My Vow

So, a week ago today I read the following piece to a bride and her bridal party on the morning of her wedding, during a private Yoga session just for them!  They loved it so much they wanted copies of it and the impact on them emboldened me, causing me to read it again later that morning at another Yoga class and again at a class two days later.  In every case several people asked where I had gotten it because they wanted to find it.  One of my fellow Yoga teachers also asked for a copy so that she could read it at her own Yoga classes.  She has read it more than once, including again this morning, and every time the response is the same: I want that!

Finally I have had to admit that I wrote this.  I mean really, I guess I CAN'T BE BOTHERED trying to hide that I have a soft side and that it is an honor to write something that speaks to people, makes them want to take care of themselves.  

Now that it has gotten attention of course my instinct was to go back and edit it, find ways to make it even better.  As hard as it was for this perfectionist not to touch it, I didn't.   I left it in its raw, unedited, first draft form and am sharing here for everyone...to have and to hold!

MY VOW

by Jeannette Maloy

I . . . take me . . . to be my own life long partner, friend and true love. 

From this day forward, I vow not to put anything before the nurturing of my own body, mind and spirit - for it is only when I care for myself that I am strong enough to nurture these things in others too. 

I promise to recognize that what I think about most is what shapes my world and give attention only to that which serves me.

I vow to remember that I am complete, I am perfect . . . because what I believe about myself is projected to everyone I meet, then back to me again. So, the stories I tell myself, about myself, will be only the ones that build me up.....fill me with joy, gratitude and love for who I am.

I promise to remember that I deserve a life of satisfaction, abundance and peace. I will not forget this and I will CREATE it!

I vow to learn from the past and then let go of it and be present so that my future can be full of beautiful, lasting and intentional moments.

I will be faithful to myself, reaching for dreams, always believing, remembering that my life is meant to be full of all that I desire and that which does not bring me joy will not be part of my journey.

I swear to laugh and cherish myself. 

I swear to grow and give myself room to breathe.

I vow to simply find happiness and to settle for nothing less, ever.

Above everything else and with my whole heart - I promise to love myself today, tomorrow . . . and for all the days of my life.

It Doesn't Fit

Have you ever  felt the joy of accidentally stumbling upon just the piece of furniture or art you'd been looking for?  You know - that one you love instantly, that you think will be just perfect for this one spot that's been empty too long?

Excitedly you pay quite a lot for it, go through a hell of a time getting it home.....then find as soon as you get it into it's new spot in your house, it doesn't fit.

Or does it?  No, no, no, it fits!  It has to.

You spend many minutes looking at it from every angle, adjusting it this way and that, trying to make it work, when deep down you know it just isn't going to. You can't give up though.

"Let me just shift it this way a bit and it will look right.  Oh wait, maybe if I....."

....and when none of that works, you actually consider putting it in a different room just so you don't have to take it back, because there is something you simply love about it.  You look around, but have to admit that it doesn't really work anywhere else either.

Alas, reluctantly, despite it's beauty and charm, you load it back into the car and return it.  The salesperson says she is so sorry it didn't work out and you say you are too.  You turn to leave, but then decide to take one more look around.  Finally, just as you are about to declare that you can't be bothered  - you see it.  This one just might work, even though it wasn't what you first had in mind.

You get it home and what do you know?  It fits.  Perfectly!

Relationships are just like this.  Simply replace the furniture in this story with a person and add on a few years instead of just one hour.

When it doesn't fit you know it, and usually - no matter how hard you try - you can't MAKE it fit.   All you can do is spend a lot of time missing out on something else.

Take it back and keep looking, because when you hang onto something that doesn't fit, you make no room for the one that does.

Peeing on, not IN, your pants......

Today I almost peed ON my pants. That's right.  You heard it correctly.  I almost peed ON them, not in them.  It is complicated.  Please don't ask.  This happened while at work too, and that makes it even more disturbing.

Stop asking.  I am not going to elaborate, as this is already more than enough humiliating information, just for the sake of an interesting blog post.....trying to get your attention, as it has been almost a year since my last post.

Let me just say that the fraction of a fraction of a second between realizing what was about to happen and saving myself from a urine stream  - was so minimal it is unlikely that it can even be measured.  I almost cried from the relief when I realized the disaster I had just avoided.

What's the worst that could have happened though, really?  If I had peed on my pants, surely I could simply have gone to the school nurse for a change of clothes just like all the kids do.  Do you think she has Express straight leg slacks and Ann Taylor button ups?  Hell no.  I would probably have come out in a jumper with embroidered crayons and on it.

Oh, that's right, if you did not know.......I'm a teacher. Aren't you relieved that the future of our children rests in the hands of an almost-peed-on-my-pantser?

Ugh, I so CAN'T BE BOTHERED nearly peeing on my own clothes.  It is time to stop thinking about 52 other things and focus on the PEE, as in Present!

What was the last borderline insane thing you did because you were't paying attention?

Poop Chicken

So, just an hour ago I was at the kitchen counter cutting tomatoes and peppers while my husband was right outside the kitchen window grilling the chicken that would be on our delicious grilled chicken salads . . . when suddenly - I SMELLED POOP.

That's right, I smelled poop and it was strong.  However, just as quickly as the scent came to me, it was quickly gone.  I just stood there like: "WTF, why did I just totally smell poop?"  Even though the stench had disappeared, I started sniffing the counter frantically, and then the lettuce and the veggies and finally even the floor. Yes, I was on my hands and knees sniffing the floor hoping to find poop so I could take care of it.

Nothing.

I stood up and distractedly went back to my preparations, keeping a nostril alert.  After a little while I sort of forgot about it and then, once again out of nowhere, POOP SMELL.

I CANNOT BE BOTHERED WITH POOP!

Oh. My. God.  I resumed my sniff-search until a moment later I was interrupted by my husband calling that the chicken was done. I decided once again to let it go, and I went outside with the salads.  My husband took them so he could put the grilled chicken on top and I went to sit down at the patio table.  A moment later he brought to me my lovely plate of food and I picked up my fork just as the smell of poop filled my nose again.

"What the f**** do you smell that?"  I said to him.

"Smell what?" he asked.

"Poop!  I keep smelling poop!"

He sniffed a few times and told me that he did not smell anything even remotely like poop.

"I am not imagining this," I told him.  "I smelled it in the kitchen and I smell it out here now."

I started sniffing my plate.  There was nothing at first and then my nose got right next to a piece of chicken and it might as well have been a piece of shit because it smelled exactly like it!

"Oh Christ this chicken totally smells like shit," I cried to my husband.

He sniffed again and again but he insisted that to him it did not smell like shit.  I don't exactly remember the next few words or what could have made me decide to cut the chicken and take a bite . . . maybe just good old fashioned denial . . . but I cut that chicken, stabbed it with my fork, put a chunk of salad and tomato on with it and put it in my mouth.  At first everything was OK.  I chewed and swallowed and it tasted fine and then . . .

"Oh . . . my God.  I am going to throw up.  This chicken totally has the after taste of SHIT!"

My husband was stunned because he did not smell or taste anything unusual, but still, as I unloaded all of my poop chicken onto his plate, unable to eat any of it and shocked that I could still eat the salad, he became increasingly uncomfortable with the entire idea, especially because after about a minute the smell drifted to me yet again and I covered my mouth and made a gagging sound and mumbled something about shit and chicken and vomit.  Eventually I noticed that all of his chicken was off to the side of his plate and he said that, even though he didn't smell anything, my discomfort had gotten to him and now he couldn't eat it either.

Why in God's name would grilled chicken smell and taste just like poop?

Well, since we hardly ate any dinner, now we can have ice cream.  I will NOT be getting hard chocolate!

Dirty Laundry

Of all the household chores there are to do, don't you think laundry is the absolute worst?  I hate it.  I want to kill laundry . . . and here's something that makes it even more intolerable.

You can put it off for a really long time.  I mean hampers are generally pretty deep and most of us have more than one and the items you put in there can be seriously compacted to fit so much stuff you don't even realize what you have until you finally begin taking it out.  Then, its like it never freakin' ends.  You can't even believe how much laundry you have and now you are stuck for the next 5 hours washing, drying, folding, wanting to die.

Oh and of course you always get a nice white sock accidentally mixed in with your darkest jeans so that now one stupid sock is sort of gray and you have to toss the pair.  Then there's another pair that invariably ends up with one missing.  That's right . . . every single piece of clothing in your entire house is in front of you, folded and ready to be put away and yet, somehow, one freakin' sock that wasn't missing when you started this nightmare - is now gone. I mean how is that possible?  Where the frigaroni hell could it be?

Ya, and I'm not done.  How about when a bra strap or the thongy part of your not-cheap thongs gets wrapped around that center tube-like-thing of the washer and totally stretched out and deformed as it spins wildly.  Oh and don't even get me started on how if the clothes are dispersed unevenly the whole GD thing shakes like its going to explode . . . and all of this is happening in the freakin' basement too, the furthest point in the house from where the laundry originates.

There was only time when this was a sort of good thing, laundry in the basement.  That was about a month ago when I started doing laundry not realizing that the hose that drains the laundry into our utility sink had been taken out of the sink when we were cleaning and painting the cement floor to get ready to sell the house.  That's right, I didn't know . . . and I started the washer.  About 10 minutes later, when it was time for it to drain, I was upstairs in the kitchen and thought: "Huh, the water sounds a little weird.  I wonder . . . Oh. My. Effin. God!"

I raced downstairs and the hose was draining all over the floor. I grabbed it, but there was no way not to aim it at myself, and became drenched, head to toe.  Panicking, I placed it in the sink but didn't secure it enough so it popped out and sprayed all over me again.  Screaming for my husband, I finally got it positioned in the sink but not before I was completely soaked and most of it had emptied onto the floor.  Not once did it occur to me to turn off the GD washing machine.

I totally, completely despise you laundry.

The only items I don't really mind laundering are bedding and towels.  They don't have all sorts of annoying instructions on the tags with little symbols (that you don't even know the meaning of) for what you can and can't do.  Folding them isn't rocket science, except for those bastardly fitted sheets that I just pretty much bunch into a ball, then flatten . . . easy.  Its OK if they shrink, unlike my husband's tee-shirts turned half-shirts.  They look so so nice folded and put away that it can almost make you forget the horrors of the laundry room.  Almost.

So, in summary, I really can't be bothered with laundry, but still found myself, JUST TODAY, drawn to these two trendy accessories.  Yes, despite my complete hate-affair with dirty clothes, items like this seem to make it a little more tolerable.  If only they could stay empty, but alas . . . one stupid sock and a stretched out bra are definitely waiting for me.

Crack

Yes, we all know that crack, the street name given to cocaine that can be smoked, is often produced/bought/sold/used in old, burnt-out abandoned buildings commonly called CRACK HOUSES. These houses and the people who inhabit them are a real threat to our communities and society as a whole, but . . . 

NOT NEARLY AS 

GREAT A THREAT 

AS THIS SORT OF 

CRACK HOUSE!

Clearly, this crack house is falling down and needs to be condemned.  

So, following is a list of the Top 10 reasons exposed butt crack is completely unacceptable and why we CAN’T BE BOTHERED experiencing this in a civilized society.

#10 It’s gross.

#9 You must feel the draft, so there is no excuse not to pull your frigaroni pants up!

#8 If we can see your ass-crack-of-dawn, your underwear are either: 

        (a) also too low

        (b) not being worn

       (c) choices a and b are both gross and so are you.

#7 Since we were little girls and boys we were told: 

        “Don’t step on the crack, you’ll break your mother’s back.”  

         Someone could definitely step on this.  Yuck.

#6 If I saw this on the sidewalk while I was diving I would totally stare 

        and that could cause a serious multi-car accident 

        (which still wouldn’t even be worse than this display), all because you 

        CAN’T BE BOTHERED wearing clothes that fit.

#5 Don’t even get me started on how short that darn sweater is too. 

#4 Oh look at this - another one. 

       The offensive crack shown here just doesn’t have the issue from #8 because 

       her panty line is actually HIGHER (omg!) than her pants!  

       The term underwear begins with the word UNDER for a reason, just FYI.

#3 Very few things with cracks in them look good and your ass is not 

         in the short list of “Things that Look Good with Cracks in Them!”

#2 Do you know that things can easily slip into cracks?  Ya, well think about it.

#1 . . . And the number one reason we CANNOT BE BOTHERED 

        with exposed butt crack:

Not only is it cracked - there’s a hole in it too!  

      Trust us, your ass looks better IN the jeans!

Cat Hair

So . . . . if you hang out with me on Face Book you know that I have transformed my hard- cat-hating-heart and I totally love our new silly cat.  I'm not proud of it, but its true, and I am especially not proud of all of the intolerable cat stuff I now tolerate.


For example, I manage cat litter.  That's right, I scoop out smelly cat shit and dispose of it, when I previously didn't even want to be in the same house with a cat, let alone her feces.


What else?  Like a freakin' jackass, I get on my hands and knees and play chase/hide-and-go-stupid-seek with this nutty feline who wins every time.  How does she win?  Well, I hide around a corner and wait to jump out at her, but 90% of the time she jumps around the corner and scares the piss out of me first.  She wins.  Its ridiculous.  


I make coffee in the morning with only one hand because there is a rope she loves to jump for in the other hand and I'm swingin' it and makin' stupid cat/baby noises to entertain her.  Someone should kill me.


I can't be bothered going on. There is more and its embarrassing and I have become the cat-lover I used to mercilessly make fun of.   I need help.  But what I really need help with, what someone really really has to tell me how to manage is -   THE FREAKIN' CAT HAIR.  


I might be able to stand cat litter now and playing stupid kitty games and even having her ass practically in my face when we're both loungin' on the couch (see, I told you there's more), but I cannot tolerate the hair that is all over our house and I think if I find one more piece I will simply go bat-shit-crazy!


Where do I find it you ask?


- on my eye-lash, you heard me, on my eye-lash
- stuck to a sock that just came out of the wash, the WASH for god's sake, even the wash cannot destroy it
- on a lamp shade
- in the shower
- sticking straight out of a pant leg, how does it stick straight out like that, how?
- on the wall, apparently cat hair defies gravity 
- oh look at that, its on my sleeve right now, i kid you not, its on my frigaroni arm as i type!
- on my car seat, which means it was stuck to my ass, which means i'm gross
- everywhere

Pasta Parade

So, do you think the above pictures show too much pasta for 9 adult women?  . . . because I DEFINITELY DID NOT and thus I think I have a problem.  

Why do I have a problem?  . . . because I chose to make this much pasta for my 8 guests based on how much pasta I MYSELF eat in one meal and yet, AFTER dinner - this is what was left!  WTF!

Clearly - I grossly, disgustingly, dramatically overestimated the average female's ability to overdose on pasta and meat sauce the way I am perfectly capable of doing.  I should have invited men to girl's night.

. . . and so - since these lightweights do not know how to eat rigatoni, my husband and I (aka me, because he annoyingly does not have sauce in his veins) will be eating it for days if not an entire week.

Just toss it you say?  Oh no, I cannot be bothered with that kind of waste.  Do homeless shelters take leftovers?  No?  

Well then, bring on the carb coma.  My great grandmother, whose underarms could wrap around her like a cape and who may have once served us spaghetti for breakfast, would be so proud!

Merry Shitty Christmas

Names have been changed to protect the guilty!

It is Christmas night, 1985.  The whole family is at Grandma's sitting around the kitchen table after hours of gorging on a ham dinner, an assortment of cookies and pies, chocolate and presents!  The kids have been allowed at the grown-up table and I'm swinging my feet as they hang from the big chair, when suddenly something smells really bad.

Everyone sort of looks around, but keeps nibbling and talking.  It finally passes, though shortly after - we smell it again!  It's really bad and now there are comments being made, children laughing, people denying responsibility, etc.

A few moments later Uncle Bob (whose name has been changed) gets up from the table, slips his feet sloppily into boots and leaves the house.  A lot is going on so nobody thinks much of it until maybe fifteen minutes later, when we realize he hasn't come back.

Finally, when he has not returned after a half hour, someone calls his house, which is only a minute down the street.  He doesn't answer because at almost that exact moment Uncle Bob walks back into Grandma's.

Everyone begins asking where he has been and he tries to avoid answering until someone says, "Uncle Bob, did you change your pants?"

(Pause)

"Oh Jesus Christ," yells Uncle Bob, beginning to laugh now . . . and if you knew Uncle Bob you would totally understand how he could find his next statements funny.

"Yes, I changed my pants, OK.  I had gas so I went outside to let it pass and I shit my pants!  I shit my pants so I had to go change 'em."

I have no memory of what happened next and it is better that way. I can't be bothered paying for any more therapy!

You Fail!

The entire post below is written by Marion Brady, NOT me.  I've often wanted to write a similar post, but I guess I couldn't be bothered . . . so here are her words and the words of those she's quoted.  This is quite an amazing read.

WHEN AN ADULT TOOK STANDARDIZED TESTS 

FORCED ON KIDS

 Washington Post "The Answer Sheet" Blog -- December 5, 2011 

By Marion Brady

A longtime friend on the school board of one of the largest school systems in America did something that few public servants are willing to do. He took versions of his state’s high-stakes standardized math and reading tests for 10th graders, and said he’d make his scores public.

By any reasonable measure, my friend is a success. His now-grown kids are well-educated. He has a big house in a good part of town, a paid-for condo in the Caribbean, influential friends, lots of frequent flyer miles, time to give serious attention to his school board responsibilities, etc., etc.

He called me the morning he took the test to say he was sure he had NOT done well.  

Later, upon receiving the results he wrote: “I won’t beat around the bush. The math section had 60 questions. I answered 10 out of the 60 correctly. 

On the reading test, I got 62% . In our system, that’s a “D” and would get me a mandatory assignment to a double block of reading instruction.

He continued, “It seems to me something is seriously wrong. I have a bachelor of science degree, two masters degrees, and 15 credit hours toward a doctorate.

“I help oversee an organization with 22,000 employees and a $3 billion operations and capital budget, and am able to make sense of complex data related to those responsibilities.

“I have a wide circle of friends in various professions. Since taking the test, I’ve detailed its contents as best I can to many of them, particularly the math section, which does more than its share of shoving students in our system out of school and on to the street. Not a single one of them said that the math I described was necessary in their profession.

“It might be argued that I’ve been out of school too long, that if I’d actually been in the 10th grade prior to taking the test, the material would have been fresh. But doesn’t that miss the point? A test that can determine a student’s future life chances should surely relate in some practical way to the requirements of LIFE!  I can’t see how that could possibly be true of the test I took.

“If I’d been required to take those two tests when I was a 10th grader, my life would almost certainly have been very different. I’d have been told I wasn’t ‘college material,’ would probably have believed it, and looked for work appropriate for the level of ability that the TEST said I had.

“It makes no sense to me that a test with the potential for shaping a student’s entire future has so little apparent relevance to adult, real-world functioning. Who decided the kind of questions and their level of difficulty? Using what criteria? To whom did they have to defend their decisions? As subject-matter specialists, how qualified were they to make general judgments about the needs of this state’s children in a future they can’t possibly predict? Who set the pass-fail “cut score”? How?

“I can’t escape the conclusion that decisions about the [state test] in particular and standardized tests in general are being made by individuals who lack perspective and aren’t really accountable.”

Here you have it . . . in 13 words, a concise summary of what’s wrong with present corporately driven education change:

Decisions are being made by individuals who lack perspective and aren’t really accountable.

Those decisions are shaped not by knowledge or understanding of educating, but by ideology, politics, hubris, greed, ignorance and various combinations thereof . . . and then they’re sold to the public by the rich and powerful.

Bernard Kaplan, who runs one of the highest-achieving schools in the state states, “It’s education by humiliation.  “I’ve never seen teachers and principals so degraded.”

Another principal, Mario Fernandez, called the evaluation process a product of “ludicrous, shallow thinking. They’re expecting a tornado to go through a junkyard and have a brand new Mercedes pop up.”

My school board member-friend who took the test ended with this: “I can’t escape the conclusion that those of us who are expected to follow through on decisions that have been made for us are doing something ethically questionable.”

He’s wrong. What they’re being made to do isn’t ethically questionable.  It’s ethically unacceptable. Ethically reprehensible. Ethically indefensible.

How many of the approximately 100,000 school principals in the U.S. would join the revolt if their ethical principles trumped their fears of retribution? Why haven’t they been asked?

Road Rage

It is a cold winter afternoon circa 1980.  I am 6.  My sister is 4.  We are in the back seat of the car my mother is driving on a country road, and we are not wearing seat belts - as you will soon see.

My sister and I have been fighting for many minutes, stopping only when our mother yells at us to stop and only because we are scared enough of her not to fight while she is yelling, but not scared enough (yet) to stop fighting altogether.

We have just resumed our incessant arguing and smacking each other across the seat when my mother turns around and our heads jerk as she almost veers off the road.  She is furious now, as she bellows the classic: "If I have to pull this car over, you two are going to be sorry."

Our mother goes on yelling at us, but this time it is different.  We are already scared when she then tells us that not only will we stop fighting, but we are not to talk at all.  She does not want to hear one more word, and I quote:

". . . not one more God damn word!"

We have clearly pushed her too far and I remember being very unsure about what would happen if I said one more God damn word. I did know, however, that I COULDN'T BE BOTHERED finding out.

My sister and I move as far away from one another as we can then, each of us tight against the opposite backseat door.  We don't say a word.  We barely breathe.

A few moments later I hear a clicking sound and look over to see my sister fidgeting with the lock.  Normally I would have called out: "Moooooom, Staci's playing with the lock," but this time I keep quiet.

My sister continues playing with the door while I watch, wanting so much to tell on her or hit her or yell at her, when suddenly -  the door comes open and my sister falls out.  That's right, she falls out!

Stunned, I whip my head to the front seat to see what my mom will do.

She does not do anything.  She continues driving, looking straight ahead.  My mouth opens to yell to her, but then I remember:

". . . you two are going to be sorry . . . not one more God damn word!"

I am paralyzed.  Maybe my mom had somehow opened that door.  Maybe my sister was the first to go and this was my warning.  I don't speak.

After what seems like forever (but years later my mom would say was just a tenth of a mile or so) we go around a little bend and that's when she feels it.  My mother quickly turns to look over her right shoulder, where my sister should have been sitting, and immediately hits the breaks.

"Jeannette . . . oh my God . . . where is your sister?"

I swallow hard, wanting to say something but remembering " . . . not one more God damn word."

My mother has pulled the car over by now and is turned toward me, frantic, looking out the back window down the snowy road where my little sister is lying in what looks like a big pile of discarded winter clothing - right in the road!

"Jesus Christ Jeannette!  Why didn't you tell me your sister fell out of the car?"

Tentatively I respond, "Because you told us not to talk."

There is no Santa!

Twenty-eight years ago a nine year old was riding in the passenger's seat of her mom's car (no doubt without a seat belt), off to who-knows-where on a cold December day.

Me: Mom, someone at school today told me there's no Santa.
Mom: Oh.
Me: So is it true?  Is there no Santa?
Mom: Well . . .
Me: She said YOU are Santa, Mom.  Are you Santa?  Do you give us all those presents?

Long Pause

Me: (angrily) You ARE Santa, aren't you? You are!
Mom:  Yes, honey, I am Santa, but I don't want you to tell your sisters, OK?
Me: I can't believe this.  I can't believe there's no Santa.

Mom tries to explain, but I cut her off.

Me: Wait a minute. If you're Santa, then . . . NO!  You're The Tooth Fairy too and the Easter Bunny?
Mom: Yes, honey, I'm them too.
Me: (starting to cry, still angry though) I can't believe this (but if I had known it then I surely would have said: "I can't be bothered with this!")
Mom: I'm sorry you're upset.
Me: I'm sorry you're a liar!  Does Dad know about this?

Mom, probably trying not to laugh: Yes, he knows.

There is another long pause and then something terrifying occurs to me.

Me: Oh my God Mom.  I mean . . . well, I guess I shouldn't say God because he's probably not real either.  Are you God Mom?  Are you God too?

Long Pause

Mom: Yes, I'm God too.

Heaven or Hell?

Caller on Catholic Radio:
Hi.  I'm calling because I have a friend whose baby just died and she was told by a member of the catholic church that because she did not baptize the baby before her death, the baby would NOT go to heaven.  Could this be true?  And will the baby go to hell?

Me:
Stunned.
Waiting.
Holding my breath.
Standing in front of the mirror motionless, when I should be getting ready for work.

Catholic Radio Host:
Well,  m'am, the teaching of the church is that we just do not know what happens to a baby who is not baptized before his/her death.  We can't say for certain that this baby will go to heaven, but we do know that God wants us all to be saved and so we trust in the mercy of God.

Me:
Stunned.
Waiting.
Holding my breath.
Standing in front of the mirror motionless, when I should be getting ready for work.

Mercy?  A baby needs God's mercy?

Now I'm wondering if they will give the phone number again so I can call and ask:

Do you know for sure what happens to little boys and girls who are naughty?  I mean - does Santa really have a list and will he really give all of their presents away to good little boys and girls?

They do give the number again, but I don't call.  I can't be bothered with this insanity.

I wish I could say one quick thing to the mother who lost her baby though.  I'd say:

I have a better idea about where your baby is.  I bet she's right above where you carried her for nine months - She's in your heart!  And . . . that is where she always will be if you don't let anyone tell you different.

The Hiv

. . . had a routine exam done two weeks ago, as a standard procedure in applying for a life insurance policy.  Before drawing my blood they asked that I sign a form authorizing this lab work to be tested for HIV.  Of course, I signed the form and of course, like most of you, was thinking I have nothing to be worried about.  My list of non-risky behavior includes, but is not limited to:

married
monogamous
not an IV drug user
never had a transfusion

Still, it bothered me to be expecting the results of this test.  I guess it made me realize . . . you just never know.  About a lot of things in life, you just never really know.

After a couple of days though, I forgot about the HIV test.  Even when the results came, I still didn't remember it, as I leisurely opened the envelope and read results for bilirubin, cholesterol, glucose, etc.  Then, there it was at the bottom of the list.

HIV      -      NEG

I was surprised to find myself relieved.  About a lot of things in life, you just never really know.

One thing is for sure though, I can't be bothered with HIV!

FACE IT!

I jokingly complain a lot about frizzy hair and other imperfections and probably always will.  The truth is though - some days it is not so funny.  Some days we really feel like no matter what we do we can't quite look good enough and today was one of those days for me.  Today was an "Oh my hair is freakin frizzy and hmmm, is that a few more fine lines I see on this not so glowing anymore face" kind of days.  


Then, I came home to read this (below) on my cousin Jolene's facebook page: 

In case you don't know, a majority of the ads and photos in Glamour magazine deal with botox, losing weight, wearing makeup . . . and are designed to coerce women into conforming to society's vision of femininity. However, towards the end of the magazine they have a memoir by Stephanie Nielson. Hypocritical? Or trying to be subversive? I'm not sure which...


I didn't understand, because I had not yet heard of Stephanie Nielson.  I googled her name.  This is what I found:

Stephanie, Before Plane Crash

Stephanie, After Plane Crash That

Left her Entire Face and Body Burned

So no, now I CAN'T BE BOTHERED worrying about frizzy hair and inevitable laugh lines. This girl is beautiful and so are you and so is everyone else and you damn well better go take a look in the mirror and just be grateful.

Going Back

Sometimes, do you find yourself wanting to cry sad tears not happy ones, when you see your old friends walking down the aisle or celebrating anniversaries or finding great careers or driving nice cars or building their own houses or having kids who have 5th birthday parties . . . because it painfully reminds you of how much time has passed since the days when the most important things in your lives were just - EACH OTHER - and how you will never be able to go back, but sometimes you just really, really, really want to?

Ya, me neither.  Who can be bothered with that crap?

Dumb Bitch!

Dumb bitch?  What?  You seriously just called me a dumb bitch!  Oh my God.

At first, I am embarrassed to admit, I got a little choked up when I saw you call me this.  That's right, I read your lips, mean man, and there is absolutely no doubt you looked me right in the eye and called me a dumb bitch after . . .


. . . I very, very, very tentatively inched my way around the end of a line of cars in the parking lot (as I swear I always do because I am obsessive about my car), when suddenly you came flying around the corner, but really DIDN'T COME ANYWHERE NEAR HITTING ME due to how cautious I was being. 

So why am I a dumb bitch?  Were you just mad because you didn't realize, until after hitting the breaks on your precious BMW, that I had been two steps ahead of you and ya hadn't really needed to slow down in the first place?  Did that make you feel stupid so you decided to take it out on me, the dumb bitch?  Shockingly, it really startled me and hurt my feelings, but . . . 

. . . that initial reaction quickly turned to a pure jolt of anger as you roared past me and I realized what a complete jack-hole you are, and that's why I followed you to the end of the parking lot, where I thought you were about to park, feeling compelled to let you know that I am in fact NOT a dumb bitch.  I can't believe I followed you, but I did.  However, there was never an opportunity to say anything because you turned around, gave me a strange look and headed right back out to the street.  Hmm, big fat scaredy-cat? 

I'm not really sure why you never parked, but its definitely a good thing.  I can't be bothered having confrontations with old crotchety men in parking lots.  Plus, the truth is you were probably having a bad day or you are just mean or something that really has nothing to do with me - so I'm over it.  


Nonetheless, I will leave you with a list of dumb bitches so you know for sure the next time you think you see one.

DUMB BITCH LIST:
- Casey Anthony
- Susan Smith
- Andrea Yates
- Diane Downs
- Aileen Wuornos
- You

Vote for Me for God!

Seriously, I'm thinking we should start holding elections for God.  I mean really, this one's body of work just isn't good, you have to admit, and we have probably given him long enough to get it right (like at least a few thousand years or something).  It seems like the right time to find someone who is better suited for the demands of this position.

Honestly, if Barak Obama had done even half of what God has done (or not done) we would impeach him tomorrow.  Poor Obama has an approval rating of something like 39% and all people think he's done is screw up health care and our economy . . . but God?  Well, just look at only a few examples of his work below.  How many of you would get to keep your jobs if these or similar events and people happened on your watch:

The Holocaust, World Wars, The Cuban Missile Crisis, AIDS, Cancer, 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, Assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., The Great Depression, Slavery, Columbine, Charles Manson, Global Warming, Forest Fires, Floods, Drought, Famine . . . 

I'd go on, but really - I CAN'T BE BOTHERED.  If the above list does not convince you that God should be an elected position, I don't know what will.

So, cast your nominations. Who would make a good Universe Leader?  Here are some suggestions to get you started.

- Santa Clause (he can fly and has presents)
- Oprah (she's Oprah)
- Bill Gates (he totally knows stuff)
- Tom Hanks (nicest guy)
- Captain Sully (landed US air flight 1549 safely in the Hudson freakin river, I already think he IS God!)
- Charlie Sheen (tiger blood, winning)

One last thing: Lets really insist that the campaigns be only positive, no exceptions.  That seems the Godly thing to do.  I mean, can you imagine someone running for God and smearing an opponent?

When you're here, you're family?

Isn't that what Olive Garden says on their commercials?  I'm pretty sure, though the truth is, not surprisingly, I COULDN'T BE BOTHERED checking it out for sure.  Regardless, the facebook status update my cousin posted a few days ago is still shocking and disappointing.

He and his family (wife, 3 kids) were at a Florida Olive Garden and discovered that a little girl was there to celebrate her birthday and excited to have the staff sing to her.  However, they'd recently adopted a new policy against singing Happy Birthday to patrons because others had complained.  Others actually went to the trouble of complaining and Olive Garden actually stopped this tradition of singing Happy Birthday.

Every time this happens in a restaurant I must admit I roll my eyes and have no desire ever to have some strange group of waitresses sing Happy Birthday to me.  But what sort of birthday scrooge do you have to be to actually complain?  News Flash:.  You are not at some swanky high-end establishment where they serve 6 courses over a 3 hour period and your bill is equal to a mortgage payment.  You are at the Olive Garden jackhole.  They will bring you soup, salad and breadsticks 'til you puke and you might still get change for a 20 dollar bill. 

Honestly, whoever would go so far as to complain to management about this needs to really take a step back and think about life.  Then - get over yourself and just use the birthday spectacle like I do: as a brilliant opportunity to make fun of yet one more thing.  There is so much to complain about in this life.  HAPPY Birthday is not on the list.  For a complete list, see me!

Oh, and guess what? My cousin and his family don't give a rat's a** about Olive Garden's new policy.  They sang Happy Birthday themselves to that little girl and I guarantee this was a lot more obnoxious than the well-rehearsed staff.  You should hear our family's version of Happy Birthday!

God Made Me Do It

I will never understand how someone can say: "God put me there to help that girl," when the girl being helped was just abducted, raped and tortured by a lunatic.  Shouldn't God just have prevented that from happening in the first place, rather than putting you there to help her?

Can anyone explain this?  Why would God operate this way?

Oh wait, maybe God works the nightshift and this girl was abducted before his shift began so he could only put someone there to help her after hours . . . after her abduction, rape and attempted murder.  That actually makes more sense.  Maybe that's how it goes.

. . .  or not.

If God is what many believe him to be - like a parent watching over us - how many of you parents out there would let things like this and worse happen to your children, only to save them later, but not all of them - just some?   Is God trying to teach us lessons with all of this suffering?  Kids do sometimes have to suffer to learn lessons. 

"God put me there to help that girl" seems to make about as much sense as a father putting his young child in a car with no car seat or seat belt, then driving 65 miles per hour off a cliff, where the child is ejected through the windshield and nearly dies.  Then, the parent calls 911 and first responders save the child.  Would that make sense?  Would that be OK?

Maybe things just happen and maybe those here on earth, not God, are actually in control and responsible for these things that happen, good and bad.  Maybe the universe unfolds as a reaction to all of us and some of us end up in exactly the right place at the right time. And some do not.

I want to believe in a God who watches over us, but it is very hard to do that when there is so much suffering in the world.  Any talk of God is a highly personal and complicated conversation though, so we should stop here.  Maybe I've already said too much and this isn't meant to offend anyone, especially God.  No, no.  I CAN'T BE BOTHERED with the wrath of God!