Face it. I am a social drop out. Let me list, in no particular order, my failed attempts at social club type things.
1. Swimming lessons. Being that there were no puboic swimming pools within 20 miles of home, and the fact that seaweed and the lake version (lake weed?) Gave me the heebie jeebies, I didn't know how to swim for quite some time. I took a few lessons at age 12 when visiting my grandparents in Oregon, but when the swim coach decided to teach me to swim in 10 foot deep water, I screamed until she was forced to call my mother to take me home. I never went back. I still don't like swimming in water deeper than I am tall. And being a swim drop-out, all I can do is doggie paddle.
2. Dance lessons. In elementary school it was tres cool to take tap lessons at this one lady's house. She had a real dance studio in her basement, complete with mirrors and dance poles and stuff. Everyone's parents would drop them off for an hour of dance class. In this day and age, you wouldn't dare drop your kid off at a dance lesson in some lady's basement. But, back in the day and in my small safe town, it was normal. I remember pink leotards and a shiny brown floor and doing tap moves and even some ballet. In fact, I kept getting suckered into it. I think I did ballet once and tap twice but never learned a damned thing. Being an antisocial tomboy of sorts, I would get bored a few lessons in, and re-join when a new friend suckered me into it.
3. Singing lessons. I was really into the drama club in high school and all my friends were in choir. I was dying for a part in a play and thought, if I could learn to sing, I'd be golden. I would get the lead in Oliver or Fiddler on the Roof. Well, I didn't, and I dropped out of singing lessons. I did hours a week of lessons and note reading and musical theory and bla bla bla from a retired real operatic singer. I was a second soprano and was going to sing a solo in a little recital and I gave up. I was dreaming of reading notes in my sleep and it was like pulling teeth.
4. I am at 4 right? Sororities. Anyone who knows me woukd ne shocked to even hear me mention sororities due to my distain of them. If you like them or were even a sorority girl, I have no qualms but it is just not for me. But I pledged twice. Kind of. See ,curiosity had got the best of me and I wantee to know the enigma of a sorority.why did people want to join and what did it offer? I was so perplexed that I wanted to do a sort of sociological case study of a sorority. Besides, while I am a self avowed misanthrope, I also love people, quite a conundrum, and so I keep seeking social activities. A sorority was the ultimate social activity. I pledged, paid my dollar fee, and that was that. The pledge activities seemed like something from kindergarten and no amount of alcohol could make me that...I don't even know.
5. Girl scouts. I dreamed of girl scouts until I was old enough to join and gladly rushed to the community center behind school to sign up. I got my application for my uniform and went to the two "free, before you must buy your uniform" meetings. I blamed the cost of the uniform on my dropping out, but it was a farce. Girl scouts was lame. I wanted boy scouts ,but for girls. I wanted to start a fire out of rocks and climb trees and go fishijg. I wanted to tie weird knots and go camping and shoot bows and arrows. All we did in girl scouts was talk about character and cookies. We wouod sit in cliques and giggle and I would just scowl. On my second day, I got the brilliant idea to get the girls to go outside, and you know, do outside stuff. Across the parking lot was a soccer field which had muddy puddles along the edges, infested with tadpoles and frogs. We could catch tadpoles and raise them into frogs! We could climb the rocks above the community center! We could, apparently, stand on the cement and throw a ball twice before the other girls got bored and went inside to giggle about cookies and hair bows.
6. Birthing class. I wanted to be prepared to give birth, and to be knowledgeable and all that. I mean. I love learning and I am secretly a control freak so why not? And best of all Idid not do it alone, husbands were mandatory. We paid our fee and hubby reluctantly came along. We attended maybe 5 of the 10 meetings before dropping out. Maybe it was that we both worked full time and went to school full time. Maybe the classes moved too slow. I am really not sure, but yeah we dropped out. I kind of regret it as I learned nothing about birth itself and was horribly unprepared and dumbfounded during labor. Oh well.
6? 7? Anyways mommy and me. The local library has a mommy and me story time thing. I thought, wow, I can meet friends who live nearby and have young kids and must have lots in common with me. We can socialize, the kids can socialize, and they can listen to a book and watch puppets and it won't be me making cutesy voices and singing lame bursery rhymes that haunt me in my sleep. Win win! Maybe it was that the meetings were at nap time. Maybe it was that my son kept getting ear infections. Maybe it is that he would cry bloody murder whenever anyone couod clap, cheer, or make sudden movements. Maybe it was that my utopian ideal of awesome welcoming moms who were like my soulmates was unfounded. But I maybe attended four times in an entire year, when the meetings were weekly.
I bet there are even more circumstances which escape me. But social things get too loud and giggly and superficial, or too scary, or tooslow and dumbed down for my liking.or maybe I don't get along well with others. Who knows. Either way, I will certainly join and drop out of many more social clubs and events in my life. I hope some day I can find a club that I actually enjoy.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
Godfather
Why did I have a music box as a child that played the theme song from The Godfather? It is kind of disturbing that that melody soothed me as a child and is still that way today.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
goth-esque
Most of my favorite authors and bloggers went through a goth stage when they were younger. I kept feeling all high and mighty cause, pshaw, I so didn't do that.
Oh crzp, or did I? I guess you, the reader, can decide. See, I escaped adolescense as a teen. I came home before curfew, didn't date, drink, curse, or do drugs. I even made honor roll. But then came college and suddenly I was 19 going on 14. And yes, perhaps, I went kind of goth.
I did not wear the black eye crud or lipstick, and I kept my tresses brown. But I did listen to Type O Negative, The Cure, Stabbing Westward and Nine Inch Nails. I owned a blac kand red brocade gown-like dress that I did, indeed, purchase at Hot Topic. I wore Doc Martens (might they be more punk than goth? I am bad at cliques). I read a lot of existentialist authors ahd penned sad poetry. I drew depressing art, like a lithigraph of a bleeding hand surrounded by sad song lyrics. I owned way too many candles. I mocked the popular crowd and didn't get why people could be so happy in such a sh1tty world.
So does that mean I indeed was kind of goth? Was I just in denial or am I truly too dense to realise the goth clique cliches?
Oh crzp, or did I? I guess you, the reader, can decide. See, I escaped adolescense as a teen. I came home before curfew, didn't date, drink, curse, or do drugs. I even made honor roll. But then came college and suddenly I was 19 going on 14. And yes, perhaps, I went kind of goth.
I did not wear the black eye crud or lipstick, and I kept my tresses brown. But I did listen to Type O Negative, The Cure, Stabbing Westward and Nine Inch Nails. I owned a blac kand red brocade gown-like dress that I did, indeed, purchase at Hot Topic. I wore Doc Martens (might they be more punk than goth? I am bad at cliques). I read a lot of existentialist authors ahd penned sad poetry. I drew depressing art, like a lithigraph of a bleeding hand surrounded by sad song lyrics. I owned way too many candles. I mocked the popular crowd and didn't get why people could be so happy in such a sh1tty world.
So does that mean I indeed was kind of goth? Was I just in denial or am I truly too dense to realise the goth clique cliches?
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Life is fleeting
I remember I was sitting with my son in his play pen when my husband came in and said, "I don't know how to tell you, so here goes; your dad had a heart attack. He is in the hospital."
I didn't believe it. In fact, I went back to browsing my Nook and watching Veggie Tales. I was likely in shock and unable to process things. It was about 2pm and I thought, will my dad make it?
I decided we had to go see him. I did not want to stay at home if these were his last minutes on earth. However, I had to wait for my husband to finish a conference call, and had to pack. We had a 14 hour drive ahead of us, and had to find a place for the dogs.
We left at about 5pm, dropped off the dogs, and drove until 1am; exhausted, we checked into a hotel to get rest, but for me, rest didn't come.
My mom called in the morning an I held my breath, expecting the worst. She said they were still in the hospital but things were looking up. She told me not to worry, not to come up, please stay home. But I didn't listen. She called again and I asked her how far her house was from the border. She couldn't tell me to turn back now!
Everything turned out okay, but I still worry.
On Christmas Eve, I saw that my best friend (of over 20 years!) had posted that she wanted her dad back. Shocked and confused, I texted her. Her dad had passed in his sleep, likely of a heart attack. He is younger than my dad, probably about 55 and one heart attack took him away with no warning. Alive and healthy one minute, gone the next.
My best friend, now in mourning, shock, and sadness. My heart aches for her and her family. I keep telling her I am sorry and that I am here for her. I keep telling her I love her, but all these things seem trite. Words cannot express what I feel and what I want to say.
This tragedy has made me more appreciative of my family, because you never know when someone will be gone forever. You cannot live in fear, but you must enjoy every moment of those close to you. Tell them you love them and tell them often. Call up your grandma just to chat, take your cousin out for coffee, buy your best friend a little gift just because. Do it. You will thank yourself and you will bring joy to others.
Join little ol' me and many awesome writers at yeah write. Check it out, comment, vote, join.
I didn't believe it. In fact, I went back to browsing my Nook and watching Veggie Tales. I was likely in shock and unable to process things. It was about 2pm and I thought, will my dad make it?
I decided we had to go see him. I did not want to stay at home if these were his last minutes on earth. However, I had to wait for my husband to finish a conference call, and had to pack. We had a 14 hour drive ahead of us, and had to find a place for the dogs.
We left at about 5pm, dropped off the dogs, and drove until 1am; exhausted, we checked into a hotel to get rest, but for me, rest didn't come.
My mom called in the morning an I held my breath, expecting the worst. She said they were still in the hospital but things were looking up. She told me not to worry, not to come up, please stay home. But I didn't listen. She called again and I asked her how far her house was from the border. She couldn't tell me to turn back now!
Everything turned out okay, but I still worry.
On Christmas Eve, I saw that my best friend (of over 20 years!) had posted that she wanted her dad back. Shocked and confused, I texted her. Her dad had passed in his sleep, likely of a heart attack. He is younger than my dad, probably about 55 and one heart attack took him away with no warning. Alive and healthy one minute, gone the next.
My best friend, now in mourning, shock, and sadness. My heart aches for her and her family. I keep telling her I am sorry and that I am here for her. I keep telling her I love her, but all these things seem trite. Words cannot express what I feel and what I want to say.
This tragedy has made me more appreciative of my family, because you never know when someone will be gone forever. You cannot live in fear, but you must enjoy every moment of those close to you. Tell them you love them and tell them often. Call up your grandma just to chat, take your cousin out for coffee, buy your best friend a little gift just because. Do it. You will thank yourself and you will bring joy to others.
Join little ol' me and many awesome writers at yeah write. Check it out, comment, vote, join.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Fleeting
Life is fleeting and enjoy it. Hi your loved ones.
My best friend's dad passed away in his sleep a few days ago. He was not too old, probably 55? An unexpected tragedy for the holidays.
I wasn't close to him but my best friend is like my sister and we spent so much time together that I did see her dad a lot. My heart aches for my friend and I am at a loss of what to say r do. I mean, what can you say or do? Sorry seems so..empty and trite. My sorrow doesn't have words and my love for my best friend, especially now, is huge. And now I am tearing up dammit so I will stop.
Please, love those special to you in your life, and even those not as life is fleeting.
My best friend's dad passed away in his sleep a few days ago. He was not too old, probably 55? An unexpected tragedy for the holidays.
I wasn't close to him but my best friend is like my sister and we spent so much time together that I did see her dad a lot. My heart aches for my friend and I am at a loss of what to say r do. I mean, what can you say or do? Sorry seems so..empty and trite. My sorrow doesn't have words and my love for my best friend, especially now, is huge. And now I am tearing up dammit so I will stop.
Please, love those special to you in your life, and even those not as life is fleeting.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
odd appreciation
I did not grow up in a normal household, even if it seemed normal to me at the time.
My dad and mom had separated for a few years after my dad fell into the wrong drug abusing biker gang (no joke!), and so my best friend (I was daddy's little shadow) had left my life. He moved to a local forest area with sparse campsites and we would visit him occasionally to gather his laundry, provide him with canned goods, and check on his well being. Most people would say he has homeless since, well, he didn't have a home, but tome he was merely camping. He had a teepee atop a rock outcropping and a campfire, a clothes line, and a cooler so to ke, he lived there. I still to this day cannot think of him as being homeless.
After he had cleaned up and got back on his feet, he returned home and life went on as usual. Well, as usual as life can be for a man diagnosed with a smorgasbord of things like Asperger's, borderline persinality disorder, ADD, anxiety, sociophobia, agorophobia, major depression, and probably another handful of things I seem to forget. I did not have a dad who wore slacks and a tie, or who coached littlea league, or watched football, or played poker with the guys. This also meant holidays and birthdays were abnormal. He is not good with numbers and so he doesn't remember birthdays (he would forget his own), and he,being himself, wouldn't go out and buy gifts or dress as Santa or decorste the tree. While he loved me and I knew it, he was kind of a scrooge. But I nevef questioned it.
One year I recall seeing something in a plastic grocery bag under the tree and he asked me to open it,a gift from him. He might give you a handpicked wildflower bouquet or sign a card but a present? So I eagerly opened the bag to find some paintbrush-tipped markers. There were not the markers kids get, but markers artists and adults use. The kind of markers thaf cost a dollar each. I was so excited that I looked past the missing colors ,appreciative of the colors I did have. I spent hours that night coloring picture after picture.
I remember thinking, how did he manage to go into a store, which had to be way far away in the city, to buy markers with money he didn't have? I had to ask, and he being too honest sometimes, let me know he found them at the dump. Now you would think I would scream bloody murder, cry, and scrub my hands furiously and call him a monster but I didn't. I knew he had to have washed them off very well, and since it was winter, the dump was freezing so it wasn't like they were sitting in a pile of hot garbage. Besides, I had played eith them for a while and hand't concocted some weird uncurable mystery garbage disease so they were fine. I just knew I couldn't tell my friends about my markers because they would ostracise me for having dump markers.
I had told someone of this (I forget who it was) and they were repulsed and felt sorry for me. I didn't understand and still kind of am baffled. Maybe it is just perspective. When you have lived with someone like my father, who cannot just go to Walmart or whatever, cannot hold down a 9-5 job, but who still does care about and love his family. You don't sweat the small stuff and you appreciate the little things. I guess if you weren't me you would feel sympathy for the poor little girl with dump markers but even to this day, I know he cares and when he saw those markers, his heart filled with love and he brought them home to give his daughter a gift he has picked out. A gift she would love. And I did, as it is 20 years later and I still remember those awesome markers and the joy of getting a gift from my dad.
My dad and mom had separated for a few years after my dad fell into the wrong drug abusing biker gang (no joke!), and so my best friend (I was daddy's little shadow) had left my life. He moved to a local forest area with sparse campsites and we would visit him occasionally to gather his laundry, provide him with canned goods, and check on his well being. Most people would say he has homeless since, well, he didn't have a home, but tome he was merely camping. He had a teepee atop a rock outcropping and a campfire, a clothes line, and a cooler so to ke, he lived there. I still to this day cannot think of him as being homeless.
After he had cleaned up and got back on his feet, he returned home and life went on as usual. Well, as usual as life can be for a man diagnosed with a smorgasbord of things like Asperger's, borderline persinality disorder, ADD, anxiety, sociophobia, agorophobia, major depression, and probably another handful of things I seem to forget. I did not have a dad who wore slacks and a tie, or who coached littlea league, or watched football, or played poker with the guys. This also meant holidays and birthdays were abnormal. He is not good with numbers and so he doesn't remember birthdays (he would forget his own), and he,being himself, wouldn't go out and buy gifts or dress as Santa or decorste the tree. While he loved me and I knew it, he was kind of a scrooge. But I nevef questioned it.
One year I recall seeing something in a plastic grocery bag under the tree and he asked me to open it,a gift from him. He might give you a handpicked wildflower bouquet or sign a card but a present? So I eagerly opened the bag to find some paintbrush-tipped markers. There were not the markers kids get, but markers artists and adults use. The kind of markers thaf cost a dollar each. I was so excited that I looked past the missing colors ,appreciative of the colors I did have. I spent hours that night coloring picture after picture.
I remember thinking, how did he manage to go into a store, which had to be way far away in the city, to buy markers with money he didn't have? I had to ask, and he being too honest sometimes, let me know he found them at the dump. Now you would think I would scream bloody murder, cry, and scrub my hands furiously and call him a monster but I didn't. I knew he had to have washed them off very well, and since it was winter, the dump was freezing so it wasn't like they were sitting in a pile of hot garbage. Besides, I had played eith them for a while and hand't concocted some weird uncurable mystery garbage disease so they were fine. I just knew I couldn't tell my friends about my markers because they would ostracise me for having dump markers.
I had told someone of this (I forget who it was) and they were repulsed and felt sorry for me. I didn't understand and still kind of am baffled. Maybe it is just perspective. When you have lived with someone like my father, who cannot just go to Walmart or whatever, cannot hold down a 9-5 job, but who still does care about and love his family. You don't sweat the small stuff and you appreciate the little things. I guess if you weren't me you would feel sympathy for the poor little girl with dump markers but even to this day, I know he cares and when he saw those markers, his heart filled with love and he brought them home to give his daughter a gift he has picked out. A gift she would love. And I did, as it is 20 years later and I still remember those awesome markers and the joy of getting a gift from my dad.
Yuck E Cheese
So I have sinusitis which is weawy fum I wub mot bweawing oup my bose.
So I spent two freaking hours in urgent care. While I love living in a first world nation, in second and third worlds you can walk into the farmacia or apothecary and get medicine. I don't advocate we adopt this policy for addictive drugs and the like, but it should be adopted in some cases.
Case in point, I get sinusitis yearly. As a kid it was a few times a year. I know the symptoms and how it differs from other illnesses. In fact, I in officially announce I am a sinusitis expert, having had it probably 100 times in my life, no exaggeration.
I am allergic to lots of medicines, and pregnant to boot, which leaves me one medication on earth to prescribe to me. Zithromax. It is safe for pregnancy and doesn't give me hives or anaphylaxis.
So why do I have to wait two hours and spend $30 to do this? Especially when m diagnosis is even circumspect anyways. Ugh.
And why am I so miffed about this?
I wasted two precious hours of my son's second birthday sitting in a disease ridden room away from my birthday boy.
Sprout TV has a birthday card, song, dance thing that my son loves. I sent in a handmade card and they didn't show it. His name didn't scroll across the screen. His card wasn't even on the website. I was pissed.
I was in a sinus daze instead if enjoying his special day.
I also was in a gaseous haze. Yep. We went to Chuck E Cheese and got pizza and it gave me the worst gas.y dogs once ate their poop and barfed it up and that is exactly what I smell like. I don't want to be near myself.
I can't take anything for my gas or congestion.
And it is making me obviously cranky.
Grr.
So I spent two freaking hours in urgent care. While I love living in a first world nation, in second and third worlds you can walk into the farmacia or apothecary and get medicine. I don't advocate we adopt this policy for addictive drugs and the like, but it should be adopted in some cases.
Case in point, I get sinusitis yearly. As a kid it was a few times a year. I know the symptoms and how it differs from other illnesses. In fact, I in officially announce I am a sinusitis expert, having had it probably 100 times in my life, no exaggeration.
I am allergic to lots of medicines, and pregnant to boot, which leaves me one medication on earth to prescribe to me. Zithromax. It is safe for pregnancy and doesn't give me hives or anaphylaxis.
So why do I have to wait two hours and spend $30 to do this? Especially when m diagnosis is even circumspect anyways. Ugh.
And why am I so miffed about this?
I wasted two precious hours of my son's second birthday sitting in a disease ridden room away from my birthday boy.
Sprout TV has a birthday card, song, dance thing that my son loves. I sent in a handmade card and they didn't show it. His name didn't scroll across the screen. His card wasn't even on the website. I was pissed.
I was in a sinus daze instead if enjoying his special day.
I also was in a gaseous haze. Yep. We went to Chuck E Cheese and got pizza and it gave me the worst gas.y dogs once ate their poop and barfed it up and that is exactly what I smell like. I don't want to be near myself.
I can't take anything for my gas or congestion.
And it is making me obviously cranky.
Grr.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Unhappy Birthday
My mom had a terrible birthday, with the Sandy Hook Elementary tragedy happening.
Everyone has blogged about it and I've felt like an arsehat for NOT talking about it.
Why haven't I?
I have very strong feelings that I am merely...ignoring. I am a teacher, having taught from pre-school through to adult education for, dear God, 12 years now. I have been in well over a dozen schools and interacted with thousands of students. To imagine that some of them could have been the victims (none were but still...) is too much. I don't want to think about some of the faces I've taught, erased.
I don;t want to think of the lack of security in schools. It has improved- as a child a parent (or whoever, good or bad) could just walk into the classroom. I mean, they never did in my small town and had the courtesy to check into the office, but still. Now they HAVE to and gates are locked and the like. My own current school is all high tech meets prison, with every door protected by a card scanner where you scan your id to get in...as long as the door is locked. And as in every school I know, to get in you must enter the office, check in, sign in, bla bla bla.
But what if you are crazy and hell bent and kill the secretary? Or merely scare her into submission? Even if you get past by conceling your motive, once you're in and on your massacre, it takes ten, twenty, howver many minutes for police to arrive. Even if there is an armed police officer next door, the crazy guy can shoot through a magazine or two of bullets. That quickly. And to my knowledge, no one on campus is ever armed but the one in a million Sandy Hook style crazy. Sure, we have lock down- lock the doors, hide, be silent. But what about the child on the way to the bathroom? The late to class student? The teacher on prep going to the staff lounge? Where do they go? What if the crazy guy shoots THROUGH the classroom window? And then can get IN?
Dear God I don't want to think about this but I do since I work in a school.
I now think, what if? When dropping my son off at daycare. And having another child on the way, maybe it is my hormones or just mama bear instinct but I do not like to think about these what ifs. But I'm confronted with it daily, on the news, at home (seeing my child makes me think, what if? Please, God protect us from evil), at work (what if it happened here?
I'm tired of this all, also, becoming just a gun debate. It's mental health, security, society. It's much larger. Take away everyone's guns and only the criminals will have them, since they don't care for laws. Give them to everyone easier than it is to buy a package oftwinkies M&Ms and you get people who, again, shouldn't have guns. But then here I go, a hypocrite for saying it's not a gun rights debate.
It is a tragedy, People are sick mother f***ers. We either do nothing about the warning signs, or label them and turn it into a stigma- both are damaging.
We need to, no matter who, what, when,where, protect our children.
So...my rambling point, I just gave. We need to protect our children. Whatever that means and whatever it takes.
RIP
Everyone has blogged about it and I've felt like an arsehat for NOT talking about it.
Why haven't I?
I have very strong feelings that I am merely...ignoring. I am a teacher, having taught from pre-school through to adult education for, dear God, 12 years now. I have been in well over a dozen schools and interacted with thousands of students. To imagine that some of them could have been the victims (none were but still...) is too much. I don't want to think about some of the faces I've taught, erased.
I don;t want to think of the lack of security in schools. It has improved- as a child a parent (or whoever, good or bad) could just walk into the classroom. I mean, they never did in my small town and had the courtesy to check into the office, but still. Now they HAVE to and gates are locked and the like. My own current school is all high tech meets prison, with every door protected by a card scanner where you scan your id to get in...as long as the door is locked. And as in every school I know, to get in you must enter the office, check in, sign in, bla bla bla.
But what if you are crazy and hell bent and kill the secretary? Or merely scare her into submission? Even if you get past by conceling your motive, once you're in and on your massacre, it takes ten, twenty, howver many minutes for police to arrive. Even if there is an armed police officer next door, the crazy guy can shoot through a magazine or two of bullets. That quickly. And to my knowledge, no one on campus is ever armed but the one in a million Sandy Hook style crazy. Sure, we have lock down- lock the doors, hide, be silent. But what about the child on the way to the bathroom? The late to class student? The teacher on prep going to the staff lounge? Where do they go? What if the crazy guy shoots THROUGH the classroom window? And then can get IN?
Dear God I don't want to think about this but I do since I work in a school.
I now think, what if? When dropping my son off at daycare. And having another child on the way, maybe it is my hormones or just mama bear instinct but I do not like to think about these what ifs. But I'm confronted with it daily, on the news, at home (seeing my child makes me think, what if? Please, God protect us from evil), at work (what if it happened here?
I'm tired of this all, also, becoming just a gun debate. It's mental health, security, society. It's much larger. Take away everyone's guns and only the criminals will have them, since they don't care for laws. Give them to everyone easier than it is to buy a package of
It is a tragedy, People are sick mother f***ers. We either do nothing about the warning signs, or label them and turn it into a stigma- both are damaging.
We need to, no matter who, what, when,where, protect our children.
So...my rambling point, I just gave. We need to protect our children. Whatever that means and whatever it takes.
RIP
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The Patriot (Elf) Act
 |
| Image courtesy of http://elfontheshelf.com |
So, after the zillionth elf reference, my curiosity got to me and I decided I needed to know about this Elf cult. I mean, I don't watch The Voice or Survivor and don't own True Religion jeans so I'm kind of out of the pop culture loop. As a human being on this planet, I should know something about this kind of thing, you know, to be kind of "with it".
So I googled it and basically this stuffed elf spies on your children and reports his findings back to Santa. Fu€king snitch! And he "magically" moves his placement daily so to better conduct his covert ops. Monday it is the bookshelf, Tuesday the mantle, and if you are a mother with no life, the elf gets naughty and he is in your panty drawer sniffing your delicates like a little pervert by Friday. The elf drinks liquor and watches porn and makes messes in your house and is the type of guest I'd call the cops on...and social services cause he is 5150 (code for danger to self/others).
He is also so "magical" he cannot be touched or he just turns into a mute stuffed elf and then who tells Santa you didn't laugh at Grandma gumming her ice cream and that you didn't rip your sister's Barbie head off, and you said thank you all in the same day so gimme my Nintendo DS, Santa? Apparently, since you touched Frankie the fu€ked up elf, he is dead to us and Santa is giving you pink knitted bunny slippers, Naughty Nathan.
The thing that most disturbs me is this Elf is a great ambassador for the Patriot Act. You register your elf online and track him, name him, and Lord knows what else since I didn't register because I'm sans Elf. Then this elf spies on your family, looking for key words and actions that indicate "naughty" and he will report back to Big Brother aka Santa (or perhaps the government). These reports, even if falsified, determine your future and how everyone treats you even if it is incorrect information. I mean, how valid is the information from a stuffed Elf mass produced in a Chinese factory? There has to be a margin of error pretty big or we'd be using these guys in Iraq for intel. Special Ops Elf Division. 1225 Airborne. But see, we're not.
What does the elf see? Does he just notice when your kiddos don't share a toy, or does the elf see all? Did he see me pick my wedgie this morning? Does he know hubby and I have "special" time? Can the elf operate weaponry? Just who is this elf?
And is there a re-education camp for parents who get the creep factor and try and rid of the elf? Is there such thing as ridding of the elf or is it some elfin mafia thing? If you throw him away does he come back all Chucky-like? Will the elves gang up on you and suddenly you are dead, in Santa's sleigh trunk, headed to the middle of nowhere?
One thing is for sure, there will be no elf on my shelf this Christmas.
Join us at http://yeahwrite.me it is a group of awesome writers. For the next three weeks it is an open grid. Anyone can join. Anyone can vote. Submissions, voting, all the excitement begins Tuesday. (hint hint vote for me! Please! but vote for other awesome bloggers too). Bring your best stuff and enjoy! Also check out the fiction/poetry based Speakeasy at http://www.yeahwrite.me/speakeasy/
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Cheesy mommy moment
We had a car in the shop so hubby drove me to work in our remaining car, then we'd retrieve the other car. Anyways,
My school's cell reception is sh1t. Figuratively speaking that is, but literally too since it was built atop a manure farm. No sh1t people. But enough with the sh1t puns. Hubby couldn't reach me so he came to find me. Here comes the sappy part...
I go to ask the teacher across the hall something and she offers me a cookie (score!) then I glance down the hall and hubby is leaning in a corner all schmexy with my son in his arms. Aww I have a high school crush! You know cause he was in the hall at my school...anyways. It gets better. I g towards them and my son wants to walk so hubby puts him down and e tentatively waddles my way. He then started running and smiling. The part that got to me was I am used to seeing big monstrous kids, some over 6 feet tall in the hall. Suddenly there is just this teeny toddler in this expansive void of a school hallway. And then I decided to show him off to my coworker and my son was barely taller than the chair.
And for some reason my cheesy y heart melted to see my little guy in this big world I work in. So out of place and so cute.
My school's cell reception is sh1t. Figuratively speaking that is, but literally too since it was built atop a manure farm. No sh1t people. But enough with the sh1t puns. Hubby couldn't reach me so he came to find me. Here comes the sappy part...
I go to ask the teacher across the hall something and she offers me a cookie (score!) then I glance down the hall and hubby is leaning in a corner all schmexy with my son in his arms. Aww I have a high school crush! You know cause he was in the hall at my school...anyways. It gets better. I g towards them and my son wants to walk so hubby puts him down and e tentatively waddles my way. He then started running and smiling. The part that got to me was I am used to seeing big monstrous kids, some over 6 feet tall in the hall. Suddenly there is just this teeny toddler in this expansive void of a school hallway. And then I decided to show him off to my coworker and my son was barely taller than the chair.
And for some reason my cheesy y heart melted to see my little guy in this big world I work in. So out of place and so cute.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Amazing Grace
I live near a private lake that has overpriced cheesy shops to support the over 4 million tourists a year. I rarely go there, but has grown tired of walking around the pond sized lake in my own town, so my husband and I went here for a walk instead.
The sun had just risen, and all the shops were closed and the area was completely empty, my kind of environment, quiet. We walked past the stores and looped around by the lake.
I watched the sun and clouds at play, making pink shimmery reflections on the lake, the sun warming the water and creating a rising foggy mist. It was gorgeous.
We walked onto a private dock to grt a better view (I mean, no one was there to stop us) and suddenly we heard it.
There was a figure on a neighboring dock, facing out towards the lake. The figure was carrying something awkward. He lifted it a bit and a haunting sweet melody began to erupt.
The man had bagpipes, and was playing Amazing Grace. He did not notice our presence, so we stayed still, afraid to interrupt this private moment. The melody echoed across the lake, as the sun's colors turned golden and the mist sparkled like diamonds. Imagine that, a man's own private moment secretly a private concert for us, a gorgeous song with a backdrop only God himself could provide.
The sun had just risen, and all the shops were closed and the area was completely empty, my kind of environment, quiet. We walked past the stores and looped around by the lake.
I watched the sun and clouds at play, making pink shimmery reflections on the lake, the sun warming the water and creating a rising foggy mist. It was gorgeous.
We walked onto a private dock to grt a better view (I mean, no one was there to stop us) and suddenly we heard it.
There was a figure on a neighboring dock, facing out towards the lake. The figure was carrying something awkward. He lifted it a bit and a haunting sweet melody began to erupt.
The man had bagpipes, and was playing Amazing Grace. He did not notice our presence, so we stayed still, afraid to interrupt this private moment. The melody echoed across the lake, as the sun's colors turned golden and the mist sparkled like diamonds. Imagine that, a man's own private moment secretly a private concert for us, a gorgeous song with a backdrop only God himself could provide.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Where I live
There are times where I hate where I live. When the fog is bad-not "quarter mike visibility" bad but "the dashed line is only one dash long and I can't see the guardrail" bad. When the road is covered in rock slides. When we get a gust of wind measuring 115 mpg and your roof wants to lift off. When there are flatlanders (tourists) triple-parked along the highway, sledding into traffic, driving 2moh, and getting away with breaking traffic laws because their visit means money for the struggling mountain community.
I hate that if I want organic chicken or chips without MSG or if I need a sweater or baby supplies or ethnic foods, I have to drive 45 minutes to an hour down a deadly road, through a ghetto, just to get something it seems every other town has. I have to also drive this far for work, the doctor's, dental and eye care, and really anything else because all my town has is an overpriced crappy grocery store, a yuck-Donald's, a small hardware, an a zillion second-hand stores.
But then, I also love it here. If I can get away to the city and eat some Indian food and buy some kale and shop for a pair of pants, if I can do this at least once a week to get away, I feel...normal. After too many hours in crowds and smog, when the novelty f civilization and consumerism runs off and starts to fill me with rage, I can escape home under the whoosh of the pine trees in the wind.
I love where I live because I can see the stars, the meteor showers, he Milky Way peek through the towering trees, over five stories tall. I can see the local bald eagle soar over our little pond-sized local lake, and can hear coyotes yap at the bear wandering the neighborhood. I can feel the crunch of oak an maple leaves under my feet in fall, smell the crisp winter scent as the snow piles higher and higher, a foot, two, three, muffling all sounds. I can see the grass sprout and watch the Stellar's Jays build their best under my eaves. I can enjoy a cool 80 degree summer day, walking past lupine flowers and penstemon growing by and underground spring.
I can look at a tree I once climbed and hike to the creek I used to splash in. I can climb some boulders at nearly tree line and recall camping memories.
I can look over my deck, our "private bistro" an enjoy the view. I can nibble on some grilled vegetable pizza my hubby made, and look one way over the tree tops to the next mountain range, or look the other way to the neighbor's and watch the sun filter trough the giant cedars and yellow pines, making sunny sparkles and shadows below.
Here are two photos from my deck. My neck of the woods has much prettier places even, but this is my view. mY view that I enjoy every day, which shows the stars and sunsets and snowy trees and wispy fog. A view that can get covered in birds or falling leaves.
I hate that if I want organic chicken or chips without MSG or if I need a sweater or baby supplies or ethnic foods, I have to drive 45 minutes to an hour down a deadly road, through a ghetto, just to get something it seems every other town has. I have to also drive this far for work, the doctor's, dental and eye care, and really anything else because all my town has is an overpriced crappy grocery store, a yuck-Donald's, a small hardware, an a zillion second-hand stores.
But then, I also love it here. If I can get away to the city and eat some Indian food and buy some kale and shop for a pair of pants, if I can do this at least once a week to get away, I feel...normal. After too many hours in crowds and smog, when the novelty f civilization and consumerism runs off and starts to fill me with rage, I can escape home under the whoosh of the pine trees in the wind.
I love where I live because I can see the stars, the meteor showers, he Milky Way peek through the towering trees, over five stories tall. I can see the local bald eagle soar over our little pond-sized local lake, and can hear coyotes yap at the bear wandering the neighborhood. I can feel the crunch of oak an maple leaves under my feet in fall, smell the crisp winter scent as the snow piles higher and higher, a foot, two, three, muffling all sounds. I can see the grass sprout and watch the Stellar's Jays build their best under my eaves. I can enjoy a cool 80 degree summer day, walking past lupine flowers and penstemon growing by and underground spring.
I can look at a tree I once climbed and hike to the creek I used to splash in. I can climb some boulders at nearly tree line and recall camping memories.
I can look over my deck, our "private bistro" an enjoy the view. I can nibble on some grilled vegetable pizza my hubby made, and look one way over the tree tops to the next mountain range, or look the other way to the neighbor's and watch the sun filter trough the giant cedars and yellow pines, making sunny sparkles and shadows below.
Here are two photos from my deck. My neck of the woods has much prettier places even, but this is my view. mY view that I enjoy every day, which shows the stars and sunsets and snowy trees and wispy fog. A view that can get covered in birds or falling leaves.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Irish Blood is still Strong
I loved Saint Patty's Day as a child, a day everyone wore my favorite color and if I did too, I was free from raining for an entire blissful day.
I wanted to go all out in emerald shoes and minty leggings, dressed like Cindy Lauper meets a leprechaun, but instead I'd just hide my green shirt inside my snow jacket, hiding the color from my dad, hiding my secret yearning to be Irish and have a neat culture and own holiday.
My dad was born outside London, in a devout Catholic but English family. They still swear to this day to be related to royalty and to speak the Queen's English, not the SE London twang your ears hear. Around my family, never ever mention the Irish unless you want a spiteful nasty tirade of slur words and racist depictions. The Irish are worse than the blacks or gays or any other downtrodden group. They drink, fight, take jobs, and give the UK a bad name. They are filthy animals.
Therefore, to not disappoint my father, I hid my green shirt until out of his sight, and refused to admit any sympathy towards the Irish.
As an adult, I decided to trace my family tree and I found the unspeakable. Something my family denies, claiming my original record from the UK must be fakes because this family would never even speak I the filthy Irish. Yes, my grandfather hails from Port Glasgow Scotland of Northern Irish blood. Servants and near-slave laborers building ships and living in the squalor of the immigrants' tenements. I'm a quarter Irish from what I can tell, but I remind my family of my great Grandmother Alice Toll, an Irish immigrant. I feel the Irish in my blood and always have, an identity that was hidden but obvious.
When I told my dad, he believed me but said, "oh f&#% I'm Irish trash hub? Guess I have to learn to hate myself." The rest of the family, as stated, refuses to believe this truth, because someone as wonderful as my family would never ever "go Irish". My grand mother now even refuses to speak of my grandfather, a man who fathered her three children. Sure, they divorced when the children were teens, but he still existed. She has removed any photographic evidence of him, as has the entire family, so I haven't a CPR what my own grandpa looked like. If you mention his name she says l
"Who?". The Irish ancestry has addendum fuel to her hate, and now she asked anyone she meets, "you're not Irish are you?" And goes on a racist rant.
I seem to be the only one happy with my lot. I love Irish music and the music and accents and scenery of Ireland seem hauntingly familiar and "right" to me. I've traced where in Northern Ireland my family was from, the same town as actor Liam Neeson.
So there, family. We're Irish and I'm okay with it.
I wanted to go all out in emerald shoes and minty leggings, dressed like Cindy Lauper meets a leprechaun, but instead I'd just hide my green shirt inside my snow jacket, hiding the color from my dad, hiding my secret yearning to be Irish and have a neat culture and own holiday.
My dad was born outside London, in a devout Catholic but English family. They still swear to this day to be related to royalty and to speak the Queen's English, not the SE London twang your ears hear. Around my family, never ever mention the Irish unless you want a spiteful nasty tirade of slur words and racist depictions. The Irish are worse than the blacks or gays or any other downtrodden group. They drink, fight, take jobs, and give the UK a bad name. They are filthy animals.
Therefore, to not disappoint my father, I hid my green shirt until out of his sight, and refused to admit any sympathy towards the Irish.
As an adult, I decided to trace my family tree and I found the unspeakable. Something my family denies, claiming my original record from the UK must be fakes because this family would never even speak I the filthy Irish. Yes, my grandfather hails from Port Glasgow Scotland of Northern Irish blood. Servants and near-slave laborers building ships and living in the squalor of the immigrants' tenements. I'm a quarter Irish from what I can tell, but I remind my family of my great Grandmother Alice Toll, an Irish immigrant. I feel the Irish in my blood and always have, an identity that was hidden but obvious.
When I told my dad, he believed me but said, "oh f&#% I'm Irish trash hub? Guess I have to learn to hate myself." The rest of the family, as stated, refuses to believe this truth, because someone as wonderful as my family would never ever "go Irish". My grand mother now even refuses to speak of my grandfather, a man who fathered her three children. Sure, they divorced when the children were teens, but he still existed. She has removed any photographic evidence of him, as has the entire family, so I haven't a CPR what my own grandpa looked like. If you mention his name she says l
"Who?". The Irish ancestry has addendum fuel to her hate, and now she asked anyone she meets, "you're not Irish are you?" And goes on a racist rant.
I seem to be the only one happy with my lot. I love Irish music and the music and accents and scenery of Ireland seem hauntingly familiar and "right" to me. I've traced where in Northern Ireland my family was from, the same town as actor Liam Neeson.
So there, family. We're Irish and I'm okay with it.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Crushed
Conversation heart candies scarred me for life.
In fourth grade, there was this total hunk of a boy, Kevin R. I don't remember how he looked anymore but I am sure he was dreamy because all the girls wanted him. As the scrawny, pale, shy, coke bottle bespectacled nerd, I was last on his radar. Except...that my overly hopeful imagination deceived me when reality set in and i found out he just might like me! When our teacher, Mrs. A berated me in front of the class for something like 20 minutes over missing homework, he looked generally concerned and told Mrs. A to stop yelling. Aww, he stood up for me and my heart skipped a beat! Then, right before Christmas we got to choose our own seats for the week, he chose to sit next to me. And then I found out his birthday was the day after mine. We even got in trouble for talking to one another during a test. Talk about soul mates!
When Valentines rolled around, I was still hopelessly in love with Kevin. I can still remember, clear as day, making out a class set of Valentines and writing a heart over the "i" in his name in red pen. That wasn't enough. My love for Kevin was epic and I had to show it. I reached over to the conversation hearts candy box my mom had given me and frantically rummaged through them. And then, heaven on my side, I found a pink "date me" heart. My heart was racing and my hands went clammy as I dropped it in the envelope and sealed it. I wanted to rip it open and take out the heart, I was a foolish idiot! And yet I wanted to run to his house right then and hand deliver it, sealed with a Bonnie belle lipgloss kiss.
Valentines day ticked by slowly and finally it was card exchange time. I was a nervous wreck and kept glancing his way, cautiously, to not be seen by others. I saw him grab my card. This was mission critical. The jovial sugar induced babble of the classroom drowned away as all my focus was on him. He pulled it out, glanced inside, and his friend ripped it from his hands. "Haha Kevin has a wannabe girlfriend!" The jerk giggled as he whispered to someone to pass it on. I swear Kevin had a disappointed look on his face as the rumor wheel circled away from him and came my way. Suddenly someone nudged me and whispered in my ear, "pst someone wants to date Kevin hahaha pass it on". I was mortified beyond relief. I tried to play it cool and sat there, choking back tears, shoving. Cinnamon hearts down my gullet to kill the pain. My legs were shaking and I dashed out of class, collapsing into sobs outside the library.
Mrs. A came out and asked what was wrong and I lied. I mumbled something about needing to go to the bathroom and not having enough bathroom privilege points. She patted me on the back and I walked back in, sworn to secrecy for life.
Ever since this occasion, lasting until age 23 when I started dating the man I knew i would marry, I never told a soul who I had a crush on. I kept it all inside, afraid of public mockery. Isn't it funny how a little thing can mean so much?
In fourth grade, there was this total hunk of a boy, Kevin R. I don't remember how he looked anymore but I am sure he was dreamy because all the girls wanted him. As the scrawny, pale, shy, coke bottle bespectacled nerd, I was last on his radar. Except...that my overly hopeful imagination deceived me when reality set in and i found out he just might like me! When our teacher, Mrs. A berated me in front of the class for something like 20 minutes over missing homework, he looked generally concerned and told Mrs. A to stop yelling. Aww, he stood up for me and my heart skipped a beat! Then, right before Christmas we got to choose our own seats for the week, he chose to sit next to me. And then I found out his birthday was the day after mine. We even got in trouble for talking to one another during a test. Talk about soul mates!
When Valentines rolled around, I was still hopelessly in love with Kevin. I can still remember, clear as day, making out a class set of Valentines and writing a heart over the "i" in his name in red pen. That wasn't enough. My love for Kevin was epic and I had to show it. I reached over to the conversation hearts candy box my mom had given me and frantically rummaged through them. And then, heaven on my side, I found a pink "date me" heart. My heart was racing and my hands went clammy as I dropped it in the envelope and sealed it. I wanted to rip it open and take out the heart, I was a foolish idiot! And yet I wanted to run to his house right then and hand deliver it, sealed with a Bonnie belle lipgloss kiss.
Valentines day ticked by slowly and finally it was card exchange time. I was a nervous wreck and kept glancing his way, cautiously, to not be seen by others. I saw him grab my card. This was mission critical. The jovial sugar induced babble of the classroom drowned away as all my focus was on him. He pulled it out, glanced inside, and his friend ripped it from his hands. "Haha Kevin has a wannabe girlfriend!" The jerk giggled as he whispered to someone to pass it on. I swear Kevin had a disappointed look on his face as the rumor wheel circled away from him and came my way. Suddenly someone nudged me and whispered in my ear, "pst someone wants to date Kevin hahaha pass it on". I was mortified beyond relief. I tried to play it cool and sat there, choking back tears, shoving. Cinnamon hearts down my gullet to kill the pain. My legs were shaking and I dashed out of class, collapsing into sobs outside the library.
Mrs. A came out and asked what was wrong and I lied. I mumbled something about needing to go to the bathroom and not having enough bathroom privilege points. She patted me on the back and I walked back in, sworn to secrecy for life.
Ever since this occasion, lasting until age 23 when I started dating the man I knew i would marry, I never told a soul who I had a crush on. I kept it all inside, afraid of public mockery. Isn't it funny how a little thing can mean so much?
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Why I ain't no Southern gal
I hate fried chicken.
There. I said it. Some Southern Meemaw is rolling over in her grade right now at my pronouncement. Stoplights in Alabama have flickered. Pappy's banjo stopped twanging.
I have never really liked fried chicken but would eat it up as a kid, being a rare treat that everyone loved, right?
It doesn't excite me, no way no how. The chicken gets either so moist it drips in grease or just dusty dry. The chicken meat has no flavor, the crust just tastes like "fried".
Hubby made homemade fried chicken tonight and I was all excited- maybe homemade would be different. Maybe I could join normalcy and like fried chicken. Three bites in, I was certain that I still don't like it.
I tried to figure out why I kind of like chicken fingers. I mean, they are like fried chicken, being they are made of chicken and fried. But then I figured it out. I can drown a finger in ranch or BBQ or whatever sauce to render it flavorful (you can't do a 1:1 ratio of sauce:chicken with fried chicken) and I don't have to pick around bones and weird colored meat and stringy things. It's the sterile meat experience I'm looking for in my chicken, and for my chicken to taste like sauce, not chicken. The one thing that should not taste like chicken is chicken.
Chicken tiki masala, mole, coq au vin, Kung pao etc... Great. Chicken just as is, coated in a crust? You can have my serving.
There. I said it. Some Southern Meemaw is rolling over in her grade right now at my pronouncement. Stoplights in Alabama have flickered. Pappy's banjo stopped twanging.
I have never really liked fried chicken but would eat it up as a kid, being a rare treat that everyone loved, right?
It doesn't excite me, no way no how. The chicken gets either so moist it drips in grease or just dusty dry. The chicken meat has no flavor, the crust just tastes like "fried".
Hubby made homemade fried chicken tonight and I was all excited- maybe homemade would be different. Maybe I could join normalcy and like fried chicken. Three bites in, I was certain that I still don't like it.
I tried to figure out why I kind of like chicken fingers. I mean, they are like fried chicken, being they are made of chicken and fried. But then I figured it out. I can drown a finger in ranch or BBQ or whatever sauce to render it flavorful (you can't do a 1:1 ratio of sauce:chicken with fried chicken) and I don't have to pick around bones and weird colored meat and stringy things. It's the sterile meat experience I'm looking for in my chicken, and for my chicken to taste like sauce, not chicken. The one thing that should not taste like chicken is chicken.
Chicken tiki masala, mole, coq au vin, Kung pao etc... Great. Chicken just as is, coated in a crust? You can have my serving.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Might as well write my name on the bathroom wall
I remember when a "frienemy" of mine in high school wrote, in the girl's restroom "for a good time call..." With my name and number. I knew it was her cause she often misspelled my name and had distinct printing. I found out the rumors about me from someone else.
Just like in 4th grade when I put a heart candy saying "date me" in Keven Reed's Valentine. He was born a day after me, knew I existed, and looked sad when the teacher berated me in front of the class for a half our for never doing my homework. I mean this hunk and I were meant to be. His friend snatched the card an busted up laughing, "look someone wants to date Kevin pass it on". I swear Kevin gave him stink eye as each child bent over and whispered to the next. The message got to me and I ran out crying.
Anyways, maybe it's the pregnancy hormones at work but it was like Kevin and the bathroom all over again.
I live legally in place A. But moved temporarily but not legally to place B to work on finding work. We registered a car there because the post office at place A lost our license. Twice. In one. Year.
So that apparently changed my place if residence with the registrar of voters unbenounced (how the hell do you spell that?) to me. It explains why I could not vote for myself the election. FYI I ran for school board in place A. My tax record and stuff all show it as a primary residence.
Anywho my meandering point here is, journalists are filthy whores. Wait did I just say that? And how does that relate to anything?
The local newspaper called me I inquire why I changed my voter registration a bit over a week before te election. I said I didn't because until I did research last night I didn't know registering a car under your hubby and yourself at an address that actually gives you your mail, changes your voting info even if your driver's licensee, tax records, etc say differently.
So the arsehole press slandered me and ripped me a new ---hole. Publicly. In print and virtuallly. Saying I was stealing the vote, all measly 10% of it and that had I been honest, one if te other losers would have got all my vote and won. Which is statistically impossible but I digress.
They slandered me for telling another running mate that I would not be in place A for a week as I was staying on weekdays in place B. ( yes I was I had to refurb a rental or be sued, and my son was sick so there. Again all my record at that time had my primary residence in place A.).
Then the lovely little press claims I denied any contact with them when they requested info on my candidacy while running which is total b.s. you can google my name and their newspaper and clearly see my name and my blurb of info I told them. So try outright lied just to slander me.
And they were really picking for bones or whatever, saying I didn't attend a meeting on Oct 11. True, I didn't but I didn't have care for a 21 month old with a double ear infection. The meetin was at his bedtime. I figured it bad or to bring in a screaming sick child with me and being that I ran for school board, should I be all, "I care for kids first and that's why I attended this meeting with my very ill, sleepy, feverish infant in tow"?!?!
So yeah I got all sensitive and hurt. Because seeing my photo on the grit cover of the newspaper in the morning, with biased and misleading information, is more than crappy. And when the press didn't even tell me what I told them would be in print and in the front cover never the less, I think I have a darn good reason to be Hirt and pissed off. Don't people have better things to do?
Just like in 4th grade when I put a heart candy saying "date me" in Keven Reed's Valentine. He was born a day after me, knew I existed, and looked sad when the teacher berated me in front of the class for a half our for never doing my homework. I mean this hunk and I were meant to be. His friend snatched the card an busted up laughing, "look someone wants to date Kevin pass it on". I swear Kevin gave him stink eye as each child bent over and whispered to the next. The message got to me and I ran out crying.
Anyways, maybe it's the pregnancy hormones at work but it was like Kevin and the bathroom all over again.
I live legally in place A. But moved temporarily but not legally to place B to work on finding work. We registered a car there because the post office at place A lost our license. Twice. In one. Year.
So that apparently changed my place if residence with the registrar of voters unbenounced (how the hell do you spell that?) to me. It explains why I could not vote for myself the election. FYI I ran for school board in place A. My tax record and stuff all show it as a primary residence.
Anywho my meandering point here is, journalists are filthy whores. Wait did I just say that? And how does that relate to anything?
The local newspaper called me I inquire why I changed my voter registration a bit over a week before te election. I said I didn't because until I did research last night I didn't know registering a car under your hubby and yourself at an address that actually gives you your mail, changes your voting info even if your driver's licensee, tax records, etc say differently.
So the arsehole press slandered me and ripped me a new ---hole. Publicly. In print and virtuallly. Saying I was stealing the vote, all measly 10% of it and that had I been honest, one if te other losers would have got all my vote and won. Which is statistically impossible but I digress.
They slandered me for telling another running mate that I would not be in place A for a week as I was staying on weekdays in place B. ( yes I was I had to refurb a rental or be sued, and my son was sick so there. Again all my record at that time had my primary residence in place A.).
Then the lovely little press claims I denied any contact with them when they requested info on my candidacy while running which is total b.s. you can google my name and their newspaper and clearly see my name and my blurb of info I told them. So try outright lied just to slander me.
And they were really picking for bones or whatever, saying I didn't attend a meeting on Oct 11. True, I didn't but I didn't have care for a 21 month old with a double ear infection. The meetin was at his bedtime. I figured it bad or to bring in a screaming sick child with me and being that I ran for school board, should I be all, "I care for kids first and that's why I attended this meeting with my very ill, sleepy, feverish infant in tow"?!?!
So yeah I got all sensitive and hurt. Because seeing my photo on the grit cover of the newspaper in the morning, with biased and misleading information, is more than crappy. And when the press didn't even tell me what I told them would be in print and in the front cover never the less, I think I have a darn good reason to be Hirt and pissed off. Don't people have better things to do?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)