A Respectful Goodbye

As you know, Americans have spent the past several days saying goodbye to our 38th President, Mr. Betty Ford Clinic.
By all accounts, his death was a peaceful one. He hung from the noose for approximately five minutes before...whoopsie! Wrong Death! Don't tell...I'm just an intern here.

While President Betty Ford Clinic was known primarily for falling down and pardoning Nixon, according to the eulogies I sort of listened to last night, he did a bunch of other stuff too. A WHOLE bunch of other stuff.

But in a fitting tribute to President Betty Ford Clinic, one Distinguished Guest who wasn't feeling well attempted to leave, but as soon as he stood up from his chair he fell down. So then a bunch of doctors and paramedics appeared out of nowhere with wheelchairs and tubes and other medical looking paraphenalia and carted the guy away.

God Bless You Distinguished American for doing exactly what President Betty Ford Clinic would've done had he been alive for his own funeral!

During the interruption, the television cameras panned to the coffin and commentators made a very big deal about how it was resting on the very same wooden slab built for Abe Lincoln.

Ummmm...Sorry guys. I'm just not buying that. Abe was TALL...putting him on that slab of wood would be like me making my teenage daughter sleep on a toddler bed. There would've been Presidential feet dangling over the edge, the Presidential top hat repeatedly falling off his Presidential head onto the floor with Union Soldiers scrambling to pick it up:

Union Soldier # 1: "Anyone here have a right arm? I've got a left one, but I'm a righty."
Union Soldier # 2: (Raising lone right arm) "I do! I can help! The hand's missing a couple of fingers though..."
Union Soldier # 1: "Fine. You'll do. Anyone here have two legs left? I'll take a leg and a half if that's all you've got!"

Anyway, I nodded off during the rest of the ceremony. But you can bet it was profound and respectful.

Goodbye President Betty Ford Clinic. Your shrine is sure to be visited by many celebrities in the years to come.

I CAN Write About My Cans

I own a couple of boobs. We adults refer to them as "breasts," But for obvious reasons they will be referred to here as "cans." I'm not sure if I'm allowed to refer to them in the singular, as in "my left can was in better form than my right can in that particular dress," but I'll do the best I "can."

Anyway, my cans have been with me pretty much my whole life. In fact, they became particularly obvious around the same time I met a couple of guys in junior high school. These guys almost instantly became my buddies. It was an odd coincidence-I developed cans AND new buddies AT THE SAME TIME!

At first I was little uncomfortable with my new cans. Boys would have conversations with me without actually looking at my face. Grown men (creeps) would make comments about them as I walked down the street. Should I be embarrassed, I wondered? Should I hide them under enormous sweaters so maybe noone would notice them?

Shit no! I had CANS and the world was gonna have to get used to them. I believe I stood on top of a mountain and hollared to God "I'LL NEVER PRETEND I"M CANLESS AGAIN!!!!" (Made that up, but I sorta wish I'd done that.)

As it turns out, my cans have been very good to me throughout the years. I take all can related comments as compliments. Never received a verbal or written complaint from a boyfriend regarding them. And even shortly after my divorce from my gay husband (who,in hindsight,really had no use for my cans) I received the following soothing comment from a gay male friend:

"Don't worry. You'll find another guy. You've got good breasts." (True story.)

So thank-you for the honor of acknowledging my cans IANO and SWAC. Although we haven't figured out a way to thank you properly, I'm sure we'll think of something.

The REAL 2006 Person of the Year

WARNING: The following is a little more heartfelt than my usual posts. But I'm allowed to be sentimental SOMETIMES.

The REAL 2006 Person of the Year


I know. The honor of making this choice is usually given to Time Magazine, but those eggheads completely dropped the ball this year by making "YOU" (and I guess me too) Person of the Year.

We aren't. We know it. Maybe next year once I put the finishing touches on this cure for cancer powder drink I've been working on. But not this year.

So I guess I'll do the job that the slackers at Time Magazine couldn't pull off given that tough 365 day deadline.

Drumroll please.....

The REAL 2006 Person of the Year is....

My friend Joanie (Real Name: Joanie).

You're probably thinking "Joanie??? What did SHE do to get Person of the Year? And I don't even know her!"

Well, I don't know "YOU" (or is that "ME?") but Time Magazine STILL made "US" Person/People of the Year, when I've got a much better candidate. So I'm going to continue making my case.

Joanie takes that whole "lemons to lemonade" thing to new levels.

1. Despite obstacles that might have the rest of us shopping at the Cyanide Store, Joanie always figures out a way to make things work out.

2. She works approximately 60 hours a week at a job she hates and still manages, without the assistance of a spouse, to attend every one of her two young kids' games, meets, and other events.

3. She makes every holiday special, regardless of the circumstances.

4. She'll stay up for however long it takes to help her procrastinating progeny with school projects even though she has to blast out by 7 A.M. the next morning to get to the job she hates on time.

5. She takes care of other people's pets when they can't house them anymore.

6. She's risen me from the dead on more than a couple of occasions (I'll spare you the details...and NO....she's not Joanie Jesus or Jesus Joanie or whatever sounds better. But in times of crisis, don't ask the spiritual bumper sticker question "What Would Jesus Do?" Ask the PRACTICAL question "What Would Joanie Do?)

7. She (almost) never loses her temper-she's got a 15 year old daughter, so she's forgiven those rare moments.

8. If there was a Holy Shit Hurricane headed in our direction, Joanie would bake some pies in an oven that doesn't work, build a hurricane shelter, manage to rig up some electricity in the shelter so we could watch movies until the hurricane passed, and then get up the next morning and start rebuilding her house (made that one up, but you can bet I'm hanging out with her during the next hurricane).

9. She doesn't dwell.

10. She loves my children as much as I love hers, and her door is always open to us.

You get the picture. Everyone needs a Joanie (Real Name: Joanie) in their lives.

Are you listening Time Magazine Losers? And are you ready for your photo shoot Joanie?

I Like SOME Cats

Those who've been stuck with me for a long time, in sickness and in health and in various states of mental retardation know that I was the world's official Numero Uno Cat Stevens fan (Numero Uno: Latin for "The Most Obsessed").

I loved him loved him loved him loved him.

I had every one of his albums and played them constantly.

I knew every song he ever sang by heart.

I had posters of him on my bedroom wall.

I drove everyone around me crazy enough to yell stuff like "TURN THE GODDAM CAT STEVENS DOWN ALREADY OR I'M GONNA TAKE A WEED WACKER TO THOSE POSTERS!!!"

I was certainly going to marry him. Mrs. Cat Stevens. That was ME. I expected to someday say proudly "How do you do? I'm Mrs. Cat Stevens. Would you care for some Tea For The Tillerman? " Only Mrs. Cat Stevens could say stuff like that. And it should've been me.

But then he became a freak.

This is the kind of shit that happens to me all the time. The guy I was SUPPOSED to marry became a freak, and the guy I DID marry became a freak.

Cat Stevens found God (Allah) at a beach in Malibu where I guess God (Allah) hangs out.

So he changed his name (which I suppose wasn't a BAD thing-I mean, "Cat" isn't exactly the most dignified adult name- but at least he wasn't Racoon Stevens or Anteater Stevens or, worse yet, Moose Stevens).

He stopped singing.

He did weird interviews.

He turned up on the news occasionally for not being allowed into countries such as our own and saying stupid things that offended people enough that they burned his CDS in the same pile with the Dixie Chicks.

Obviously he was unaware of how totally he pissed me off. I had to completely change my life plans because of him and God (Allah) and shit. Thanks a lot Cat. Or Yusef. Or Fred....whatever you call yourself these days.

But now he's back with a new Nonfreakish CD. He sounds almost normal in his interviews. And the CD.....that voice hasn't changed a bit. Sigh....

Maybe he needed the money. Maybe he went to Malibu and had a heart to heart with God (Allah) who told him "Better do another CD...Bemis has been pissed at you for years."

But I ain't trusting him THIS time around. No siree. I've got other plans Cat Stevens Yusef Islam Fred that do NOT include you.

But if you wanna give me a call....

Our New Favorite Movie

Occasionally my girls and I will discover Our New Favorite Movie.

It usually happens like this:

We go to the video store looking for a specific movie and grab a couple of others, and if we're lucky, one of those other movies becomes our New Favorite Movie.

First of all, I don't preview any of these movies before my children watch them-I just pop the dvd in and we all watch together and decide AFTERWARDS if it was appropriate for them. Previewing is for parental pussies.

Secondly, we know we've discovered Our New Favorite Movie when we do the following:

1. Watch the movie
2. Crack up
3. Spend approximately an hour AFTER the movie engaged in a high level discussion that involves us saying stuff like

"Remember when he said...." Crack up.

"I loved the part when..." Crack up.

" Remember this?" (Reinactment of some scene performed by one of my daughters)... Crack up.

And then we'll watch the movie AGAIN, so we can memorize more lines and scenes and totally annoy anyone around us who hasn't actually SEEN the movie but might perhaps want to without knowing every line first.

So the other night my kids wanted to rent a movie (the movie they wanted was "Rent," and I of course couldn't resist saying to the girl behind the counter "We'd like to rent 'Rent').

Now, one might think that a movie about crossdressing heroin addicted HIV positive homosexuals might not be appropriate viewing for my 11 year old, but we've all seen the play, they love the music, and I'm not a parental pussy.

Meanwhile, I grabbed a movie called "Little Miss Sunshine" because the previews looked like it might be kinda goofy.

Well, "Little Miss Sunshine" has now become Our New Favorite Movie. It passed every New Favorite Movie test, and now my girls and I are speaking in "Little Miss Sunshine" code and pissing off everyone around us.

So you better see it before I start telling you about the part when the guy in the car.... Oh. Sorry. I'll give you a couple of days.

Name Calling

Today I saw a bunch of kids get up and walk out of the auditorium during our festive and entertaining Holiday Assembly.

First of all, if you're gonna attempt a sneak escape from anywhere, don't do it in packs of 13.

Secondly, if I had to stay, then so did THEY.

So I rushed to the nearest phonebooth, changed into my Superhero Teacher Uniform, and headed them off before they slipped out of the building (my cape is very attractive, by the way).

I then told them, in a bossy Superhero Teacher tone, to go back to the auditorium until they were dismissed.

One girl gave me the Evil Teenage Girl Death Stare and said

"You're SUCH a ....." Pause. Thinking thinking thinking.....

And I'm waiting. The possibilities are endless, but favorite menu items include:

"Bitch"
"Asshole"
"Fucking Bitch" (Always a winner!)

FINALLY she finishes her sentence.

"You're SUCH a ....'Holiday Person!'

Ouch.

And you thought it was easy being a Superhero Teacher.

Anyone Seen My Reading Glasses?

There are many many things you should not do if you are, like me, unable to read a preschool ABC book where the letters are size 50 font and accompanied with pictures without your reading glasses.

Screw the "Fine Print..." I can't see the "Crappy Big Print" without four eyes.

I misplaced my reading glasses today, but I had one minor task to do-review and vote on a contract that will determine my livelihood for the next three years.

Now for those of you non-union folks, contracts are full of "language" and "numbers" that are confusing all on their own. It doesn't help to be Stevie Wonder when you're trying to figure them out.

And our negotiating team didn't make it easy for us-instead of just giving us the tentative contract in advance so at least someone could READ it to me, they had us gather all together like it was some kind of Broadway Premiere before they "unvieled" the Mysterious Contract.

Well, I had shit to do, and frankly, the only thing anyone really cares about is:

Did We Get a Raise?
How Much?
Is it Retroactive?

So I got sick of waiting around, found one of the negotiators (with the assistance of my Guide Dog) and said

"I gotta go. Can you show me the numbers?"

He did, but without my glasses, I saw a chart of blended black ink. I think.

NEGOTIATOR: "And here's what you'll be making after the second year."
ME: (Squinting...manages to make out a blur.) "Ok-I can't see this. What's the percentage?"

So he told me, I said thanks, voted, (I think) and left.

Can't wait to SEE what I actually voted for (or against....the ballot was a little fuzzy). Good thing I wasn't buying a car today.

The Stupid Gift Swap Craze

Well, we won't call it a "craze" yet, but I can imagine a few years from now one being held at the White House. When there's a new President with a battery charged working brain.

As I've mentioned before, the Stupid Gift Swap has been a family tradition since the day, several years ago, my sister Julie said "Hey! Let's have a STUPID Gift Swap!" And we all thought the idea was just stupid enough to work.

Last year, I mentioned this family tradition to my Advanced Placement (smart) students, and THEY insisted on having one on the day before we got out for Christmas vacation (Yes folks...your tax dollars are being spent wisely).

But trying to define a "Stupid Gift" isn't easy.

1. It can't be anything PURPOSEFULLY Stupid.
2. Anything sex related is not an acceptable Stupid Gift.
3. It's a "visual..." If you see an item and say "What the Hell is THAT?" or "That's REALLY Stupid," then it qualifies.

That was all of the guidance I could give them.
They they did a pretty good job (given their lack of experience in the art of Stupid Gift Swap shopping) and it was a fun...ummm, I mean valid educational experience.

Now my NEW crop of AP (smart) kids caught wind of our Educationally Sound Stupid Gift Swap day and want to have one of their own. Meanwhile, the old batch of students (smart kids travel in packs) are bugging their NEW teacher for another Stupid Gift Swap day.

NEW TEACHER: (To me) "Okay, what's up with this Stupid Gift Swap? And how do I find a Stupid Gift?" (those naive new teachers....)
ME: (Refer to guidelines above)

Hopefully there's enough Stupid Gifts around for everyone and we won't experience another "PlayStation 3" disaster.

But it really doesn't matter-I'll STILL get the best one.

POOF

About a year ago I went to one of those generic "Get Your Hair Cut For $15.00" places. Guys have "Barbershops." They have a red and white twirly light in front so you know exactly where you're at. You grab an issue of Maxim, ask for a "Boys Regular" and soon enough you're on your way.

For gals, it's a bit more complicated. We have a banquet of options...colors, highlights, perms, short, long, layered...these are major decisions.

But on this particular occasion, I just wanted a haircut (I have since learned that when you go to one of these $15.00 a haircut places, you better check out the stylist's doo because that's exactly what YOU'RE going to end up with.)

I THOUGHT I told the woman what I wanted-a snip here and there, no fuss. Approximately 45 minutes later, after she finished washing, cutting, blowdrying, moussing,and gelling I looked at myself in the mirror and just started to laugh. It was probably rude of me, but I couldn't help myself. She'd given me the equivalent of a Marisa Tomei hairdo from the movie "My Cousin Vinnie."

And then the generic stylist got REALLY pissed, which made me laugh even more. That sucked doubly because I was laughing ALONE...no buddy with me.

HAIRDRESSER: (Totally Insulted): "Well, if you didn't like it, why didn't you say so before I went through all of that work?"

ME: (Still Laughing) "Sorry. I just didn't know it was gonna end up this...well...poofy."

I paid, left a tip, and went home immediately to wash the poof out of my hair.

But I do think there needs to be a place where Gals can go, grab an issue of Vanity Fair (it'll take you two weeks to get through one article, so it doesn't matter what you're having done) and safely ask for a "Girl's Regular." Minus the poof.

A Christmas Carol For Drug Dealers

You Better Watch Out
You Better Not Buy
A Whole Bunch Of Coke And I'm Tellin You Why
The Drug Tsar Is Coming To Town

He's Making A List
He's Hanging Outside
Your House All Day
So You Better Hide
The Drug Tsar Is Coming To Town

He Knows What You've Been Snorting
He Knows the Smell of Schrooms
He Wants To Find A Meth Lab
Right Inside Your Family Rooms

So You Better Watch Out
And Don't Get Big Heads
Cause He'll Even Cuff You
For Puppy Meds
The Drug Tsar Is Coming To Town

He Sees You When You're Taking
A Neighbor's Wad Of Cash
He Doesn't Care If It Is For
Either Crack or Pills or Hash

So Shut Off The Lights
Take A Trip To Beruit
It's Gotta Beat Wearing
An Orange Jumpsuit

The Drug Tsar Is Coming TO TOWWWWN!

Important Question

Why is the word "bra" singular and "panties" plural when both refer to one item?

That's all. Simple question without an easy answer.

Fashion Disasta!

This kind of stuff happens to me all the time.

It seems that Frontal Lobotomy Laura, our very own First Lady (as opposed to our Second First Lady, who is busy preparing a nursery for the upcoming birth of her lesbian daughter's child.....haaaaaaa...better check the batteries in the old pacemaker there Dick) had a major fashion problem recently.

She spent somewhere around $8000.00 for a dress from designer Oscar de la Renta. And when she wore it to some official First Lady and Husband affair, there were two other women there wearing the exact same dress.

SHIT!!!!! That's a 911 Fashion Emergency in her teenie weenie world.

Obviously she accidentally purchased it not from the actual designer, but from the Oscar de la "Renta Dress for $8000.00 Per Night" outlet.

Man that must've sucked. Not sure how she handled it, but it's not like she needed THAT crisis on top of discovering that:

Her Husband's an Idiot
Her Daughters are Idiots
She's an Idiot

How much can one Lady handle? Even if she's the First one.

(Or was that Eve...at least SHE had enough sense to hang around naked with just a figleaf over her privates...and you can bet there were no other ladies in Eden wearing the same figleaf as her.)

Hello, Dr. Freud?

My friend Joanie (Real Name: Joanie) works in the Customer Service Department of a large company.

As with most big businesses these days, the folks at her work are given a script they have to recite when they answer their phones.

(I recently called a local bank and a woman answered the phone saying, in one long breath, something like "Hello my name is Margaret and you've reached the Mayberry Branch of the Happy Customer Citizens People's Bank where prompt and efficient service is our number one priority how can I help you today?" I just started laughing, and so did she. )

Anyway, Joanie has to answer the phone with some canned script too and then ask "And whom am I speaking with today?"

Yesterday, she overheard a cube buddy answering HER phone, and the woman, after finishing her lines, asked the customer "And whom am I sleeping with today?"

So So SOOO wish I was the customer on the other end of the line.

Did YOU Get a Card?

I always wondered about people who send cards and gifts to folks they don't know and will never meet.

Exactly how lame can you get? I remember years ago when Charles, Prince of Ears, married Diana in that intimate ceremony watched by 4,655,423,742 people, and later read somewhere that they had received tons of wedding gifts from all over the world.

What kind of person thinks to themselves while rushing around doing Saturday errands:

"Darn! I CAN'T forget to pick something up for Charles and Diana! Wonder if there's anything at Linens N Things they might like?"

And then actually BUYS, I dunno, wedding picture frames, tastefully wraps them, goes to the Post Office and SENDS them with an enclosed card saying:

Dear Charles & Diana,

Congratualtions. Wishing you both a lifetime of Happiness. I hope you like the picture frames.

Sincerely,
Mr.and Mrs.James P. Carmichael
23 E. Loring Street
Lincoln, Nebraska

These aren't sane people. (And by the way Mr.and Mrs. Carmichael, you may have heard not to bother sending an anniversary card.)

My first question, of course, is how exactly do they address these cards and gifts?

Do they just write, say, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, Hollywood, California and ASSUME the matching candlestick holders will get there? And that Tom and Katie, who really LOVE matching candlestick holders will be so thrilled with their gift that they'll call to personally thank them?

And secondly, don't these people have lives? I give cards and gifts to exactly TWO people, both of whom I gave birth to. That's it for me.

I bring this up because as we speak there are millions of Americans who are sending Christmas cards, gifts, and (according to the Commander-in-Chief) prayers to the First Family.

It's like the family in the Big White House is on their "personal card giving" list, right there with Aunt Dottie (who's arthritis has been acting up) and the niece who's "on vacation" (in rehab) and needs to be remembered around this special holiday season (probably crack).

But the family in the Big White House also sends out millions of Christmas cards to people they don't know, as long as those people have sent THEM large checks regularly throughout the years. I've personally never received one of these cards...until this year.

Mysteriously, an Official Big White House Christmas Card appeared in my mailbox at work. It was the real deal, the kind you can't buy at stores and that only people like IANO, if he's REALLY a Republican and REALLY gives them money, would get.

So I spent a day and enlisted the services of my colleagues to figure out who placed this vile item in my mailbox. There were several possible candidates, but once I discovered who the criminal was, it turns out I was actually the recipient of quite an honor.

One of my former student's has her own holiday tradition-her father gives piles of money to the Republican Party,and every year when the Official Big White House Christmas Card arrives, she snatches it from dad, writes a "personal note from the President" in it, and gives it to the individual who has demonstrated in the previous year the greatest disgust for the current occupant of the Oval Office. And THIS year, I won.

So I now PROUDLY display my Official Big White House Christmas Card from (stamped signature) George and Laura.

But they aren't getting one from me. Even though I know their address.

Frosty Car Tips

Now, this may be close to the most boring thing you've ever read.

(Unless you're really weird and read St. Thomas Aquinas. He was canonized for writing one of the most incomprehensible, make your eyes glaze over and finally pop out their sockets book known to mankind. It's even got a catchy title..."Summa Theologica." Poor people a long time ago died early from disease and starvation-educated people died early from boredom.)

But I think what I have to say here is very instructional.

Those of us stupid enough to live in places that get cold during the winter may have noticed we've had some frosty mornings this past week.

For the past few days I've had to warm up my car and scrape the windows before I could leave for my thoroughly enjoyable, fulfilling, and high paying job.

After a couple of mornings of this happy ritual, I noticed that my neighbors two cars had no frost on them whatsoever. Same driveway, same temperature, and I got the frost while they got none.

Today, I FINALLY figured out what was up. My neighbors are from California, and THEIR cars still have California plates on them.

Obvious Conclusion: Old Man Winter is sorta losing it (it happens to lots of old folks) and thinks my neighbors are still in California so he dumps all of the frostiness on MY car because of my stupid Massachusetts plates.

Duh. I can't believe I didn't catch this sooner.

So I was thinking of covering my license plates overnight with fake "California" plates (I'll just make them with a piece of paper and tape them over my real ones) and see if Old Man Winter skips my car too.

I'll let you know how it works out.

Boobs 'R Everything

I had a crappy day, so to lighten my spirits I visited the Blog Next Door.
One of the posters (who's name I will not reveal but rhymes with "Pinky")
made a comment that reminded me of a personal story. It was a memory trigger so it doesn't count as theft. Besides, did I mention that I had a crappy day?

14 years ago two very important events occurred in my life.

1. I had my first child
2. I was laid off from my job due to the generosity of the taxpayers and my bottom of the list seniority status.

So I started sending out resumes and arranging interviews. Problem was, I had JUST given birth and LOOKED like I'd just given birth. Let's just say I wasn't the kind of gal who could take her newborn home and slip right back into those size 4 jeans. I was, in fact, vocally angry with my doctor about all of the extra weight...I recall, after being told my precious newborn child weighed six pounds four ounces, saying to my doctor "Well that PLACENTA better weigh 45 pounds!!!" Drugs, highly recommended during childbirth, will make you say that kind of stuff (Ok...TMI).

Thus, my Professional Interview Attire consisted of dresses my 4X4 Italian grandmother would wear-minus the apron and spaghetti sauce stains.

Anyway, my former in-laws had to drive me to one of my interviews because I had this tiny creature who was reliant on me for sustenance. They aren't exactly a "Fun Loving Easy Going" couple. Before we began our journey, they both pulled out their rosaries and recited in unison some "Driving" prayer. That was a little creepy. And I'm sure my father-in-law, who was behind the wheel, was drunk. He's been drunk for well over 80 years, so that was a no-brainer.

So me and my little charge were in the back seat on the way to the interview when suddenly I began to lactate. A lot. I couldn't even make a joke about it to my chauffers-And I certainly wasn't about to whip out a boob and start to nurse in THAT company. So I just quietly, and unsuccessfully, attempted to fan away the stubborn "Mother's Milk" spots that were getting larger by the mile and compromising my already pathetic Professional Interview Attire.

I cannot even imagine what the interviewers thought when I arrived with enormous wet spots covering both of my boobs. I wish I had said "Hello. I'm lactating. So could you stop staring at my breasts with those horrified looks on your faces?"

Guess what? I didn't get the job. My boob stains obviously made FAR more of an impression than my wonderful Letters of Recommendation, my pristine professional performance, my perfect college grade point average, and my Phi Beta Kappa membership. So I stopped nursing-we Phi Beta Kappas learn wicked quick: Boob status trumps everything else.

Don't RALPH Me!

I work with a guy who's real name is not Ralph. He's in charge of our telegraph machines, rotary phones, and all of our other early 20th century technology courtesy of the generous taxpayers.

He's the computer guy.

And he's worse than a dork. Everyone hates him.

First, let me preface my Anti-Ralph Rant by saying that Ralph was once a student of mine. He was an unlikable dork with an overbearing mother then-he's now just a larger unlikable dork who probably still lives with his overbearing mother. No explanation required.

Anyway, the grown-ups in our school get the extra special perk of not having OUR computers censored like we were 14 year olds.

Thus, if the Sport Heads wants to check out the score for last night's game, they can.

If the Brides-To-Be want to take a quick look at some Bride-To-Be dress sites, no problem.

If the Resident Pedophiles want to peek for a moment at some porn site, then what's the harm? (KIDDING GENEROUS TAXPAYERS!!!!)

Unless Ralph decides otherwise. He must sit in the basement of the school all night and use his creepy little Ralph eyes to moniter what sites the adults frequent (Moniter THIS Ralph). Because occasionally we show up at work, log into our regular sites, and read: Access Denied. We'd been RALPHED.

ME: (yelling to colleague across the hall) "Has your computer been RALPHED?"

COLLEAGUE: "Yeah. What an Asshole!"

And so we then go to him and tell him that if he screws with our computers again we'll cut his fingers off. His life has been threatened on numerous occasions.

It's not like he doesn't deserve our collective disdain-he doesn't own anything resembling a personality, he's got a ton of far more important things to do given the state of our Yard Sale Quality technology, and he's generally a jerk to everyone.

He THINKS he's the Master Controller of all we should see, but he's just a weird fuck that everyone ignores until he tries to mess with our access to stuff. Then we get into his dorky face and he backs down.

I don't get RALPHED anymore. But if I do, you'll read about it in the local paper. And I'll be acquitted of all charges because noone should be RALPHED. Especially by Ralph.

The Letter "V"

It occurred to me, since Mr. No and I both just happened to write about
about "something" beginning with the letter "V" (we're telapathetic), that when compared to the other 25 letters in the alphabet, "V" got a pretty raw deal.

While there are NICE things that begin with the letter (Violens, Violets), "V" is also associated with a lot of crappy stuff:
(and I'm not spellchecking since Clinky's in Spain taking a bunch of pictures of train stations when he was explicitely instructed to stay away from them.)

1. Varicose Veins

2. Venereal Disease

3. Veternarians (if you're a household pet-if you're a person and this is what you choose to do for a living, well...I'm not shaking YOUR hand)

4. Vermin

5. Vandals

6. Vegatables (the bad ones, like brussel sprouts, or Von Brussel Sprouts,as they're technically known)

7. Vascectomies

8. Vampires (not the cute ones that come to your door Trick or Treating-the scary ones Ann Rice likes to write about that live forever and suck the blood out of you and look like Tom Cruise)

9. Vacuuming

10. Very Very Very Very Very Long and Boring Meetings

I'm done...I just started thinking about Vacation in the Virgin Islands, sitting on a Veranda listening to Van Morrison. But I've made my point.

Scooter's New Song

I just returned from the mall with my daughters and the requisite 14 year old friend. (I hate the mall all times of the day, all the days of the year, so you can imagine what a blast I had there on a Saturday night during the Christmas season with two teenage girls and one in training-I now offically have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-but where else can you go to get a pair of ripped jeans for $60.00?)

Anyway, Scooter's sort of a force of nature. And when she's not bitching, she can actually be funny. (She apologized for taking so long in one ridiculously expensive store, but blamed her friend because she said her boobs were so big they had to take extra time to get a shirt that would fit.
Friend: "My boobs aren't THAT big!"
Scooter: "You're a C. Third letter in the Alphabet.")

So on the ride home Scooter, who always behaves like she's jacked up on caffiene, just randoming began belting out the following "song" (think of the musical Annie," and the chorus from that song "Tomorrow"-that was the tune she choose):

VAGINA
VAGINA
I HAVE A
VAGINA
IT'S RIGHT HERE BETWEEN MY LEGS

And then, after peeing ourselves from laughing, we ALL started singing it together, like it was your average happy family roadtrip song.

I suggested she should record it (I'm sure her vocal instructor wouldn't mind!) and send a copy to Britney Spears.

Holiday Shopping Tips For The Retarded

If you don't know this stuff by now, then you will be immediately placed on the Holiday Retard List.

It's officially December, the National "Go To The Mall And Buy Stuff for People" Month.

So please keep this one simple tip in mind: when you're buying presents for people, the "thought" doesn't count.

The present counts.

We can forgive our children when they were really young and made us adorable precious angel ornaments for the tree out of toilet paper rolls, pipe cleaners, and crayons when what we ACTUALLY wanted was a weekend away at a spa in the Berkshires. They didn't have credit cards and besides, they couldn't sign their names in cursive even if they did.

So forget the kids...Christmas isn't about THEM anyways. Let's think about us grown-ups for a moment here. There are rules for gift buying, and if you don't follow them, then you deserve whatever YOU get for Christmas.

Rules for Loved Ones:

When wife, husband, favorite boyfriend/girlfriend or hooker says:

"Gee honey, I really LOVED those (insert name of designer here Hoagy) completely impractical and very expensive stilletoe heeled thigh high red faux alligator skin boots we just saw at Macy's. Sure wish I had a pair of THOSE!" then do not purchase Said Loved One:

A pair of gloves
A "Safety Kit" in case they get stuck in their car during a snowstorm
ANY item of clothing you pick out all by yourself because you KNOW your Loved One's taste (you don't).

Buy the fucking boots. (One note...if Said Loved One happens to be a husband and/or favorite boyfriend and expresses interest in the thigh high stilletoe heeled boots, then immediately make new arrangements for Christmas that do not include him.)

Rules for Everyone Else:

This category includes neighbors, colleagues, the paper boy, children's teachers etc.

Who cares? Wal-Mart's open pretty late on Christmas Eve-grab what's left.

Except when it comes to your children's teachers, of course. We collectively own enough "I Heart My Teacher" mugs to open our own chain of Teacher Tea & Coffee Hotspots (Constant CNN Coverage and Regular Quizzes Free of Charge). Instead,I suggest lottery scratch tickets (which I get my children's teachers every year because I think it would be wicked funny if the best teacher in the school won a ton of money, quit their job, and every parent in the community would blame ME) and booze.

And my kids? They want ipods and laptops. So I've got my toilet paper rolls and pipe cleaners out right now....it's payback time!