I FEEL LIKE A WANKER

I have been reading blogs from all over the world and picked up a few new terms. My understanding of the word "wanker" from the context I have read it in seems to mean penis. Now, I don't feel like a penis, exactly. I feel like a really limp penis. I worked twelve and a half hours today because "I don't need a calendar, I can remember."

Well, not quite. I forgot that I had an online discussion to run tonight at work and instead of going in later, I went in at my regular, crack of dawn, 8 AM. I didn't even realize I had the discussion until 11 when I was notified, by e-mail, to log on and do a test run. Shit! So, there I was at 7 PM all ready to be the moderator, when the invited guest has computer problems, the manager of the discussion doesn't have her cell phone because her husband took it with him and she has no land line...and, the rules change very quickly. It seems that now, the manager will be the moderator, I will "be" the speaker. I will accomplish this by calling her, submitting the questions the moderator has chosen verbally and type in the answers as she gives them to me verbally.

Now, for over 40 of my 57 years I have lied about my typing. Why? Because I grew up in a generation that if you knew how to type, that's what you did. So, here I am, reading these questions to a very verbal woman in upstate New York and typing in the longest and most detailed answers that anyone could imagine. And, I'm transcribing these like a son of a bitch. After 45 minutes my hands were cramping up and I was watching the clock on the computer crawl slowly towards 8 PM. That's when I realized that the person in New York couldn't see the answers I was typing, the moderator couldn't hear what she was saying and I became an editor. Let me tell you, honey, those long winded answers were pared down to almost snippy replies.

What the hell. I 'm an accountant. I put numbers into boxes and they add up and all is well with the world. I am not supposed to have to deal with people. I, unfortunately, put myself in this position since no one else had volunteered to be the "moderator." And, of course, being the wonderful, people pleasing martyr that I am, said "Sure, I'll do it." I meant moderate. Not be a transcriber to, what I am sure was, a very nice woman who didn't realize how much I hated talking to her, typing answers to a bunch of questions that I could barely field, and not just slip over to Blog Explosion for a little surfing.

So, that's why I feel like a limp wanker. Now, if I were Australian I could head out and play a little "pokie." Which is poker to them, and with a limp wanker attitude would be about all I could manage.

Know what tomorrow is? Another installment of "What's In Sarah's Bed?" It will probably be me, with all the crap piled up and watching Heaven's Gate which I got from Netflix. And, with any luck at all, Monday won't turn into "What's Sarah Going to Whine About Today?" 'Night, all.

THE HOLIDAY STORY OF THE HAMMER THE NAILS...
AND THE LAUNDRY

This is one of those stories that I almost wish I wasn't in. Almost.

Okay, after being separated from my first husband for five years with no divorce the need came about to be married again. The story is kind of dramatic, but in a brief few words it can be summed up like this: Hippie, bisexual, rock and roll, a smattering of drugs, a really bad attitude and a custody battle with my mother for my daughter. None of the things mentioned made me a great mother, but neither did they make me an unfit one. However, for the sake of brevity, my mother would have turned me into the female version of Jack the Ripper if it meant getting custody of my daughter from me and messing with my life just one more time.

Now, I had been supporting my child, loving her, supervising her appropriately and doing all of the motherly things that were necessary, but, I had not bowed to my mother's idea of being the perfect daughter. I got sick, had to have surgery, made the mistake of my life, which meant asking my mother to care for my daughter while I recovered. Whoa, baby. The psychological aspects of that have been totally reviewed and on some sick level, I suppose I was still seeking her approval.

Anyway, the deed was done. Upon release from the hospital, I get home to find she has filed for permanent custody, had been granted temporary custody and I was up the proverbial creek.

How was I going to fix this. Well, let's see. What was the dumbest thing I could do? You got it. I found someone I was certain would normalize me in the eyes of the law and so I married him. Oops. Now, he wasn't a bad guy. But, marrying for the wrong reason, in fact marrying for the right reason...both can get you in a hell of a lot of trouble. Long story short. He wasn't normal enough. I hadn't suffered enough. And, I ended up childless and married. I did get visitation and all of the hell that goes with that type of an arrangement. But, to say it was less than perfect, is the epitome of understatement.

Eventually, custody was returned to me, and, I was still married. He had a propensity towards passive aggressive behavior, sloth and a down and out ability to remain unemployed. The passive aggressive behavior began to drive me crazy. The sloth drove me up a wall. And the inability to find gainful employment became the last straw.

I started to plan my move. Not being one to rush into things anymore, I was busy getting my eggs in a row when my own passive aggressive behavior began to emerge. Shit, I never realized how much fun it could be.

The one thing that had always pushed me over the edge was the inability of this man to find the laundry basket with his dirty underwear. So, as they started to pile up on his side of the bed, I took out my handy hammer and some carpeting tacks, and tacked
them to the floor. Ha ha, I thought, wait until he tries to pick those up. Well, he didn't try and pick them up. They lay there and the pile grew. Here comes the hammer, some nails this time, and tap, tap, tap, the second layer were firmly put in place. Then the third, fourth, and by the fifth, I was on my way out the door. I figured that he was just being more passive than I and wasn't going to say anything to me about it.

Wrong. About three weeks after I left, the phone rings, and there he is, "What the hell is the idea of nailing my underwear to the floor?" I blew snot. It had taken the man over six weeks to realize that I had nailed his dirty clothes to floor. It was great. I was actually glad that I wasn't there when he discovered it. It was much better to just hang up the phone and go on with my life.

The moral of this story, if there is a moral, is that sometimes things you think are being done for all of the right reasons can turn out just as badly as if you had done something else for all of the right reasons. I regained custody of my daughter when my mother died. Overnight, I became all the things that I hadn't been when she was alive. It was the beginning of true growing up for me. To learn that my self righteousness was no different than hers. That things will take care of themselves in the strangest of ways, without our stupid attempts at manipulation. And, that when it comes to laundry, run if you see me with a hammer in my hands.

I am grateful during this period of Thanksgiving that I can look back on all of this without rancor and hate. It was the best gift I ever gave myself. Well, that and the last piece of pecan pie that I finished as I wrote this.

Today I am one tired, sorry cow. The princess and the wild are sleeping right now. Just like I wish I were. But, no, I am at work. And really working hard, as you can see.

We ended up with seven for T'day. On Thursday I got up feeling like I had the world by the tail and by the end of the day I knew it was my tail that was whipped. Cooking and eating can be such hard work, you know.

Highlights of the day included the holding of hands around the table and talking about what we were thankful for. Of course, my daughter and I get misty everytime this happens. And then it was Caden's turn. He turned the mood around immediately by letting us all know that he was grateful for being a "spoiled Kid." At least he recognizes it. I am of the firm belief you can't spoil children. It is necessary to teach them acceptance and respect..."spoiled" children don't have those things. My boy is such a sweetie that after the dinner he came over and climbed in my lap to be rocked like he was when he was a baby. Now this boy is 5'4" tall and just snuggled up next to me while I sang all the songs that I sang to him when he was small...what a moment. I will remember it as being one of the most touching things that has ever happened. I am so lucky.

And, yes, we did have the food fight. With no snow here yet, we decided to have it outside. Easier to clean. The only disadvantage was the little squirt's ability to run just out of reach of my throw. We got each other pretty good, though. When I thought it was over and about to go back inside (it was only 25 degrees) he comes over and takes a handful of food and totally smashes it into my face. What a boy. Takes after his Granny.

Then it was dessert time. Although we were all groaning, out came the pies and we forced ourself to have just a little more. And they were great. We sent quite a bit of food home with everyone, but I am more than happy to have them carry it on their hips as opposed to mine.

By bedtime, I was one . I crawled upstairs and was ready for slumberland when the phone rang. Tina's car had sopped running. Up gets the butt. I go to pick them up and head back to the house, deal with AAA, loan her my car to get home, eat a turkey sandwich, crawl back up the stairs and crash. I rode in with my roommate this morning and couldn't believe it when she asked "Are you getting up?" I slept for nine solid hours and could have packed in another four or five.

All in all it, was the best Thanksgiving ever. It always is. I am truly blessed. Even if I did have mashed potatoes in my ear this morning.

WHAT DID I DO TODAY?

Today was cooking day. Or pre-cooking day. Pies: two pumpkin, one pecan, one strawberry rhubarb. Homemade rolls. Homemade cinnamon buns. Brownie torte. Now that the important stuff has been done, I can kick back.

Tomorrow it's the 26 pound turkey in the Weber. All the side dishes and then on to the gorging. We are only having a total of six this year. It will be the smallest Thanksgiving in over twenty years. My roomate's sister married and moved four hours away. So, she and her boys won't be here. One of the boys may show up, but still unkown at this time. Same roommate's brother and his wife won't be coming up from the Cities. You know, when the kids grow up and start to move away things change.

Tina, Caden and Caden's father will be here. I know that the only reason I would ever move from here would be if Tina moved. It's great what a connection we have. And, as she and Caden are my only family, it's a good thing. I'm not going to get all maudlin here, but, they are my life.

Caden is looking forward to the food fight. It will probably be only he and I, Tina has avoided them from the first time I squashed mashed potatoes in her hair. Tidy girl, she is. (Hey, I'm Yoda!) We will probably have the fight outside this year as there is no snow yet and it's much easier to let the animals clean up the mess than draping the walls with plastic (started that after we got older and washing walls was way too much.) With this few people it will be Granny who gets most of the damage. For some reason, I always seem to.

This total lack of respect for decorum comes, of course, from my youth. Growing up in a less than ideal home situation showed me how important it was to be spontaneous and full of laughter. My mother had some strange rules. For example: I could never say that I was full. "There should be no reference to your stomach. That is rude!" So, the acceptable statement was, "I've had sufficient." Of course, this makes no sense. It's not like I was eating in front of the Queen. And more often than not, it was food retrieved from a dumpster. So, it has become a family joke. Caden and I crack up everytime he says, "I've had sufficient." Way to turn things around, Sarah!

Holidays when I was a child were horrible. All of your typical hysteria surrounding an alcoholic, drug addicted mother. I learned early on that the best way to survive was to be sick. I don't know how many holidays I spent in the hospital, but enough for it to always come to mind. The first holiday I reclaimed was Thanksgiving. It took a while, but, it was definitely a turning point in my life. The ability to be thankful is the greatest gift one can give to one's self.

And this year, as in all years, I have much to be thankful for. The love of a family. The love of friends. The ability to care for myself and other's around me with respect. The fact that I live with my needs being met and having the sensitivity to know that other's aren't and the courage to try and change that. That I have finally come to love myself and learned how truly freeing that can be. That was a hard one and only came about because I was able to quit resenting the past and put it in perspective with the future. And on and on and on.

I hope that you and your families will enjoy tomorrow as much as I will. Hopefully, there will printable pictures of the food fight and you can see that insanity reigns in much of my life...willingly!

What, if anything, does this have to do with Sarah's second marriage?

Tune in Friday for a delightful, if not somewhat mean-spirited explanation.

WEEK THREE AND WHAT'S IN SARAH'S BED?

(THIS IS A BAD WEEK FOR SARAH, I'M NOT GOING TO LIE, BUT I WILL BLUSH)

It's been a busy week and I have been even more of thrashing slob than usual. I tend to hoard and when I am busy I tend to toss. Enough justification, here goes

1. Teach Yourself HTML Visually (getting to be like a partner, but, not quite.)
2. Three remotes (tv, dvd, satellite--hmm, a three way.)
3. A jar of Nutella (ok, I ate it on an apple, that counts as a meal, doesn't it?)
4. Prioritize Organize (book--from my boss, for me to read, think she's trying to tell me something?)
5. Time Magazine (all the news that's almost fit to print from the mainstream media.)
6. Utne Reader (Readers Digest for the liberals.)
7. A long underwear shirt that I had to put on last night because I had decided I didn't have to close the window just yet. I was wrong.
8. New York Times Book Review
9. Mail order catalogue from Ebiza (for those that are interested, I would like the $198 Quan Yin Buddha on page 65.)
10. An empty Pringles can. (Originally purchased for grandson, picked up a new one tonight when shopping for Thanksgiving.)
11. Two unopened DVD's from Netflix that I haven't even had time to look at because I am too busy feeding my internet addiction.
12. "Touchy-feely" handout from work on Group Dynamics and Team Concepts. Blech!
13. Pile of laundry that I am definitely going to put away tonight before they fall on the dog hair covered floor and have to be washed again.
14. The laptop and me. A tired me.

This, of course, gives me just enough room to lay quite still and in a perfect straight line, any movement and piles of stuff will go rolling off of the far side of the bed into the morass of the unkown goodies. (That, my friends, is a very scary place.)

Now there is really no need to feel badly for me...I know I wouldn't be so tired if I ate better than Nutella and Pringles. And if I had put the laundry away before I lay down with the laptop it wouldn't be blocking the remote's ability to change the tv from "America's Biggest Losers"

But, tomorrow is another day and I will be cooking and and preparing for Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday for a number of reasons. I will be surrounded by family and friends, the food, the pies and....hold onto your hats...the food fight! This has been a tradition for 27 years. And this year Caden is the same age as Tina was when it started. Tina has never appreciated it, Caden and I love it. I promise pictures and we don't toss anything good...the jello, the stems and seeds of the mashed potatoes, and one year there was one deviled egg that landed directly on my cheek and stuck there, much to the delight of Caden, who threw it.

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday with your family and friends and you are all invited to the food fight, the more the merrier!

I'm worth $1,550,286.10! How much are you worth? I feel so cheap compared to some of you out there. What no masturbation? No smoking dope? Do those increase or decrease your value? Maybe I'll cheat and take it again. Nah...I always was a low end tramp. No reason to change that now.

(I have been known to say that my ass has been around the block so many times it has 8 ply retreads on it, maybe that has something to do with it.)

DOG OWNER ALERT!

WARNING TO ALL DOG OWNERS:

WATCH YOUR DOG!

Some vicious killer has been shooting dogs at random! Dogs are being picked off one at a time, and the numbers of deaths are mounting.

Police in the state advise all dog owners to "Watch Your Dog."

This photo came from a collie breeder in Glendale...a killer caught in a careless moment.

Regardless of what breed we have, we can't be too careful

(There are some real sickos out there!)

(Many thanks to the office mate who shared this with me and got me out of my crappy Monday Mood!)

YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS!

(Warning: This entry may contain words that can only be used to discuss the fucking stupidity of some fucking people!)

So, Friday night. The Cade isn't here because he has his first basketball game tomorrow morning. It's a strange Friday night for me. No kid, no kid movie and no frozen pizza in bed. Oh, what the hell. I guess I'm forced to surf blogexplosion for a bit. (Read: Bleary-eyed Sarah trying to wake up before noon on Saturday morning because she is possessed with this new addiction.)

I'm happily going along. Running into old favorites and then I find an old friend that I haven't seen in a while...VoxEfx. I'm merrily reading on and there it is, the poster for the movie that Caden has been wanting to see. So, I read. And I start to seethe. I can't believe it. I follow the links. Then I follow the next link.

These fucking people have pushed me over the edge. Now I have to listen to these assholes tell me about the subliminal message of a cartoon. And what is that message? They state that Shark Tale is a thinly veiled approach to "normalize" "homosexuality" with messages like "swimming against the stream" really means "coming out of the
closet."

Right! Or, rather, WRONG!!! How stupid do they think we are? Certainly nowhere near there abysmal lack of grey matter they exhibit. I can't fucking believe it. It's a fucking cartoon. Give me a fucking break. And that is only the beginning of the rant.

Who do these pseudo-religious, "holier than thou," homophobic sons of bitches think they are. That bastard in the Grey House is giving these people the right to spread their hate with his goddamned "moral" message. Well, they and he can kiss my royal queer ass. I have had it with these hate-mongerers trying to take their moralistic bullshit into every venue they can. Who cares if the goddamned shark is gay, vegetarian, Buddhist, vegan, libertarian or whatever. As I said before, it's a fucking cartoon.

And, if the message is one of swimming against the stream, good for them. Without swimming against the stream the whole idea of democracy would be buried up the ass of this country as we bowed to the Queen. (Queen? Did I say "Queen?" Oh, my god, their pervasive brainwashing is everywhere!) If being able to be who you are in spite of all around you, then Nelson Mandela would have faded into the background of an all-white South Africa. If these assholes want to see what they want to censor, then the next time they want to pray, maybe they should do it in the Sistine Chapel and look up and see what could not have been if their shit-hole opinions carried any weight.

Do I feel any better having written this? Yes and No. I hope you respond to this. One way or the other. I hope my anger prompts me to confront the racism, sexism, homophobia and whatever kind of hate these assholes are spreading with even more fervor. I hope that my grandson can grow up to be whoever he is without having to face this kind of hatred. And, I hope that my anger about this will only fuel others into action.

I suppose saying "Go in peace" would be a little bit of an anachronism right now. But, anger and peace are not separate. My fight for peace and the equality it brings is fueled by anger and sadness. So, go in peace, and kick some ass on the way!

ANOTHER EDITION OF WHAT'S IN SARAH'S BED

Having started a new tradition, I will continue it.

1. Teach Yourself Visually HTML
2. Time
3. Newsweek
4. The Walrus (magazine)
5. Today's Mail
6. Projected budget for non-profit for review
7. Package of Nicorette Gum
8. Mysteries of the Alphabet (book)
9. Again, the three remotes
10. At least five Asian Ladybugs (No, they're not gone yet!>
11. Last but not least, the Laptop..
    

Yup, folks, life doesn't get much better than this. Have a nice night!

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FIRST MARRIAGE OR

THE EFFECTS OF CAMPO PHENIQUE ON LOVE

You need to understand a lot of things for this story to have it's full impact. I had left home when I was a little past the age of sixteen...some called it running away, I called it survival. Of a sort.

There weren't a lot of jobs out there for sixteen year olds, even in the sixties. And, as was often the case, I was just a little too smart for my britches. I tried a variety of things. All extremely low paying. Then, I discovered if I lied about my age, said I could do anything the jobs got a little better. My first "grown-up" job was as a receptionist/typist for a sign manufacturing company. This meant I had to type envelopes to every senior high school in the country and send them information about the "signs" they could purchase for their schools to announce events. This was before databases, they only had a manual typewriter, and I was going crazier.

So, I looked for another position. Needless to say it involved less clothes, an ability to move one's feet to the rhythm, and an ID that said I was 21. All of which were accomplished by the next day and I was on my way to stardom. If you call the Boom Boom Room stardom.

I met a variety of people. Some assholes, some perverts, and some pretty nice guys. And, it's where I met my first husband. Now, you would have thought that if I had been just a little brighter I would have recognized that a topless bar was not the prime place for picking a husband. But, I was filled with insecurities and newly discovering the power of a half-naked woman's body. Not the best combination.

And then I met Donne. Boy, was he a smoothy. Even the spelling of his name was sexy. The best looking man who had ever said more than two words to me (in an Elvis Presley sort of way), muscular, dark hair, dark eyes. He had me at the first sneer. He was also a very smooth talker. I ignored the fact that he drank like a fish. Hell, I grew up with that. I thought everyone did. And we became an item.

Soon it was clear that I could no longer work "in a place like that." So, I quit. I moved in with him and the days of confusion began. He was a heavy duty machinery mechanic and made quite good money and I saw the Donna Reed existence looming in my future. Well, except for a few small things. I couldn't cook, I knew nothing of home-making, and he liked to drink. So we fell into a pattern. Drink at night, fight, he'd go to work, drink at night, fight, and on and on and on.

He was also a pretty macho kind of dude. Or, did you already figure that out. I didn't. It wasn't even a concept back then. Eventually, he insisted on our getting married and I said yes because I couldn't believe anyone else would ever have me. A madcap trip to Vegas and the deed was done.

Part of his macho crap was wearing his coveralls without clothes under them. That way when they were unbuttoned half-way down his chest his muscles and tangle of black hair would show and impress...who? I mean, there were only guys in the shop...Vanity, oh vanity.

This eventually led to quite a rash. With motor oil, solvent and who knew what else being splashed around daily, I'm sure it was quite irritating. And not just a rash, but what I would later in life come to learn was called...jock itch. His balls were so inflamed that they could have been used on a Christmas Tree. But, I had the answer.

Coming from the poor white trash South that I had, there were only three medicines in our house. Calamine lotion, campho-phenique and sulfur and molasses. No shit. So, since I only had one of the three and it being the campho-phenique and having used it for itches all my life, I decided that that was what he needed.

Now, the man may have been beautiful, but not too bright. I convinced him that what he needed was the campo phenique and the itching would stop. Out comes the green bottle, the cotton balls and down comes his pants. I will give him credit, he was a little concerned about it, but, as I was to find out later in life, most men are concerned when anything gets near the family jewels.

I thouroughly soaked one of the cotton balls with campho phenique, told him not to worry, and...and...yes, I took one really wet dab at his balls. He hit the roof. He was up off of the couch, into the shower with cold water running directly on the affected parts and screaming at the top of his lungs. Being as sensitive as I am, of course, I was rolling on the floor. I swear, I didn't know it would have that effect, but, it was hilarious. To me. Not to him. I was picturing him in the shower, hands gripped on the pipe as it came out of the wall, with his feet trying to climb the wall as he strained to get his "privates" closer to the source of the cold water. This sent me even further over the edge.

When he finally came out of the bathroom, with a wild look in his eyes, I was still choking back the laughter. "You did that on purpose!" What? I didn't, I was stupid, yes, but in retrospect I wish I had done it on purpose. "No, no, I didn't know that would happen, it always stings just a little, but then it is better." "You knew exactly what was going to happen, and it's not funny, in fact, I'll show you how 'not funny' it is!"

You know, I should have seen it coming. That right hook. Caught me good. Flat on my ass, but, not surprised. Beatings were a way of life for me. Why should this have been any different. Well, it was. He stormed out of the house, down to his favorite bar--The Red Pussycat (I swear these are the real names of the bars.) And, as I sat there with my jaw in my hand...I started laughing again. You know, there are sometimes that you know are the moments to remember. I packed my clothes, got the hell out of there and never went back. In fact, we were married for six years even though I had only lived with him for three months, and been married only one.

My jaw got better. It was the best thing that ever could have happened on a number of levels. One, I made a commitment to myself that no one would ever hit me again...and they never have. And, two, I could trust myself to take care of myself...I would never become totally dependent upon another person in my life. And, I have. But, the best part was, the knowledge that for the rest of his life, he would be left with the memory of burning balls every time he thought of me.

I still smile when I think of it. How campho phenique ruined my first marriage and taught me some of the best lessons of my life. And yes, I still have campho phenique and calamine lotion in the medicine cabinet.

Second Post:

(Addendum: Yes, this is true. I did not live a boring life, nor a very safe one. But, at least I can look back and laugh and say I learned some great lessons!)

HELP ME...I'M FEELING GUILTY...AND PRESSURED

I realized I was coming up on 5,000 hits. Is that 5,000 Blogexplosion Hits? Does anyone else read this? I guess I feel like if 5,000 people have been looking at this, do they get pissed everytime it's the same old shit because I haven't had time to blog? It's funny. Or not. I feel a bit of performance anxiety...will you still love me if I don't have something everyday? Should I care? Everybody else has stuff. Sometimes, I just work and go home and don't think about writing. And, now I feel guilty. I left Catholicism behind a number of years ago. Is this a vestige of that? Or is it just general insecurity raising its ugly head? I can write mundane things, but who cares if I cut my nails, put a hole in my sheets because they are twelve years old, forgot to get my prescriptions refilled, my roommate hit a deer, or the motion light broke and I hate electricity and have to fix it myself? Maybe I should revisit that line about prescriptions. Or, maybe it's just time for me to be whiny and moody. The only good thing about this is I am doing it at work. I will think of something funny tonight...maybe, or hell, I could just make something funny up. No, maybe I'll do the "What Eventually Led to the Downfall of My First Marriage" story and that will perk me back up. Thanks to you all for reading, leaving comments and general putting up with my sometimes inane crap.

A CLEAN HOUSE IS THE SIGN OF A BROKEN COMPUTER

That's my new motto. I think that my list was, well, a little over-ambitious. Here's the update:

• Two out of three loads of laundry done.
• Kitchen...dishes, countertops, cabinets: cleaned. Screw the stove and refrigerator.
• Washed rugs and bath towels, cleaned sink. Will brush teeth with glasses off and won't be able to see the mirror.
• Washed pet dishes. Removed slime. J
• Hell, I've got the path down pat, any moving of stuff around might make me trip in the night and go boom.
• I can work all of the internet stuff in tonight...J
• I did sneak in some magazine and book reading--oh, and breakfast. And watching Hamburger Hill during the midst of all of this. That's work, isn't it?

Oh, well, there's always tomorrow...Or not! Darling Daughter and Wonderful Grandson are coming out so we can watch School of Rock and goof off. Priorities, you know. The really great thing about this is my whole attitude. Sometimes I really, really love me. To work in another Gone With the Wind Reference: "Frankly, my darling, I don't give a damn." Sometimes I really love me!

THINGS I AM GOING TO DO TODAY (EVEN IF IT KILLS ME!)

I knew I was in trouble this morning when I woke up and found that it was 7 AM and all I could think about was the internet, blogexplosion, checking my new friends by going through all the links on my page, and doing it all while drinking the first of many cups of coffee. Then I looked around. Uh, how about that laundry? Cleaning the bathroom? Cleaning and mopping the kitchen? Finishing those three books that I have in progress? Okay, that would be pretty impossible, but the rest aren't. I have made a commitment to myself...easy to break, but more important that "I probably should...(fill in the blank.)

Here are my commitments:

• Laundry (Even with 33 pairs of underwear and 27 pairs of socks, one can run low on them!)
• Clean kitchen and mop. (Stove, countertops, refrigerator and mop...yeah, right!)
• Clean bathroom. (I don't know how many more days I can look at that dried toothpaste in the sink and
  spots of spittle and toothpaste on the mirror. You'd be surprised how long I have been able to ignore it for the quest of blogs.)
• Clean pet areas. (Washing slimy dog spit off of surrounding furniture that is spread when Old Piss Eyes sees me heading for the dog food.)
• Expanding the usable space on my bedroom floor from four square feet to at least 5.5 square feet. (I was going to say 6, but even I know my limitations.)
• And, finally, take all of the blogmarked blogs I have on blogexplosion and put them in my sidebar. I
  keep finding that the ones I find most amusing keep getting tossed for whatever reason. (The latest being Shut Up Ed.)
• And, sometime after all of that will I finally allow myself the privilege of mini-corn dogs and mac and cheese for dinner and the Surfing of the blogs to recommence. (Junk food rules after a day of hard work.)

And, why do you ask, is this such a horrible experience? Because all I want to do is lay in bed all day with the laptop and play like I have no responsibilities. Sometimes being a grown-up sucks the big one.

WHY MY DAUGHTER IS SO WONDERFUL

I know many people who think their children are wonderful. I know many who think they aren't.

When I hear some of the horror stories that people relate when talking about the teenage years, the fears that they had about what their children were doing when they weren't watching, or, the pain that they have suffered, I don't know what they are talking about.

My daughter and I had two disagreements in our lifetime. One when she was about ten and walked out of the room when I was talking to her and one when she was nineteen and neither of us could figure out how she was going to go out into the world on her own. For some reason, because we loved each other so much, I suppose, just saying that it was time to go wasn't possible for either of us. So we argued over a sandy blanket brought back from the beach and put on my bed. That was it. The biggest argument was basically about separation anxiety, for the both of us.

I never hit my child. I was brought up in an abusive household and swore that I would never revert to violence as a way to communicate with my child. I spent years terrified that at any moment I would fall into the old cliché of abused children growing into abusers. I later decided that that whole premise was just a continuation of the abuse and I didn't buy into it anymore.

When my daughter smoked marijuana for the first time, she came home, plopped her butt in a chair and said, "I'm never going to do that again. Now I know why they call it 'stoned.' I felt like a rock and couldn't move." I felt overjoyed. Not that she had smoked dope. Not that she was never going to do it again. No, because she felt she could come home and tell me about it without being concerned over any overreaction on my part. I am lucky she trusted me that much.

I watched as my daughter did things I could never do. Things I have never done. I see her having the same job for seventeen years. I maxed out once at seven. I see her having a relationship with her son that I wish I could have had with her. I was always so afraid of making a mistake that my own sense of playfulness was sometimes censored. I see her
confronting her fears openly and directly. Not always at optimum speed, but, who does? I have seen her grow from a delightful child to an extremely competent woman. I see her concern for others around her. I watch her confront racism, sexism, classism and homophobia directly whenever it rears its ugly head in front of her.

She is so tenderhearted that I sometimes worry for her pain. But, it is her tenderheartedness and magnificent character that has brought about this post.

She is insisting that this year we not spend much money on gifts for each other and instead give it to a local volunteer organization. It reminds me of when she was nine years old and
a fire destroyed an apartment building here in town. Without a word, she got up, went to her room and gathered some of her toys, clothes and her piggybank to take to the people who had been displaced. She wasn't asked to do it, she just "knew" what was right. She had empathy and knew what to do with it.

Giving to those that need is something we all think about. We all do it, probably, to one extent or another. But not as much as we could, or are able to. I feel as if I have received the greatest gift that there is. I don't need anything else. I have more than enough of the things of this life. And, this year, she has given me the greatest gift of all. I know the world is a better place because of her. And I am grateful that she makes me grow into her dream of what the world can be. I am so very blessed because of her and my grandson. I celebrate their lives.

I know this is pretty mushy for me. But, if one thing holds true, there is nothing like your children to bring out the mushiness. Does this make my blog a mommy blog?

REMEMBER HOW I WAS COMPLAINING ABOUT THOSE BUGS?

This was our view on Sunday Night...well, I did take this off the net, but if anything, they were even more beautiful.

I remember the first time I ever saw the Northern Lights and, to this day, I am still totally captivated by them

They are promising more this week. It truly is magic.

I guess I can deal with the bugs.

MY SPECIAL LIST

I keep reading all of these lists that people have on their blogs. 100 Things, What I'm Reading, What I'm Listening To...and on and on and on.

I have decided to start my own specialized list:

WHAT'S IN SARAH'S BED?

1. Mysterious Case of the Dog in the Night (Book)

2. Plot Against America (Book)

3. Socrates Cafe (Book)

4. Odd Thomas (Book)

5. Last Sunday's edition of the New York Times

6. Cooking (Magazine)

7. Colors (Magazine)

8. Blistex (Lip balm)

9. Six pillows

10. Three Remotes (Television, DVD, Satellite)

Now, don't think that this is ordinary. Usually there is more. I just cleaned it off on Sunday and this is what has accumulated since then. The nice things about this list are:

It's my bed...all mine.

None of these things fart or snore.

When these things fall off the bed, it just makes room for new stuff tomorrow.

They're my books and I can drool on them if I want to.

All these things keep the dog out of the bed.

A few people might feel that this is a sad testament to my life. I don't. I love it.

(Coming soon: The funniest story from each of my three marriages. Serialized.)

TODAY'S LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY WILL FOCUS ON

MULTICOLORED ASIAN LADY BEETLES

Now you have an option. You can click on the link and read the entire scintillating paper written by Jeffrey D. Hahn, Assistant Extension Entomologist at the University of Minnesota, or, you can let me interpret the most salient facts regarding this charming little bugger. (An accidental pun, the only kind I can make.)

Point 1: Although multicolored Asian lady beetles were never released in Minnesota, they moved into the state from nearby areas. They were first sighted in Minnesota in 1995. The first report of major infestations around buildings occurred in 1998, and by 2000 the insect had generally dispersed throughout the state.

This much is true. Prior to 2000 the only ladybugs that I ever saw around here were the red ones that we were taught to sing to. You know the song. "House on fire, children will burn." (As a child this was particularly disturbing to me, but they didn't have ratings on nursery rhymes back then.)

Point 2: In Asia, these insects are usually found congregating in large numbers on white colored cliffs each fall, to overwinter.

How charming. Only this isn't Asia and there are no white colored cliffs anywhere near here.

Point 3: From the exteriors of buildings they crawl under siding and roofing and into cracks and gaps in foundations and around windows, doors and other openings. They may continue to move into the living areas of homes or they may spend the winter inside the attic or wall voids. Mild, sunny winter days can wake these dormant insects. They become active and move into the home's living quarters. Once spring arrives, the remaining lady beetles wake up and attempt to move outdoors.

Wake up? These little bastards swarm until spring. They do not go to sleep. They come in the house, collect in the corners waiting for you to turn a light on and then swarm around the light. They land on your food, body, bed, any exposed surface is their domain. Seal everything tight because there is nothing like opening the butter dish and finding one stuck in the butter. Or, drinking from your can of soda and feeling one in your mouth. They are as hard to get to sleep as my grandson on Friday night.

Point 4: Although multicolored Asian lady beetles can be a nuisance when they occur in large numbers, they do not damage homes or other property.

I consider my psyche my property, and there is damage occurring to the point of my running around the house madly trying to vacuum up the last one. Hah, the last one my ass, they're now attuned to the sound of the vacuum and scuttle their little butts into hiding the moment I crank it up.

Point 5: These lady beetles cannot sting and they do not carry disease. They can pinch the skin and cause minor, short-lived discomfort.

Sting, bite, who gives a shit what you call it. These little monsters clamp so hard onto your body that you can't flick them off. They suction themselves onto you and then "pinch" the skin. "Pinch the skin" is a euphemism for taking a big hunk of meat out of you. And, god forbid, you don't shake out your 'jammies before getting into bed at night, because if there is one in there, lodged between you and the sheets, they can leave a trail of "pinches" across your body that swell up and itch like hell. Short-lived discomfort to me means something that does not leave scabs.

Point 6: They can secrete a strong smelling yellowish liquid from the joints of their legs, a process called reflex bleeding.

You call it "reflex bleeding," I call it, "That goddamned bug just pissed all over me." And when they say "strong smelling," I say "That smells like the bottom of a laundry pile from in a men's locker room, like the bad egg you cracked and ruined your appetite for three days." It smells ghastly. It smells so bad that if one is crawling across your face while you're sleeping and you automatically brush it off, the smell is so bad it wakes you up. And then you go downstairs, wash your face and your hands and try to go back to sleep. Which, of course, you can't do. They are swarming again because you turned on the light and they're just waiting for you to close your eyes...because they are going to get you again.

There is a secondary precipitating factor for this excretion of foul smelling piss. Death, or their fear of it. I vacuumed approximately 50,000 (okay, maybe 2,000) of these up on Saturday. On Sunday I thought I would continue the quest, turned on the vacuum and almost vomited. The smell from the vacuum exhaust was horrid. I changed the bag. Turned the vacuum on again. Still there. I took the hose from the vacuum outside and shook a good 100 of them out of there, grabbed the Febreeze and sprayed the hose, the vacuum, the new bag, and anything else within sight. I also decided that the rest could just hang out until next weekend.

Point 7: Prevention is the most effective step in managing lady beetles. Check the outside of your home for spaces and cracks that may allow insects easy entry.

Hey, wasn't this supposed to protect me from poisonous gas and biological attacks back around the time that Bush was amping us up for his war on Iraq? I knew then, as I know now, that if I were to seal my house tight enough to keep out the bugs and the gas, it would effectively lead to my death from asphyxiation.

Every year they get worse and worse. I have lived with cockroaches in the south, not willingly, but unavoidably. I have lived with rattlesnakes in the desert. I have even managed to survive the Hare Krishnas of the 60's in LA. But, I swear, these things are going to kill me or drive me crazy. You can't poison them, you can't vacuum them, you can't do anything except hope that kudzu makes it this far north and takes my mind off of them.

SHREK II

Caden and I watched Shrek II this weekend (yes, in bed and yes, with pizza.) I didn't think it was as good as the first but was well worth it watching it with the Boy. And, I must say, there is nothing more hilarious than watching a nine year old prancing across the room singing, "I'm too sexy for my shirt," with accent, complete with all the affectations of Prince Charming. Another one of those revelations about the meaning of life.

And this is the Asian Beetle I referred to.

Trust me, "Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home..." has nothing to do with these little stinkers.

"IT'S THE POINTS, STUPID"
I'm sure you all recognize the reference. This whole BE point system is strange. When I first started to surf the wave of BE, I noticed that I had been rated with a number of different scores. I took them to heart and learned a little bit more about HTML, tried to be as entertaining as some of the others I was reading and didn't take it personally. I rated the same way. Then I started realizing I didn't want to do any of that anymore. If I read a blog and I liked it, for whatever reason, I gave it a 10. I expected no reciprocal rating. If I couldn't give a 10, then I passed on through. I just figured that my criteria for judging was based only on what I liked and didn't like. If the world were only run this way you would all have had corned beef and cabbage for dinner tonight and would regret it tomorrow.

Then there came the whole censorship thing. I hate censorship. I am quickly adding all of the people I have come to know through BE to my links so that I won't lose them if I ever find myself the victim of some serendipitous decision based on who knows what. So, now we have points and censorship.

I decided to read the terms of service regarding content. Apparently you can ask to have your blog identified as having profanity in it. If you are a teenager, it is recommended that you have your parents sit with you when you start so that they can see what you are experiencing. (Right!) There is a mention of a warning and the ever present threat to have your privileges revoked. This is also presented in a somewhat confusing and grammatically challenged format.

I thought that one of the prerequisites for joining BE was that you have a blog. Apparently not. When I signed on tonight, I started surfing, then went to see if anyone had rated me. There were a couple of new ones...thanks for the tens. And one that had given me a one. So, out of curiosity I clicked the name pistolpete (http://www.blogexplosion.com/members/showpage.php?Username=pistolpete) to see "Whassup?" (Sorry, my HTML just failed me and I don't have time to figure it out now.)

Sorry this user has not have a blog added to their account yet.

(This is a copy and paste, I didn't make it up!)

What does this mean? Can you have a BE account without a blog. What am I missing? From the name "pistolpete" I can only assume that there was some political, social, intellectual, or humor strain that I had offended.

I don't care about the one. I just want some consistency. I want the rules to be really clear. I want to know where the line is so that if I choose to cross it, I do the choosing and by doing so, accept the consequences. That's all.

And, tomorrow, we will be talking about Asian Beetles...with pictures and more tales of woe. And I promise the soapbox will be put away and I promise to be a good girl and I promise, promise, promise to redevelop the crankiness about insignificant things that make my life meaningful.

WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED?
Take the quiz: "Whats your political view."

ANARCHIST
Screw goverment. Try telling me what to do, get the fuck outta here. Let people learn from their mistakes and the stupid will die in the chaos.

BLOGEXPLOSION, READ MY LIPS

Nothing like waking up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning with no work to go to, the continual sneezing of the cold that won't die, and a dog that is scared to death because hunting season has started, we live in "Deer Central Station," and the guns they are a-firing. And yellow-eyed dog (who I have decided to refer to from now on as "Old Piss Eyes") is trying to crawl under the bed.

Whatever to do? Ah, that wonderful addiction raises it's ugly head and I head on over to Blogexplosion to see what my new internet friends are doing. Mamacita is voicing what I feel about the whole blog advertising crap that is out there. You go, girl. Kirk has found some more of his extraordinary buys on e-bay and works in his ever present nose fetish in a most tasteful manner. Zero Boss is reinforcing Mamacita about this advertising crap that is floating through our worlds. And, now for The Church of Steelle with its ever so special steeples. Where, on my list of Blogmarks, has it gone. I e-mail him, "Where in the hell are you and what did I do wrong that you are hiding from me." (The "All About Me" syndrome strikes again.)

Here is his reply: (Directly from my sacrosanct e-mail.)

"They dropped me for "blatant sexuality" on Thursday. I'm guessing either someone complained or else the use of the word "masturbation"set off some filter they have running"

Now, I recognize that this may be living on the edge for me, be ready to find my ass kicked for using the "M" word, even in context. Since his explusion, he has posted some things that probably would have gotten him booted earlier, but, as far as I am concerned...This sucks the big one.

There is that toggle up on the top to "skip" the blogs that you find offensive, for whatever reason. I find it much more offensive to read about how stupid I am because I exercised my right to support a different political candidate than others, that if I don't give my soul the one true "god" I will burn in eternal damnation and how for a nominal fee, I can avail myself of whatever useless service or item you can sell me. I have even run across a few in a foreign language...not counting the ones that are in "grammar and spelling impaired" English...and you know what, that doesn't bother me, but is on the list of no-nos from our host.

I am pissed. I am thinking of a Blogexplosion Revolution. I am not real sure how to start this or carry it out...But I am definitely working on it.

Maybe the first start would be to see how many of us can work in the word "masturbate" and see if it gets our asses kicked. I will also attempt to work in the word "dildo" in every post I make to carry the flame.

Okay, now, I will get my coffee. That's how pissed I am, I did all of this pre-coffee. Think how tense I would have been with my coffee buzz.

For those of you who cannot read this...here it is...because it is, of course,...ALL ABOUT ME!

Grandma Phoenix

My grandma Phoenix is special to me because she has the best house. She has a big yard too. She bys me a lof like movies and a cd. She makes the best food like pizza and turkey. One time when we were driing to my grandmas house she started to do something that made me laugh. She was talking like an old lady that had no teeth. Some people would of thought that was wierd but I I thought it ws funny. That is what makes my grandma Phoenix so special to me. The End.

(I appreciate the fact that he didn't mention it was frozen pizza and the reason it is so good is because he can eat it in my bed while we watch movies. It is also appreciated that he didn't mention that the turkey he likes so well is made only on Thanksgiving. But, you know, it's what he likes and I should just be glad that something so simple can make him that happy.)

PRINCESS WILD COW

This is a story on a variety of levels. Some will be revealed. Some will be hinted at. And, some will knock you right up aside your head.

Sarah Phoenix was not my birth name. Most recognize that. My birth name was Linda Nell ????. The ???? is meaningless because the man who was supposed to be my father was not. I had known that because of a child’s inherent ability to see things that others try to deny. It has not caused me a lot of anguish. On the bumpy road of my life, it is one of the most insignificant issues. When my mother died and I cleaned out the bottles, the pills and the needles. I found a box that was full of secrets and discovered the one thing about my birth father that I know. He was called Mac.

In the South there is a tradition of calling children, at the top of your voice, from blocks away. With the accent that was available my name could be heard echoing off the rooftops for miles. “Lee—anda Na-ill.” Yep, say it loud, say it proud and it still sounds like “Hay—ill.”

Parents name their children for a variety of reasons. I would say that the proportion of “Lindas” within a five-year period, either direction from my birth, is disproportionate for a variety of reasons. The most obvious…Linda Darnell. Now, this woman was beautiful. If I am not making this up, one of her most memorable lines in a movie occurred when she stepped from behind a bead curtain and said, “My name is Tondalayo.” As a child I could not even dream of being that beautiful and sultry. My cat’s eye glass frames, cheap Toni permanent, and general nerdy, smartass behavior precluded any similarity from being drawn.

Another reason for naming your child might take into consideration a touch of the exotic. I was born in New Mexico and “Linda” in Spanish means “beautiful.” See all of the above reasons to see why I resisted that association, also.

Most children go through periods of hating their names. Mine just lasted. And lasted. And lasted.

Now to the good part.

Approximately 25 years ago my current roommate invited me to a New Year’s Eve Party. I lived in Duluth and she lived in Two Harbors, a half hour drive up the north shore of Lake Superior. Come New Year’s Eve, I prepared to leave for the party and surprise, surprise…it’s a blizzard out there. I had not lived here long enough at that time to recognize the dangers of that; so, I took off for the party. Not much else to do in Northern Minnesota in the dead of winter.

No one else was that desperate. I was the only guest. The table full of spinach dip, cookies, pigs in a blanket, and other delectables kept us captivated. Her husband sat in the living room and tried to ignore the loud, laughing, chewing women at the dining room table. I told her of my plans to change my name. Gave her all the details.

“What are you going to change it to?”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah? Why Sarah?”

“Because in the Old Testament, she laughed in the face of god, and I think that pretty much sums me up.”

“What are you going to choose for a middle name?”

“Uh, I don’t know.”

Down comes her old “family” dictionary. Leather cover peeling off, letters worn off of the maroon dividers, and a musty smell that indicated it had seen many more years than I.

“This dictionary has a list of names in it. Let’s figure one out,” she says.

Of course, we first had to look up “Sarah” First. Very simple. “Princess.”

“PRINCESS? PRINCESS?" What the hell do you mean “Princess.”? I ain’t no goddamned princess. (The echoes of many a youthful retort of “I ain’t no goddamned okie!” reverberated in my head.) “Sarah” was on her way out the door.

By this time I had consumed a number of beverages and was well on my way to a severely impaired thinking process. We searched through lists of names looking for anything I considered appropriate until they all sounded silly, kind of like if you decide to repeat the same word over and over until it loses its meaning and accents float over all of the syllables. Kathy has a bit of a caustic sense of humor, greatly appreciated by me in anyone and says, “How about Sarah Lee…hahaha…like the desserts.”

My hips were already beginning to show the promise of their future and I thought it was pretty appropriate. After the number of beverages I had consumed by this time PooPoo CaCa would have caught my fancy.

So we looked up “Lee.” There was no “Lee.” However, there was “Leah.” Now “Leah” has that Old Testament ring to it and I asked, “What does it mean? What does it mean?”

“Weary one,” she says.

Well, that meant doodly squat to me. “Weary one? If I am weary of anything it's playing this damned Name Game.”

“Wait a minute,” she says. “There is an older translation here that says “Wild Cow.”

WILD COW! I was ecstatic. For if there was one thing I definitely was, it was “Princess Wild Cow.” That locked it in. I was on my way.

“Excuse me," I say rather regally, "may I announce; Princess Wild Cow.”

Princess Wild Cow, who rose from the ashes of destruction, was on her way to existence. It was no more that three months later while divorcing my second husband, I decided I was going to legally change my name to Sarah Leah Phoenix. After all, I was asked if I wanted to change my name back to my “Maiden” name. “Maiden Name?” They must not have known me very well. I'm not sure exactly whose last name ended up on my birth certificate, but I certainly had no loyalty to it.

I convinced the judge that the change was perfectly legal since I had no intent to defraud with the name change. That fast talking LA charm was still with then. “Well, I guess that's alright.” With that, Sarah Leah Phoenix came in to existence. Not many changed their name in those days. And now when they do it they come up with such symbolic names as River Windinthewillows. Or, Siobhan Springsfromtheearth.

Anyone who knows me well knows the story. And none of them every question the appropriateness of the name. I've been known to fulfill every subtle promise found in the name and on occasion have even been known to step into a pile of shit.

Meanwhile, I wander around. Barging through fences, electrified or not. Chewing my cud and sharing it with anyone within earshot. And, smiling in my head at the knowledge that I am truly Princess Wild Cow. And cracking up that the last words my mother ever spoke to me were, “I never had a daughter named Linda.” For once in her life, she was right.

This magnificent article was created by Anne Tainter and pretty much sums it up.

Yesterday I was Drama Queen Extraordinaire and thanks to some of my blogger friends managed to get over it a lot sooner than I thought I was going to.

As I lay in bed last night, trying to go to sleep, I realized that my entire life has been a musical, except I never knew which song was playing. So, I started the list for yesterday. A little "Don't Cry for Me Argentina," followed by some Country Joe and the Fish, don't forget Janis, and then to top it off, "Illegal Smile" by John Prine. The crescendo would be reached at the end of the movie with "Look on the Bright Side of Life" from our old friends, Monty Python.

By this time, I had tickled myself. (No, not that way!) I was having so much fun making this crap up that I didn't go to sleep when I was supposed to and was late to work this morning. After everyone tip-toeing around me yesterday, they were quite surprised to see me come in humming my very own "musical." A few guessed that John Prine had helped me out last night and the others got no explanation. Tough break, kiddies.

The sarcasm has risen to the top again and coming soon will be an explanation of the origin of "Princess Wild Cow" and how I wish I had met her much earlier in my life. Enjoy the day, folks, and never say "that man's name" in my presence.

I have spent the day trying to be a "good" hippie. Tomorrow I will smile again.
Until then:

"I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent."
Mohandas K. Gandhi

"Love is the only force capable of turning an enemy into a friend."
Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Peace is our gift to each other."
Elie Wiesel

"I will fight no more forever."
Chief Joseph

"Imagine."
John Lennon

"It's going to be alright, Granny."
My beloved grandson, Caden

DO IT...

M-M-M Bad...



And that is all that I will say on this subject. I have since been told that I can take the remaining Tater Tots and turn them into Chili Cheese Tater Tots. Thanks, Kirk over at My So-Called Strife for the heads up on that, it makes me smile...no pictures of them, though, they'll be gone too quickly.