Does This Fur Coat Make Me Look Fat?

Too bad I don't have a Princess Leia slave girl action figure to place next to the cat.

Actually, the cat isn't getting bigger, the chair just keeps getting smaller.

It's sort of like Alice In Wonderland, except it's the furniture that shrinks instead of the pets.

That's what I keep telling him anyway. I wouldn't want to injure his self esteem.

The other pets don't feel this way though. They have begun to stage rather heated interventions.


The dogs couldn't agree if it's the carbs or the lack of exercise that's the main culprit.

The cat just gazed into the kitchen and plotted how to eat a hole in the cat food bag and never come out again.

No resolution was reached.

I think it's time to invest in that Princess Leia slave girl figure and call it a day.

Acme Ipod Repair

I should get a job at the Apple "Genius" bar.

My 80 gig Ipod was having seizures months and months ago and since it would have cost, you know, money to get it fixed, I put it away.

It's been riding around in my purse for months, vying for my attention with unwrapped pieces of Juicy Fruit and clean but tattered tissues. (The kind that, when your friend needs a Kleenex and you produce one from your purse, she will look at you skeptically and surreptitiously examine it for old boogers before daring to touch it to her oh so delicate proboscis.)

Never throw away those unwrapped pieces of gum. I live in a fantasy world where one day some horrible event will take place right in front of me and Richard Dean Anderson will appear and begin to frantically search his pockets for the one thing that will save the day. Juicy Fruit gum. (It will have to be Juicy Fruit do to some chemical reaction that would occur if Double Mint was used. That's why the bitch standing next to me waving her pack of Double Mint under his nose gets TOTALLY IGNORED.) One day I will prevent another 9/11, Murrah Federal Building, Texas chain saw massacre with a stick of Juicy Fruit and Richard Dean Anderson. This is the reason that I change my underwear everyday.

It can be really draining to live in my world.

Side note: How do sticks of gum become undressed in a purse? Is there some sort of faction of ultra liberal sticks of gum that feel they need to go "natural" before they die?

Yes...yes...I was going somewhere with all this before I saw that deer and hit that tree...my Ipod! I pulled it out last night, charged it up, and was able to actually put things on it AS GOD INTENDED.

The computer didn't suddenly vomit, I Tunes didn't suddenly freeze, and that whole issue with the green smoke emanating from the headphone jack? Gone!

I don't think I'm a mere Genius...I think I'm a soooooooooper Genius.

This is where I realize I'm holding the lit stick of TNT, right?

Hello Mr. King, Allow Me To Introduce Myself

It makes me wonder if I would have been quoted had I chosen to talk about one of my common themes: Dog poop.

But today is not for dog poop. Today is for paint.

Red paint.

With the blue painter's tape, I don't know whether to keep painting or start singing "God Bless America".

I have a tendency to get involved in projects such as these and I will ruminate on it and think about it even when I'm not actually doing it. It's either called creativity or mental illness, frankly I think the two go hand in hand.

Perhaps this is why I had nightmares all night long. All frickin' night long! I haven't had such awful nightmares since I was a mere puff of a child.

Stress? Nah.

I know my stress dream. It's the dream that I had every night for about five or six months. That's the one where I am lying face down in the middle of the road in the dark and when I lift my face up to look down the road, I see the headlights of an oncoming car. I then proceed to realize that I am either paralyzed or on a sheet of ice or somehow immobilized and unable to escape from the path of the oncoming car. I always wake up when the car bumper is right in front of my face. I'm usually drenched in what I can only hope is sweat.

No, last night was honest to god Gothic haunted house horror happenings. (Say that three times fast.)

Last night was sponsored by HP Lovecraft and Anne Rice.

It involved vampires. Lots and lots of vampires. I would jerk awake in terror only to go right back into the dream where it left off.

It wasn't until I started painting again this morning that I began to put two and two together. Red...red...red...red...red paint...red...red...red...red blood

Red...red...red...RED RUM RED RUM RED RUM!!!!

OH MY GOD!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!

I really think I need to take a shower, wash the paint out of my hair, and get out of this house cuz those freaky twin girls standing in my hallway are starting to GET ON MY NERVES!!!

Saturdays Are For Painting

I'd like to smooth the waters a bit today. I'm aiming for a universal Zen like calm in the universe. What shall we discuss?
Abortion?
Gay Marriage?
Gay married people that want to get abortions?
Gay married people that want to get abortions and have the government pay for them while also subsidizing the removal of granny from her ventilator?

Yeah...I'm still working on that Zen thing.

Perhaps I should limit my discussions to the ever popular, thrill a minute topic of painting.

I will be painting in our mudroom today. Since I'm still waiting for the bathroom window, I can't do anything there but I'm feeling the need to tape up the living room and corral the furniture.
I can foresee breaking out the red paint for trim today.

I've been dying to break out the red.

Red is the color that I have been lately. Red purse, red sweater, and soon to be red trim. The way I paint, I'll soon be covered head to toe in red and then go out to pick up my mail.

I will be the source of all the zombie apocalypse rumors emanating from Lakeside.

No, I don't want your brains, just your body. In my house. With a paintbrush.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate! - Form Of A Cold Hearted Bitch!

I am going to take a page out of my rockin' daughter's playbook. It comes from absolutely ignoring that 50 ton elephant in the room that is both asthmatic and flatulent, You begin by sticking your fingers in your ears and following the mantra "sunshine, lollipops. and the delicate first flowers of spring," and then, after several hours of chanting, you begin to hold your gracefully poised hands under your chin and sleepily blink as the the fairy dust gently rocks you to an imaginary land filled with love, and the milk of human kindness.

And no one is ever sad. Except when your children utter the occasional phrase of "How I really don't like myself". It's then the flatulent elephant makes his presence known and all of your years of telling your kid how amazing they are start to unravel before your eyes.

You can visualize the insomnia, you can empathize with it wholeheartedly. You can listen to their stories and instead of the fluffy clouds of sparkling purity that were once surrounding you in your attempt to "move on" and "get a life", you look down to see your children's hearts in your hands.

And you start to notice that flatulent elephant in the room. And you start to stick your fingers in the many whole of their hearts, trying to stem the bleeding.

The dutch boy had it easy.

But anger is a bad thing. It is wrong to look around at the people that played a part in this destruction for they will proclaim their innocence. They just wanted to do what they wanted to do.

Your kids were just collateral damage. And so were you. So buck up and start smelling those unicorn farts, cuz they smell like skittles. Buck up! Stop whining! Get the fuck over it. It's history. You're just playing the victim. You're a whiner and a loser and JUST PLAIN MEAN.

It's not right to ignore the strides that fucked up women make after they get done fucking up your life.

It's also cruel to be hateful to STBX's siblings when they were just trying to convince you how much he really loves his kids.

Words can be said to "come from the horse's mouth". They can also be said to "come from the horse's ass."

But if I state my belief that kids should come first and their protection should be paramount above all else and the definition of love does not include molestation and physical beating and emotional torment, I have the sneaking suspicion that I would start to get the doe eyed lecture myself.

"Just because he did these things to the kids, doesn't mean he doesn't love them."

There are no bad people. Just bad choices. Let's join hands and sing!

No, I do frame my arguments with anger. It's the anger that makes me a "sanctimonious bitch". It's the anger of incredulity at anyone that could choose their own self interests over their children. It's the anger of incredulity that a mother with a son could even attempt to defend a perpetrator because he had "had a hard life". It's easy to say that when dear Uncle Tracy wasn't playing "cho cho train" with your little boy in the dark. Don't worry, I'm sure if he would have, you would be able to separate out your feelings and still agree that poor Uncle Tracy really had his best interests in mind. I'm sure he loved him too...every night for years.

I don't give a shit about any of it. I care that every day, I try to find the words to say to make things better for my kids. I try to tell them that they are loved. That they are wonderful human beings. That above anyone else in the world, I will always have their back.

As Charles Baudelaire said, "I cultivate my hysteria with joy and terror"

And with a happy little Parker-esque spin on Eminem: "Look, I can't change the way I think/ I can't change the way I am/ but if I offended you, GOOD/'cause I still don't give a damn."

Talking Back

It's always interesting to check in on the keyword searches that bring people to this blog.

Every month, over 200 people are looking for Tracy Shaddox or Tracy Curtis Shaddox. A large amount seems to come from one person so obviously, it's someone that doesn't understand the concept of "bookmarks". Or perhaps it's someone who doesn't want her husband to know that she's still obsessed with Tracy Shaddox. I don't know, just a theory.

There are also people looking for actual victim impact statements. I'm glad when they come here and I hope they find what they need.

The phrases that I'm more puzzled by are ones such as "You rustler on roller skates, reach for the sky wise guy."

Or the disturbing "Bizzaro Porn Pedophilia". Hey you? I hope your wanker rots off. And the person looking for "Debbie Does Incest?" I hope someone chops your wanker off. Perhaps this is the person that sends me constant hateful comments that I keep deleting?

I'm always amused by hits for "cheapass suits". Are you looking for them? Is there a company that actually calls themselves "Cheapass Suits"? -Now with 99.99% petrochemicals!

I don't even want to know why someone would be looking up "Cooking feces".

For the person who was looking up "Duluth, Found Corgi"- if you found a lost Corgi, email me! I would be happy to babysit until the owner is found...it's like Corgi Playschool around here!

For the person wondering if Shark is served anywhere in Duluth, well, does anyone know if Shark is served in Duluth?

Whoever is interested in inflating their wife like Violet Beauregard, I sincerely hope this had something to do with Halloween.

Many people seem to be concerned about Norm Abrams being sick. Someone else is wondering if he's going through a divorce. Has Norm been losing weight or something?

Apparently there is someone who wants to know how a pedophile stays sane. If you're a pedophile and you have never gotten treatment or disclosed to anyone, you can't stay sane on your own. Start off here. You need help and if you know you're having problems, you know you should get help. You are not only responsible for your actions, you are responsible for your treatment.

Yesterday's search for "Tracy Shaddox, child molestation, 90 months in prison" was oddly specific.

Another search asked "When does it start to snow in Duluth". The answer to that is, IT NEVER STOPS. I believe historically, the only month that has never seen snow in Duluth is either July or August. Bring your woolies.

And as far as "What movie tastes like rainbows?" Well, it depends on what drugs you take before you head out to the theater.

Worshipping At The Church Of The Bean

I have discovered where it is at work...the secret place where the good coffee is. It does exist.

I found my way to the magic portal by smell. It was a heavenly smell. It was wafting through the air and to my nose in a purple, sparkly cloud of stars and seahorses. It was the Lisa Frank of smells.

Have I ever mentioned my psychotic addiction to coffee that DOESN'T put a rotting hole in my gut?

And my inability to properly answer the question "But what IS good coffee?"

"Coffee that doesn't taste like crap," never seems to be a sufficient answer.

I can't define it in positives, but I know what it isn't:

1. You would not be tempted to pave a road with it nor fill in potholes.

2. You would not be tempted to mainline it once your heroin ran out.

3. You would not be tempted to put it in your snow blower once the gas ran out.

4. You would not be tempted to use it as oil in your car.

You would actually lean over the coffee pot and give it a good sniff and if it didn't smell like a 4 alarm fire at a carpet factory, you might actually utter those adventurous words: "Hey, I'll have a cup of that!"

Do Not Shake My Family Tree

For a person that loves history, can pour over old photos for hours, and can watch Ken Burns until my eyes bleed, I'm not that much into genealogy.

Maybe it's because I've seen it misused.

I've been that poor sot, trapped by people who have brought out their years of genealogy research and plopped it in front of me at their kitchen table.

"Do you wanna know where Becky Sue gits her red hair? It's cuz her daddy's uncle's brother's cousins niece had red hair! We can trace that red headed gene back to 1847!"

I'm the one smiling benignly and wondering if Becky Sue's mother's red headed boyfriend has heard this theory.

It's not that I'm not fascinated by the minutia of the history of the common person...who am I kidding...in most cases I get to hear the story of the day to day living by amateur genealogist expecting my breathless enchantment. If one single, solitary person tracks my history back in two hundred years and traps someone at the food-o-later shelf on the space station Ming Mong orbiting the fair planet of Diddly Squat, telling my tale as if it were both adventurous and epic, I will track them down across the galaxy and give them the ectoplasmic slap of a lifetime.

Family stories are great, they are also like home movies; best kept among those people genetically encumbered to bear their history.

Which is why, when I have encountered three separate people in the past three days, asking for my genealogical history "and are you related to this Harkness or that Harkness?" I have been tempted to interrupt them by saying "I am related to a 51st Century Time Agent who will shag the coffee boy and sacrifice his own grandson in order to save the entire planet."

But I just smile benignly and say "Nope. I'm not from around here."

One day soon, the freak flag will fly.

Patience.

I Don't Know What I'm speaking But It Obviously Isn't English

I had another "Am I beating the dead horse?" moments a few days ago. The victim advocate had left a message with the judge's clerk telling him that we needed an actual dollar amount to set up the restitution order in the system.

So, did I really need to get a copy of the transcript of the sentencing? Wasn't that going to accomplish nothing but to send me spiraling over STBX's statement in court? You know, the one where he never said he was sorry?

(Hey, it's all water under the bridge, right? Cuz he loooooooooves me! Please excuse me, my skin just crawled off and is weeping in a pile in the corner.)

Yeah, like I said, spiraling.

But I did get the transcript.

And right there in the judge's own words is a dollar amount. Granted, it's just shy of $2000 (I guess that's the going prices for three years of tormenting a child) , but nonetheless, IT IS A DOLLAR AMOUNT.

It is a dollar amount that the victim advocate told me didn't exist. He told me he was going to check on it and when I called him back a week or so later, he told me that the dollar amount didn't exist. Yes, I was in the court room that day but frankly? I WAS A LITTLE DISTRACTED!

Which leads me to the conclusion that the one person in this entire equation who is PAID TO HAVE MY BACK, didn't.

I have hopefully left him the last message that I will have to leave him in quite awhile. I did my absolute best not to reach through the telephone wires and rip out his eardrum.

A wise woman once said "The bridge you blow up today might be the bridge you need to cross tomorrow." (I can't lie, I am that wise woman...why should Confucius get all the glory?)

I simply told him that I had bought (yes my lovlies, to actually check up on people in the justice system and see if they are doing their jobs, you need to BUY the transcript) the transcript and the non-existent dollar amount actually existed. I told him what it was and then I made a simple observation. "I thought we were both speaking English but obviously we are separated by a common language. I fail to see what the problem is here."

I have always had the sneaking suspicion that I've been patted on the head, placated with whatever they thought I wanted to hear, and then blown the fuck off. I honestly thought that it was just my own screwed up sense of entitlement that made me feel that way. I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt because, are you ready for this? Because they seemed so nice.

No, please, don't do your job properly, just be nice to me.

I know that I am high maintenance. I know that when my phone number shows up on their phone, cringing ensues. The funny thing is, this is one trait that I have actively cultivated over the past ten months. Anyone who knows the "public" me would never have thought that this was a problem. I have always pretty much opened my mouth and inserted my foot rather handily. But not when it comes to the relationships that really matter. Not when it comes to people who I wanted to like me.

And that, my lovelies, is how you become a doormat in your own home. You never open your mouth and you swallow all your own opinions and you tell yourself that if you ever absolutely put your foot down that you will be hated and left in the cold.

Guess what? Just between you, me, and the fence post? That is a CROCK OF SHIT!

I am learning. I am learning to disagree without being disagreeable. I am learning that the only person that really has my best interest in mind is me. I am learning that just because someone is paid to be my advocate, it doesn't mean that they have the ability to even find their own ass with both hands tied behind their back.

Maybe they are overwhelmed in their job. It isn't a stretch to think that. However, don't feed me a line of bullshit when it's my life and my child's life that you're screwing with. I have a far higher opinion of the person that says "I don't know but I'll find out" than the person that coos platitudes in my ear and just desperately wants me to SHUT UP AND LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Yeah...I've had a lot of experience with men with that opinion.

It's getting pretty old.

Sorry But I have No Coffe Mugs Or Tote Bags

Last summer I did something that I didn't necessarily want to do but I had to at least try. I asked the readers of this blog to consider whether they would be willing to donate to send my son to summer camp. People did donate and my son ended up going to summer camp. I was floored and humbled and immensely grateful.

That's why I'm hesitant to do this again. People will think that I'm modeling myself after NPR and every six months I come up with another sob story and ask for donations. I am not NPR. I do not have an award winning news staff. I do not have coffee mugs and tote bags.

I do, however, have a daughter who is currently far away. She has been working on her fresh start at an undisclosed location beneath a volcano with a lot of lab equipment and plans for world domination.

We've already determined that there will be no materialistic exchanges this year. I am blessed with kids that have always understood that life is not about what you have. However, as we close in on the month of December and the anniversary of the end and the celebration of the beginning, I am realizing that yes, materialism is nothing but proximity is everything.

The only gift I want to give to my kids is to be together for the holidays. It's also the one thing that I am completely unable to do. I'm planning on setting up a travel fund for her after I get my tax refund. This won't happen in the future.

Currently though? There would be no greater gift than to be able to greet my girl at the airport and to talk and to talk and to talk.

So I'm putting up a donate button for a little while, upper right side of the blog. This will be for her round trip air fare from the bowels of the volcano to home.

Questions, suggestions, and vilifying screes can be left in the comments section. Any confidential comments won't be published.

Thank you.

The House Of Green Leaves

Yeah, we've ALL been there. You can't deny it. You see one episode of Martha Stewart and you, YOU, the one who couldn't manage to do more than sniff glue in art class...YOU decide to get all crafty.

Well, reality has set in my friend. Big fat reality. Someday, Castle Disaster will be someone else's home and they aren't going to think your adventures with Martha Through The Looking Glass are very appealing.

As a matter of fact, they just might roll their eyes and ask the realtor if they could "see a REAL house now."

So, do it the white trash, I mean, eco-friendly way. Investigate all those paint cans in the garage and see which ones are white...found some primer? Cool! And it resists mold? Even better because you could feed a posse of Hobbits off the crap I've been finding in there.

Now, cover up all those frickin leaves!

What's that you say? You've painted over them three times and they still show through??? Hey, Martha never mentioned that possibility.

Do you think that perhaps she never really thought about the consequences of her brilliant ideas? That someone might actually do what she said and then have to FIX IT YEARS LATER????

Naaa! Martha's all good...you know, she does all that work herself don't you?

Hey, you've got nothing better than to stand in your bathroom and go through a partial bucket of primer and two partial buckets of dining room paint and STILL HAVE THE OUTLINE OF GHOST LEAVES ON YOUR WALLS!!!!


After the fifty second coat, have you noticed that your bathroom is twelve inches smaller in floorspace and there are still three leaves that are rustling...just hiding beneath the surface? Has it occurred to you that you will end up being like that woman in the short story who was driven mad by the yellow wallpaper?


You know that you will have to do another coat once the new window goes in.

You need to come to terms with that. You need to hold it in your heart.

What heart you have left that is.

Obviously, Martha Stewart has broken most of it.

And what was left, she made into mosaic tiles and resurfaced her shower.

She's crafty like that.

No one ever mentions on any of those home improvement shows just how many inter state shooting sprees happen after a person has spent the day in a confined space with a hell of a lot of paint.







Stand back Martha. This brush is loaded.


I've used all my paint, Can I go home now?



Ah crap! I AM home!

All Hallows Eve

Satan's Little Helper here...

Just back from a night of shenanigans.

It's really strange but no matter how many times I go to The Main, the boys just don't seem interested...

What am I doing wrong????

Also, I believe I have fractured my right boob. Is that a possibility?

I can just see it now...an episode of 60 Minutes with that damn clock ticking in the background and the voice of authority in the foreground:

"Every year, 8 million American women fracture their boobs but yet go undiagnosed due to our ever increasing health care debacle."

Yeah, it was another unfortunate incident with the claw foot bath tub. As I was draped over the tub, painting with the roller brush, I felt a most distressing tearing sensation in my right boob.

Perhaps it's not broken. Maybe it's just sprained.

Should I elevate it to prevent swelling? Or should I thank god that finally, a part of my body is swelling that the prevailing culture in this country can appreciate?

All I know is that it makes moving my right arm difficult, As a matter of fact, I had to use both hands to elevate my drinks to my poor dehydrated lips as we went to the bars.

We managed to avoid any real crowds although we did see a couple of walking beer cans with pull tab hats and when we got to The Main, I MET JESUS!

Funny thing, I asked him to lay his hands on my boob and heal me but he was far more interested in the bald man with the tiny panties.

Frankly, if you can't get a rise out of Jesus, I think you're screwed.

Living With The Dead

This just so happens to be my standard Halloween story. Yes, I told it over three years ago on this here blog but the statute of limitations on the internet is 2.5 seconds, 1.25 if you have ADD.

It's not my only ghost story, but it is the one that formed my opinions of the living and the dead. The living? Meh. They are what they are. The dead? YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THE DEAD!

Here's my story and I'm sticking to it:

This isn’t something I tell just anyone as this is a topic that I think is far more personal than religion, politics, or sexual indiscretions. It is the one bombshell that when you drop it, there is a high probability that the majority of the people in your audience will immediately write you off as a nut job, as I would have done myself before sailing on the LNG Taurus.

Now one thing you have to realize is that when you are the only female on a ship, you are being constantly tested. Your strength is always in question, your intelligence, your hutzpah, your sexuality, everything is under attack by your co-workers. It is a situation that will either make you hard as nails or completely insane. I believe I fall under the former, but perhaps after this story you will disagree.

So, when we were taking on stores off Singapore in the middle of the night and the bos'n told me not to take the port side tunnel when I returned to my cabin, I was immediately suspicious. The ships were 1000 foot and had a port and starboard tunnel that ran the length of the ship. This allowed you to go from the bow to the stern in the tunnel and avoid inclement weather. The tunnels followed the shape of the ship and thus you could only see a few yards ahead at any one time. They were lighted intermittently with hanging fixtures but there were always small pools of darkness to contend with.

Now, what no one on the ship knew at the time was that I had been in the port tunnel a few days earlier. I had been traveling from the bow at the end of the day and mid-way I stopped dead in my tracks. The only way to describe the feeling that was following me that day was to think back to any Hollywood action flick that has a huge ball of fire chasing the hero up an elevator shaft or through a tunnel or cave. It is big, it is bad, and it is coming for you.

There were no footsteps. There wasn’t a single crew member in the tunnel at the time. There was, however, a horrible malevolent presence that grabbed me by the gut. I had never been more afraid for my life and I had no idea why. All I could do was to run. I couldn’t turn back, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, all I could do was run.

I hit the final steps up to the hatch leading to the deck and almost lost my mind opening the dogs on the door. I stumbled out onto the deck and slammed the heavy door behind me. Looking around, I was alone. I was leaning on the door, shaking so much that I couldn’t even raise my hands to dog the door again for a few minutes. Then I asked myself, “What in the hell just happened?”

I didn’t dare bring this up to anyone. It is a very isolating experience to be in the middle of the ocean and to have such a terrifying experience and not have anyone (read “female” here) to talk to. If I would have told any of the guys they would have either laughed their heads off or they would have wanted to go down there to investigate. Neither of which I was interested in.

So, I asked the bos’n why I shouldn’t use the port tunnel and he told me very mater-of-factly that it was haunted.

Now, as any casual observer of the human animal can tell you, there is no more vehement denier than one who knows in their heart that what they are denying is, in fact, the truth. I gave him my best skeptical look and sputtered some sort of condescending noise, all the while realizing that I was in danger of shitting my pants.

The bos’n then called over the chief mate who I held in considerably higher regard. The bos’n asked the chief mate to tell me about the port tunnel.

The chief then regaled me with the tale of the former captain of the ship of whom the chief mate served under. The captain had a nasty little incident where he ran the ship aground. The Japanese coast guard were called in to investigate the incident and the captain told them everything they needed to know and all of the papers were filed and the I’s dotted. The captain then proceeded to go up to his cabin and shoot himself in the head.

Well, at least he waited until the paperwork was done…

It was the chief mate that found him and was left to, metaphorically, clean up afterwards. After that incident, there had been reports from many different crew members about places on the ship that held an incredible presence, most reports were that it was a malevolent presence. The chief mate had experienced quite a few incidences where he went up to the wheelhouse in the middle of the night when the ship was docked only to find the captain standing by the wheel. When he stopped and did a double take, the captain was gone.

“And I never, ever, go through the port tunnel…I did it once and that was enough…”He concluded.

It’s kind of funny how well I remember that conversation with the bos’n and the chief mate. I remember the lights of Singapore in the background, the smell on the air, the sound of the supply boat motoring off toward shore, and the earnestness on the face of the chief mate. I would have never believed it if I hadn’t gone through it myself but I felt my universe shift a little that night and I’ve felt the duty to remember and respect the dead from that point on.

Those Who Live In Glass Houses

Oh Friday, how I have longed for your gentle embrace. I have soothed myself, secure in the knowledge that yes, yes indeed, this week really will end.

Unless I get hit by a bus or a meteor today.

I got to sleep in a little this morning. Perhaps I should rephrase that...I got to lounge in bed for a few minutes this morning and listen to the radio. For me, that is the start of a good day.

And then I heard this.

I've been living under a rock lately so perhaps I'm horribly behind the times. Apparently it was also discussed on Talk of the Nation.

I know this isn't anything new. It's been noted throughout history. It's been caught on tape.

What is it in a person that allows them to break free of fear of retribution so they can call the police? What is it in a person that would allow them to stand by and watch, perhaps cheer, perhaps take pictures with a cell phone, of a gang rape?

I think I've told the story before (damned if I'm going to search for it) of when I knew that I had to get out of my marriage. It was years ago. We were driving to the cities and as we drove south, in the northbound lane there were two cars pulled off to the side of the road. There was one guy lying on the pavement and another guy standing over him with a gun to his head.

STBX was driving and as we saw this I told him that he needed to call 911. He told me that he wasn't going to get involved. I was absolutely incredulous. I wasn't asking him to break up the incident, I wasn't asking him to go anywhere near it. I was asking him to call the police to deal with a situation that we obviously didn't understand.

"I don't want them to be able to find out who I am", was his explanation. He was always a conspiracy nut job, always convinced that everyone was out to get him (always playing the victim) and up to that point, I didn't think that there was any reason why he would feel that way. After years of being treated like shit, it took the revelation that not only didn't he give a damn about me, he didn't give a damn about society at large. (This incident has haunted me even more since realizing what he really was hiding. It also makes me think that there was probably even more that he was hiding.)

Not helping others, even actively participating by taking pictures or laughing, it makes me crazy. I suppose if you are unable to empathize and life and death are equal jokes, it really wouldn't be that big of a deal. It makes me wonder if they would have any expectations of others if they were in a similar position. In all reality, my guess would be no.

But I'm also thinking that there are people that are just too scared or too comfortable in their own ruts to allow for unexpected occurrences. I was on the city bus once when a young woman got on who had obviously been involved in a domestic assault. She flung herself onto the bus as her attacker screamed at her from the sidewalk. He chased the bus, continuing to scream profanities, as she stood in the aisle and scanned the crowd. No one moved. No one even acknowledged her. Including myself.

She then pulled the signal and the bus stopped, right in front of where the guy had stopped at the corner. She turned around and started to walk down the stairs.

I waited until she was halfway out the door to finally break out of my silence and holler to her. I told her that she didn't have to get off the bus.

She never looked back. She just walked up to him and as the bus pulled away, he was grabbing her by the hair and dragging her down the sidewalk.

I could have stopped that. Now, I'm ready. Now I know that I will look the person in the eye, tell them to sit down and let them know that they can rely on me to get them the help that they need. I now know who to call.

But it haunts me and I hope that it always will. I would hope that anyone who hears of a story in the news of bystanders that did nothing would stop and ask themselves, "What would I do?".

Figure it out now. You might not have time to figure it out later.

I'd Rather Have A Free Bottle In Front Of Me Than a Pre-Frontal Lobotomy

This Saturday is Halloween. I guess I kind of lost that fact due to the reality that people have had Halloween candy out for the past six weeks.

I want to go out this Saturday with a friend. All I want is a cold beverage and conversation. I do not want to be expected to be dressed in a costume. I do not want to be surrounded by a bunch of women who use the holiday to dress up like whores.

"I'm Cat-Woman!"

Yeah, if she were a whore.

"I'm a nurse!"

Yeah, if she were a whore.

"I'm a whore!"

Hey! Great costume! I never would have guessed!

Nothing against the whores, mind you. Everyone needs a purpose in life. Just don't be dippin' your buxomness in my drink when you lean over the bar. God only knows where those babies have been. (Or will be before the evening is over.)

In other words, I was just looking for a quiet evening out. I need to go to the loser bar for losers where I can get a good drink and be left to my own devices.

My Halloween costume is a bitchy old broad. I wear it everyday thank you.

Today will be the last morning that I will be at my old job. I will be going there tomorrow after work to mop up and close things out and then I will be free to devote all of my energies to the new gig where I still look like I am on Team Drunken Monkey.

I am exceedingly hard on myself. That is my blessing and my curse. I hate being stupid and not being able to do the job I'm being paid for. This is good because it makes me try harder. Conversely, it also gets under my skin and makes me ruminate on my day ad infinitum.

One of my favorite quotes goes something like this: He walked along the crowded street until he spied a nice dark place in which he could commit mortal sin.

I'm not so much into the mortal sin business, maybe next weekend. However, I completely understand where he's coming from.

The Art and Science of Sleep

I often say that my sleep cycle was ruined when I worked full time, went to school, and had a colicky infant that screamed for the first year of his life.

Ah, the good old days.

I've been ruminating on it a lot lately as I once again find myself struggling to sleep. I no longer know how to sleep without medication. I fall asleep at ungodly early hours and I wake up at ungodly early hours.

When I get the inquisition about "how could your child be abused in your home and you not know about it?" Well, when you have my sleep cycle, it's not hard to imagine. Sleep is a rare commodity and when it wants to come, you let it happen. I'm sure all those "good mothers" remain totally hypervigilant and never let their husbands be with their children alone.

I've tried to reprogram my sleep cycle.

I've forced myself to stay awake. When I do this, I can physically feel my body cross over a threshold. After I cross that threshold, I will not sleep for the rest of the night. I've learned that when sleep wants to happen, I need to drop everything and let it happen because it's "now or never".

Sleep was broken for me a long time ago.

One of the major side effects of being sexually abused is sleep disorders. Night time is when the monsters came. Very often, a survivor of sexual abuse will keep their mind racing and busy all the time in order to fight off their demons and this is in direct opposition to the concept of sleep.

To this day, I can't sleep with the closet door open. I remember telling STBX that when the closet door was open, the monsters could get out. It was one of my "funny quirks".

The reality of the situation is that my abuser would sneak into my room and always pause in the doorway of my open closet. Was I asleep? Was I awake? Not that it ever really mattered. I would always pretend to be asleep when in reality, every single muscle was tensed like a cat getting ready to pounce. Getting ready to run.

That single moment of hesitation, everytime, framed by the open closet.

Open closets are where the monsters come from.

The mind, which continually tap dances during the day, spinning two lit sparklers and singing at the top of its lungs, loses its ability to distract when night falls. After my perpetrator died, I would have panic attacks at sundown. I would refuse to sleep in my room and I would lie on the sofa, staring out the big picture window, struggling to breathe, waiting for the first pink streaks of daylight to come.

Ever see how a person is treated when they go to the emergency room with a panic attack? You are treated like an idiot. You are wasting their time. You are seeking drugs. You are FRICKIN' CRAZY.

Not once did any doctor or nurse ask my aunt to leave the room and then turn around to me, perhaps sitting down on a chair so they would be at eye level, and ask "Has someone hurt you?"

Maybe it wouldn't have worked. Maybe it would have. Maybe they should have given it a go to see.

Instead, I had an intern demand of me, in front of my aunt "Just what the hell are you trying to pull here?"

Nothing. I'm just trying to breathe. I'm just trying to imagine my body without this horrifying weight on my chest. I'm just trying to imagine what my skin would feel like if it were clean. I'm just trying to imagine what I smell like, not him. I'm just trying to get out of bed and close the closet door.

It's all about the closet door. Some nights, the monsters still get me.

Talking The Talk

I made it through Monday. We'll see about today. I like to believe that anything can happen, which includes being kidnapped by aliens.

Oy vey. I've been up since 2 a.m. Synapses are misfiring...

New job has nice people but bad coffee. Hmmmm. Perhaps when I get into the swing of things, I'll bring my own thermos.

I'm going to check in with the college folks today and figure out the classes to take. It will be another three weeks or so before I can sign up since I'm a new person and new people get the lowest priority on choosing classes. Underwater basketweaving, here I come!

I've actually sat down and mapped out all the classes I need/want to take before moving on to a university setting. I guess the only reason I'm going in today is to confirm my choices and get a few questions answered.

Now, my puzzlement begins when it comes to talking to someone at the fine institution that I want to continue at. I have called them four times and dropped three emails. No response.

My next tactic is to send them an email and say that I have 8.9 million dollars to donate to their institution and see how many minutes it takes for them to get back with me. Then I'll get to say "Well, ACTUALLY, I just want to TALK TO SOMEONE."

I had a couple of occasions yesterday at work to tell my quick bio. Talked about kids. Talked about pets. Talked about school. When people responded to my story with "Well, I'm divorced..." I just smiled and shook my head yes. Interesting...very interesting...

I am the Virgin Mary and my children were products of immaculate conception and we live in a barn on the outskirts of Duluth. You know, the one with the perpetual star over head?

I also kept pretty mum when it came to "So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Everyone is going to the relatives and cooking a five ton bird.

"I'm going to eat too much and fall asleep in front of the television," was my reply. In other words, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

When the IT guy checked in with me as to what my email address should be (officially, I'm using that damn hyphenated name for legal reasons), I gave him my bestest brightest shiney eyed psycho smile and said "Never use the S-name. I don't like the S-name."

Yup. I think I'm fitting in just fine!

New Jobs and Zombies

I will be spending an hour or so each day this week at my old job. This is either called "leaving my old job with grace" or "ha ha, we suckered you into doing exactly what we wanted."

Haven't quite figured that one out yet.

But today starts the new job. Today is the "bring two forms of identification-where is the bathroom-oh my god you only have Sanka coffee!-how do I work the copier and do you have a microwave"-day.

I was a little concerned because I wasn't even having the slightest bit of anxiety. Anxiety can be a good thing in a situation like this. It makes you double check to see if your neon colored paisley underwear is showing through your new slacks. It makes you check your nose for any low hanging detritus. It makes you say your new name out loud in front of the mirror twenty-three times so there will be no wobbles in your voice when you introduce yourself.

But I have the nerves of steel thing going right now. Granted I did change my clothes three times this morning and I made sure my super soaker make-up gun was not set to "whore", but aside from that I'm feeling pretty good.

I've come to the conclusion that my anxiety neurons have fried out over the last few months. Unless there is an actual building on fire that contains three puppies, two kittens, and a baby, my likely biological response will be "Hmm, I wonder if there are still cookies in the kitchen."

I have also concluded that, should the inevitable zombie apocalypse actually happen, I will make a kick ass leader.

When the undead start knocking at your door, meet me at my house with a cricket bat and a sawed off shotgun.

We are gonna save the world.

Jesus Will Forgive You, It's His Job

I received the letters yesterday from ding dong's lawyer along with my lawyer's response and those two documents, viewed side by side, actually had me giggling at the absurdity and the complete power imbalance exuding from the two documents.

Previous letters from ding dong's lawyer seemed to emit a testosterone soaked "fuck you" behind every sentence. Perhaps it was just my frame of mind when I read it. Perhaps it was my fear and insecurity. Perhaps there really was a testosterone soaked "fuck you" hidden in there like a magic eye puzzle. Whatever it was, I would read it and shake and spiral and cry.

Well, I do believe things have changed a bit. The letter couldn't have been more whipped if it had been written without any capitalization and had included a frowny faced emoticon at the end.

I could actually sense the frame of mind of the poor legal secretary that had to put that little gem together. I could hear her tsk-tsk-ing and I knew she was thinking "Jesus Christ man, what are you smoking, crack?"

My lawyers response was BEAUTIFUL! I am going to state it here and now that of the 90 billion times I have bitched about lawyers on this blog, this one letter might just redeem 80 billion of those complaints. I may even frame it one day.

She started every paragraph, nearly every sentence, with "Ms. Harkness expects" and "Ms. Harkness feels" and as I had given her my expectations that he would never track us down in the future, she framed those expectations around getting a restraining order to keep him away, if necessary.

She then stated that he has had the signed divorce documents for over a month and has failed to submit them to the court house and he had better GET HIS ASS IN GEAR.

Well, she didn't use the word ass, but it was verrrrry close.

So, I suppose he'll either submit the paperwork or else we'll have to threaten them AGAIN to go to court.

So glad those divorce papers are signed...it has really gotten the process moving...yes, that is sarcasm.

Assorted Shenanigans

My epic sister-in-law brought the best shirt with her for me to try on.














I would like to recommend this t-shirt for anyone who has ever had to go to court or would just like to impress a simple message upon that special someone...

Looks puzzling but not inappropriate...

See the white dots? When the judge isn't looking, be sure to face that special someone and match the dots up...























Now you're talking!

Floored

There will be no angst in this post. I de-angstified myself and am now to the stage of stopping every now and then and just shaking my head.

Onward!

It is my goal to put Martha Stewart to shame. I mean, really, isn't that everyone's goal? Even if it is for 15 seconds on a Saturday morning?




















I'm going to give a class in interior decorating:

How to coordinate your pets to match your new floor!

The new floor is down and extends from the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen.











It has been inspected and the craftsmanship has been found to be absolutely stellar (Corgi's are known for their ability to judge things with a highly critical eye, that's why the Queen has them for pets.)




















It has been a learning experience for the dogs in how to run through the house. Great bursts of speed are now a dangerous proposition.















It has definitely made the rooms look bigger and it has brought a certain zen like state to all involved.















It has even caused a new behavior pattern which involves me, suddenly dropping to the floor and grabbing the camera.

I'm really glad I'm not getting a new toilet...

Not A Tiny Little Division Of Hallmark

Taa Daa.

It's 3 a.m and I'm up to my old tricks: waking up at the butt crack of dawn in mid rant with the bed covers wrapped around me like a straight jacket.

Reconciliation indeed...

The person that I was ten months and four days ago is dead. Dead and gone.

No more door mat, no more excuses, no more patience, no more swallowing the day in and day out pain of being married to a fucking loser.

The most hilarious thing is (and believe me, when you wake up at 3 a.m, breaking into random hysterical laughter is a distinct possibility), even if he had just been unfaithful and I had kicked him out of the house and there hadn't been any earth shattering awfulness, I STILL wouldn't take him back!

Dear Jesus Christ on Toast! Not only does he think that I could actually stand in front of him without sticking a shiv in his ribs, but he thinks that after wasting 17 years of my life with a person that made me feel like shit on a daily basis, I would be raising my hand and saying "Oh please sir, I'll have another!"

Check this little head trip out: If we got back together do you think he'd still ask me to call him "daddy" while we have sex? Seriously...SERIOUSLY?...I just want to vomit.

Hey! Let's make the perfect Hallmark Card for this occasion! It can be a whole new line of greeting cards for prisoners!

On the cover of the card, in gilded letters with a tacky late eighties pastel color scheme:

As I sit here in my cell,
comparing ways to groom young girls for sex with my cell mate,
my mind harkens back to a far better time.
A time when I could eat all the junk food I wanted,
ignore my family,
and spend hours on end cyber-fucking my girlfriend.
I could do and say whatever I wanted
and there was never a threat of being gang raped
in the shower.
I could go to work and come home
and never lift a finger to help you with anything
and you were the perfect tool
and fitted the job with ease.
I miss you darling,
my perfect little door mat.
I miss wiping my feet on your back
on a daily basis.

Remember the good old days?

And on the inside of the card?

Wish I was there
Cuz I just realized
that in four and a half years,
I just might be homeless

I'd just like to propose my own little love song for this occasion. It's the only thing that I have that even remotely expresses my feelings at this exact moment.

Stand Back Ladies! This Winners Taken!

So, here is the phone call I received from my lawyer today.

Yes! I received an actual phone call from my lawyer! Legal communication from the wilds of whatever wilds lawyers communicate from...ouch. That sentence sort of ate it's own tail and now my brain hurts.

ANYWAY, the divorce papers have been signed and the actual document went to his lawyer to fix a couple of simple typos. Perhaps the typos were put in there on purpose because it gave them the final power in submitting the document to the courts.

See where I'm going with this? Bueller? Bueller?

The paperwork has not been submitted to the courts yet and my lawyer got a letter from his lawyer today. Guess what children??? He wants me to take him back!

Wait a minute now...let me put that in a way that will convey how I reacted...

HE WANTS ME TO TAKE HIM BACK!!!

No, wait a minute...that didn't cut it either...

THE $*&$()!#$*&@&!!! Mother ^$*(#(@)!*#&!!!! WANTS ME TO TAKE HIM BACK!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously....that doesn't even convey my emotion properly...

Yes, the reason why I'm still waiting for my divorce from a cheating pedophile while clinging on to my house by the skin of my teeth is that he has now apparently found Jesus and wants to reconcile with me.

My lawyer said she wasn't sure if I would burst out laughing or start screaming when she read the letter.

So now, I get to wait for the legal response to get back to his lawyer that not only am I not interested in reconciling, my expectations of him, after his 10 years of court appointed "Stay the hell away from us" will be that he never tries to contact any of us. WE WANT NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM SO JUST LEAVE US ALONE.

I can promise with 100% certainty that he is working through his frickin' 12 steps because guess what? I read that book too! I know exactly what you're trying to do. You're doing it because you still have no fucking idea that what you have done is so incredibly awful that you just need to go away. That's why you're in prison. Prison is for people who have done awful things.

I literally drove home from work, primal screaming "FUCK YOU" until I think the windows in the car were ready to shatter.

There have been four things in my last ten months that have absolutely rocked my world:

1) My husband was cheating on me
2) My husband was a pedophile
3) My husband showed up in court and sat next to the child he molested and said she had to keep his name
4) My husband thinks that I would even, for one single solitary nanosecond, consider his proposition.

The killer of it all is that my response will once again allow him to play the victim. "Oh poor baby, he just wants to make it all better and that big bad woman is making his life sooooo hard!" I'm sure that it will be the topic of much boo-hooing in his therapy sessions.

My concept of forgiveness still stands. I drop my shit, you drop your shit and we both walk in opposite directions.

At this exact moment in time, he is lucky to be right where he is, surrounded by pedos and murderers and psychopaths because he's a hell of a lot safer than if he was free.

As I stated before when I read the book about sexual addiction, it was totally wrapped around the perpetrator and had a scant two sentences regarding victims. I do, however, recall in the 12 steps that reconciliation should only happen if it wouldn't emotionally damage the people that have been hurt, even more.

Guess what that means?

It means that he doesn't think he's done enough damage.

If You're Gonna Put Your Name On The Purchase Order...

(Text of the letter that I just got done sending to Debra.nordling@state.mn.us after discovering it was her name on the purchase order for all those 50 inch flat screen tv's at Moose Lake)

Dear Debra,

I know that you are probably not the person who made the actual decision to purchase the 50 inch tv sets for Moose Lake, but since your signature ended up on the purchase order, I am going to address this email to you.

Please feel free to forward it to any other person you feel might be interested in reading it.

My daughter's offender is currently housed at Moose Lake. This is also the person that I have been fighting to divorce for the past ten months.

I realize that in your world, the actual victim of the crime is not normally taken into consideration. In your world, it is all about the perpetrator and what they need. Allow me to enlighten you as to the other side of the equation.

I have no way to pay for the therapy that my daughter needs due to the post traumatic stress disorder that she suffers thanks to her father. The MN Dept of Corrections Victims Reparations Board was generous enough to pay for ten therapy sessions but since years of abuse can hardly be wrapped up with ten hours of therapy, she is now left out in the cold.

Our family has been driven to the brink of bankruptcy due to the fact that my "hopefully" soon to be ex-husband has fought against the desire of our children to change their last name to get a fresh start from the ugliness that he created. Some day, we will hopefully have a new last name and if we're lucky, we won't be homeless by that time.

I pay my bills. That is who I am and how I was raised. Every payday, I pay all my bills and usually don't have enough to fill my gas tank and feed my children. I have begun to visit the local food shelf.

This is where we are and this is who my daughter's perpetrator is fighting against.

As my children have commented on, after learning about the intelligent purchase for the MN Sex Offender's Program of 50 inch television screens, "Well, I guess we know just how important we are now."

Television is not therapy. Television will not make a darn bit of difference in whether or not any of the people in that facility ever have the ability to interact with society in a "normal" or "positive" manner.

The fact that the governor has removed the television sets is irrelevant. That money was poorly spent and is now gone forever.

I just wanted you to hear "the other" side of the story.

Sincerely,
Tina Shaddox
Soon to be ex-wife of Tracy Shaddox OID 229716

**Added later: This email was forwarded to the public relations person who has informed me that it will be forwarded to the Governor's Office.

Not Impressed

Just a little subliminal message from the school district in Never Never Land where my daughter now goes:

Welcome to your class called "Family Life". This is in conjunction with our "Abstinence Only" curriculum...

See this square peg? This is you. We will pound down your edges to make you fit into the mold that we find acceptable. We will deny statistics. We will click our heels together and say that we ALL live in a perfect world. Since teenagers don't HAVE sex, we don't need to discuss birth control. We just need to make sure that they realize that they will burn in hell if they even think about the opposite sex and call that good. (But for god's sake, don't think about the same sex because that is CERTAINLY a one way trip to the eternal furnace of damnation.)

And mommies and daddies always stay together. It is the way that it is SUPPOSED to be. No matter what...mommies need to realize that it is in the best interest if the children to stay together. It is called sacrifice. Women must sacrifice everything for the daddy because the daddy is in charge.

And daddies always love their children. They never hurt their children. They don't call them stupid. They don't beat them with belts. They don't grab them by the shoulders and slam them against the wall. And daddies never, never come into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

See? Everything in Never Never Land is perfect. And that's what we're going to learn about in class today children...all about the perfect families that you should have but undoubtedly, none of you do.

We're all about self esteem building here. Are you feeling good about yourself yet?

No Soup For You

Dear Victims of Sex Offenses:
Do you have trouble sleeping? Do you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Do you suffer from issues of self esteem? Have you ever tried to commit suicide? Have you ever taken chemicals to dull the pain?

Well, before you start feeling too sorry for yourselves, please remember the fine human beings that have caused these feelings within you. They suffer too. As a matter of fact, they won't be able to watch their favorite television shows on their brand new 50 inch flat screen tv's at the Pedo Summer Camp, which is my pleasant euphamism for the Moose Lake Correctional Facility where my daughter's offender and perhaps your offender is currently residing.

They are suffering folks. Please feel their pain.

What, you don't have a 50 inch flat screen tv? Why, you don't even have health insurance to cover the cost of the anxiety medications that you need to quiet the demons in your head? And that restitution that your offender is supposed to be making that currently doesn't exist? All of that pales in comparison to the suffering that these offenders must currently endure.

Personally, I'd like to see who had their signature on the purchase order for these tv's. Just curious.

And me, siding with ANYTHING Governor Pawlenty does? Yeah, I am TOTALLY uncomfortable with that...

Most Alarming

Dear City of Duluth, County of St. Louis, State of MN, and all federal employees working for Mr. Obama,

They're just windows. That's what I'm getting put in. Apparently one of you bastards likes to make up rules about "having your house up to code" and so I went out and got smoke detectors for all the bedrooms. I was told to do this by the Home Depot "initial window measurement guy". Those were the new rules. Got a small house? Well, it looks like you will now have four smoke detectors installed in a twelve square foot area.

If the shit goes down in that twelve foot square area, WE ARE COVERED.

But then the "final window measurement guy" came yesterday.

(Hey, final window measurement guy? Yes, I got home two minutes late, is that why you seemed so surly? Was it just because I was the last call of the day? Or was it because we entered the house together and my dogs REALLY GET EXCITED when I get home and after ten hours, THEY ARE FULL OF PEE. Here at Castle Disaster, as long as you don't get any on you, it's considered a good day. Get the hell over yourself!)

Anyway, "Final window measurement guy" asked about my CO2 detector.

Really? Apparently, they are now "code".

So, I want to know, from one of you pencil pushing twats, what the next golden item on the list is going to be? Or is this some master plan by Home Depot to nickle and dime me every two weeks by telling me, incrementally, what I need to get this hovel up to snuff.

Have you been reading this blog? Death by carbon monoxide is better than death by a thousand cuts any day of the week. Let's face it, I haven't gotten four straight hours of complete and total relaxation for almost a year. If the damn CO2 alarm goes off, I'll probably just yank the battery and go back to bed.

And seriously. if the smoke detectors go off, do you really think I'm going to call 9-1-1? I'll tell you what is essential around this house. Have you heard of "earthquake kits" for people living in an earthquake zone? It's what they grab when they're running out of the house during an earthquake. Well, I have a "house on fire" kit by the back door. It contains passports, cash, pet leashes, my kid's immunization records, a box of graham crackers, Hershey Bars, marshmallows, and campfire roasting sticks, cuz if this bitch goes up in flames? I'm making smores!

If You're Not Losing Your Mind, You Obviously Haven't Checked Your Messages

Between working extra hours this week and having visitors from out of town, blogging will be fairly low on my list of priorities this week.

What will be on my list of priorities? Well, when one does not have a life and is then faced with a seeming glut of “shit I gotta do in the next 48 hours”, my list feels a bit overwhelming.

Since my house is awful and does not have a lot of room for guests, I’m going to try to shuffle a few things around, wash some bedding and convince the dogs that if someone new is sleeping in the beds for a few days that DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY WANT THEIR FACES LICKED AT 2 AM OH MY GOD WHY DO YOU INSIST ON DOING THAT????

They are planning on staying at a hotel for a couple nights but I feel awful not being able to offer them grand accommodations when they will be working their butts off to make this house livable.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. It also leads right up to my front porch.

I want to have some quick meals ready for them to be able to grab it and eat when they take a break during the day. I’ll be figuring that out tonight. (I’d also like some recommendations for places with good steaks and seafood as that seems to be something that they like and if I have to take them to a chain restaurant, I WILL SCREAM. I like to show off local places when people visit but I don’t get out to a lot of steakhouses. The last time I went to Timberlodge, I was disappointed.)

Of course, I also have the Home Depot Dude (HDD) coming tonight for the final measuring of my windows.

My brother and sister-in-law are supposed to be here tomorrow evening and of course, I have an Art Auction committee meeting that I need to be at for 5:30. I would feel less inclined to go if the last meeting hadn’t been cancelled because not enough people were able to attend.

Oh, and I’m transitioning into my new job next week but I will still be working in the wee hours of the morning at my old job.

And I’m signing up for college classes next week.

Aside from that, things are pretty boring right now.

Neither Tighty Nor Whitey

A few years ago, I spent over a year working on and off on a pair of knitted long john pants. I made them out of wool and since it took forever, I paid for them on the installment plan. I used the Elizabeth Zimmerman long john "recipe" from one of her books and I ended up having to wing it (Elizabeth would have been proud) to compensate for the fact that even back then, relative to the rest of my body, I had no ass.

I revelled in them for a couple weeks. They were cozy and warm and wonderful.

Then, they were accidently washed.

Yup. They went to the land of "knitting projects that will never be spoken of again".

Except I am now contemplating making another pair. Yes, I have learned my lesson, they will be made out of something washable. (Occasionally I hear someone talk about making a baby item out of wool that needs hand washing and I have to ask myself "Are you on crack? Have you never had a baby? There are days when the baby is lucky to be hand washed, let alone your blanket. Five minutes after you give it to the mother, your blanket will be covered with puke, poop, and drool. BABIES ARE DISGUSTING!" Of course all of these thoughts generally end up being expressed with a single raised eyebrow and perhaps the question "Really?" I am nothing if not understated.)

I will not be using Elizabeth's pattern this time. Yes, it was based on my own personal measurements but the assumption of ass kind of made me sad. I'm also thinking about making them in a color pattern to keep me from wanting to commit suicide after I get one leg made.

Of course, the easiest thing would be stripes. Perhaps a "Where's Waldo" red and white pattern like his hat? Or a Wicked Witch of the East black and white pattern? (Would this put me at risk for having a house fall on me? Knowing my house, I'm ALWAYS exposed to this risk.)

There's also the possibility of making them into a Norwegian type pattern. Like a sweater for my legs.

Or I could do something like pattern the outside of the leg to look like police caution tape or crayons or perhaps knit them black with white anatomically correct bones? I've always been a fan of knitting anatomically correct things.

There are far to many choices for such a big project. It's not like I'm going to make a pair and then start right in on the next pair because they were SO FUN AND FAST! If I make this pair and then even show the slightest interest in making a THIRD pair, everyone is given permission to dope slap me.

So, any thoughts? Feel free to include links to color patterns that I could incorporate.

Why You Should Never Feed Them After Midnight

I'm sure you've heard of "aftermath", but have you seen "after bath"?