning, while wearing a purple shirt, with a ratty (but, gogs, so damn comfy) black sweater, and pink and black Nightmare Before Christmas PJ pants. Watch out neighbors, don't piss me off, or this little freak show could show up on YOUR porch one morning.

My period arrived yesterday, with nary a whisper of discomfort, no cramps that feel more like a vise grip around my mid-section, with shooting pains down my legs. I though to myself, "Self, perhaps the universe is aware that you have absoltely no time to sit on the couch with a heating pad, eating motrin like they're bonbons".

Instead, it just decided to mindfuck me. 1800mg of motrin later, I can stand up straight. Kinda. It rained last night, all over my wooden backdrop for the fair this weekend, so I can't paint it today, becuase I'm the dumbass that didn't take it back into the garage yesterday.

I'd like some cheese with my whine, thank you very much.
drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

And to think...

I almost forgot to post entirely, despite opening up the "post" page, first thing this morning.

Unfortunately, while I have indeed remembered my vow to post every day, I have completely forgotten what witty little gem I was going to share you today, from the House of Flying Monkeys.

So, instead, I'll share with you, my lovely reader (notice the singular, I do not have unrealistic expectations, three children has slowly beaten that out of me), my day.

I actually got up, on time, today. Which, in and of itself, deserves it's own blog. I've found myself hitting the snooze button more and more lately, to the point of, "I can hit it one more time, if I don't shower this morning", to "I wonder how much time putting on socks shaves off my time".

However, I not only manged to drag myself out of bed, but was fully dressed, with minimal make-up on, and hair dragged back into tiny, pathetic pigtails, by the time Marilou arrived with Evan this morning. I got the kids safely off to school, with nary a "If you don't get your bookbag this minute, I swear, I will beat you into submission, until your ears bleed".

I did 8 listings on eBay, in an attempt to clean out some closets, and make some extra cash. I went to the grocery store, where I managed to stay within budget (again, a subject that deserves it's own post). I came home, put away the groceries, even stopping to clean out the shelf on the pantry where I keep pasta, as well as scrubbing out my fridge, which I think, may solely have been to blame for the recent beef recall. I made dinner (chicken boobies with stuffing and beans), did homework with the kidlets, even remembered to do flash cards with them. Then, I popped in White Christmas, because really, who can't find a good chuckle watching Bing and Danny in drag, singing out being sisters, and made chocolate chip cookies. I remembered to call my marketing/printer dude, and inquire, again, about the business cards that I desperately need for this weekend's ginourmous show. I did not get around to painting the lattice backdrop that Doug and 2nd husband built last week, for this weekend's aforementioned show. I will surely regret that with the fire of a thousands suns (which I will be wishing for the heat from), when I have to go outside and paint it tomorrow, when it will be in the 40's, as opposed to the downright warm, 60 that it was today.

My fingertips may not forgive me.

The natives are restless, and this post is virtually useless, so this is all you get for today. More, on the exciting adventures of the produce isle, tomorrow.

Clean-up on aisle 7! Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Perhaps what....

...they really meant, was post a blog every other day, LOL?

Best intentions and all that rot.

I could simply not face another conversation yesterday. In my sleep, I could be heard mumbling "all the bibs and burp cloths have a layer of batting, so they are super absorbant, and all the blankets are made using anti-pill fleece, so it will stay soft and supple, instead of getting hard and nubby, when you wash them".

Ack.

The show yesterday was OK. I went in with very low expectations. Then I got there. The room was packed with crafters and artists of all stripes and spots. It was warm, cozy, the sounds of christmas music drifting around yummy smells...

but that wasn't our room, LOL.

We were in the auxillary gym. Which was cold. I wore my scarf, gloves, and coat all day, cold. I watched people walk from the main room, into our room, rub their arms, and turn around, cold.

I didn't lose any money, I made a few bucks, but when you are talking about an all-day affair, the set-up and breakdown, a few bucks is kinda discouraging. Not as discouraging as if I'd lost money, but still.

So, this morning, I blew off my mom, slept in, woke up to Child #1 having made me a pot of coffee, and Doug making breakfast (bacon, scrapple, and pancakes, rock ON).

Me thinks it's gonna be a good day.

Coffee with creamer please. Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

NaBloPoMo

I got sucked in. I can't help myself. For those of you unfamilar, the link is:

http://nablopomo.ning.com/

I'm in, I'm down, whatever the kidlets are saying this year.

Things are batshit in the House of Flying Monkeys. I have one show tomorrow, it's small, and I don't have grand expectations for it, but then I have a huge one next weekend. It's three days, and enormous. Tens of thousands of people, big. Professionally promoted and juried, big. I'm excited, and nervous as all hell, LOL. If this goes well, it sort of reinforces my decision to really commit to Bitchen Stitchen, in a way. I've sunk so much money and time into this business, at least on the product end.

The Flying Monkeys are moving in for the kill, if I don't get breakfast on the table soon. No milk mornings suck.

Green is the black! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Because I CAN.

The days are beginning to bleed together,
as they once did.
Young, fresh pink skin
fresh no longer
hangs in gray folds, sick and tired,
like the rest of her.
Back then, the blood flowed in rivers,
rivulets of ruby drops
mixing with the wax in the voodoo spells of youth,
"Please just make this stop"
becomes,
"Please, just let it start"
the old ways,the only known paths,
eventually become too worn down and dank.
Just the first walk around the block
brings a miasma of pathetic misery,
blanketing the lungs with it's foggy soot,
breathing becomes just too much fucking effort,
even though every cell knows that it's just not an option.
What does an old animal do, when all the self-preserving instincts go dead,
soiled by too many years of faking it,
as if the flight instinct fled
with the ring of tissues elasticity years ago?
Feet cemented in dirt soaked in old blood,
transgressions past
The tang of metal in the air
drums beating familiar rhythms,
calling the beginning of the dance
purity and control long gone
blood begging to be released,
let free,
the pulse joins the drums
hammering at the skull, begging
for just a taste of the past.

darn you blogger...

darn you all to heck!

I hate that when you start a post, and save it to draft, when you finish it, it posts it under the date that you started the darn thing!

They make a cream for that now, don't they?

I've got the fev'a...

baby fever, that is.

How totally fucked up is THAT??

For the first time, in my entire life, I find myself, fiercely desiring a daughter. I've never, ever, before wanted a girl. I always wanted three boys, which, for the record, I have.

I also don't want to spend my entire life raising children. There is more out there, for me, than that. Not to belittle it, it's by far the most important job I'll ever have. But there is more than that, that I want to experience in life. My oldest son is 12.

Twelve. As in, two-thirds of the way towards voting age. My youngest, is six. Right now, by the time I am 45, he will be 20.

Babies scream. Often, and in the middle of the night, no less.

They throw up, poo everywhere (did I mention that all my children are housebroken now?), crawl, then walk, then run, then climb...they'll eat lightbulbs if you're not careful. They wake up early in morning, and you can't exactly sit them in front of Saturday morning cartoons, and tell them to keep it down while you go back to bed.

I have a four-bedroom house. I have three kids. Everyone has their own room...but not if we have another child.

My mother's health sucks.

My father's health sucks.

I will be the primary caregiver for both of them.

The chances of having a girl, after three boys, is probably pretty slim.

I don't want to start over.

I don't want to be pregnant, and have to quit smoking and drinking coffee, and booze, for that matter. I don't want to be tired all the time, and throw up, and go through labor, and risk birth defects, and retardation, and miscarriage, and stillborn babies.

I don't want any of that.

So, how come my arms feel so empty?

Shameless, absolutely shameless!

Whore(count THAT, judgemental ratings-thingey!) that I am, I can't resist posting some pictures of the newer stuff we've been busy bitching and stitching, over at www.BitchenStitchen.com

Nothings shocking...

I was so not surprised by the rating, but I'm loving the explanation, though, I think their counts are off.

I use fuck way more than pussy, and that wasn't even counted.

JustSayHi - Free Online Personals

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

pussy (7x) ass (4x) cock (3x) cunt (2x) hell (1x)

AWOL....

...is the story of my life...

for those of you keeping track, and trust me when I say, I realize that's few, life has been a shitstorm.

Dad has the equivalent of early-on-set dementia, mom has terminal leukemia, and I started a business.

So, excuse the fuck out of me, or not, whatever floats your particular vehicle of preference, for not updating the blog.

Truth be told, I kinda forgot I had it...

Absence makes....

you feel like the shittiest friend ever, not fonder.

So, granted, I've had my head up my ass for about a year now, but really pulled the rocks on, overtop the ass, for the last 3 months. I have more than enough self-pity and self-loathing to share with all that are near and dear to me, but instead, chose not to inflict myself upon others, if it could be at all helped.

I started meds about a month ago, feeling better. Not quite right yet (who the hell is, though, for that matter?), but getting there. Maybe. Maybe? Who knows, but it's better than it was.

I know it makes little sense to those that haven't dealt with this kind of thing, but it is disconcertingly easy for me to disconnect. Just shut down, function enough to make it through the day, crack a few snide jokes with the kidlets, and then nothing. There is nothing left over. Feels like someone took a melon baller to my personality. Oh, but left that last, desperate dollop of "holy shit, I just cannot handle feeling this way FOREVER".

So, to those of you, and you all know who you are, whose phone calls I've ducked, messages I have not returned, and generally treated like shit on my shoe, I miss you desperately, I do. There just isn't enough of me to go around, that is healthy and whole, that I can afford to give it to anyone but the boyos, and myself right now, which makes me feel like the shittiest, most self-centered asshole ever, who is a dickhead of a friend, but that's how it is right now.

happy fucking ho-ho-holidays

RIP Anne...

"The here and now is all we have, and if we play it right it's all we'll need"

...any day now.

discouraged, disgruntled, but with an air of whimsy: Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

I'm a dying man, and I don't know what for...

The days are beginning to bleed together,
as they once did.
Young, fresh pink skin
fresh no longer
hangs in gray folds, sick and tired,
like the rest of her.
Back then, the blood flowed in rivers,
rivulets of ruby drops
mixing with the wax in the voodoo spells of youth,
"Pleas just make this stop"
becomes,
"Please, just let it start"
the old ways,the only known paths,
eventually become too worn down and dank.
Just the first walk around the block
brings a miasma of pathetic misery,
blanketing the lungs with it's foggy soot,
breathing becomes just too much fucking effort,
even though every cell knows that just not an option.
What does an old animal do, when all the self-preserving instincts go dead,
soiled by too many years of faking it,
as if the flight instinct fled
with the ring of tissues elasticity years ago?
Feet cemented in dirt soaked in old blood,
transgressions past
The tang of metal in the air
drums beating familiar rhythms,
calling the beginning of the dance
purity and control long gone
blood begging to be released,
let free,
the pulse joins the drums
hammering at the skull, begging
for just a taste of the past.

"What could I say to you

that would be of value,

except that perhaps you seek too much,

that as a result of your seeking

you cannot find."

It's pretty bad when even old Hermann Hesse makes more sense than I do, right now.

*sigh*

Ch-ch-Check it out....

www.bitchenstitchen.com


d

I've no idea...

why the HTML code is completely fucked, in the post about 4 down, where I go all rabid-momma-dog on some writer chick.

I'm opinionated, not technologically-savvy.

d

Pete!

Repeat!

Sorry.

d

"I'm a winner!

...but I sure am hungry!"


http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=228463>1=7703

Cheeseburgers for everyone! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

"I'm a winner!

...but I sure am hungry!"

http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=228463>1=7703

cheeseburgers for EVERYONE! Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Oh yes. There's a little something for everyone!

Oh my.

There's this broad, named Amy Sohn, who, apparently, writes a column called "Mating" in New York magazine. Since she's successfully navigated the "mating" aspect, she's decided that what the world needs now, is no, not another folk singer (ten bonus points if you can Name! That! Tune!), but a fun little rant about how, SAHM, are...evil.

Seriously.

The snarky comments in italics are mine.

http://www.amysohn.com/askamy/2006/summer06.htm


Summer Â’06

Hey There,

I have updated this site at long last. Having a kid makes you neglect the most important things but now that my daughter is close to a YEAR, I am getting back into the swing of things again. It has been a hectic fall and spring – I have been off from New York magazine and instead writing TV pilots, which has been a pretty fun ride. Right now I am working on one for Lifetime, which I think would make an amazing show if it ever gets on the air. It’s based on a self-help/humor book and I’m coming up with characters and stories for it.

A YEAR? REALLY? NO KIDDING? A "pretty fun ride"? Your skill with words just sets me all a-tingle.

In the winter I wrote pilots for UPN and ABC, which was an amazing learning experience even though UPN merged with the WB and didnÂ’t make my pilot, and ABC instead shot a pilot for something with a very similar theme instead of mine. (They didn't pick that one up either.) It was exhausting doing all this while having a newborn but hey, they canÂ’t rearrange pitching season to coincide with my childbirth.

Well why not? Your obvious talent, not-withstanding.

I have been spending a lot of time talking about and practicing motherhood, which is variously entertaining and mind numbing. I mean, both talking about it and practicing it are both pretty mind numbing. Here in my neighborhood, Park Slope, I am constantly encountering insane stay at home moms (SAHMs). And I have come to the all too un-PC conclusion that stay-at-home motherhood, despite the way our culture lionizes it, is bad for the child and bad for the mom. And bad for society. ItÂ’s just plain bad.

Mind-numbing, just in case you missed that, in PROFESSIONAL-WRITER'S-WHO-LOVE CAPS-BUT-NOT-PUNCTUATION-SCHOOL. Bad mommas! Bad ladies, who are raising their own children! Bad! All the perks we throw at these chicks, who sit around all day, watching their maids clean up their house, while collecting Social Security checks, while booking appointments with their plastic surgeons, since it's covered until their health-care plans.

Most of the SAHMs I know are really miserable. The working moms I know hate their jobs and hate working but they’re not miserable in the kind of extreme and neurotic, soul crippling, Zoloft inducing Yellow Wallpaper-type way the SAHMs are. When you spend all day with a baby you go a little crazy and I don’t think the SAHMs realize how crazy they are. All these college-educated smart women who once had opinions about things and read the newspaper now can only talk about poop and pancakes with kale and Veggie Bootie and natural Cheerios versus regular ones. My husband and I go to this playground called the Tot Lot near our house and we nicknamed it “Compare and Despair” because all any of the mothers talk about is, “Is she crawling? Is she walking? Oh my goodness, she has so much hair/so many teeth. She’s so tall/long/verbal/expressive.” It starts with “How old?” and then from “How old?” they get into what their kid is doing versus what your kid is doing versus what all kids should be doing and after half an hour of this you’re ready to stay inside for the rest of the summer. They sit around all day watching other babies play and worrying about their own baby’s development. This is a lot like watching paint dry.

I can only assume, that a poll was taken? Now, were only SAHM's who actually have yellow wallpaper included in the study, or were those that had gone for the ivory, or the daring red, included as well? Now, if you're smart, but not college-educated, do they count? "How old is she?" as a conversation starter, anyone? It beats opening with " Damn your boobs are huge, are you breastfeeding?". I'm curious as to how long she actually eavesdrops on the conversation. How does she know it doesn't move on from, "Your daughter is bigger than mine", to "Girl, I'm beat! I was making porn movies all day yesterday, in the Motel 8 around the corner!"?

One day I went to the tot lot with my daughter. I took her out and had plopped her by a play structure when behind me I heard two women talking. “Some babies never crawl,” I heard the one say to the other reassuringly. I picked up my kid and we left. That was it. I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand to be near it even though neither of these women was talking to me.

That stupid bitch! Who does she think she is? A doctor? Fuck that woman with the slow ass baby. If I'd have been there, I'd have turned around and told her that her baby was a fucking retard, and that maybe, if she'd stop chit-chatting with other stupid-ass, well-meaning (note the hyphens, y'all), bad SAHM's at the local Tot Lot, she stop letting the little shithead eat paint chips, and just commit his drooling, good-for-nothing ass to a state home. Start over, I say!

By virtue of what these mothers do all day, they become obsessed with baby care. They don't "have time" to read the paper or read a book. They don't "have time" to go out and see a movie alone or see friends or go to a museum or have an original thought. So instead they talk about what obsesses them: baby shit, the Britax Boulevard versus the Graco Snugride, the Techno XT versus the Volo, the flushable diapers versus cloth.

she stays home with her daugher, so she is aware of the ins-and-outs of being a SAHM...oh wait. That's right. I've been a SAHM for, oh...eleven years now. I've never had a nanny, or daycare, shit, not even a reliable sitter on a regular basis. Yet, somehow, someway...I've managed to have exactly 4, orginal thoughts. The latest one being, that I'd like to drive to NY, and drop in on a certain Tot Lot. I've managed to start a few business, though all are part-time, depending on what my week looks like. I've volunteered for the Green Party in my state, I've manned tables for NARAL at local festivals. I've even baked casseroles for a local soup kitchen. I read more than is probably healthy, and last summer, even made it all the way through a Karl Marx collection, thought I'm convinced that my brain tried to crawl it's way out of my head while I was sleeping, at one point, to avoid having to finish it. I was even a member of a local art gallery, and have visited other local galleries, without actually being on a field trip. However, when I'm at the park with my kid, and run across another mother, who seems like she might be cool, I don't generally open with, "So, you own guns, or do drugs?", even though it's information I'd like to have. Start with the easy shit, so that, if, a minute or two into the conversation, the other parent begins to prattle on, about how Dionne Warwick's psychics like, TOTALLY predicted that she was gonna have 3 boys, I can extricate myself, quickly. I'd also like to add, that even though, I've on occasion I've butterflied skin, removed splinters, and applied ice packs, I do not feel qualified, to make broad statements about how doctors, by virtue of what they do all day, must be disturbed. Because? I'M NOT ONE.

But the worst part of all of this is that the babies/children pick up on all of this neurotic energy and grow up to be really disturbed individuals, totally incapable of making decisions on their own. They donÂ’t play with other kids; they just play with Mom. They donÂ’t learn how to solve problems on their own or fall on their ass or all the things theyÂ’re supposed to learn because Mom is constantly shielding them from danger. Of course this is all a big generalization but in general, this is what I observe.

Oh, please tell me this means that her mother was a SAHM. It would explain so much. Neurotic energy? You mean, like having a kid, but not really wanting to be a parent? By viewing your child as a mind-numbing chore, that, like, totally cuts into your spa time? By shielding from danger, is that a reference to, keeping the sharp shiny things out of reach? Keeping them from skateboarding down the highway? If all the mothers are so busy, talking to the other mothers,Disposable virtues of cloth, vs. disposable diapers, how are they have time to be their child's only playmate? Are they playing legos, while passing notes back and forth to the other mothers, like in 6th period study hall, in middle school, so there will be no way that their children will be cross-contaminated with the other mother's offspring? Just curious.

As a result of all this danger shielding, Mom is exhausted and depleted and brain-dead, canÂ’t talk about anything but baby stuff with her husband, resents her husband for working even though heÂ’s got to do it to support her choice to be an SAHM, and then feels guilty if she considers going back to work because somebody drilled it into her brain-dead skull that working mothers are evil. I donÂ’t know who the somebody is. I really donÂ’t. These are not Republican women I am describing here. These are Park Slope women.

"Sorry honey. I had to stop the boys from playing in traffic again today, so I'm just exhausted, depleted and brain-dead. I totally resent you bringing home that paycheck, even though I know you hate your job, and resent ME for being the one on my ass, eating bonbons, I mean, stopping Timmy from drinking lye, I mean, whatever, what the fuck? You're the only bastard who gets ADULT time.". I especially love the part where the SAHM is brain-dead, but only in so far as it means that she views working women as evil. The part where, she mentions that the only conversations she manages to eavesdrop on, involve these mother's children, leaves me curious as to how she knows they're not republicans. Do they all have name tags, with their names, ages, children's pertinent info, and political affliation on them?

I suspect it is the husbands who discourage them from working. Because it’s the social equivalent of taking Viagra. “What does your wife do for a living?” asks Jeff, the squash partner at the Racquet Club.

“Oh, she’s at home with our son,” says Michael, and then boasts.

If a man can afford to have a non-working wife, he must be making really good money. So his wife wins him status. It also makes her much more fuckable. It conjures an image of a sexy, yoga-butted (to quote Ralph GardnerÂ’s New York article on the topic a few years ago), domestic diva who serves him a martini every night, keeps a clean house, and still has time to do Pilates.

Seriously? The more I read, the angier I get. Which is really saying something, as we've established, in earlier postings, I'm rather angry to begin with, LOL. I know quite a few SAHM, and none of their husbands play squash, or belong to a country club. Because, if he did, we'd have to kill him, then serve him to the police officer, investigating his disapearance, as meatballs.

If you are a college-educated woman with a child, you should outsource your child care. Childcare is not really as hard as it’s cracked up to be. Hand him a pot and spoon and the kid is happy. Childcare should be the province of immigrant women trying to get a leg up. I do not believe it is not “better for the child” to be with his mother. I believe it is better for the child to have a mother with some modicum of a life – whether it’s volunteering, graduate degree, or part-time work.


In our family, we have a Tibetan nanny 2 full days a week and Jake and I split the rest. Our kid is adaptable because sheÂ’s around lots of different people. There is nothing that only I can do for her. When sheÂ’s sick and upset we hire our sitter for an extra night and by the time she leaves our kid is better. ThatÂ’s how good she is. We pay up the wazoo for the child care, especially since itÂ’s only part time. We love our sitter so much we just bought her cable. But I believe this is a far better option than having one of us (Jake or me) commit to being a full-time stay-at-home parent. Our brains would explode. We would resent the other one no matter what. Our kid would be seriously screwed up and we would go into a financial sinkhole.

Yes. Because she has such a good chance of becoming a well-adjusted adult.


So am I angry and defensive because I am the primary wage earner in my family? I don’t think so. Do I secretly envy these women who can wile away their day in the playground without worrying about money? Maybe a little. I envy their leisure. And there is leisure in there, even if they will all tell you it’s nonstop work. It’s leisure when you can take a 2-hour nap with your baby every day. It’s leisure when you can sit an outdoor café with other mothers having a 2-hour lunch.

I have time to "wile away" my day, without worrying about money? Leisure? Chick, you've got no idea. Seriously. I offer, if you've got the clit for it, come spend a day with me. I haven't had a two hour lunch...ever. What's the point? If you're going to spend two hours sitting around a table, at least spend it drinking, not eating. My baby takes a two hour nap? My baby is five. I couldn't get him to take a two-hour nap, if I had my Tibetian nanny duct-tape him to his bed.

But give me a week to live the way they do (which IÂ’ve done from time to time) and by the end I am thanking my lucky stars that I work. You can only eat at Moutarde so many times, propping an infant on your knee and eating with one hand before you think, IÂ’d rather be on the roof of Soho House alone getting a tan. Speaking of which, how about this idea: Brooklyn House? IÂ’m thinking of taking over the Montauk Club and turning it into a private club for Brooklyn Bohos. Indie rock concerts, a sun deck, and ON-SITE CHILD CARE staffed solely by Tibetans.

I have tried to find others who are against stay-at-home motherhood but I feel I am alone in my disdain for choice feminism. I do not believe stay-at-home mothers are feminists. They are sending us way, way back. They are the reason all these kids are on Ritalin. They are the reason young adults are depressed. The reason the average college student talks to his parents 20 times a week.

Or, alternately, they're the ones who talk down the kid on the roof of her college dorm, who is fucking strangers, and ingesting drugs, in an attempt to get her parents to notice that she's successon. Not an obstruction on her mother's highway ramp to sucess. What kind of message does that send a kid? "Sorry baby, but momma's gFeminism a tan, fuck your recital, let the nanny take you". Feminisim, is about CHOICE. It's not an excuse to judge others life choices. I think you're a worthless peice of shit, and a sorry excuse for a woman, let alone a criminally-negligent parent. However, I would not make a judgement on whether or not, your life, and your choices, make you a feminist, or not. How much does it say, that, in order for you to live your life, in the way you've chosen, you feel the need to not only denigrate other women's choices, but to attempt to recruit others to your side?

There are a few web sites like mothersmovement.org and some others but they seem to be devoted to validating the “work” of stay-at-home mothers, saying how important it is, yadda yadda yadda. Child care is an important job but it need not be done by the mother!! There is one woman who wrote an essay about this for the American Prospect, Linda Hirshman, but it is thin and a bit out of touch. I mean, quoting Heartburn? Come on.

Question: If you've no interest in raising a child, why bother giving birth to one? One of the advantages, to all those feminists, is that, women today, have a choice, to remain childless, if they so desire, and if they do want a child, or children, to chose the when/where of it. What give birth to a creature, you've no interest in? I'm baffled by it, truly, along with feeling heartily sorry for this chick's kid. Poor little thing. I think it was Jackie O, who said something to the effect of, "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do well matters very much." Children are actually children, for just a short amount of time. what kind of life-lessons are you teaching your child, I mean, is the nanny, teaching your child?

That is the end of my rant. I would turn this into a million-dollar book proposal if I could but I donÂ’t think thereÂ’s enough to sustain 500 pages. Still, I wouldnÂ’t mind going head to head on Fox with that twiglike evil shiksa Ann Coulter.

Darlin', something tells me that you and Coulter will get a chance to hang out. Karma, perhaps, or even hell, if that's what you belive in.

Keep your eye out for something by me in an upcoming issue of New York on a topic related to parenting. IÂ’ll post the link when itÂ’s up.

Oh, I'm sure you will, Amy. If nothing else, the little thing you squished out, gives you something to write about. Even if it is,how much you hate having to actually raise her.

Amy

Bring it, bitch. Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Go tell Bill to kiss yo'mutha'fuckin' ass...

Please.

(who says I have no manners?)

http://prochoiceaction.org/campaign/sen_ccpa_0706/wies6ni2ztnk7td?

Mother by choice: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Here we go 'round...

..The mulberry fucking bush.

So, after another brief sojourn to another, shall-remain-unnamed blog site, where I found myself fending off people who I apparently knew in high school, looking me up. WTF? I didn't like you then, why assume things have changed in the 13 years (Lordisa, I'm fucking OLD) since we graduated? Anyway, my 14 year old niece looking me up was the kicker. I'm all for honesty in relationships, but I cannot comfortably drop the "fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE" bombs, where I know there is a good shot she'll see it. Besides, I'm sure I've used up any free passes on the potty mouth train, in her actual presence.

I swear, I will NEVER do this shit to my kids. I'll find new, and inventive ways to totally fuck with them.

Again, the president of Bob-Land came by the house 2 days ago. I've recently started my own business, because, if I don't have at least 3 things too many to do in a day, I'm not happy. Long story, or, at least, slightly shorter, I'm sewing, and some of the material I'm using, has skulls on it. Apparently, my mother, instead of being thrilled that I've started a business, and that I'm actually sewing, which, 2 christmas's ago, the fact that I DIDN'T sew, when "It's not like I didn't teach you how to, you know", took center stage in the long list of all the ways I've been a disappointment, is "terribly upset with you".

Part of me wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, get out, and if she's got something to say, she can say it herself, cuz, she's like, totally, being a butthead, and is no longer invited to my birthday party, but, the masochist gossip monger in me, just had to know, especially since I thought I'd been on my best behavior lately, staying out of the line of fire.

But see, that is where the crazy bitch gets you. I think, that things have been a bit better, we talk occasionally, and it's not stilted and awkward, so I think, "Hey! Things are cordial, if not downright friendly!". Every time. I fall for it everytime. As soon as we move past the superficial shit, and by that, I mean, anything more personal than, "It's hot today", I'm screwed.

Apparently, my choice of fabrics, has her, once again, convinced I'm going to hell, without even the courtesy of a handbasket.

I almost, almost lost my temper. By that, I mean, I didn't walk out the back door, and tell him to be gone by the time I came back in, and keep the crazy bitch away from me. I did, however, drop quite a few, "What the fucking hell? She's lost her damn mind, AGAIN!", and then, followed it with a crack about moving furniture around in the basement, so as to provide enough room for a symmetrical pentagram, in which to sacrifice the goats.

When the fuck, does this merry-to-round END? I'm starting to think, when one of us is dead. I am so frustrated by the fact there just doesn't seem to be a way to fix this, other than me having a lobotomy. I am me. She is, crazy, I mean, her. The two are just oil and water. I am a decent person. Yes, I have a potty mouth, I'm not always patient, have a tendency to spend too much money, and I really like smelly cheese, but overall, I'm an OK gal. I'm funny, occasionally, well-read, and, according to my husband, when asked why he married me, "fun to hang out with", LOL.

She stopped by today, to pick up my oldest son, her barely-disguised favorite kid in the world, for a sleepover, and couldn't have been less friendly. Not rude, never that, at least, not on major holidays, but just...*sigh*. You could actually see the heavy cloud of disappointment hanging over her head. I'll never win, I know that, and that is actually OK by me. I just wish that I could remember this game, because while I seem to occasionally forget we're playing, but she never does.

EVER.

..and bless those of us willing to share potatoes...

...there is a reason that I have had the same bestest friend, since the first day of ninth grade.

'Cuz she ROCKS, that's why.

After finishing the post below, I locked myself in the bathroom, and fell to pieces. So, I did the only thing, any self-respecting adult, locked in a bathroom, with a phone, a cigarette, a lighter, and snot running down her face, can do.

I called my best friend, with whom, I share a potato.

The potato bit, is a long standing, inside joke, that I'm not sharing at the moment.

To quote Le Tigre..."nanny nanny, nanny nanny boo boo".

...just because I can.

She has always been there for me, when it really mattered. She's held my hair for me, while I've thrown up, and then I've returned the favor. Sometimes, even in the same night, LOL. Words cannot begin to describe the love I have for this awesome chick. She rocks my world, on a regular basis, just by showing up, yk?

So, after the obligatory pep talk, she moved right into a charming tidbit, about how, 12 years after the original loan, 3 years after the last court date, where she got a judgment in her favor, she's tracked down my former roommate, and filed the court papers to have her salary garnished. Turns out, she works as a realtor with the same company, that HER realtor, who is listing her house, does.

Karma is a bitch, LOL.

She will be getting married in the fall (my friend, not karma), and her daughter will be born in about 2 months. IN the meantime, she just happens to be buying my cousin's house, right around the corner from me. How rockin' is THAT?

She may not always understand me, and vice versa, but damn, is that girl always around when I need a potato.

"Put on your shit kickers and kick some SHIT" drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

I will *NOT* freak out...

...I will NOT freak the fuck out...

oh wait.

I'm making a truly admirable attempt, at least, in my book, not to completely lose my SHIT.

When I was 18, my cousin, Rachel, was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She was the only girl cousin I had, and I just adored her. She was only 6 when she was diagnosed, and 7 years, and 2 weeks old, when she died, after an agonizing year of surgeries and treatments. I can honestly say, I've never been the same. At that moment, when my father knocked on my apartment door, and told me that she died, while I was changing from work, to go sit with her, like I did a few times a week, my world view shifted.

No longer, was bad shit, the stuff that happened to other people. Babies die. Kids die. Not just in sudden accidents. They get sick, and die. As in, no doctor, no treatment, no surgery, can prevent it.

I totally, not to put too fine a point on it, lost my SHIT. The weeks afterwards are kind of a blur, in all honesty. I drank, drugged, and cut my way through one of the most horrifying times of my life. Even my club buddies were scared, by how out of control I was. How do you DEAL with something like that? How do you come to terms with that?

Now, fast forward, 11 years later, to the phone call I got from my sister-in-law this morning. My nephew, who is 5 months older than my youngest son, has a lump on his neck. She took him 2 weeks ago, to get it checked out by our pediatrician. He told her to come back in two weeks, if it hadn't gone away. IT could just be from a cold. This morning, is the end of week two. It's almost doubled in size. He has to go for blood work tomorrow, there is a possibility, that it's leukemia, or another childhood cancer.

I hear the words, coming out of her mouth, and suddenly, I'm not a 30 year old mother of 3 kids, with a silly, crazy, happy life, but a scared, 18 year old kid, who just can NOT do this again. I barely survived it the first time. I cannot watch another kid I love DIE. I just don't have it in me. How fucking chicken shit is THAT?

We have no information to work with yet, we'll get results of his blood work on Monday, hopefully. My sister in law, is freaking out, understandably. She's depending on me, to help her through this. I honestly don't know if I can. I'm sitting here, typing this, just barely holding absolute panic at bay. I can barely catch my breath, at the mere suggestion that I walk this road with yet another family member and their beloved child. What the hell am I gonna do, if I actually have to walk it?

I got no answers. Not one.

From a girl, who thinks she knows it all, that's saying something.

just barely. drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Ha ha! I'm not cleaning the gar-a-ge....

WHO
Who is your best friend? Amy
Who do you like? That\'s a little vague, don\'t you think?
Who is your mom? a born-again zealot, but she sure does love me.
Who owns your house? The bank. Except for the little concrete pad that the trash cans sit on. THAT we own, baby.
Who bought you the clothes your wearing? Me.
Who is at your house? My kids, and my lovah
Who loves you? Who doesn\'t, baby?
Who said hey to you today? The lady at the convenience store I bought milk in this morning.
Who are you talking to right now? Um, no one. I\'m typing, remember?
Who was your ex-boy/girlfriend? A bunch of psychos that are either A) in jail B) rehab C) or legally cannot come within 100 yards of me. I sure can pick \'em
WHAT
What town do you live in? Baltimore, and it rocks
What are your pet peeves? people not using turn signals, the religous right.
What are you wearing? \"Draft the Bush Twins\" shirt, jeans, and black hightop converse
What do your teeth look like? sharp and pointy. *growl*
What are you doing in an hour? working on a glass mosaic
What is your middle name? Rebecca
What is your deepest secret? Seriously, you think I\'m going to post it on the internet?
What are you doing tomorrow? Writing for a few hours, then taking my oldest to the state park for a birthday party
What is your boy/girlfriends middle name? Wesley. Yeah, I know.
What is in this for you? An avoidance tactic. I\'m supposed to be outside, helping to clean out the garage.
What is your favorite thing(s) to do? Write.
What are you sitting on? My ass, which happens to be in a chair
WHERE
Where are you at right now? In my office
Where were you at at 12 noon today? Um, it\'s only 11:35 AM here.
Where is your toothbrush at? In the bathroom. Where SHOULD it be?
Where do you sleep? In my bed.
Where do you live? In my house (this is getting fun)
Where were you at at 7pm yesterday? On my couch, with my sick 8 year old, watching Chicken Little. I want a Herby
Where is your boy/girl friend? Um, outside cleaning the garage, LOL.
Where are your parents? Beats me. Here\'s hoping they don\'t show up here today.
Where did you put your bookbag? On the wrought iron rack by the front door, which is actually where it belongs. Go figure
Where do you keep your socks? In my husband\'s drawer.
WHEN
When was your first kiss? Kindergarten. Patrick Arnold, under the table in Library, when we were supposed to be watching a film
When are you getting a job? I have one. In fact, I have about 4. Being your own boss ROCKS
When will you grow up? Hopefully never, but I think it\'s catching up to me.
When are you going to call your friend? So what, now I only have one friend?
When did you get home last night? I never left, LOL.
When did you graduate? 93
When are you going to stop taking surveys? Never, if it means I don\'t have to help clean out the garage.
When was the last time you had a fruit smoothie? I\'m not sure, but I\'m comfortable with, \"it was a long time ago\" answer
When are you getting married? Shit, I\'m never getting married again. If this gets fucked up, I\'m OUT.
WHY
Why are you taking this? Seriously? Pay attention. SO I DON\'T HAVE TO HELP CLEAN OUT THE GARAGE
Why are you weird? I\'m not WEIRD. I\'m eccentric.
Why are you wearing what your wearing right now? Because it\'s finally warm enough to break out all my really cool t-shirts. Oh, and it was clean, and on the top of the pile.
Why dont you have friends? Hey, screw you buddy! First I only have one, now I have NONE? Eat me.
Why cant you get a boy/girl friend? My husband is kind of a dick that way.
Why do you live where your at? Because I love this town, and I dig my house.
HOW
How do you fix your hair? Right now, it\'s growing, for my best friend\'s rennisance wedding in the fall, but normally, it\'s short and spikey in the back, long on the sides, no bangs.
How are the kids? Aidan\'s sick, but Caleb and Lucien are good.
How many hours do you spend on the computer? Depends on my day.
How many TV shows do you watch? Once again, depends on my day
How did you find this survey? A friend (told you I had some, fucker) sent it to me
How do you like it so far? Not too shabby, for a time-killer
How do you make sharpies? Beats me. I just buy mine
How many sharpies do you own? About 10
How often do you say I love you? Frequently. It should be said often, and sincerely

Would you, could you, in a car?

Would You Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com Would you eat a bug? No. *shudder* Would you bungee jump? Yup. Would you hang glide? Yup. I may hurl, but I\'d do it. Would you kill someone? Absolutely. Hurt one of my kids, and you\'d better pray the cops catch you before I do. Would you kiss someone of the same sex? Been there, done that. Would you parachute from a plane? Sure. Would you walk on hot coals? I\'ve always wanted to learn to do that, and eat fire Would you be a vegitarian? I was for a few years. My commitment isn\'t what it should be Would you instant message a stranger? LMAO, I already have, through the miracles of mis-dialing. He speaks no english, that hasn\'t stopped him from calling me about 4 times Would you sing karaoke? Sure, why not? I subject strangers in their cars that have their windows rolled down at stoplights to it anyway. How much worse could it be drunk? Would you run a red light? I am a law-abiding citizen. Shut up. I\'m sticking to my story Would you shoplift? I used to, when I was a teenager. Now, no. Would you dye your hair blue? It was actually blue about 5 months ago. Now it\'s red and black Would you be on survivor No. I don\'t like sand, dirt, bugs, or snakes Would you wear make-up in public? Uh, I do every day. Don\'t get between me and my black eyeliner Would you not wear make-up in public? Only if I HAVE to. Would you cheat on a test? Depends on how important it was Would you make someone cry? On purpose? Would you date someone more than 10 years older than you? Depends. If my husband and I didn\'t work out, I wouldn\'t date until the boys were grown. Just my personal thing. Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

All you wanted to know, and MORE!

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Favorites Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com Number 13 Color green Day Friday Month December Song Tainted Love Food mashed potatoes and strawberries. Just not together Sport No Drink Knob Creek Candy sixlets Ice Cream I actually don\'t like ice cream, unless it\'s soft serve. I dig sherbert though Season Fall Band Can\'t pick just one. Le Tigre is way up there, though, as are the Gits Movie Again, can\'t really pick just one, but Strange Days and Donnie Darko are high on the list Website Post Secret Animal Tigers Item of Clothing My \"Dissent is Patriotic\" black tee Word fuck Place other than my house, downtown Baltimore Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

All About Me Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com I Am da momma I Want a pony I Have a really cool old house I Wish for a pony I Hate people other than me, who have ponies I Fear bugs I Hear Dance Disaster Movement. I Search for fairies I Wonder where the dragons are hiding I Regret not having finished my degree yet I Love books and coffee. Not necessarily in that order I Ache when I think about Rachel I Always love I Usually read I Am Not patient, or even-tempered I Dance badly, but alot I Sing not quite as badly as I dance, and LOUDLY I Never say never. It seems silly to pen yourself in like that. I Rarely hook I Cry alone I Am Not Always kind I Lose just about everthing, about twice a day I'm Confused who isn\'t? I Need a pony I Should buy a pony, and put it in my garage Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

Cranky say Grow up!

Cranky.

Crankycrankycrankycrankyasamuthafucka.

I can't begin to compare the level of frustration I'm sporting this morning, to anything. My similies and metaphors are broken.

I'm spinning in rather dizzing circles, over and over and OVER again, and have yet to figure out how to get the fuck OFF this particular ride.

Why is it, when we're little, we assume that everything will be fine, when we are "GROWN UP"?

Being a grown up SUCKS.

Ambassador from the Land of Weird...

..I am not.

I am not, your opportunity to inquire about how much tattoos cost, how many I have, if you may see them, and if they hurt, while on a field trip with my son.

I am not, your chance to find out how exactly all us "freaks" get our hair to be multiple colors at the same time.

I am not your friend, I am a fellow parent on a school field trip, with my 4 year old son, to the local train museum. I am there to spend time with the Fruit of My Loins, not to answer your questions about the stickers on the back of the Machine Of Evil, (which, incidentally, how do you know which car is MINE??), or debate whether or not, Emily the Strange, constitutes anime.

I am not the local attraction at the carnival, and frankly y'all, if I'm your barometer of weird, you need to get out more.

The question was posed....

...just when, exactly, is it acceptable, to correct another person's child?

My immediate thoughts were, "whenever the little asshole is being a shithead".

Not very mature, but bear with me.

I am well aware that I am not what "normal" motherhood, supposedly looks like. I have tattoos that number in the double digit range, a few piercings, am almost abnormally fond of black clothing and black eyeliner, and feel naked without boots on. However, I have been da'momma for almost 11 years now. If I can be bothered to teach my children good manners, "Please" and "Thank you", in between sacrificing chickens in my basement, the least you can do, is correct your little goddamn enormous seven-year-old future felon of America, when he's sent my 4 year old sprawling, since he was silly enough not to realize that huge ass doughboys, don't HAVE to wait in line.

I am so damn tired of other parents, and this applies across the board, mothers and fathers are equally to blame, not teaching their children basic people skills. If one more little asshole bangs her charming, child-size shopping cart into the back of my leg, while her mother chats on her cell phone, in line in the store, I just may completely lose it, and have to be pulled out of the store in a straight jacket, screaming, "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SAY EXCUSE ME, AND IT ISN'T POLITE TO BE AN ASSHOLE!".

When did we decide that "please", "thank you", and "excuse me", were obsolete? Why is it, that basic grammar skills escape us? I, who cannot begin to claim the "Grammar Queen" title, still know enough, to teach my children, it's "please MAY I", not "please CAN I".

Why is it, that the parents who pay the least amount of attention to their child's behavior, are the loudest, most obnoxious ones when someone else takes the time to correct them, seeing as how they've managed to draw blood?

Control your little shitheads already! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

And the Award for Understatement of the Year (so far)...

...goes to Republican Bob Taft (Ohio)..."This is hindsight, but it was a mistake to bury FEMA under the Department of Homeland Security".

Republicans, they think too, just slower than the rest of us! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

A greeting, from the island of germs!

I've actually reached a new, personal-best record.

4 doctor visits, in 5 days. This, of course, spans the weekend, and does not include the 1/2 hour I spent on the phone with the doctor, on the only day we didn't actually go into the office.

I am of the opinion, as I have excellent health insurance, that frequent-fliers, of the pediatrician office, should get some perks. I'm not knocking the parent that only comes in two or three times a year. I'm just sayin', that those of us that are on a first name basis with all the staff, who, actually recognize our voice before we identify ourselves, when calling to make an appointment, should be rewarded.

I have, single-handedly, put at least one of the doctors children through college, as well as paid off the doctor's student loans. If you visit sub shops, you get a little coupon, entitling you to a free sub, after so many purchases. As my doctors make about $50, every time I drag one of my germy booger heads into their offices, how 'bout a little kickback?

I'm not asking for much. Maybe a "Frequent Visitors" parking spot, located right near the elevator, as opposed to the back of the damn lot, where I end up having to park, and then lug in sick child, plus whatever extras I happen to have joining the germ soup, that day. Or, perhaps a special waiting room, preferable roped off with velvet cord, that has real books, instead of 27 copies of "Parenting", and "Your Baby" magazines, perhaps some coffee and tea as well.

"I'd like to make an appointment for my son today"

"Ah, Mrs. Blockston, we have an 11:30 opening, which should put you here, just in time for fresh coffee and muffins".

I hardly think, it's too much to ask.

lysol away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net