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Oh... figure it out yourself.

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Back Again

I haven't been to UM forum in.... years? I'd have to check the dates. It's been a long time.

Off to see if it's the same science vs. religion debating, photo manipulation revealing, conspiracy theorizing, it-wasn't-a-ghost-it-was-probably-swamp-gas-from-Venus (ha!) -ing place it was back then.



PW Revisited

I believe in reincarnation. I believe my son is the reincarnation of my mother's father. Just laying out the 'facts' so the rest makes sense.

My son is 15 now and hasn't said anything about his past life in a very long time. (He did semi-regularly up until about age 4.) He started writing a story the other day and named the main character with the same first name and very slightly different last name than my grandfather's name. When he showed me his first few paragraphs he said, "It's kinda a story about me, I think, if I worked on a ship." and then went on to tell me about other aspects of his planned story. My grandfather worked on a ship.

Of course I'm not putting this forth as proof of reincarnation or anything. It's just one of those tiny things that spark in my mind as curious synchronicity. Even if my son isn't reincarnated, etc., it is interesting.

In other news... the government shut-down sucks 'cause my sister and her husband just took a week long package trip to the national parks out west.. which are now closed. I can't imagine what they will do with the group and kinda hope they get a partial refund at least.



I have come to believe that people who make sweeping generalizations about groups of people have very small minds.

They must be small, since they are incapable of entertaining an infinite number of possibilities of character, belief and attitude. Indeed, they are incapable of entertaining even a small multiple of possibilities.

Generalization p***es me off. It is a serious detriment to a peaceful world.


Picking Daisies

Cup of icy lemonade in hand, I stopped in the living room for a perusal of the front garden on the way back to work at my computer. There was a woman and a little boy staring at the flowers in the garden.

This happens a lot. No worries. The gardens are lovely.

So I stand there, sipping my lemony goodness, and watch them pointing and chatting about this flower and that flower.

And then...

... they begin to pick the flowers. Not just one or two - that is forgivable - but great handfuls of all my flowers!

I plunked down my lemonade, ran for the key, whipped open the door, and burst out onto the porch, eyes a-flame.

"What are you doing?" I yell.

"Picking flowers," the woman says.

"You can't just pick flowers out of my garden," I shout.

"Is this your garden?" she asks.

"It's in front of my house, isn't it?" I snap.

"Oh, we thought it was one of those pick-your-own places," she simpers.

"What? Are you kidding me?" I say. (It's a small yard in front of an obvious house on a street lined with similar small yards and houses.)

She frowns and shrugs. Her little boy is staring back and forth between us.

I walk over to where they are (she pulls her boy almost behind her, like I'll swoop down and eat him up) and hold my hand out. "My flowers," I snap.

"You want them now?" she asks, looking dumbfounded.

"I planted them," I say. "Of course I want them."

She hands over the flowers and, as I stand there with my hand out, she takes the flowers from her kid and hands them over to me. She is starting to glare.

I bend down to the boy (he was maybe 6 or 7) and hand him three of the biggest, nicest flowers. "It's never okay to steal things out of people's yards, hon," I say with a smile. "If you had asked nicely, I would've let you pick a few flowers, but you can't take without asking. That's stealing, and stealing is wrong."

The women goes all indignant and grabs her sons hand and pulls him away.

I retreat inside my house and put my flowers in vases.


Denial of an Insurance Claim


Notherworld Insurance Group

1337 Far Fara Way

Sometown, Notherworld, 0U812

Dear Mr. Madison,

In regard to your recent request for insurance compensation for your unfortunate accident, we regret to deny your claim. We at Notherworld Insurance Group are aware that your 1992 Ford was, indeed, totaled in the altercation with the Heebeegeebee Death Worm, and sympathize with your plight.

However, we must draw your attention to Section IV, Sub-section F, Unit XXVII, Sub-unit Q of the Insurance Coverage Client's Manual. The above mentioned clearly states:

Insurance claims will not be honored in the following instances:

1. Damage or destruction caused by naturally occurring meteorological events

2. Damage or destruction caused by unnaturally occurring meteorological events

3. Damage or destruction caused by irate ex-spouses, lovers, or close friends

4. Damage or destruction caused by acts of gods, godesses, demi-gods, demons, minor imps, or false prophets

5. Damage or destruction caused by attack, either provoked or unprovoked, rampage, stampede, general ill will, or hunger or any actual, mythological, cryptozoological, or just plain made-up animal, vegetable or mineral.

We would also like to point out that, since the aforementioned Heebeegeebee death worm was duly warned against on signs posted in the vicinity of the accident, your lack of forethought in entering said area showed the type of idiocy we usually raise our customers into the next payment bracket for. However, since this is your first offense, we shall let it slide this time.

We do hope that this satisfies your claim dispute. We look forward to providing all future insurance needs for you.


Quasi Loophole

Notherworld Insurance Adjuster


Blurg-hopping Schnitzle Buggers


I'm in a p***y mood.

There are three (types of) people I cannot stand:

1) People who feel sorry for me and gush about "Oh, poor you...."

2) People who think self-employed means lots of free time to do whatever THEY want.

3) My father (who is very closely tied to #2)


This neighbor..... she's a nice enough woman when she waves from the driveway. But she's getting nosier and nosier and enjoys clucking her tongue at different things. "Oh, that car doesn't work? Oh... tut, tut, tut." "Oh, look at the rusty bicycle... tut tut tut." And her head shakes slowly and she gives a simpering mushroom smile.

Makes me think violent thoughts.

This friend of mine... not a very good friend.... AND my father, AND my mother (a bit).... do NOT understand that I have 0 ZERO 0 extra time to fit in any other chores for them. "Do you think you could go through these boxes for me?" NO! I CAN'T. I have no time to go through your flipping boxes!

Which brings me to my father. I've just taken on the weekly task of heavy housecleaning for him. So, once a week I have to cut homeschooling short, somehow get all my work done in the morning or not do it, and then drive to the next town to scrub accumulated spilled beer and potato chip crumbs off every surface in his house. I spent three hours the other day cleaning just his laundry room.... all while running back and forth to make sure my kids weren't messing things up.

And what do I get? No thank you, no appreciation. "You just did the laundry room? Do you think you can come two times a week, or more?" AGHAGHAGHAGHAGHAGHHHH!

(pant pant pant) My father is almost 75. He doesn't get around too great, and he certainly can't keep his house clean. He won't move to a smaller place either. And I'm the closest one, geographically speaking. So.... if I don't help him out, I feel guilty.

Blurg-hopping Schnitzle Buggers

These people are driving me nuts.


You know what pisses me off?

Fiction writers who post their work in public, looking for comments, and then get nasty if you do anything less than give them a b-j for their adolescent ramblings.

John walked into the room. He was six foot two and muscular. He saw Muffy and thought she was beautiful. She had long blonde hair and big green eyes. He walked up to her and kissed her.

AGH! How can you NOT criticize something like that?

And please.... don't get on my about my spelling tonight. It's just not on.

Seriously though, if you are a writer (or want to be one), grow some frikkkken balls - or a thick skin if you prefer to stay in a more socially acceptable anatomical area.

Maybe all fiction postings should have a little code on the side: age of the writer (you don't want to rip into a 12 year old about usage of allusion and metaphorical flashback semi-colons or whatever), what draft the darn thing is on (do NOT slap 1st drafts up in public for review - its like a sculpture dropping a lump of clay on the ground and asking for opinions), and what type of comments you are looking for.

Please! If you want stroking, tell people. If you want a REAL CRITIQUE, ask for one!

By the way, here's my critique for the scherenschnitte (my euphemism of the moment - actually some German art of paper cutting - very pretty - my Mom used to do it) above:

Romance is a great theme, but you make it sound less exciting than matching socks. Where is the emotion? Where is the passion? Or is there passion? Where are John and Muffy anyway? This paragraph could be about two middle aged people, post divorce, at the yacht club. It could be about two teenagers at a church social. It could be about intergalactic travellers initiating a marriage arranged by Quorax 3, the grand high Snorkblatt of Hoovaloo V. My god, tell me something here! And character descriptions should NOT read like a laundry list of characteristics... just in case you were wondering about that.

I have VERY limited patience with people who cannot write well. Maybe (and this is going to sound really bad!), it is because I am good at it, and I just don't understand how it can be so hard for others.

I should probably think about pole-vaulting whenever my brain starts going in this direction. I could never pole vault. Never.


The Ham Sammitch Man - Chapter One

I should have known what I was getting myself into.

I should have been more careful.

It all started innocently enough, an invitation for lunch at a local diner. I had a turkey sub, hold the onions. He had a ham sandwich.

Four weeks later we were living together in a little apartment with a leaky faucet in the kitchen and drafty windows. Was it love? It was something. We spent the days working for our pay, and came back home to snuggle in the queen-sized bed. Money was tight, but we did what we could to keep to our budget. Grocery spending dropped, and gone were the idyllic days of deli-sliced lunch meat and whole grain bread. Now, it was little more than generic peanut butter on crackers that fueled our love.

Late at night, lying in each other's arms, he whispered comfort in my ear. "Things will get better. We'll make it through."

Despite poor nutrition and half-hearted precautions, I got pregnant, and our happy world shivered with the news. "We'll get married," he said, and I, like a fool, agreed.

It was not until the day of our justice of the peace wedding that I met his mother.

She perched on a chair at the front of the room like a vulture, beady black eyes and long-clawed fingers clutching her handbag like a shield. Before the ceremony, he took me over to meet her.

"Healthy boy childs," she rasped, and jabbed one finger toward my belly. "You give my son healthy boy childs."

Frowning, I glanced up to see the uncomfortable expression on my husband-to-be's face. "Umm... I'll do my best..."

"Only one way to make sure." She shifted in her seat, a scrawny figure in funeral black. "My son likes ham sammitches. Ham sammitches every day and you'll get healthy boy childs."

A cantankerous old woman, an elderly mother not long for the world. I could put up with some strange requests for peace's sake. These are the things I thought when I stood hand in hand with my man and repeated the words that would bind us together.

What a fool I was.


:) Just having fun. (No, I did not really marry the ham sammitch man!)


Creeping Rivulets of Green Slime... oozing out of most of my bodily orifices.

Except the ones that would be REALLY gross to have green slime oozing out of.

I've been sick for a week. My kids are sick. Besided the green slime issues, I am totally and utterly POOPED. (Although I hate that term.)

Doesn't help that it's November and I'm trying to do NaNoWriMo. Maybe good, or I'd be simply wallowing in my green slime.

I've caught a bad linked-image



Am I Feral?

This isn't meant as a complaint or a "woe-is-me" whimper or anything like that... really. My life is just fine, thanks.

I think I might be feral - you know, like those kids raised by wolves. Not that I growl a lot and eat raw meat...

I have no social skills... I guess. It always strikes me odd that people talk to friends on the phone every day, or go out with them every week. Strange. Really, really alien.

I'm a friendly sort, intelligent, good sense of humor. Introverted, but it's not like I turn into a mute whenever people are around. I just make no impression on people - really. I'm totally forgetable, unable to form attachments, or... something. Even on the internet. I'm just... pass-over-able.

I often wonder how I come across to people. What do they think of me? Or do they at all? Not like I'm pining for attention... just curious. Really.

Weird. I'm weird. My life is weird. I have no clue.



The blank slate

the empty stare

I talked to a man

who wasn't there

He told me secrets

secret things

He fed me dreams

dark things with wings

Tomorrow comes

red creep and dash

Dreams and memory

my life made trash

(insert deep red nothingness here)


Sunflower Seed Demon

Sunflower seeds - whole ones, no shell - are the worst possible things to get stuck in tooth crevasses.

"One would not be in such danger, from the wiles of a stranger, if one's own kin and kith, were more fun to be with." Ogden Nash

Oh boy do I need a stranger!


5 Minute Writing Prompt Exercsie of the Day!

She always said, "I'm in a period of adjustment."

She always said, "I'm in a period of adjustment." But Mike never really knew if she was speaking metaphorically, or financially. May hated secretarial work, but despised her three months at the diner more. Nude modeling in college got her bills paid - she said it was never sexual, but Mike had his doubts - but bored her. Then again, everything bored May.

Sprawled in her feline grace across the nubbly couch, May stretched out her toes and prodded Mike's arm. The hand not holding the magazine reached out and rubbed her foot.

"Just because I'm in a period of adjustment doesn't mean I won't contribute to the household, you know." May arched her back and wiggled, and his eyes strayed from the article about fuel-injection engines.

"Maybe I'll learn to cook."

He glanced back at the magazine. "You? Cook? Pass me the menu to Lotus Garden please."

One foot shot out in a jab that caught him in the ribs. "I can cook!"

He laughed and tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. He grabbed her foot and ran his fingers up the bottom, tickling her until she wiggled again, trying not to laugh. "Sure you can."

She always said, "I'm in a period of adjustment." Mike didn't really care. As long as she never adjusted away from him.


Gahhhh.... blogentry-17010-1191014980.gif


Ruination: A Play in Three Acts

Act One: Play Acting

The seam on her husband's midnight blue jacket offended her. The stitching was even, perfected by candlelight by malcontents in some back corner of a sweatshop in the city. The fabric gleamed along the edge, knife sharp and starched to stay that way for millennia. Its perfection was an affront to the magnitude of imperfection looming closer.

She clenched her teeth against the next glassy pain stabbing through her abdomen. She glanced away from the stage for a moment, downward toward her lap. The expected bloody claws - for that is what it felt like digging into her - were nowhere to be seen.

She looked back at the stage quickly, but already her husband's eye was on her, along with his scowl of distaste. Staring forward without blinking, she watched the assorted fairy princes and acrobats cavort in their dance. She had forgotten the plot. She had never cared to begin with, truth be told.

Another pain struck her, and a sound slipped past the stranglehold in her throat. His head whipped toward her again, his mustache quivering like the feathers on a slaughtered goose.

Act Two: The Proper Midwife

By the time intermission began, she was lying in the aisle, her silk gown rucked above her knees. At the first cry she could not bite back, a plump matron jumped up, claiming to be a midwife, and rushed to her side.

The audience pushed back against the wall of the theater. The cast stood, arms akimbo, on the stage, the small ones craning their necks for the best view. Her husband sputtered, and alternated between pacing furiously and standing rooted to the spot, gazing away from her in indignation.

"Just breathe," the midwife crooned over and over again. "Just breathe."

More than anything else she had ever wished for: a fluffy, white kitten, a comfortable husband, rooms full of rainbow-hued silk, she wished she could just breathe. More than two years since her husband had touched her, but she knew denying the impending birth would be whimsy of the most ridiculous sort.

"Just breathe," the midwife said again, down on her knees in the dust.

Then the world washed blood red as the thing with the claws started scrabbling into the world.

Act Three: Damnable Solution

The thing squalled in the midwife's arms.

So long since her husband had even glanced her way in anything but distaste and disappointment. So long since she felt the softness of his hand.

Many women made this mistake. The other wives' whispered gossip proved it. It was not the choice, but the instrument of her damnation that plagued her now.

Wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, the midwife stared at the thing.

Dust covered her husband's sleeve. It was the only part visible of him from his unconscious position between the rows of playhouse seats.

The actors and dancers yelped and shouted, then scattered away from the hole splintering up through the floorboards. Shards of wood and gouts of flame flashed through the air. Something dark crawled out of the hole.

"A son." The voice sounded like it came from something lurking in a dark alley halfway between Hell and oblivion. "Excellent."

The midwife joined her husband on the floor, and the thing plucked the newborn from her slack arms. It slipped below the floor once more, leaving a whiff of rot in its wake.

She lay back on the floor, dropping her head to the boards. The thought of knitting tiny things slipped like a weighted corpse into the well of her mind.


Time Travel Today?

If time travel (a time machine whatever) will ever be invented in the future, wouldn't there be people around right now that have used it to come back to now?


Swimming Upstream in the River Styx

(( This is something I just found on an old floppy disk - dated 1994. I was 20 at the time I wrote this. Funny. ))

Swimming Upstream in the River Styx


I toyed with this idea for about 20 minutes one evening in February before sitting down at my computer. Originally this was meant to be a rant; a ‘vent’ if you will, about the sad state of affairs as I see it. But it morphed into something much bigger. That little guy on my left shoulder started whispering, “No one’s going to listen to you!” while the guy on my right said, “Hey, it couldn’t hurt.” Why my conscience is male I have no idea.

I suppose an author usually starts by telling you what the book IS. It is, quite simply, “What’s Wrong With the World and How to Fix it.” Sounds a bit stupid, doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you what the book is NOT, and then you can decide if you want to continue reading.

1) It is not a self-help book.

2) It is not political satire.

3) It is not religious.

4) It is not a guidebook for wayward citizens of the global consciousness.

5) It is not comedy. I do hope you laugh at parts of it. But it’s really serious too.

6) It is not politically correct.

7) It is not politically correct.

8) It is not politically correct.

WHY does this book exist? Because it NEEDS to. People have no clue what is wrong with them for the most part. People have no clue what is wrong with the world. Some get so wrapped up in their own lives that nothing else matters. Some get so wrapped up in “causes” that nothing else matters, not even their own lives.

This book might be seen as a humorous spelunking expedition into antisocial beliefs. It might be seen as a plea for everyone to “just get along.” It might even be considered to be a brutish obscenity designed for nothing more than getting attention. Nope. Wrong. Thanks for playing. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, of course. This is mine. But it is also something much more. This book contains the best, and sometimes only, ways that we as the species human can survive and learn to flourish happily. “I thought that was what we were doing?” you ask? Nope. Wrong. Poor misguided soul. Read this book with an open mind. Make of it what you will.

One more thing before we delve right into the nitty gritty. WHO is this book for? Simply put, it is for EVERYONE over eighteen. If someone under eighteen is going to have access to this, please be advised that I will mention drugs, alcohol, sex, and use curse words whenever I feel necessary.

Whose Fault is It Anyway??

It’s yours. Yes you.

Let me explain. There are many reasons why people say they do the things they do. Fate, peer pressure, any number of popular social disorders (sex addiction….puh-lease!), demonic temptation, media influence, bad parental role models, etc. Of all of these, fate is the only one that you can’t really argue with. Except for the fact that fate may not actually exist. It is my personal opinion that half the people who believe in fate are just plain silly, and the other half are using it as an excuse for everything they do. But let’s say it does exist. Then I suppose it was fate that made you pick up this book, and fate that you read it and learn from it. So…that excuse shattered.

Next! Peer Pressure. This is a biggy, especially directed toward the parents of the 10-20 crowd. Of course it can be used as an excuse for lots of adult things too: drug use, cheating on a spouse or partner, squandering money, doing the hula half naked on the boss’ desk at the corporate Christmas party.

Does peer pressure exist? Of course it does! Is it an excuse for anything? NO.

The cool kid Johnny tries to pass you a joint with the standard, “Come on…everyone’s doing it.” (I have had quite a few joints passed to me over the years and no one has ever said that to me. I believe it is something the advertising industry made up.) You say “No thanks.” If you take a hit, whose fault is it? Yours! Unless Johnny actually sat on you and held the joint in your mouth while pinching your nostrils shut, its your fault. (NOTE: I happen to believe in the legalization of marijuana, so don’t think I’ll think less of you if you do actually take a hit. FURTHER NOTE: All those politicians/sports stars/actors that said they never inhaled? They are either lying or they are dorks. That is a little peer pressure from me, but it shouldn’t make you do anything you don’t want to.)

Lola, the tight-skirted secretary at work, starts flirting with you at the water cooler even though you are married. Biff and Bob, the guys from accounting, keep elbowing you and saying “Hey…she wants you, man. Come on Bill…show her what you’re made of.” You say “No thanks.” If you plan a lunch break rendevous out behind the dumpsters, whose fault is it? Yours! Unless Biff and Bob actually took part in some weird voyeuristic male rape fantasy, it’s your fault.

You are standing in line at the local electronics store. You notice all the guys around you are buying one thousand inch high definition plasma TVs on sale today for a quarter of a million dollars. You can feel them eyeing the pack of blank VHS tapes you are buying and sneering at you. You buy the tapes and enjoy the re-runs of your favorite 80s sit-com all weekend long. If you give in to the “keeping up with the Jones’” ideal, whose fault is it? Yours! (NOTE: Of course, if you can afford the big mother of a TV, you’d better invite me over for at least one football game and some sci-fi action film with lots of exploding planets or something.)

Doing the hula half naked on the boss’ desk at the Christmas party? No one would even TRY to make you do that. And don’t blame it on the booze either. It’s your fault you drank too much.

NEXT! What about social and psychological disorders? Let me start by saying that there are some very real chemical imbalances and mental health issues that people cannot help. No one chooses to be bi-polar or have schizophrenia or alzheimers disease. But EVERYTHING is classified as a disorder these days. Sexual addiction? As I said before, “Puh-lease!” If you can’t keep your dick in your pants or your skirt pulled down, its your fault. If you DO consider yourself to have one of these fringe disorders, it is still your responsibility to get help: medication, counseling, whatever you need.

NEXT! Demonic Temptation. I am not going to get into a religious debate about whether demons or Satan exist as real forces that nance about on earth trying to get people to do bad things. If you believe that; that’s your business. BUT, if you DO believe that, it is still your responsibility not to give in to temptation.

NEXT! Media Influences. Oh boy….this one is huge. People blame EVERYTHING on the media. Violence in schools, sexual promiscuity, breakdown of the family, homosexuality…the list goes on. First of all, the TV/radio/video game has a little button labelled ON/OFF. You will not receive an electric shock if you touch it and it does not contain a hidden poisoned dart. Use the darn thing if you want to. Second, everything in video games is fiction. Most things on TV are fiction—including the news, but we’ll get into that later. If you cannot differentiate between real life and fiction, you are responsible for getting yourself some mental help. (NOTE: I grew up watching Saturday morning cartoons, and I have never in my life dropped an anvil on someone’s head.) Media does not reflect societal norms. Repeat this to yourself. Tell it to your kids. Understand this.

NEXT! Bad parental figures or role models. This is a tough one. Of course bad parents can make it much more difficult to do the right thing in life, simply because you were never taught what the right thing is. If you are over eighteen, you are an adult now. Your life is your responsibility. You may have more to overcome, but only you can overcome it. If you need it, get therapy or go to a doctor. Every human being has intrinsic potential. Potential. That’s all anyone gets to start out with. It is up to you what to do with it. Don’t get me wrong here. Don’t go thinking “heartless b****” and throw the book down. If you come from an abusive home, you will need a lot of help to get right again. But again, it is your responsibility to get that help. Coming from a ‘broken home’ is not an excuse. Over half of all marriages in America end in divorce. All these homes can be described as ‘broken.’ Many great people were raised by single parents. What makes you so special that you get to run wild or have a breakdown just because you didn’t have two parents around?

To summarize: Whose fault is it? It’s YOURS!

Addendum for parents:

If your child resides in and was raised in your house, under your care, anything that they do wrong is your fault too. I am not calling for a worldwide guilt trip here. Guilt is a waste of emotion and energy. But you must accept responsibility for your children’s actions and choices. Your son takes the joint from Johnny against your wishes. “But I didn’t raise him like that!” you shout. Be objective and honest. Did you raise him to know he has a choice in all things? Did you raise him to have strength of character enough to go against the grain? Did you raise him to make his own decisions based on good solid facts?

If your child is already in the teenage years, it is too late to raise him or her. At that age, they are making some of their own decisions, getting ready for that great metamorphosis into adulthood. (NOTE: It is not fair that catapillers get shimmery white cocoon things and all we humans get is acne.) It is too late to tell them “You’d better listen to me. I’m your father/mother!” They know who you are. They know how it all works in minute detail.

If your child is in their fifth to twelfth year, it may be too late to raise him or her, depending on how much damage you have already done. Kids are smart and they want to make their own decisions no matter how young they are. Ladies, have you ever told your husband to take out the trash and they just won’t do it? It’s the same thing with kids. You cannot nag them into a positive life experience. Lead by example. Use subtle trickery if necessary to make them think the whole ‘being good’ thing was their idea in the first place. If you never say “thank you” when someone passes the peas, how can you expect your kids to? If your kids never utilize the basics of good manners, guess whose fault it is for not showing them how. If you put work or activities before being a family, how can you expect your kids to value the family unit? If your kid wants to spend every waking minute at Joey’s house, in front of the video game, and answers every question about “what did you do today?” with “Nothin’,” guess whose fault it is? If you never open a book, magazine, or newspaper; if you never express interest in finding out about anything new, how can you expect your kids to enjoy learning? If your kid doesn’t do his homework, complains about reading anything, and never wants to go to a museum, zoo, historical site, watch a documentary, or talk to you and ask you questions about life, whose fault is it?

Yup. Yours.

“But I do all those things!” you moan. “I’m the best parent I know how to be!” If you are not getting the desired result, (barring true mental or physical problems on your child’s part) you are doing it wrong. You have to try something else. Read a book about child behavior, go to family counseling if you have to, or just listen to your instincts. (NOTE: PLEASE realize that books and counselors do not know everything. You, as a parent, should know your child better than anyone else. They can give information, but you have to figure out how to put it into practice. Do not leave the raising of your children to anyone else, whether it be the schools, a babysitter, the soccer coach, or the television. It is YOUR responsibility.

People may be really ticked off by the time they get to this paragraph. IF they get to this paragraph. “How dare you blame me for my kids, my job, my life, the world?”

Family Comes First.

It would be really, really nice if we could all be part of some big global consciousness and everyone ‘just got along’ and helped each other out. Communism mixed with the lifestyle of those blond people in the original “Time Machine” would be nice. We could all sing “Kum-ba-ya” and get really strong cheek muscles from smiling at eachother.

Idealism is a waste of time. This world is SO far away from ideal that it is about as useful to dream about idealism as it would be to dream about green-winged, purple-eyed fairies that grant wishes and clean your house for you.

A whole happy world is not going to happen anytime soon. You have to prioritize. So. Where do you want life to be ideal, “Over There” or “Right Here at Home.” Gee. I wonder which you picked? Don’t feel guilty. Self-preservation is a natural thing.

So, you want “Right Here at Home” to be ideal. Let’s pretend that is The United States of America. The USA is also far from ideal. Do you really think you can change the way things run in America? Vote? Let’s be realistic. Casting your vote for president is about as effective as spitting into a poisonous pond filled with starving piranhas. So that’s out.

Your state, town community? Getting warmer! You can make positive change in your local geographic area. And its great to try. Go clean the park, volunteer at the Old Age Home, do whatever will help and make you feel good too. Now the park is clean and the Old Age people are yelling “Go HOME already!” at you. And so you go home to a spouse who doesn’t talk to you anymore and who refuses to cuddle after sex and has just decided to take some obscure class at the local community college rather than hang out with you after dinner. And you ask your son what he learned in school today and he says “Nothin’” and your daughter suddenly has a navel ring and a boyfriend with a motorcycle and you never even noticed when she stopped playing with dolls.

Family comes first. Whether you are the parent, the spouse, or the child, these are the people you are responsible for. Imagine if everyone in the world just concentrated on the functionality of their family. Don’t you think things would work a bit smoother? Also, everyone would have a refuge to go to when work/school/life in general got tough.

So, how do you make your family life better? It’s really quite simple. Talk and listen. Hug and kiss. Share and never ever keep score.

((( I had some other chapter headings, but never got around to writing them I suppose. )))


Crumbled Feta Cheese

Was introduced to a very nice guy today.... introduced as Nick Plopopotamus, which I'm sure is not his real name. He laughed in that good-natured 'old joke' kinda way. Good looking, dark haired Greek guy whose father owns a restaraunt near where I live. I was out to lunch with the only "girl" I could possibly stand. "Doing lunch with the girls," is not in my repetoire. Said "girl" is a 40-something 'butch' truck-driver I met during my short stint working at the thermometer factory.

If I was a guy, I'd definatley be a lesbian.

Organizing... organizing... and working my butt off trying to get my websites up to snuff. A-a-a-aaa--aaa---chooooo!

Mostly, I've been organizing my writing and trying to figure out where I'm going with this stuff. I've all but decided to finish my trilogy completely before doing anything else with it. I'm concentrating on my ... 1, 2, 3, 4.... fifth novel right now (yikes - I've almost written 5 novels!) and work on getting that published first. ALong with several short stories. I need some publishing credits, even if they are fluff credits. I still want them.

I totally freaked my boys out with the old bean-sprout trick today. I was stir-frying up a stir-fry (my special ginger chicken) and tossed in some bean sprouts. Well, I decided to dangle one over my mouth as if it was a worm to horrify my children. Then, I slurped it halfway into my mouth and used my tongue to wiggle it around so it did the floppy worm dance.

My eldest seriously looked like he was going to vomit and my little autistic chap had a really disgusted look and started yelling "Mommy, No fishing!" I translated that one into "Mother dear, that looks suspiciously like a worm to me and, as I know that worms are often used for fishing, I find it wise at this juncture to suggest that you cease and desist from any potential sublingual or inter-oral fishing expeditions utilizing that glicky, slimy, ucky thing that is still wiggling!!!"

Or something like that.

I must say that one of Motherhood's great joys is totally freaking my kids out.


Vampire Sex

She waited naked in the vat.

How could he tell her that he ached for

an archaic tumble between crisp white sheets?

He wiped a hand disconsoledly across his dripping crimson lips.

Does a mortal man enjoy sex on a bed of lettuce?


Like a Fool....

.... I just sat there and let her.....

Billy Bragg floating around in my head. I think I was the only one in my high school class who had ever actually heard of the man.

I've been enterring too many writing contests lately (little dinky things, nothing outstanding) and keep forgetting about them till the last minute. I never win, but its not because I suck at writing. I'm quite good (blows on fingers and rubs them on my shirt). It's just that I write fantasy.... and weird fantasy as well. No handsome knight saves lady fair type of stuff. My last story is about a young man who is trying to hook up with the girl who is going to be the virgin sacrifice later on that night.

Now, there is telling. Freud would probably say that I need more sex.

I often wonder if I should be a bit more careful about keeping my pen name and my real self seperate. I'm not, at all. And really, the only reason I'm using a pen name is so that my horrid married name is not on any of my writing.

Ran into Ham Sammitch man at Aldi's again today. This time, his mother became convinced that I would bear him "healthy boy childs." Good grief! Talk about pressure. Ham sammitches and healthy boy childs.

Yawn... 11:45 and I'm sleepy.

The avatar, by the way, had to change. This one looks a lot more like me as well. ;)


The Legs

Sorry people.... they aren't mine. And if they were, they're not for sale or anything either. :D




I've taken to smiling vapidly while going about my regular business. It's not a secretive or knowing smile, merely a slight upturn of the lips that will probably give me wrinkles around my mouth. I'm already getting horizontal lines grooved into my forehead. Where's my grey hair? I'm almost 33, damn it. Been through a <beep> storm and a half in my life. I deserve some <beep>ing grey hair already.

Though actually, I won't be getting grey hair ever since I'm a redhead. We get something that some call "buff." No, not naked. I haven't gotten naked for recreational purposes in a while. Buff hair... kinda colorless blondish tone.

I just had a strong feeling that someone died today, but I don't remember who. Odd.

Relatively happy though, which is an odd feeling for me. Hence the smile. People look at me funny. But that could be because its been <beep>ing cold and I have just completed my first crochet project in a while. Bright purple hood with 2 foot long point hanging down with a big tassel on the end. I've decided I'm done being unnoticable.

Had a bit of a row in the fabric store today. A, my autistic son, decided to start yelling his favorite "Help! Help me please! Police, help me!" He's not very loud, but some lady came over and tried to ask him if he was okay, shooting me nasty glances. I tried to explain the situation, but she just told me to be quiet. Luckily, E spoke up bravely and said "A has autism. Sometimes he can't help what he says. He's just doing his make believe." The lady gave me the old hairy eyeball again, but skedaddled away, so that was okay. Worse was the time when A was hanging out the window waving a t-shirt and yelling "Help. Somebody help me! My baby!" Yeah, my son has a rag doll - he dropped it in the bushes outside the window.

The door to door Jesus salesmen seem to have misread my disinterested politeness for some 'right on the edge of salvation' thing. Copies of the Watchtower are piling up. Now, I don't have a problem just saying "No thanks, bye." but these people are freaky. One - either a 70 yr old man or a 40 something heavy set woman - rings the bell, smiling, while 2 or 3 more are standing on the front walk. They usually have some kids in tow as well. WHich makes me think they must homeschool, which makes me sad. I tend to think homeschooling should be done to broaden horizons, not limit them, no matter what your belief system or general world view.


12:42 am. Sleepy time.


Growing Away

I haven't been to the forum in days, it seems. I used to check it for new posts religiously each night. I don't feel the same anymore.

For a week now I've stuck pretty rigidly to my 'not enough time in the day' plan. I've been getting up earlier - before 7:00am - and working through lunch. Pushing bedtime back to 1:00am most nights.

I'm either happy or I'm delerious. Deleriously happy? Let's not push it.

The day I was born, my Mom popped a pacifier into my mouth. I sucked on it pretty much continuously until I was 1 1/2. Then the paci came out and the thumb went in. THe thumb was coated with hot pepper sauce, acetone, and rubbing alcohol, and the other fingers went into my mouth. At 8 years old, I was actually fitted with a special mouth piece that did not allow me to stick anything in my mouth.

So, I stopped sucking my fingers. I proceeded to bite my nails. I bit my nails until last week. Then, I just stopped.

I have tried in my post adolescent past to stop before. My pinky nails are/were about 1 milimeter long. But I never could stop for long.

32 blippin' years old, and I have finally grown away from whatever made me need to stick my fingers in my mouth.

May any future boyfriends know that my oral fixation has not weakened.... just that I will have long cat claws to scratch backs with as well.


And the psychotic killer in the corner chuckles eagerly and adds another line or two in his notebook "The Purplos File."

"Another step closer, my sweet," he says, stroking his pet tortoise. "We shall have her in our sights soon."


Growing away...... growing away from a lot of stuff. That ^^ would you believe, was the least personal I could imagine telling. Growing away....


Testing... testing... is this thing on?

I was just perusing some past posts and came across this personality test one. My results are thus:

introverted, secretive, messy, depressed, does not like leadership, somewhat nihilistic, observer, does not make friends easily, unassertive, feels invisible, feels undesirable, hates large parties, does not like to stand out, leisurely, suspicious, submissive, abstract, unpredictable, intellectual, likes rain, likes the unknown, negative, weird, not a risk taker, unadventurous, avoidant, strange

Hmm... yeah.

I didn't score over 60% on anything except artistic. Maybe I don't really exist.

It's rather disheartening to realize that its pretty much spot on. Well... I'm not really suspicious... and I'm not necessarily submissive either. Everything else... um... yeah.

I have this feeling that this year, 2007 (well, obviously... what other year would I be talking about?) is going to involve a lot of change for me.

Just about 1 year since my ex-fiance dumped me now. Seven years since my divorce. The year has a 7 in it, I'm going to be 33, I always like the number 21 and 7 x 3 = 21. It all means something. (cue ethereal music). Half a dozen anime-loving, searching-for-self-worth teenagers could probably figure it out.

Did my 'just for fun' yearly tarot reading the other night. Seems pretty good, except for August, where I am supposedly going to get in trouble with the law, suffer a mental breakdown and need serious therapy, and experience a "dark night of the soul." September seems okay though. :huh:


I have been trying to force myself to get out of the house more. Difficult when I have no car and access only on the weekends, but I'm working on it. The problem is, all of the things I am doing outside of the house are solitary (with kids of course - tri-solitary) and rather reclusive in themselves. Like hiking. Going out in the woods as far as I can go to get away from people. This is healthy... well, actually it is, considering I need the exercise, but I'm supposed to be more social damnit!

Sigh.... After my personality test above, I commented that 'maybe I don't really exist.' Well, I think I exist, but in some sort of hermetically sealed container that is seperate from the rest of humanity. I have some sort of mental block that makes me feel as if I am not a 'fellow human' or that other people are of no use to me. (No, I don't think I am an alien or anything!)

Yeah... that sounds wacky. I know.

Why in the hell am I spewing this all on a public forum.

[skulks] No one knows who I am... no one can find me...[/skulks]


Moving Where?

Hmm..... Where should I move?

Maine or somewhere rural in Virginia?

Virginia is closer to family (so they can visit) and does have a longer growing season.....

Hmm..... decisions.....

Wow... I typed this out a while ago and just never published it... Damn that "Draft" button.


Black Eyes and Poetry

My incredibly clumsy son, E, decided to throw himself headfirst at a computer monitor that I have sitting in the corner of the boys' room until after the holidays. I'm writing an article in the next room when I hear a "thunk" then the wailing screams of a seriously injured 8 year old.

Seven steps into the next room and there's blood pouring down his face from a split open eyebrow. I grab the nearest thing - a pair of his underwear (clean from the laundry basket) and start mopping up the blood, all the while asking him "Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Ever since the cat attack incident when he was one and that damn felis insanius ripped his eyelid open, I've been kinda phobic about his eyes.

Anyway... he can see, and he probably needed stitches to avoid a scar, but I have no health insurance, so he'll just have to deal. It'll make him look dangerous and all the teenage girls will love him someday - huge blue eyes, thick dark lashes and a scar slashing through his eyebrow.

He'll probably have a black eye for Christmas.


I've decided to undertake the task of writing a poem for my mother for Christmas. She believes in Jesus and all that stuff, and also likes to write poems. But Christmas, for some reason, depresses her. Well... I don't think its so much that it depresses her, but it makes her anxious. She gave up shopping for presents for everyone several years back since she can't handle it emotionally. And she informs us all not to get her anything since she can't reciprocate. My sisters get her things anyway. I don't buy her anything, but I scrub the house exceptionally well, and cook her favorite veggies stew with dumplings. And this year... I feel like writing her a poem.

I feel rather blah. Not depressed for a change - but blah. Happily blah - content? I'm not sure what to call it.

I wonder if I can convincingly write a M&M gay relationship? I'm currently without male gay friends - as the last one has decided to move to Spain and will be travelling for about 2 months before he decides where he will settle.

What I have to do is get my novel done by the end of February and in to that one place... Sigh.... Too much to doooooo!!!!! :wacko:

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