I Might As Well Put on my Weenie Suit Now

Because I am SOOOO going to get flamed for this. . .

I've been reading about the Steubenville rapists and victim and, while I am disgusted by the mainstream media coddling rapists -- (yes, RAPISTS.  I don't care how old they are) -- and I don't believe it was the girl's fault that she was raped, I have to believe that responsibility DOES fall on both sides.  

It's not enough that boys should be taught (TAUGHT, ugh) not to rape unconscious women -- women must be reminded to take responsibility for their actions.  Ohhh.   I can feel the feminist heat wave coming right now.

Here's what I mean.  I saw a quote from Muhammad Ali's daughter, Laila, recently -- where her dad gave her a talk about how precious she is and how her clothing reflects how she values herself.  

http://www.therevival.co.uk/blogs/northen-southener/boxer-muhammad-alis-advice-his-daughter

(Unverified source but you get the message right?)

An incident transpired when Muhammad Ali's daughters arrived at his home wearing clothes that were quite revealing. Here is the story as told by one of his daughters:

“When we finally arrived, the chauffeur escorted my younger sister, Laila, and me up to my father's suite. As usual, he was hiding behind the door waiting to scare us. We exchanged many hugs and kisses as we could possibly give in one day. My father took a good look at us. Then he sat me down on his lap and said something that I will never forget. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Hana, everything that God made valuable in the world is covered and hard to get to. Where do you find diamonds? Deep down in the ground, covered and protected. Where do you find pearls? Deep down at the bottom of the ocean, covered up and protected in a beautiful shell. Where do you find gold? Way down in the mine, covered over with layers and layers of rock. You've got to work hard to get to them."

He looked at me with serious eyes. "Your body is sacred. You're far more precious than diamonds and pearls, and you should be covered too."

I understand this message.  It's the one that my parents gave me when I turned old enough to notice boys and for them to notice me.  

I also remember my friends in college -- not all of them, certainly, but enough with their girly parts hanging out, trying to attract male attention.  I never understood why it was so important to have a man value a woman for her physical gifts and not for a sense of humor, smarts, wits, financial security, etc.  ANYONE with 3 grand can have a hot rack.  Anyone can have one-night stands.  It takes a LOT more to make a relationship, at least with anyone who matters.  

When do we start teaching daughters that they MUST value themselves before anyone else ?  When does it become clear that the models on the billboards are selling something OTHER than clothes/perfume/whatever the flavor of the month is ?  When is it okay to be "not the cute one" ?  When is it okay NOT to have the trendy clothes, the perfect nose, to be defined by size (and women are vicious on this one), to be allowed to be an individual and not a Hollister or AE clone ?  

Why are so many mothers allowing their daughters to skip this lesson ?  Why ALSO are so many mothers PERPETUATING this myth ?  The one that says if you are beautiful, popular, catty -- you are part of the elite and that's enough.  You can pick on the weak, cheat, lie, drink until you pass out and NOTHING WILL HAPPEN TO YOU !!  When did mothers abdicate their responsibilities to their daughters and allow them to lower their protective instincts enough so that predators CAN PREY ON THEM ?  Beat them.  Rape them.  Take naked pictures (which NEVER EVER EVER go away on the Internet).

When did so many parents decide that their daughters weren't valuable ?  And WHY do we keep having to have this same discussion ?  The Accused with Jodie Foster came out in 1988 with the EXACT SAME MESSAGE.  That's 25 years ago, folks.  25 years in which women continue to be blamed for what men do.  We continue to blame women for what they wear (or don't wear) and let guys slide because they can throw a damn ball.  This HAS TO STOP.  The blame has to stop, but the lessons MUST continue.  

Thoughts ?

The Forgotten

I guess you're never too old to get your feelings hurt.  

I am living outside of my "Southern Comfort zone" and it really hit home today.  A previous work friend posted that he was so thankful for "all his friends" that had helped with a work party and it hit me that I wasn't even invited to participate.  *** instant flashback to junior high ***

I've had problems with this before -- it's like, when I'm not in close proximity to people, I'm instantly forgotten.  And I don't understand this -- but I also know that I remember people for far longer than I probably should.  

Maybe it's because of where I grew up, where there weren't many people and those that *were* there, stayed there.  We didn't have a lot of folks move in and out -- if you were in my school, there was a very good chance that you would be there for 9, 10, 11, 12 years.  And you might not ever move away even after school.  

Even so, I didn't make really close friends in high school, but I tried.  I didn't make really close friends in college -- but I tried.  I have made friends in every work environment I've ever been in, but again. . . not really "close", "tight" friendships -- more like people you connect with on Facebook to catch up and check in on a few times a year, with two exceptions.  I made friends in Houston that I still have and I made friends up here at a consulting company that I am still in touch with.

I guess what I'm not getting is. . . how this works.  I try *so hard* to be polite, mind my manners, bring thoughtful gifts, be funny, get invited back, and make sure that I am memorable (because that is how my parents/grandparents raised me) and it. JUST. DOESN'T. WORK.

Anyhow -- maybe there's a Friends for Dummies book out there somewhere.  Maybe.  

Maybe I could write it someday.

Thoughts ?

So. . . I Got De-Friended Yesterday

And it's not really a huge surprise. It's been coming for a while, I guess.

An old schoolmate of mine kept posting his views on politics and religion. Okay -- no problem there, except that we disagree on so many things. Again, we're both adults -- so, it's okay that he has his views and I have mine.

EXCEPT. I got tired of him preaching to me (and everyone else) that we are doing religion wrong. I had several conversations with him saying that I believe religion is a very personal decision and that each person has to come to terms with their faith in their own way, based on their own experiences. Nope. He continued to bombard our shared social network with his views on who is (and who is not) preaching the "true" gospel and who is leading people down the path of "health and wealth".

Seems to me that God is running a huge RV park for us and here's what I mean by that: There's an enormous space fenced off and set aside for believers and however you get to that space should be up to you. There are certain rules for living in that space (which I struggle with), but we all don't get there off the same exit. What upsets me about the de-friender is that, not only was he telling people what exit he wanted them to take, he was berating them if they came to the RV park via a side road.

I also find it grating that he would not even begin a conversation about how he might be running people away from Christianity with his inflexibility. It's not like God put him in charge at the gate. GOD is in charge of the gate. (And the entire RV park, for that matter.) I believe that we are in charge of helping as many people as possible to know about that park and to show them, by our words and deeds, as many ways to enter that park as possible.

His view of things was not to reply to me -- to start that conversation -- but to wait until his choir chimed in, reinforcing his entrenchedness. He feeds on "amen, brother", but not "well, but there's more than one way to look at this". He is the very essence of the current Republican wingnut fringe and that scares me.

It worries me that his stubbornness cost him a friend or two along the way. It worries me more that he is going to have to answer to the Man Upstairs for shoving others off the path because they didn't do it his way.

Thoughts ?

The Big Fat Nag Says:

Eat your vegetables !

Yeah, yeah -- you don't like squash. Okay, eat a carrot. Really ? You don't like carrots ? What about a parsnip ? No ? Asparagus ? Beets ? Green beans ?

OH, C'MON.

I will admit to thinking that greens and turnips are nasty, but -- really -- eat some veggies every day. You'll thank me someday.

NB: Deep-fried potatoes DO NOT COUNT as vegetables. Nor is ketchup. I don't care what McDonalds says.

Thoughts ?

Man Plans. . . God Laughs

Sooo. . . where to begin ?

DH and I completed our vacation to the Eastern Caribbean and returned home on the 22nd of January. He immediately went back to work on Monday and I began the task/s of restoring the house to some sort of order -- emptying suitcases, washing clothes, soothing frantic animals.

The chair for the living room was delivered on the 25th, so we now have one chair that needs another home.

Plus, his Christmas present finally arrived, so he now has a decent chair in which to work at home -- but that now means that we have two chairs to go somewhere else.

I dropped the dog off at "preschool" on Tuesday and did a bunch of errands, including rescheduling jury duty and moving his haircut up to Wednesday, so that DH didn't have to do it on the weekend. =)

I already had a trip planned out of state, leaving on 2/6, but I got a call on the 30th saying that a dear friend of mine was not doing well and that we probably needed to go ahead and make plans to go see him. That's when the storm/s shut down DFW. I got a call on Wednesday morning letting me know that he was returned to his Maker the night before.

It's times like these that I don't understand how stuff works. Since he was diagnosed last year, our paths have not crossed again. If I was in town, he was away. I think of him as one of my best friends, even tho we didn't get to see each other often and he was the closest thing I've ever had to a brother.

It just seems so strange that we place so much importance on the minor annoyances in our life, while the major stuff sometimes gets shunted aside for "another day".

I'm just sad that I don't have "another day" with Howard.

Thoughts ?

How Can It Be Friday Already ?

In less than three hours, we will be on our way to our vacation.

I left my position on Tuesday and will be fulfilling some other plans for the rest of the year.

For those of you who might be reading, the thanks for the previous four years of support still stand and I hope that the next year will be one of the most interesting and exciting. I'm so privileged to be able to share it.

I am packed and ready to go -- which may count as a minor miracle. . .

Thoughts ?

I Am Bored Tonight

And I am now looking around to see which deceased grandparent is about to put me to work doing something where I don't ever say that I am bored again.

It's weird. I should be asleep. My body is tired, but my brain won't shut off. Unfortunately, this also means that I feel the need to share this with the world, but hey. . . at least I'm keeping it clean. =P

I had strawberry French toast, buttery hash browns and two scrambled eggs for breakfast on Saturday and now, that's all I can think of. It's bizarre, but I can almost still smell the potatoes. They were delicious.

I'm also thinking of planting flowers in the next few days -- pansies, most likely, just in case we still have a freeze hiding in the weather wings. And I'll try to plant strawberries in my front porch planter as well. They didn't do well last year, but I'm hoping for better luck this time.

I have several jewelry ideas that I can't get past the brain stage -- they keep getting stuck up there and not being able to come out my fingers. I also still need one single pink briolette, but I haven't found the exact piece that I want to wire as a bail. Maybe I'll look again at Shipwreck -- I can usually find there I like. =P

If you haven't figured it out, I'm not only bored, but I'm trying to get myself back in the habit of blogging on a more regular basis. I am beginning to think that it may be the only thing that's going to keep me sane. . . or at least less crazy. =P

I am having such a hard time living in the present. I am either thinking 10-20 years in the past or I'm already planning for this summer. Why is that ? (Yeah, I think I already know. . . )

I don't think the caffeine is wearing off, but the urge to write is, so signing off for the night.

Mediocrity is my watchword. Hear me roa. . . um. . . yeah.

Thoughts ?

Because I Don't Post Enough. . . =)P

Two very fun words that I think are interesting:

Smuggle

And

Fancy

And if you are a fancy smuggler, well. . . I just may not survive.

Thoughts ?

When is Enough Actually Enough ?

The events of the last couple of weeks have gotten me thinking -- when is it time ? When is it enough ?

Those of you (all four of you, God bless ya) who read this blog regularly probably know where I'm coming from and, as such, I plan to write this as obliquely as possible and ask for your comments to remain the same.

I've always been one who was adaptable to change in limited amounts or over given stretches of time. My limits are rapidly being overrun and my patience is rapidly being depleted. No. That's a lie. My patience is gone. Gone. G.O.N.E.

I am having a Ferris Beuller's Cameron moment where he says that he will not allow someone else to dictate the events of his life. I am being held by the illusion of flexibility and the goodwill and camaraderie of my colleagues, but I am starting to look at my options very closely. I do not want to be the one to turn the lights out when the party is over, nor do I want to hold to the bird in the hand when there might be one in the bush, especially since the one in my hand is currently pecking me to the bone.

None of this makes sense on the surface -- who would give up something solid for the ethereal ? Someone who's getting the junk kicked out of them on a daily basis, that's who. Someone who is not seeing leadership. Someone who is seeing the writing on the wall.

16 weeks. My dad used to tell me that I could do nearly anything for a period of time that I set. Well, Daddy -- let's see if that's still true.

Thoughts ?

A Fork in the Road

Otherwise known as the road less taken.

I've wondered about the road less taken for a long time. I find myself wondering about jobs that I did not take and places that I did not live, schools I did not attend and what other choices I might have made.

Don't get me wrong -- I accept the choices that I've made and I don't necessarily regret any of them. I'm just wondering about what might have been. I've always heard that a re-examination of your life every ten years is appropriate, but I seem to be either late or reeeeally early this time.

I've been kicking the idea of returning to school around for quite a while and I'm starting to feel myself leaning more and more towards that fork. I just hate to have to keep starting over and always starting from scratch. Maybe another degree will be the extra "oomph" that I need in order to sell my brain and have someone appreciate the small talents that I actually possess.

I also dream about teaching. I love sharing knowledge with others, but am a little apprehensive about taking something that I love so much and possibly losing that love by having to actually do it on a daily basis.

My last dream is to be a full-time mom, but -- let's face it -- that one may be beyond me. The hands (and sands) of time wait for no man, but I had to wait a very long time for mine. Still, there are always children that need families -- all it ever takes is money, love, and time.

Back to the fork/s, I suppose.

Thoughts ?

The Reason My Knee Goes "POP"

So. . . the short answer goes like this: I went skiing. Once.

Yes, friends and neighbors, it only took me one time to absolutely destroy my right knee.

Here's what happened (thanks, Monk !) --

I went to Ruidoso, New Mexico, for a quick ski trip with some church friends back when I was young and dumb. (No, not last week -- this has been many years ago.) We got up there, got our stuff unpacked, and headed for the slopes ! My friend told me that she would teach me to ski and that I didn't even need to take the lessons -- besides, those were for the little kids, anyhow.

I should have known better, but again -- young and dumb. Anyhow, about 30 minutes later, I found myself skiing downhill, which was not so bad, EXCEPT I was going much faster than I planned, I couldn't figure out how to "steer" exactly, and I could see what was in front of me -- the huge steel pole holding up the ski lift. This was gonna be BAD.

I weighed my options and figured I could just throw myself to the side and land in the snow. It wouldn't be fun, but way less painful than hitting that pole head-on, right ? Mmhmm. I flung myself over to the right and, as I did, the toe of my right ski caught. On the snow. And did. Not. Move. Nor, I found out later, did the bindings release. These are both bad things, apparently.

Here's the plus to all this -- I now have first-hand knowledge of what it sounds like when a ligament breaks. Not tears. Not stretches. Breaks. (For those of you who were wondering, it sounds like KA-POW!) At this point, I am now flat on my hiney in the snow in what my husband has been kind enough to tell me is called a "yard sale". I realize that I have done something very bad, but I'm at least bright enough to SIT THERE and not make it worse.

My friend, who was skiing behind me, has seen all this occur and so she stops by me and says "Hey, you okay ?" I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that I was not in a good place and that the ski patrol was going to need to come get me. That poor girl. . . her first follow-up question was "Are you sure ?" I'd never realized that I could use my eyes as lasers until then. And. . . she skied off to get 'em.

About ten minutes later, the lovely ski patrol folks discovered me sitting quietly in the snow. I didn't realize they would scold you, but their first statement was "if you'd have crossed your skis, we'd have known to come get you earlier". I calmly replied, "if I'da known to do so, I assure you I would have" and grinned at them. "I've been here about half an hour and it's my first time skiing." Boy, that seemed to freak them out a little.

It always looks fun when other people get to ride down the mountain while others are carrying you. It's not. It's very disorienting because all you can see is the sky. Well. . . and other people who STARE AT YOU. That's VERY disturbing.

An hour later, I was in the ER with people trying to cut my borrowed ski pants off me. Um -- no. I told the doc that I would get the pants off, but he absolutely did not believe me. I said, "okay -- give me 10 minutes and come back". Still have no idea how I did it, but I did. Doc came back in and gave me the big eye. I guess he's never dealt with that kind of determined woman. After that, it was off to X-ray. I already knew I hadn't broken any bones, but I couldn't figure out what that pop was earlier.

It's a weird thing when the doc won't tell you what kind of damage you've done -- I guess he thought I would freak out or lose it or something. He had also seen the scars from the previous arthros on both knees and let me know that I would "need to see my orthopedic guy". All I wanted to know was how bad it was. Nope. Apparently, that needed to be a secret. Weird. Psst -- here's a secret. The radio tech will tell ya as long as you promise not to cry or hold him to his preliminary diagnosis. Yep.

Cut to me going home a couple days later. Why didn't I go home that day ? *meh* Wouldn't have done any good and all of us needed to get a little more sleep before driving home (p.s. -- I was not going to be doing any of the driving, ya see).

Got home and talked with my orthopod -- who was, honestly, not terribly surprised to see me. I think he always suspected that I would revisit him after those original arthros -- just probably not for something this serious.

MRIs are fun. When you don't realize that there's metal in your brace that the ER gave you and no one actually checks it (they just take your word that there's no metal that you KNOW of in it), the MRI machine just sucks that long blade of metal RIGHT INTO THE MACHINE. Oops. They got it fixed without having to shut down the machine, thank goodness, and loaded me in like I was a microwave burrito. I think I was one of the very few people that they'd ever seen who fell ASLEEP during the procedure. It's so weird -- it sounds like someone banging on a tin roof panel with a rubber mallet and a ball peen hammer -- how hard can that be to sleep through ? =P

Surgery was less fun, even though I got to sleep through that as well. Actually, the sleeping through it was WAY easy -- it was when I was conscious again that the nightmare began. Apparently ONE pound and TEN pounds look the same when someone fills up the icepack. Okay, maybe not TEN pounds, but. . . it felt like a hundred and I know that's just ridiculous to think about. Ow. Ow, ow, ow. That's pretty much all I said/thought about for the next several hours. Oh, and Vicodin ? Pfft. Does not even touch the pain - just makes your brain mushy. Three or four days of that nonsense and I decided that was not something I needed any more of. Ugh.

Home to recover before I got set up with PT. PT is physical therapy and normal people actually go to facilities that offer this option. Since I did something amazingly stupid and "broke my knee" in a tiny little town, I got to do all my PT at the local high school. Yes. I was between college semesters and I'm getting hit on by the high school football boys. (I could not make this stuff up.)

The coach who oversaw and administered the PT under my doc's instructions could not have been better, btw, but I'll tell ya what. I have never hated a bicycle more. I hated the stationary bike, I hated the Cybex machine, I hated the whirlpool, and I hated the training table. Oh. Did I mention that to GET to these demonic devices, I had to go down a flight of stairs ? On crutches ? With a FULL LEG brace on ? Oh, mais oui ! Five times a week for multiple months. Oh, yes.

Here it is by the numbers: 30 minutes of skiing equals 6 months on crutches, 9 months in a brace, 12 months in PT and 12K for the knee repair.

And that, dear readers, is why I have never skied again and why my knee goes "pop".

Thoughts ?

Random Things. . .

Mus-thard, cus-thard, and YOU, poo-poo head !

Run, Shermy, run !

(Please don't ask me to explain -- just know that I HAD to get this out of my head.)

Thoughts ?

Waking Up on a Lazy Saturday Morning

HEY !

*INSTANT ALERT*

What ? Are you okay ?

NO ! GET DOWN HERE !

*grab glasses from nightstand*
*propel myself in the air out from under the covers*
*run down stairs*
What's the matter ? What is it ?

IT'S A SNAKE !

*process*
*did he say "snake" ?*
*process*
*why is there a snake in my house ?*
*process*
*remember that I'm not in West Texas any more and that this probably means that it's not a poisonous snake*
*continue running down stairs*

I skid into the living room to find my husband holding our black cat who is struggling to get down and a small dark (think garter or grass) snake on my living room carpet. Snake is less wiggly than cat, but still. . . !

I need a box or something. . .

I reach over and grab a small basket for my cake supplies and toss it over snake. Husband allows cat to get down while he grabs shoes. We slide my craft board under snake, but oopsie. His tail is still out of the basket. Kismet IMMEDIATELY spots the flaw in our plan and goes to thwack snake tail.

Long story short: adrenaline is the best ! Husband took snake across the street to release. Kismet is pouting. No puncture wounds on anyone.

Thoughts ?

Verboten Terms

Quick hits -- I'll give YOU a quick hit if you use this again. (Or low-hanging fruit, either. Really ? Have you seen a lot of mango trees at YOUR office lately ? No -- I thought not.)

Amazing -- I am so sick of this word and it's partially my fault. Damn you, reality television ! (I'm looking straight at you, you so-called "Real" housewives. Pssht. Real, my left hind fanny.)

Rock Star -- as in "you're my rock star". No. I'm not. I'm the grunt that gets it done for about a tenth of the money you would have to pay anyone else.

Outrageous -- why ? Why do things have to be "outrageous" ? (Or "extreme", for that measure ?) Why isn't it enough just to have normal things ?

Bandwidth -- I am not a network pipe. I am a people.

Circle back -- because we are all pioneers in our wagons. Oh, suuuure. Mmmhmm.

Resource -- when used in conversations that involve actual human beings. This is only slightly more demeaning than the term FTE, which enjoyed its glory days in the late 80's. Criminy -- you are talking about colleagues, employees, "associates", "members", technicians, people, anything but a word also used to describe unsmelted ore. I am a unique little snowflake with very specific talents, I am not a cog in the machine.

Update -- had to add "take it to another level". I have somewhere you can take this. It's that big trash bin over there.

Thoughts ?

Because My Husband Likes Popsicles

And I like the jokes on the sticks.

What do you give a snake with allergies ?













Anti-hissssss-tamines.

*dies laughing*

Thoughts ?

Dammit, People -- What's Your PROBLEM ?

To Congress -- QUIT BEING PART OF THE PROBLEM and EARN your money. Knock off all this partisan crap and GET R DUN. The people that elected you should ask for their campaign contributions back (no, I'm not kidding at all) if you continue to pass things like the non-binding resolution of Geronimo's courage and not work on small items like the FREAKING stimulus bill/s.

FOLKS ! Pay attention !

Also -- earmark THIS. Quit thinking about yourselves for a change and think about what is best for the ENTIRE country. Judas Priest, but you people are stupid and shortsighted.

To the lobbyists: (I can't even say anything here because my gag reflex just kicks in.)

To AIG: No. No more. Go ask France for a loan.

To Rush Limbaugh: Shut it. Or get your Oxy refilled. No. . . actually. . . just shut it. You too, Bill Maher. Neither of you is nearly as smart as you think you are. Both of you should be classified as "entertainers". . . except neither of you actually IS entertaining.

To the Democrats: Quit just pitching money at the problem. Use your Harvard and Yale educations and actually THINK about where money would be best spent. And, if I have to come up there and show you people how to use the damn line item veto option, I will.

To the Republicans: Shut up and help. Quit pointing fingers because, honestly ? Y'all have absolutely nothing going on right now that's better. And. . . there were eight years of. . . eesh. How much has the Iraq "War on Terror" cost this country ? Right. Think about that when you are pointing at the earmarks and such.

To GM: Gee. . . it sure would have been smart of y'all to start working on hybrid cars about 10 years ago, wouldn't it ? Since your CEO saw fit to run you in the ground and y'all are thinking about declaring bankruptcy to restructure your debt. . .how's he looking now ? Oh, yeah -- and he's the one that got BONUS. ES ! last year. How smart was that ? (Also, Ford ? Looking at you too, so don't get all high and mighty.)

To Wall Street: Are you proud of yourselves ? I hope every one of you dishonest, greedy SOBs get indicted and fined out the hoohah. I want you to have to live where the lower middle class have to live and I want YOU to worry about foreclosure and how to pay off student loans and that your 401K is in the toilet. I want you to suffer like you made other people suffer. (Plus. . .John Thain should be forced to bag groceries at the local Sak-N-Pak on the graveyard shift for the rest of his natural life. Prison is too good for him.)

To the folks who can't seem to manage your budgets: Have you got it now ? Do you now understand the very simple math that says if you're bringing in about 40K a year, a 500K or more house is probably WAY out of your price range ? Do you now understand the acronym APR on the credit card statements ? Do you ?

To Octomom: Words fail me. Speaking of fail. . . my Lord, woman, but you are. Epic phail. Absolutely epic.

I still don't really feel better, but I just had to get this off my chest and out of my head.

Thoughts ?

Commercials Are Getting Worse

I cite Mucinex as an example.

They have an animated booger and their tagline is "Mucinex in, mucus out".

What ? They couldn't call it Snot-B-Gon ?

Thoughts ?

Because I Know The Internet Wants to Know My Opinion on the Octuplets

Here's the deal as I see it:

Ms. Suleman wanted a "big family". Okay.

She is a single mother.
She has no home of her own.
She has no discernible income stream.

Whu ? HOW ?

And, she managed to get some doctor to set her up with more than the six children under 7 that SHE ALREADY HAD AT HOME ! *boggle*

I have a lot of issues with this, but here's my main problem with this -- by somehow managing to whelp (yes, whelp) eight children at once, she has attracted enough media attention to potentially PAY for this incredibly bad decision. (Smell like the bank bailouts, anyone ?)

What would have happened had she NOT had eight at once ? Who would have paid for the kids that she already had ? And, while we're on that subject, who is going to pay for the hospital costs of this last birth ? And the costs of bringing them up -- the food, formula, diapers, college educations, and. . . let's not kid ourselves. . . therapy.

These children are going to be some of the most photographed, documented, and hounded children ever born. And their mother has condemned them to this because she wanted "a big family".

Thoughts ?

Update: Ms. Suleman wants to use STUDENT. LOANS. to fund her decision, "temporarily".
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29117041/
Three of her older children are already classified as "disabled" and receive SSI payments as well as food stamps. Kaiser Permanente is also asking for Medi-Cal to cover the cost of the births.

But. . . Ms. Suleman does not see this as "asking for welfare" -- she sees this as "programs for people in need".

Oh. Mah. Head. I hope someday that someone will be able to explain the "need" for fourteen children under the age of 8 -- when you have NO WAY TO PAY FOR THEM YOURSELF. (That's my essential gripe, you see. I don't care if she wants to have a zillion kids - that is her choice. It is MY choice, however, not to want to pay for other people's kids. My choice (and everyone else's) has been trumped because we all want to do "what's best for the children". Except, we really don't. Because, if we really did, this woman would not have been ALLOWED to have eight, 8, more.)

Memory Lane -- M***** Manor

So. . . I've been promising myself that I would start writing some of the stories that I have rattling around in my brain because I know too many people who wonder just why I am the way I am.

Here's one. . . between my freshman and sophomore years in college, a friend of mine talked me in to remaining in our college town for the summer instead of going back home. We thought we might be able to set up a rooming arrangement with one of our male friends, but my dad thought otherwise.

I was able, finally, to talk him in to the "apartment" idea when I explained that the male element would be removed from the equation and it would be just me and Rita * rooming together.

Ohhhh. . . if he had only known that this would be the greater of two evils.

So. . . we put all my dorm stuff in storage and head out on a road trip with some other college friends. When we get back, you see, we will take that stuff and use it to furnish an apartment. Makes perfect sense. . .

Rita and I agree to split the rent this way: I will cover the first month fully, we split the second month, and then she covers the third month. She tells me this is better for her because her dad is a little weird about "covering expenses". Mmkay.

We come back from the road trip (which involves 1) her losing our running buddies on a trip where she did not know where we were going -- Mapquest & Google were not available at that time so we were caravanning. She got impatient at the speed our caravanners were going so she drove off from them. I found out about this when I woke up in Denton, 2) a Sting album that I still cannot listen to because she played it over. and. over, 3) a tornado, AND 4) a flood on the way back. Yeah, the only thing we missed out on were the locusts and boils. So fun.) and pull my stuff out of storage. Her stuff travelled with us on the road trip. In the back of the truck. Yes. You read correctly. That's when I found out where the apartment was. Let me just mention that the words "not the best neighborhood" do not come close to describing the property. Brrr.

Second floor. Up the stairs. All the way to the back. Dragging our stuff past every resident (not "neighbor") on the left side. Ohhhhh, yeah. One-bedroom apartment. With Edgar. Who is Edgar, you ask ? Edgar is. . .the couch with the pullout bed. The HEAVY couch. The hernia-inducing couch. Edgar. So. . . we settle in for our summer apartment life. I took the one bedroom in the back because, after all, Rita had Edgar. And Edgar stayed in the living room.

Did I happen to mention that Rita was dating two guys ? Yep. Oh, and that they were really good friends ? Were. Mmmhmmm. *shrug* I gave up being outraged about it because I was learning that it really wouldn't make a dang bit of difference to her and. . . I didn't want to hurt their feelings. Plus, they were all grown-ups. Sorta.

Except for. . . that one night.

The night that Rita and Ted ** did the nasty. On the floor. In the living room. WHEN I WAS HOME. Please understand -- I was in the bedroom in the back, with the door closed, when. . . I heard the dreaded sound. At this point, of course, I have two options. Neither of them is good. I can 1) try to ignore it and turn up the television as loud as it will go to cover the . . . noises or 2) I can walk THROUGH the living room, PAST THEM, NAKED, open the door, walk through our scary apartment complex by myself, get in my truck IN THE DARK BY MYSELF, in the SCARY NEIGHBORHOOD, and go. . . NOWHERE BY MYSELF.

Being a reasonably sensible girl, all I can say is. . . Thank God for Johnny Carson. Go Doc !

And this was not the worst of it.

Ohhh, noooooo. About a week later, the other guy found out about it/her/the other guy. Yeah, our (my) social opportunities pretty much went in the dumper after that because "awkward" does not EVEN begin to cover it.

That seems like enough, right. Nope. I is a slow learner.

I went back home during the second month to help teach Vacation Bible School. Yeah, yeah, quit laughing. I wrote a check for my half of the rent and left it with Rita. I am gone almost four days. Mind you, I TOLD her where I was going and what I was doing. She also had my contact numbers.

Imagine my surprise to get a call. From the Property Manager. Letting me know that I have three days to get my stuff and pay the rest of the rent. Whu ? Yes, boys and girls, Rita never PAID the second half for the second month. She just. . . didn't.

I explain to the Property Manager that I am about 300 miles from her and that I have one more day to go at VBS, but that I will be there as soon as I can to make the arrangements to work it out. I explain to my mom what happened and what I need to do. My mom provides suggestions and prevents me from immediately driving six hours to commit a "slight" homicide.

I am enraged as I drive back down. Livid.

I zoom in to the apartments in time to see Rita getting the last of HER stuff out of the apartment. She has already packed up all her things and is going. . . I dunno. . . somewhere else. Her best friend from high school has come down, on a bus, to help her pack. (This seems random, but I assure you, it figures in to the story later.) Rita refuses to speak to me when I get there. Refuses. To speak. To me. Because I am "mad". At her. She states that she "will get the rest of her stuff later" and leaves. With her friend.

My mom, who is awesome, helps me pack up all the rest of the stuff (my stuff) and get it into my truck. I go down and figure out from the Property Manager what has happened and get THAT straightened out as well.

Later that day, I go over to the "other guy's" place and Rita just happens to call him. She has taken her friend TO THE MALL and is doing a LITTLE SHOPPING. With the RENT MONEY. That she "does not have". When I YELL at her, she "does not understand" why I am so upset. Her guy is also confused at why I am SCREAMING at her. (I do not often scream at people -- instead I talk very softly as my rage increases. Just a handy note.)

Suffice it to say, I do not remember many of the details of the call, but here's the footnote to the whole thing: she also managed to abandon her friend (BEST FRIEND !) in San Antonio and my mom (remember ? The awesome one ?) paid to get that girl a bus ticket home because she was crying and didn't know how she was getting back. I have never spoken to Rita again.

I drove home poorer, but wiser. Rita became a lawyer. ***

Thoughts ?

* name has been changed to protect the absolutely idiotic.
** name has also been changed, but only because I think he got the raw end of the deal -- no pun intended.
*** No, I'm not kidding.

ERGH.

Don'tcha just love coming in from shopping to find a trail of small feathers leading to a body on your living room floor ?

ME NEITHER.

Nor was I terribly impressed to see that whatever cat did the deed also decided to tap dance on the plastic surrounding the new cookie sheets I got for Christmas. *double frown*

Cats - one more
Birds - one less.

Robert thinks I should quit feeding the birds. I think I am at least giving them the calories to put up a fight.

Thoughts ?