One Whipped Mother

Goodbye

2008-09-09T19:02:00.002-04:00

If I do post again on here, it certainly won't be any time soon. Go ahead and update your bookmarks.

It's been swell.

5:00 a.m., April 28,2008

2008-04-29T19:14:00.003-04:00

For my mother, Suzanne Marie.

The suffering has ended.

It's Bad

2008-04-26T03:13:00.002-04:00

My mother has been going downhill -- rapidly -- since she began receiving "comfort" care a little under a month ago.

It has been unbelievably hard for me to see her this way. Most days, I do not want to visit her. The cancer is obviously in her brain now. Sometimes, she speaks like a six-year-old. Sometimes she calls out for her mommy.

And there are other things too awful to mention.

We finally found a good hospice house that will take her in, and I'm supposed to meet with them next Tuesday, but I feel in my bones she won't be leaving the hospital.

You know, I've witnessed loved ones go through the dying process before, but I've never, ever seen the agony my mother is going through.

I thought that was the stuff of fiction.

I swear to god, never saw anything like it...

Chemtrails Are Pretty!

2008-04-18T01:54:00.005-04:00

These pictures were taken in my backyard at approximately 10:30 a.m. Thursday morning.

These criss-crosses, which were observed by me, my kids, and my brother, were also seen in the skies while driving to see my mom in the hospital around 11:00 a.m. The otherwise clear, blue skies were covered in these patterns.

When we returned, those trails were still visible, though dispersed and "fattened," at approximately 12:30 p.m.

Although I've noticed this phenomenon for a couple of years now, it has been occurring more frequently in the last year or so.

I Now Know Who My Favorite Candidate Is

2008-04-15T10:25:00.002-04:00

Eh, I've been posting little content and many videos lately, but due to my visiting Mom at the hospital almost every day -- lengthy visits at that -- I haven't the time to think and write clearly enough for neither intelligent commentary nor pithy anecdotal shlimjollipers, yet I still feel the need to communicate what lurks within my addled brain...

Mom'll soon be moved to a lovely "comfort home," which will be most excellent. Where they have her now (palliative care unit) is so craptastic, it defies explanation. No private bathroom (there's a darling little potty that pulls out from the wall, though -- how grand), and no real walls to separate patients (particle board partitions). I mean, really, you can hear the old guy next door when he farts, for god's sake.

Used to be a neonatal intensive care unit, see, but they jerry-rigged it into some semblance of a hospice facility. This will not do.

We're just waiting for an opening at the comfort house right now.

Anyway, I enjoyed the below video immensely.

Go Hill!

I'll bet my last Blue Light that Hill could drink that skinny ol' Barack under the table any day.

Strong constitution equals strong leadership. Well, in my book, at least...

FYI: Her favorite beer is Blue Moon with orange slices.

My Girlhood Crushes

2008-04-12T21:18:00.002-04:00

I totally wanted to marry Peter Frampton, Jackson Browne, Spock, and...

(Apologies for the Nipple Dude...Yes, he's sickening, but what can you do? It was the seventies, after all...)

Watching their performance with Fergie on Idol Gives Back, however, just made me really, really mad. I hate Fergie with such a passion, I have visions of maiming her with a jar of mayonnaise.

So, what? They had to put froggy-face in there to jump and flounder about in her tight leather for the low-brained twats out there in American TV Land that must have some not-fat eye-candy? Is that what the deal is?

I no longer watch American Idol. I'd been growing bored of that flumpy flappydoodle of a show for a while now, but this last shulpcramp is the straw that broke this camel's back.

***sigh***

Think I'll watch the above Heart video once again, and dream of when they were mine...

Don't Bother With This...

2008-04-09T13:19:00.006-04:00

If you don't have an intelligence quotient above that of a chimpanzee's.

Been concerned about certain...Things. Been worried, a tad afraid...Been that way for some years now.

I've avoided posting about my concerns, because I don't want to be seen as some "conspiracy nut," but my concerns are being validated more and more each day.

Unfortunately.

Your world is not what you think it is.

Investigate, learn, think, open your eyes...

I plan on posting more about my concerns in the future, with verifiable references, other videos, and my completely awesome and always creepy-good insight.

The world, she is a-changin'. What a shame that most of us will not see it until it's too late.

ADDENDUM: That last sentence is a bit dramatic, isn't it? Sorry. I don't believe the world is ending soon or anything like that, nor do I see it as suddenly spiraling out of control and causing its occupants to suffer mondo vertigo. I don't think we're in the "end times," as my personal beliefs side with the "bullshit and poppycock" folks, but...Something's in the air -- literally and figuratively. Major shifts involving socioeconomic/political/religious climes will occur during our lifetimes, as to the point where they are unavoidably noticeable (changes have been underway for a very, very long time, but many of us just haven't paid attention), and possibly, to some of us, detrimental to our overall well-being.

The best way to tolerate extreme change is to prepare for it. Knowledge lends preparedness and, preparedness lends peace of mind.

The Perfect Word

2008-03-28T20:34:00.004-04:00

I accompanied my mother to her doctor's appointment today -- THE appointment. The appointment that we were dreading, even though we knew what was to come of it.

As the oncologist flashed her peculiarly inappropriate smile (I call it her "picnic smile" because the woman, brilliant as she may be, is a freaking loonball whose smile exudes sunshine and barbecue while uttering phrases like "last ditch effort" and "less than five percent chance), she calmly, between bites of her roasted wienie (in my imagination) explained that there is nothing more medicine can do for Mom.

I already knew this in advance, but Mom, although knowing deep within this was it, still could not accept that fact without hearing it from the doctor's mouth.

I watched my mother intently as the doctor cheerily rattled off the many facets of palliative care, the whats and the what-to-comes, and with each syllable, my mother's face, which has changed so very much in the last month or so, grew more and more unrecognizable until she took on the appearance of someone else's mother.

Mom has lost so much weight that the once-snug pink pullover shirt she wore today hung loose about her frame, the neckline fluid, sliding off over her left shoulder. I gazed at the nape of her neck as the doctor sang of chemo pills and home health care aides, and was startled by the yellowness of the skin, the slight hump that was never before a part of her bodyscape. I looked at her face again, wondering about the yellow. Her face didn't look yellow, but there was a disquieting artificiality to the tone...I peered harder, focused as much as my pitifully hyperopic eyes could, and realized that she had applied so much makeup, the yellow cast was hidden beneath layers of Cover Girl.

And as the doctor chirruped on about how very strong Mom was, and how impressed she was by what Mom had endured, how she'd seen patients half Mom's age endure much, much less, and OHfuckingBLAHblahblah, I stared at the nape of my mother's neck and thought about what it will be like to live in this world without her.

We are not close, for various reasons, and I still struggle daily with my life experience playing on a perpetual loop, the sights, sounds and smells just as clear as the day they were produced, but she is my only mother, and I love her.

And I have so many wishes that I'd hoped would be granted during our lifetimes, many of which have been waiting patiently since I was a little girl. Those wishes, I now realize, will never come true, but that doesn't stop me from believing in them. Because she is my only mother.

When the doctor left the room, Mom put her head near my shoulder -- not on, near, kind of bowed her head and moved it toward me, and so I leaned in, put my arm around her shoulders, and patted, patted, patted. It felt awkward, alien, and in that moment, I forgot how to feel.

The patient advocate walked in just then, and I, grateful for the interruption, quickly removed my arm. The woman was pleasant, just the right kind of cheerful (no barbecue), and genuinely compassionate. She asked Mom how she was taking today's news, and my mother, perplexed, asked what she meant by that. The woman gently reworded the question, adding "Many people have a hard time coming to terms with this."

Mom didn't answer her, so I spoke up, said "I think this is all still so surreal for her." The woman nodded vigorously and said that that was a "perfect word" for this situation.

Surreal. Not real. Someone's else's reality. Someone else's face, someone else's skin, someone else's pain. Bizarre. Dreamlike.

Someone else's mother.

And all the years between 1965 and 1989.

And strange lights in the sky, and whispers of goodbye in the dead of night, and laughter around an oval table, puppies, lasagna, and secret journals hidden beneath someone else's bed, the phantoms that visited us both, the angels with no names, the charcoal sketches and pastel ribbons, the houses in suburban tracts, the hope, and one thousand tiny wishes that will always be alive...

All still so surreal.

A Cozy Guy

2008-03-27T20:00:00.003-04:00

My oldest daughter's boyfriend, Adam, is 6'5", weighs approximately 220 pounds, plays bass for an up and coming local hardcore band, and has many, many, many, many (many) tattoos, but that doesn't stop my boy from giving Adam big ol' bear hugs every time he visits.

I wonder if my son imagines that Adam is like a great fairytale giant who has wandered into our Lilliputian land, whose tallest citizen, King Lar (my husband), is just 5'7", and feels that the great giant is lonely and confused, thus needing hugs.

Anyway, today was no exception with the hug, and, as always, I couldn't help but beam like an idiot while watching my darling little guy grab hold of Adam's tree trunk-like leg and shrieking "HI, ADAM! HI! HI, ADAM! Aaaaadaaaam, HI!"

Honestly, the cuteness is just...Beyond. My son looks like a tiny aphid affixed to this tremendously large rocker dude's leg. A wee mite. A minuscule, loud, pesky little sprite who is next to impossible to shake. And Adam stands quite still, awkwardly pats my son on his head, and blushes like a school girl who's just dropped her lunch tray. Too sweet, really.

But what my boy said after giving Adam his usual "hello" hug today was so charming, my teeth clenched, began tingling in that familiar "I must bite something now" way that is both frightening and strangely satisfying, until I did, in fact, bite something (a rubber dinosaur).

He said: "Oooh, Mommy, Adam is so cozy! He's just a cozy, cozy guy!"

Well, I must tell you that the moment veered right, departed Cuteville doing sixty miles an hour, headed straight into Adorable Town, and screeched to a halt in front of Mr. Fluffy Pants Maguire, Mayor of Adorable Town.

I bit the dinosaur in two, yes I did.

FACT: They don't make rubber dinosaurs like they used to.

Jules

2008-03-22T10:01:00.002-04:00

I can't stop watching this.

I am so fascinated, it's bordering on weird.

I'm all teary-eyed, and my chest feels funny.

I think I found my one and only true "soul" mate.

The folks who created Jules.

The 1st Amendment + Handcuffs = Chicken Lips

2008-03-21T14:13:00.008-04:00

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

If this picture doesn't kick you in the balls, then you have none.

Note the marquee. How fucking priceless is that?

Go here for more amazing shots captured March 19th during a peaceful war protest here in Rochester.

Hill Has That Effect on Men...

2008-03-17T10:14:00.003-04:00

I was watching Hillary Clinton's D.C. speech on CNN this morning, and my boy, who'd been playing on the computer in the next room, piped up with:

"Mommy, are you watching a scary show?"

Now, I don't know why he thought I was watching a "scary show," as there were no shrieks of terror, no theremin, no monster growls or evil cackling -- just Ms. Clinton giving an excellent (I thought) speech regarding her plans for ending the Iraq "war."

I said, "No, honey, I'm not."

A few moments later, he said, "Are you sure you're not watching a scary show?"

"No, baby, I am not watching a scary show."

Well, he obviously did not believe me, as he took the trouble to interrupt his computer game, and walk into my room. He stood there for a moment, then said, "Oh. It's the news. Okay." And as he walked back to the computer, he said, more to himself than to me, "Geez. Sure sounded scary..."

The Doctor Moreau Bra?

2008-03-14T08:58:00.007-04:00

In case you haven't heard, Victoria's Secret has toppled the scientific community on its ear, and perhaps changed life as we know it forever and ever, by way of their brand new "BioFit Bra."

Yes, the BIOFIT bra. Hmmm. Very perplexing, that name. Does "BioFit" mean "biologically designed"? "Bio-friendly"? "Biologically enhanced"? "Bio-Hazard"? (A sure way to keep unwanted gropers at bay.) Or, mayhap, "biogenetically created to infiltrate one's ta-tas, causing said ta-tas to magically lift, separate, and grow to ten times their natural state"?

Not sure, really, but it certainly does intrigue me.

What I've ascertained, however, is that this bra ostensibly enhances one's figure via cutting edge science, wherein the mysterious fibers woven into this ghastly garment have been grown in a laboratory by an evil geneticist named Dr. James D. Foote, best known for his work in the field of bovine mammarology. The mysterious fibers, of which there are two known types (the third is top secret, and may, if revealed, threaten national security), 36-D and 40-D-D, somehow intertwine with human physiology in such a way that alters DNA, thus producing instantaneous metamorphoses of the molecular structure.

Now, if you haven't yet seen the advertisement for this monstrosity, I can only say that it is so mind-bogglingly, stupendously insulting to any woman who has ever grown a pair of breasts, it may just cause those of us with a brain larger than Janet Jackson's nipple to never shop Victoria's Secret again.

Or even worse, put ridiculous images in our heads -- especially women like me, who imagine ridiculous things on a daily basis.

Case in point: While watching the BioFit commercial last night, ridiculous images did abound, images like...

!) A BioCat bra that makes use of feline DNA. Fabulous, really, what with the cute, furry cat heads strategically placed on each cup. What woman doesn't love cute, furry creatures, huh? Never be lonely again! And no boob-freeze EVER! Sure, it may take some getting used to, what with the cat faces eerily outlined though one's blouse (not recommended for use under tank tops), but the benefits outweigh the eerie cat heads. Puuurfection.

?) The revolutionary BioFruit Bra, which, depending on how much the organically grown pump is squeezed, gives the wearer either a luscious melon-like bobble, a perky orange bounce, or sprightly apricot wiggle.

And finally...

&) The first Victoria's Secret line for men! Gentlemen, you will be amazed and delighted with the BioButt Briefs, made with all natural fibers derived from the wee-tui-tui cactus, which will automatically bond with your gluteus maximus muscles by way of a special epidermal-cacti transference enzyme, so that your buttocks will take on a tight, rounded, almost bulbous richness.

But that's not all! Why not go hog-wild and pair the BioButt Briefs with the sure-to-turn-heads BioTrunk Jock! The BioTrunk is the must-have accoutrement for any man on the make! Constructed with heavy duty pachydermal microbiofibers, this strap-on, breathable cup guarantees comfort, while increasing package size to mammoth proportions.

Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. I have disturbed even my own self way too much today, so enough. Enough.

Hillary's New Campaign Ad

2008-03-10T17:41:00.012-04:00

(Fade in, red velvet background)

(Ravel's "Bolero" plays softly, increases volume as each photo is displayed)

(Helen Mirren's voice) It's three a.m.

And your children are safe and asleep

The phone rings...

In the White House...

You know which phone I mean...

Something horrible is happening in the world...Something so awful, so unbelievably gruesome, so utterly catastrophic...

Who do you trust will be home to answer that phone?

(Abruptly end "Bolero," begin silent photo montage of cloudless blue skies, fields of daisies, kittens, babies sleeping, and an old person eating a bowl of clam chowder)

Hillary Clinton...

She doesn't have a penis.

Ancient-Speak

2008-03-06T22:43:00.005-05:00

I had the most delightful conversation of the semantical kind with my middle daughter, Sarah, and my mother's friend, "J" (the one who is classy and beautiful, but swears like a grizzled sea merchant) tonight. It went something like this:

Telephone: Ring Ring

Me: Hello?

"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Hey.

Me: Hey!

"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: So, I'm going to be in town Saturday morning, will call when I get settled.

Me: 'Kay.

[Delete unimportant chitchat and personal doodads]

"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Gawd, remember how thin I was? Gawdjesus, fucking hell, now I'm a goddamned dirigible!

Me: Did you just say, "dirigible"?

"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant: Yeah, you know, a blimp?

Me: I know that! It's just that I'm a bit stunned that you used the word "dirigible." I mean, how old are you, really? Ninety-seven?

"J" the Grizzled Sea Merchant" [sputtering] Wha...? [laughs] C'mon, what's wrong with "dirigible"?

Me: Dude, if you have to ask, then it's pointless for me to carry on this line of conversation.

After I hung up, my daughter, who'd been listening, asked why I was laughing so hard, and when I explained to her that "J" was using Ancient-Speak, and with NO SHAME WHATSOEVER, she said, "Ooooh! I get it! It's like when Great Grandma Spinelli says 'Davenport' instead of 'couch,' right?"

We then proceeded to roll about the place laughing hysterically at the many examples of Ancient-Speak that have been foisted upon our modern ears by various teachers, grandparents, and an assortment of curmudgeonly neighbors, words such as:

Icebox (Ancient-Speak for refrigerator)

Duvet (Ancient-Speak for comforter)

Post (Ancient-Speak for mail, as in "I'm going to put the letter in the post before three shakes of a lamb's tail!"

Parlor (Ancient-Speak for living room)

Land Sakes! (Ancient-Speak pertaining to great surprise or disappointment)

And on it went, until we both wept copious tears of pure, word-related joy.

Jeepers, how I love the English language!

Like the Phoenix, or a Zombie, She Rises...

2008-03-05T09:14:00.006-05:00

There's still some life left in The Hill.

I'm glad. Not because she's my definite pick, but because I'm still undecided.

All right, enough politics for today. I can hardly think straight enough to form one simple, cohesive sentence let alone a political opinion worthy of your eyeballs.

Man, I've been so sick this week. Anyone else going though this lingering cold/flu/parasitic/plague-like/Cthulhu-related bug? Darned thing's been hanging on my buttocks for weeks now. Goes away, comes back worse, goes away, comes back twice as worse. Now it's in my chest something awful, got the fever, the whole shebang. Which sucks, because now I'm too sick to visit my mom, even if I wear a mask (she's neutropenic). If I dare go to the hospital today, I'm afraid the nurses will insist I wear a welder's helmet, and I really can't go there. Dear GOD, not THE HELMET!

Think I'd best stay in bed as much as possible for the next couple of days.

I must be better by Saturday, because one of Mom's good friends, a woman she's known since girlhood, is flying in from Chicago to see her, is supposed to pick me up Saturday afternoon. I must go, come hell, high water, or welder's helmet, I must go. This reunion is incredibly important, and I will make damn sure it happens.

Mom, you see, hasn't exactly been open to visitors (or phone calls) outside of immediate family for many, many months now, and I'm tired of repeatedly telling concerned folks "I'm sorry." Apparently, Mom's friend, whom I will refer to as "J," is tired of being told "I'm sorry," and decided to just barge right in -- and I'm glad she is.

When she and I spoke on the phone last, she said to me "Tell your mother to put on her fucking eyebrows, 'cause I'm coming to see her," which made me laugh. "J," although very classy and beautiful, with the unmistakable bearing of those "ladies who lunch," also has a mouth like a grizzled sea merchant who's been on a bender for five years in a row.

She also said, "Goddamnit, Lori, I'm not going to wait until your mother's lying in a sonofabitching casket." Which made me cry.

ADDENDUM: Speaking of crying, if you didn't see the premiere of New Amsterdam, which aired last night at 9:00 EST on Fox, I strongly urge you to catch the next episode. Seriously, I watch little television outside of documentaries, Lost, American Idol, and CNN, but I was too sick and weak to change the channel after AI ended...Almost makes me glad I'm about an inch from the grave.

"New Amsterdam" is beautifully written, gorgeous to look at, intelligent, thought-provoking, unique, and the lead actor is hot. So is the lead actress, who plays the role of Amsterdam's partner. Enough said (for now).

Another Addendum: Just noticed I used the word "glad" way too many times in this post. You know Ms. Lori is sick when she is unable to make use of various other synonyms.

From the Mouths of Babes & Idiots

2008-02-29T07:49:00.004-05:00

1. "Mommy, why does the Queen look like a king?"

Well, son, because she has a terrible stylist.

2. "If I go poop in the potty for five hundred weeks in a row, will you buy me a computer? Oh, wait... [giggles] I would be a grandpa by then, wouldn't I"

Yes, you would. But you must continue to poop in the potty, whether you receive prizes or not, even for five hundred weeks in a row, or you may one day find yourself strapped to a wheelchair and shoved in front of a television, where you will only be allowed to watch The Price is Right.

3. "You know, Mommy, you should really try being a boy -- it's fun!"

Awesome. I'm so glad that you enjoy being a boy, honey. Now please take your hand out of your pants, remove your finger from your nose, stop kicking the cat, and go sit on the potty.

4. "A long, long, long, long, long, long, loooong time ago, why were white people mean to black people?"

Well, let's see...Maybe because the white people back then were assholes?

5. "Four dollars a gallon? Where'd you hear that? Some kinda goldang expert or sumpin'?"

Mr. President, I believe that I heard it from the ghost of Captain Kangaroo, who, unbeknown to many, was not only the beloved host of a longtime-running children's television program, but was also a brilliant economist.

American Idol Judges Are Embarrassing

2008-02-22T00:03:00.003-05:00

Truly cringe-worthy.

So the other night, while watching American Idol with my girls, one of the female contestants induced mass hysteria and projectile vomiting while she crucified the 1961 hit "Where the Boys Are." That was bad enough. But then Randy Jackson had to be all doggy and shit and tell the woman that she can't compare to Patsy Cline, or something along those lines. I can't even remember what he said well enough to paraphrase comfortably due to my forehead exploding when he said "Patsy Cline."

Anyone with a brain larger than Simon's left titty would know that Connie Francis sang "Where the Boys Are."

Dog. Oh, dog, dog, dog, DOGGY dog!

What's going on, dude. Seriously, I'm like, WHAT? How's it going, man. WHAT? Hey, how you feelin' dog-a-dog-a-lamby lamb, huh? Feeling good?

WHAT? How's my dog, dog?

I just had to get this off my chest, dogs. Like, man, I really, really, man-oh-man, like, really, really had to shake this bad mojo swingin' 'gainst my groove, y'all.

But then Simon had to go and embarrass himself, too, by interjecting a painfully ignorant, and utterly beautiful "yes, that song must have a bit of a twang," which I assumed meant that he, too, believed Patsy sung "Where the Boys Are."

To my knowledge, the wonderful Ms. Francis never employed a twang in any of her songs. I know this to be fact. I am Connie Francis' biggest fan. Used to take my mom's old 45s, especially "Lipstick on Your Collar" and "Where the Boys Are," and sit in my bedroom listening to them over and over. And over. While staring at pictures of Connie.

I was all of seven years old.

When I finally got to see the movie "Where the Boys Are," sometime around age ten or so, I was riveted -- RIVETED, I say -- to the television screen.

Say what you will about a weird little girl with four-inch-thick glasses who was obsessed with Connie Francis, a pop star whose fame rose well before the creepy little girl had even been born, but I'll have you know that that little creep with four-inch-thick glasses would not have embarrassed herself on national television by confusing two of America's greatest female singers of all time.

Well, DUH!

2008-02-11T10:20:00.000-05:00

How grammatically correct are you? (Revised with answer key)

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

Congratulations! If your mission in life is not already to preserve the English tongue, it should be. You can smell a grammatical inaccuracy from fifty yards. Your speech is revered by the underlings, though some may blaspheme and call you a snob. They're just jealous. Go out there and change the world.
Take this quiz!

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I look great in a thong, too.

And I can blow smoke rings through my left eye, tame wild asses, and simulate fellatio on a summer squash without gagging.

Also, I have been known to disable weaponry of all kinds by sheer mental force.

Truly, I am special.

I Think We All Could Use Some Cute Today...

2008-02-02T10:12:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately for me, while watching this, I bit into my forearm so hard, my right hand is now lying in a pool of blood at my feet. And it's twitching.

Not so cute.

My Latest Contribution to the English Language

2008-01-25T09:06:00.000-05:00

So yesterday, while watching this (don't bother going there unless you're into the whole UFO thing, and have two hours to spare), I said aloud to myself this: "Corn!"

I shocked myself with this utterance, as my mind was actually screaming "cornucopia!"

Strange that I only vocalized part of my newly invented exclamation of surprise and joy, but there you go. "Cornucopia," to me, embodies the various emotions and physical sensations involved in an intriguing, fulfilling experience -- and if you think about it, it makes sense. Cornucopias are horns of plenty, filled with wonderful things, a delightful gift, its treasures revealed slowly, i.e., remove the visible apple from the mouth of the horn, and an orange rolls out; remove the orange, and a bottle of Absolut tumbles forward. And so on, and so forth.

However, though the word itself captures the feeling of spectacular goodness stuffed all in one tidy, decorative centerpiece, shouting "cornucopia" is a bit daunting. The many syllables trip the tongue, dampen the moment of discovery and excitement. Hence "corn!"

Here are but a few examples in which one may employ both "corn!" and "cornucopia!":

1) Say you happen across a fifty dollar bill while taking a stroll through your neighborhood. You might pick up the bill, stare at it lovingly, and say "Holy cornucopia! I'm the luckiest person alive!"

2) If you ever find yourself in a situation whereupon the woman or man of your dreams professes their undying love, and also offers to gift you a brand new Porsche, just for the heck of it, you should most definitely shout "That is so corn!"

3) While viewing an especially entertaining film, concert, or stage production, proclaiming (aloud) that it is "the corn!" would be more than appropriate.

4) If excited by the thought of an upcoming event, whether it be a job promotion, marriage, or unusually large tax refund, feel free to show your excited anticipation by saying "I am so corned!"

5) Perhaps a loved one has achieved something grand -- graduated from school, been elected president, won a contest of some sort -- you will, I guarantee, feel tremendous glee were you to shout (loudly, in their face), "Cornucopia! That is so fantastic!"

You are so very, very welcome.

First it Was a Bag of Garbage, Now it's My Husband

2008-01-19T03:22:00.000-05:00

Upon leaving my mother's hospital room last night, I ventured on to the usual pick-up place to wait for Lar. Was supposed to meet him at 6:30.

Surprised but not alarmed (yet) that he wasn't there, I waited just outside the hospital main entrance, assuming he'd drive up any minute. It was bitterly cold, but I figured I'd better wait where I had a good view of the pick-up circle, as the view was obstructed inside by large pillars and other visitors milling about. So I waited, then waited some more.

After about, oh, I don't know, twenty and one half hours, my fingers began to stiffen into Witchy Poo claws, and the tips of my ears fell off, so I went inside to warm my bones, paced and fretted, worried and sniffed, went back outside, paced and sniffed, ignored the odd looks I was receiving from other waiters (I had been talking to myself at that point), for another forty-two hours, then hightailed it back up to Mom's room.

Sadly, I think I may have frightened Mom, the way I whooshed into her room like some sort of freeze-dried Bat Woman, coat flying out behind me, my hair askew, my nose crumbling ala Michael Jackson, expression frozen into a hideous, teeth-bared mask of pure pain and hatred.

Although I knew I'd startled my mother, I didn't care -- I wanted her phone, and did not give one whit who I startled, or which nurses were calling security at that moment. I wanted the phone, I wanted to find Lar, and I wanted to be warm, home, and curled up with a dictionary and a bag of Wendy's. That is all.

My oldest daughter answered the phone and told me that "Dad called and said he's been waiting forever."

This was my reply: ???????????????

Then: *******************************************

I ran back down to the main entrance in record time (no small feat considering the size of this frigging hospital), and frantically searched for any sign of an unusually large head-shadow looming behind the wheel of a champagne-colored H3, but no deal. I walked back and forth, over and around, spoke aloud to whomever was responsible for this nightmare, asked he or she or it to kindly fuck off and thanked them very much.

At this stage, I was near death, and angels appeared from on high to trumpet my welcome, but I'm a fighter, so I shooed most of them away and once again ran back inside.

A hospital employee was waiting there as well, and one of the angels, a stubborn, feisty Latina named Yolanda, whispered in my ear this: "Ask the lady if there is another entrance that leads to the lobby..."

So I did, and she answered.

Here was my reply to the kind hospital employee lady: !!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here is what Lar said to me when I sheepishly hopped into the car: %&$(#(#)@*@*@*((((@@@@@@@@@@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh. My. God.

2008-01-16T12:14:00.000-05:00

I think I just sent the boy off to school with a bag of garbage.

It is a smallish bag meant for the bin outside (it's garbage collection day).

It smells terribly.

It has a poop diaper in it and a bag of cigarette butts.

It is not normal garbage.

It is garbage that would shame even the heartiest of souls.

It is garbage you would never, ever want your child's teacher to see.

Brandon, unfortunately, was having a bit of a tantrum before the bus came, wouldn't put his coat and boots on, wouldn't cooperate whatsoever, so I was frazzled, hurrying to get him suited up and out the door, bag of garbage in hand, which I was going to put in the bin, situated curbside -- right where we wait for the bus.

I remember that my son ceased with his tantrum soon as he saw the bus come round the bend. I remember that he melted my heart with a trembly "I love you, Mommy" and a kiss goodbye. I remember slipping his backpack onto his back -- something I don't normally do, as he has to sit in the bus seat.

Why did I do that? So that his tiny hands would be free to carry the garbage?

I remember nothing else as to the whereabouts of the bag of garbage. The stinking, shameful bag of garbage that no child should venture near, let alone hold.

It is not in the bin. It is not in the house. It is not on the front step, or the driveway.

I have concluded, much to my horror, that the bag of garbage is indeed clutched in my boy's clean, innocent hands.

My boy is going to open the bag, my friends, and there before the eyes and nostrils of his fellow kindergartners, instead of a special baked treat for the whole class, or perhaps a magical dancing bear, or a wombat named Fred, or a host of any other delightful possibilities, my son will present a bag of garbage, its contents culled from the depths of Hell.

Courtesy of Brandon's stupid, preoccupied, not-right-in-the-head mommy.

UPDATE:

E-mail to Brandon's teacher --

Subject: Re: Report Card Conference

January 22 at 2:45 is perfect, Jim.

Oh, and please don't think me insane or anything, but...Did Brandon come to class today with a stinking bag of garbage?

If so, I apologize a thousand times.

It was meant for the garbage bin, which is situated curbside near the bus stop. The bus came early, and I had the bag in my hands as I was getting Brandon on the bus, and...That's the last I remember of the bag. It is not in the bin, nor anywhere in or near the house.

If Brandon did not come to class with a bag of garbage today, then please forget you ever read this. ;-)

Reply from Brandon's teacher --

HAHA I was laughing out loud as I read that. :)
I did not notice the bag of trash at all today. Maybe it is in his backpack??

Take care,

Jim

FINAL UPDATE: The whereabouts of the bag of garbage remains a mystery.

Did I have Another Boychild in '02....

2008-01-13T07:42:00.000-05:00

And not know about it? Is that even possible? Did I bear twins, and some evil nurse spirited one of them away?

Can't be...It just can't...Yet, how to explain this?

Fine, so it's not possible that this is my flesh, my blood, but my God, I love that child as if he were my own. He even speaks of the ORECK!

The ORECK!

Oh, be still my fluttering, charmed, vacuum cleaner-obsessed heart...

Rock on, sweet prince of vacuums. You shall remain a part of my soul forever...

And Now, a Bit of Comic Relief...

2008-01-11T08:45:00.000-05:00

I don't exactly understand why, but that makes me giggle like a drunken sailor.

Also, good news regarding me mum -- she's now in a different hospital, Strong Memorial, which is affiliated with the University of Rochester, and will be undergoing inpatient clinical trial treatment. The docs there say that if she doesn't respond to that, they have one more trick up their crisp, white sleeves.

If one of the treatments can get her into remission, even for a few days, they will attempt a bone marrow transplant, which is surprising news considering bone marrow transplants are usually reserved for those under sixty (older patients don't fare as well as younger ones, and can die due to complications). She has two brothers willing to test for compatibility, but if they don't match, she'll be put on a waiting list.

When I'd asked one of the docs if I could test, he looked at me kind of funny and said, "Well, is there intermarriage in your family?" (meaning incest), and I, horrified yet laughing, said NO! "Okay, then," said the good doctor, "you will not be a possible match -- only siblings with the same mother and father are candidates. "

Wow. You learn something new every day.

I've Got Rants in my Pants, and the F-Bomb, Too!

2008-01-10T08:32:00.000-05:00

Didn't sleep last night, which sucks, because I really needed the shut eye. Having trouble focusing, everything seems dreamlike, hazy and disjointed. Christ, I'd be thrilled with at least five consecutive hours, but no doing. Been a long time since I last slept for more than three hours without waking -- not anomalous for me, as I'm a lifelong insomniac, but I usually manage to crash quite well after a couple of weeks sans sleep. Not lately, though.

I'm about to ramble on here, and I apologize for any run on sentences, grammar errors, or extreme boredom you may encounter.

My grandma called me last night with the news that my mother was rushed to the hospital via ambulance due to spiking fever. Not surprised. Why the docs let her go home in the first place is a mystery to me and everyone else concerned. I mean, here she is, over sixty, with refractory acute myeloid leukemia, just finished her THIRD try at chemotherapy, which, as with the other two tries, did nothing to stop the blast cells from furiously multiplying, and she's sick as hell, no immune system, and the dumbass doctors, instead of taking her straight to another hospital on Monday for last-ditch effort clinical trial treatment, as was planned (her decision -- emphatically decided upon, by the way), her oncology team suddenly throw their hands in the air and start talking gibberish. Babbling, useless, stupid idiots, the whole lot of them.

This is the same hospital where my Nic was treated, then died, October 28th. Without warning. Like, totally without warning. Sure, she had late stage breast cancer, and sure, she was nearing end stage, but...This is the same hospital that, two days before she died, when she went in emergency complaining of loss of sensation in her lower extremities and incontinence, kept her waiting, lying on a crappy ED bed for EIGHT HOURS before she was taken care of. Eight hours. No one bothered to even ask her if she needed to use the toilet until her seventh hour of waiting, and the person that asked her was...Me. She looked at me, cocked her head and said, "Uh, yeah, probably a good idea, that." So her daughter runs to get a nurse -- anybody -- to help take Nic to the bathroom. And we waited. Then waited some more.

Fucking dickwads finally sent someone over after her daughter LOUDLY protested while she and I attempted to carry/drag poor Nic to the bathroom ourselves.

But Nic, other than incontinence and inability to walk, was her old self, full of spunk, piss (pun!), and vinegar, and finally making her plans for palliative care. The last thing we discussed, the night before she passed, was our Halloween plan. We were planning our traditional Halloween night, my brother Rob included, where scary movies, Snickers bars, and potato chips with onion dip are de rigueur.

How could someone go from laughing and joking and anticipating a fun Halloween to death OVER NIGHT?

Oh, and I forgot to mention that right before my brother and I were leaving that night, Nic told me that she'd been left to sit in her own waste for a long time that day. Despite repeated beeps to the nurse's station. And the dildos KNEW she was incontinent...And when I confronted one of the nurses before I left, she said to me this: "Impossible. Waniece has trouble with time perception."

Yeah. Okay, sister.

It's always the patient's fault, isn't it?

Just like it's my mom's fault for WANTING TO FUCKING LIVE.

Look, I realize that hospitals are understaffed. I get that nurses and doctors are overwhelmed. I understand that successful treatments for cancer are WOEFULLY slim pickings. I get all of that. But I have absolutely NO faith whatsoever in the current medical establishment. None. It's all dictated to by insurance and pharmaceutical companies. Hey, and I'll throw in government "intervention" as well.

See, If I were in charge of things, it would be mandatory that all cancer patients receive a box of fatties, unlimited pain meds of their choice (my mom, when she asked a nurse if she could have a Vicodin last weekend, was told she'd have to wait until the nurse "got permission" from some mysterious fuckwit or other -- strange, considering Mom's never had to go through secret channels before just to get a fucking VICODIN! -- so they sent in a couple of TYLENOL instead. Tylenol? That's like putting a cockwiping Band Aid on a broken leg!), and an advocate assigned to each and every patient. Yeah, I know the family is supposed to advocate, but, jeepers, fuck. We kind of HAVE OUR HEADS UP OUR ASSES AT THE MOMENT? We sort of AREN'T FUCKING DOCTORS who know WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? And we certainly have NO FUCKING CONTROL over mind-blowingly callous CUNT-FACED INSURANCE COMPANIES and their evil twins, the NOT-SO-FUNNY PHARMS!

Okay, breathe, Ms. Lori...Breathe...

All better.

Right, then. I'm off to get my boy ready for school. And then I've a nice, cold six pack to cuddle up to.

Screw everything until later. Today, for a while, I shall wallow. By the time the kids come home, I'll be right as rain, house will be spic 'n' span, dinner in the oven, my makeup did, my smile in place. Then it's off to visit my mother.

I'll be wearing my "Buck Fush" T-shirt.

They're Baaaaack!

2008-01-07T08:39:00.000-05:00

More weirdness abounds in the Young household. We'd been relatively weirdness-free for the past two years, with the exception of my cat doing her "peering down the heating vent in my bedroom" thing, but alas, the weirdness is back with a vengeance. And this time, even Lar agrees that it's something odder than odd should ever be.

If you want to read a bit of background, please go here. There's another link in that post that will take you to my first post regarding weirdness.

In hindsight, I now realize that shit was about 1/4 inch from hitting the fan on New Year's Day. December had been a truly beautiful time for me, despite the bad, bad things that had gone on in recent months. Some of you know what I'm talking about, yeah? Anyway, beginning on January 1st, there definitely was a change of atmosphere, a palpable heaviness in the air. Everyone in the house seemed more on edge than usual, the kids whinier, easier to set off, Lar began brooding more than usual, and I felt an uneasiness, an irritation, a profound sadness...All of which I attributed to the end of the holidays, back to school, bills, and my mother's worsening condition.

Emotions are easily explained away.

But then, this morning, after Lar told me of last night's events, I recalled the very real, very cold, totally inexplicable breeze that blew over the left side of my body a few days ago. Seriously, it was a breeze, folks. An icy, forceful wind that made my sleeve push against my arm. I'd been standing at the wall table in the living room (the one in our addition -- the light bulb-exploding one I wrote about in the link above), dusting my brand new Egyptian knickknacks, gazing into the mirror above the table (I love myself way too much), when I felt that breeze just slam into me.

Okay, well, I thought to myself that although strange, it wasn't anything to think about for more than a minute, regardless of the fact that the kids were in their rooms, Lar was at work, and nobody had entered the home nor left. Doors were all locked, and it was a calm albeit cold afternoon -- no wind.

Aiiiiiii! That ghostie-thing was announcing its return, I guess, because this morning, Lar -- practical, stoic, skeptical, Stonehenge-headed Lar -- said to me, "Hear the ghost last night?"

Well, I just about dropped my coffee mug. "Huh? Whaaa...?"

"The ghost...You didn't hear it?"

"Uh...No? What the hell are you talking about?"

Impatient now, Lar raised his voice and gestured toward the hallway. "The damn ghost! You didn't hear all that noise last night?"

"Apparently not, else I would be screeching like a loon right about now."

According to Lar, around 4:00 this morning, he woke to banging noises coming from the main part of the house (our bedroom is in the addition), so he got up to investigate, figuring it was one of the kids, or the cat. Unfortunately, everyone was asleep, and the cat was in my oldest daughter's bedroom, which is right next to our bedroom.

Finding nothing, Lar heads on back to our room, but is stopped in his tracks by another loud bang/thump, then another. He could not figure out where they were coming from, as the thumps seemingly reverberated throughout that part of the house, including the game room/bar directly beneath. He searched high and low, went to the basement and up again, but found nothing.

So Lar, probably pooping his pants at that point (hee hee), went back to our bedroom, drowsed off, but was woken by sounds in OUR room now. (AAAAAAiiiiiiiii!!!!)

The cord on the back of our new flat screen TV, which sets on a highboy across from our bed, was thrashing wildly against the back of the highboy, as if, in Lar's words, "it was trying to get our attention."

Holy butthole! Strong words coming from a man who thinks I am mildly ~~insane~~ amusing with my strong belief in the paranormal.

In fact, if he knew I was making public his newfound belief (which, truth be told, most likely isn't all that strong -- he's just a bit spooked right now), he'd scowl really HARD at me and then not speak to me for, like, days.

Hopefully, the kids' toys won't go off in the middle of the night (a recurrent problem with us, beginning in our first home, when our firstborn was around two years old). Really, I simply hate that. Exploding light bulbs, televisions turning on and off, thrashing cords, thumps I can deal with, but toy cars and talking dolls having a party at three a.m.? Awful.

I'm Optimistic...

2008-01-04T08:31:00.000-05:00

Albeit cautiously so...Thrilled as I am that my boy, John Edwards, won second place in Iowa, I was hoping he'd top Obama. I like Obama, truly I do, but at this stage in his (young) political career, I also believe that he's not quite ready for primetime, something I concluded while watching the '07 debates, wherein he, in my humble opinion, was trumped by both Edwards and Clinton. I appreciate his youth (please, dear Jeeves, no more of the "old boys," which includes Hillary "Special Interest" Clinton), and he appears to have a wonderful vision, an enthusiasm for real change, as well as possessing a gift for inspirational eloquence, but...

Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank here -- forget the inexperience angle...

It's his hair. Obama just doesn't have the hair to lead this country. Perhaps in a few years, yes, if he allows it to fill in, grows it a bit longer, uses a smidgen of product. Until then, however, Edwards has him beat by a mile.

I feel confident that, with John Edwards in office, his bouncy, glimmering locks will be a bright beacon, a floodlight of cinnamon-scented hope that shall lead us down the path toward a better America.

God, I'm an asshole. I am nothing but a superficial, hair-loving asshole.

Aaaanyway.

Let's be serious for a moment here. John Edwards must be president. It is imperative that he be in charge, and here's why: The man will bring change to America; the man will bring our troops home; the man will see to it that our children receive affordable health care, and the man will dig us out of the seemingly endless pit of debt, corruption, and universal hatred. The man will rescue the drowning middle class, breathe life back into it, maybe give it a cherry Popsycle.

Don't have faith? Well, that may be because you haven't been watching, reading enough Edwards (mayhap his hair blinded you with its brilliance?), but I implore you to do so now. Listen to what he says, and not just for a few minutes here and there. Really listen to what he says, how he says it, read his statements, watch his mannerisms (ignore his blinky eyes, if you can -- hell, we all have quirks, a tic or two, don't we?), pay attention to his body language, all of which not only sound and look sincere, they are sincere.

Plus, he's got balls of iron.

Take into consideration what folks like
this have to say about the candidates instead of, um, Oprah.

"I absolutely believe to my soul that this corporate greed and corporate power has an ironclad hold on our democracy."

--John Edwards

Pay Close Attention at 2 Minutes, 22 Seconds...

2007-12-31T13:02:00.000-05:00

Not a surprise...Nor is it a surprise that our government would keep this a secret...What does ~~disgust~~ surprise me, however, is Frost's complete brush off of Bhutto's "bombshell" statement (though she reveals this in a strangely matter-of-fact manner).

I've been saying this for years now on this blog, but it bears repeating:

Free press is dead.

Note the omission of key statement in this sanitized BBC clip. (Click on "Bhutto Calls for Investigation," and you will see around 5 minutes in that her statement was deleted.)

We are owned.

Wake up, folks, and smell the censorship.

Happy new year.

ADDENDUM: This post, written by a Canadian (British? -- not certain, but he or she uses British grammar) blogger, is excellent. A few updates there, which only bring up more disturbing questions...Many thanks to Aphid for pointing me toward this fine blog.

Happy Day After!

2007-12-26T09:17:00.000-05:00

Man, and I am so happy that it's Day After day!

Few things I observed yesterday (I'll make this short, as I am extremely uncomfortable at the moment):

A-1) Occasionally, I speak like an ass. Example: My husband mentioned to me that there was a UFO-related marathon broadcasting on some cable station -- a UFOpalooza, if you will -- a subject he knows I am interested in.

Fine, obsessed with.

Unfortunately, when I hurriedly finished what I was doing (basting a turkey, throwing back a shot of hooch) and flipped to that station, the marathon was just about ending. Well, I was so angry that I'd missed it, I turned to Lar and, in my best American film actor accent, circa 1935, said "If I'd known about the marathon, see, I would have watched it, see. See here, Lar! I would have watched it, see!"

M-7) Pomegranates are manna from heaven, see. Except, well...I always feel like I'm eating them wrong. Hmm. Is there a pomegranate-eating etiquette site somewhere on this big old wide web of wonder?

2-forty) While purchasing Christmas presents, Guitar Hero seemed like a good idea. Until, that is, my kids apparently couldn't get the hang of "Hit Me With Your Best Shot."

Hit me with your best shot
C'mon and hit me with your best shot
Hit me with your best shot
Fire a-waaay-a-ay

Over and over and
Over and over again
Until I wished my ears
would curl up and
die

Ever feel like taking a plane to Los Angeles, buying a map to stars' homes, finding Pat Benatar, knocking on her door, and, if not hustled away by security persons first, and, if luck be on your side and Ms. Benatar answers her door, putting your hands around her tiny neck and just squeezing?

4) New Year's Eve is better than Christmas Eve and Christmas Day put together.

6) The CNN anchors act like total foam monkeys on Christmas Day, and it is embarrassing to watch them behave in such a manner. Word to CNN anchors: Just because it's a holiday, that does not give you free reign to act like foam monkeys. Dignity, people. Dignity...

Brandon, Thy Name is Innocence

2007-12-20T08:04:00.000-05:00

Uncannily enough, the following exchange between my boy, age 5, and my oldest daughter, age 17, occurred the day before news broke of Jamie Lynn Spears' current, er, status.

I trust this will charm you as much as it did me...

My boy had been looking at the myriad photos on our fridge (literally, myriad...Okay, not literally...But there are A LOT of pictures stuck to our refrigerator), when he pointed out one particular photo depicting my daughter and her date at their junior prom.

Brandon: Is that your wedding picture, Veronica?

Veronica (busy making a bologna sandwich): No, silly, prom.

Brandon: But that looks like a wedding picture. Are you married, Veronica? Huh, huh, huh? Are you married?

Veronica (busy making a second bologna sandwich): I told you, NO. God! That's me and Steve at the PROM! The PROM! Not married, not going there, not gonna happen.

Brandon: ***

Brandon: ***

Brandon: ***

Brandon (after three seconds of quiet reflection): Well, that's good. It would be gross if you were married.

Veronica (roasting a 20 lb turkey to go along with the sandwiches): Gross? Why?

Brandon: Because! If you were married, then you would have babies, and that means you would be my mom!

Veronica (baking a pie to go with the roasted turkey and bologna sandwiches, contemplating slow-cooking a brisket for a side dish): HAHAHAhahahahahaaaaaaa!

Who Wants to Buy Me a Present?

2007-12-17T07:55:00.000-05:00

I would be forever in your debt.

Sarcasm

2007-12-07T09:12:00.000-05:00

Ah
If there's a cure for this
I don't want it
Don't want it
If there's a remedy
I'll run from it
From it

Think about it all the time
Never let it out of my mind
'Cause I love you

I've got the sweetest hangover
I don't wanna get over
Sweetest hangover

Yeah, I don't wanna get over
I don't wanna get
I don't wanna get...over

Ooh, I don't need no cure
I don't need no cure
I don't need no cure

Sweet lovin'
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
Sweet, sweet love
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love

Don't call a doctor
Don't call her momma
Don't call her preacher

No, I don't need it
I don't want it

Sweet love, I love you
Sweet love, need love

If there's a cure for this
I don't want it
I don't want it no
If there's a cure for this
I don't need it

Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet love

You know, I realized a few things while searching for these lyrics:

1) There's a horrific possibility that a millipede with a thousand legs of fire is weaving in and out of my orbital sockets.

2) Either that or it's a sadistic, spike-heeled leprechaun named Seamus P. O'Connor.

3) Although I adore Ms. Diana Ross, and have enjoyed listening to "Love Hangover" in the past, I never fully understood just how stupid the lyrics are until this morning.

4) Oh, god, now Seamus is riding the back of the fiery, thousand-legged millipede, and he's singing "O Danny Boy" in an annoying, off-kilter tenor.

5) I'm in a world of hurt.

6) Many sites that offer song lyrics are run by goofs who wouldn't know an apostrophe if it hit them in their slack-jawed faces.

7) Due to Seamus and his trusty steed, Wildfire, I have no goddamned patience to go through and correct the goofs' grammatically incorrect lyrics. I just want to cut and paste, people. Cut and freaking paste.

8) I had to visit no less than five sites to find ONE webmaster/mistress that understands and employs basic proper grammar.

9) Okay, I'm at the point where I definitely need that doctor. And her momma.

10) Her preacher, however, may stay far, far away. What I need is an exorcist, man.

I'm So Bad-Ass, I Can't Even Stand Myself

2007-12-02T12:54:00.000-05:00

In honor of my Nic, who had a similar tat on her shoulder, I got my Eye of Horus done at White Tiger Tattoo yesterday, as did my dear new friend, Yvette, who was a good friend of Nici's.

My camera was in the process of biting it, so the picture came out blurry, unfortunately. I auto-enhanced it, but all it did was darken the outline, make my hair appear orange, and "enhance" some very unattractive spots on my otherwise creamy-white neck. And you can't see the gorgeous detail, really, especially the flecks of yellow within the iris, but still, you can tell how lovely it is, yeah?

The artist is amazing -- there are some pictures in his portfolio that blew me away, such as the life-like portraits of Johnny Cash and Audrey Hepburn. Geez, that kid...Adorable, laid back kind of guy, with a peculiar chair-side manner.

Why "peculiar" you may ask? Well, imagine that you've never had a tattoo, never even been to a tattoo studio, and you're scared out of your mind, and visions of scarecrows are dancing in your head (yes, there really were scarecrows dancing in my head -- not pleasant), and the dude doing your tattoo is half your age and so darn cute, which only reminds you of how old and un-cute you are, and he says to you, "Is this your first tattoo?"

And you reply, "Why, yes. Yes, it is my first tattoo."

"Hmmm," he says. "Pretty ambitious place for your first tattoo, back of the neck..."

And your dancing scarecrows stop gallivanting about and stand there, fabric ears all aprick, and you hope and pray this young man shuts his purty little mouth, ceases with the ominous commenting already and just GETS TO IT, but noooo, young dude continues with, "Yup, well, lots of stuff going on back there, you know..."

Stuff?

What the hell does he mean, stuff? Painful stuff? Stuff that will cause my head to explode upon needle contact kind of stuff?

At that point, the scarecrows crumpled to the ground and wept tears of hay.

Honestly, though? Not that bad. Pain was horrible yet bearable. I only moaned a few times, and softly at that. Oh, and I only snapped at poor Yvette one time. She'd asked me if I was okay, and I said "YES! Now stop looking at me! DON'T LOOK at me!"

My next tat will be a fairly sizable Isis on my left thigh.

Ever hear a gaggle of scarecrows laughing their stuffed butts off before? Eerie yet surprisingly charming.

My Little Eye

2007-11-28T08:15:00.000-05:00

Yay! Dan, Dan the Dancing Man has just been crowned king of...

(Teacher's Edition)

I'm not surprised in the least, for I already knew the outcome of this contest way in advance.

Didn't I tell you you'd win, Dan?

Yes, I most certainly did.

Oh, lurker people from Rochester, don't you fret -- no funny business involved here. It's just that I have a darling little third eye right in the middle of my forehead, which has been known to terrify those in my life at times, but mostly, it's just really, really cool. Very useful for predicting the future, or reading people's minds, or telling folks what time it is without using a watch, or bending spoons, or levitating refrigerators, or...

Anyway, CONGRATULATIONS to Mr. Playfair! His competition was fierce, but Dan displayed tremendous professionalism, good humor, and admirably effeminate deportment throughout. Great job, sir.

His fifth grade class. as well as his children, and proud wife, Kim, were there to help celebrate Dan's shining moment this morning. Kim looked lovely, as usual, and my boy shrieked at the top of his lungs when he saw her smiling face on the T.V. (oh, my GOD! Look, Mommy, it's THAT AUNT we know!), then he waved frantically at the television screen when the camera panned to Dan and Kim's young daughter (hi! Hello there!).

Which would be cute if it didn't disturb me so much.

All in all, a very nice morning thus far.

Now I must go work off the fifty pounds of lard that has accumulated on my buttocks over the past week.

Seriously, I seem to have misunderstood the rules of Thanksgiving or something. Perhaps not, I don't know...I mean, isn't it the norm to allot one entire pie per person? Forty-two slices of turkey? A bucket of dressing?

Well, it should be.

Happy Dubya's Crotch Day!

2007-11-21T16:52:00.000-05:00

May you all have a...

Peaceful...

Happy...

Thanksgiving.

A Boy and His Plane

2007-11-16T09:14:00.000-05:00

My boy...My sweet, innocent boy thing...

Late September, it was a beautiful Indian summer evening, and we were enjoying the sunset on our patio, Lar and I with our beers, the kids with their juice boxes, when my boy decided to make a paper airplane out of the "note" he "wrote" to his grandma -- a get-well note, I assumed, for my mother.

Lar dutifully folded the scribbled loose leaf into a respectable approximation of a DC-10, and handed it over to the boy. The boy thanked my husband, then, solemnly, he cradled the paper plane in the crook of his little, fat arm, and noisily sucked down the last of his juice, after which he resumed doodling with his crayons. When the boy didn't attempt a test flight, I asked him why.

"Why aren't you flying your plane, Brandon?"

"I don't want to ruin it."

"Ruin it? Oh, you won't ruin it, honey. And even if it does get a little beat up, Daddy will fix it for you, no problem."

"It's a letter to Grandma."

"Yes, I know, Brandon. She's going to love it! I'll give it to her when I visit her in the hospital tomorrow."

"No, Mommy, not that grandma! It's for the grandma that makes cookies!"

Puzzled, I asked him why he wrote a note to Grandma Howe (my paternal grandmother who passed away last January) on a paper airplane.

"Because, Mommy, the airplane will fly up to heaven tonight, and Grandma will read it, and then she will make cookies for the angels."

Well, I don't have to tell you just how touched I was. Also, I was a bit surprised that all of this was going on inside his darling head. After all, my grandmother died last January, a grandmother that my son had only seen but a handful of times during his four years on earth, and her death hadn't been discussed since.

That night, after the boy went to bed, I retrieved the paper airplane from its take-off spot, a block of wood set on the patio table, and put it in my keepsake box.

The next morning, soon as my boy woke, he promptly ran out to the patio. I knew what he was looking for. I smiled to myself when he excitedly ran back into the house, shrieking about how the heaven-bound plane had reached its destination.

"Do you think Grandma Howe read my letter yet?"

Well, of course she had. And she was baking cookies even as we speak.

Adorable, right?

Get this, then: The other morning as I was readying the boy for school, he stated that he was on another letter-writing mission, only this letter would be for Nici.

He said, "I want Nici to go see Grandma Howe and make cookies with her. Would she like that, Mommy?"

My throat closed up, and I thought my heart would burst, but I managed to assure him that Nici would indeed like that. Very much so.

Flight leaves tonight.

#8 in My Series of "Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters"

2007-11-09T09:16:00.000-05:00

I am Beautiful

by Sapphire Young's Butthole

I am beautiful
No matter what they say
Which is a total rip-off
From that Christina Aguilera song
Be it right or wrong
It speaks to me, anyway

I am beautiful
In so many ways
I must sing my own praises
Despite the ire it raises
With a hi and a ho
And a ding dong, ding dong
Fa-la-la, oh, Fa-la-do

I am beautiful
My mama says it's true, especially
When Papa says mean stuff
Like "Disgusting Butthole, I've had enough!"
And "Why must the Butthole situate near my face?"
Mama just smiles and
Tenderly says Grace

Not really, but I couldn't think of something good to rhyme with "face"

I am beautiful
All freckled and pink
And I always appear mischievous
With my constant little wink

Okay, I'm tired of rhyming

Goodbye

Uncle. I'm Crying Uncle, Cruel Universe...

2007-10-31T11:50:00.000-04:00

I've had enough. You win, Universe. You win.

Just got word that my mother's leukemia is back and worse than ever.

Doctors told her she's got a year, but only if they start her on a last resort treatment, which will make her feel incredibly ill.

She asked me, "Lori, should I do this? Is it worth it?"

I didn't know what to say.

ADDENDUM: Spoke to her oncologist just now -- my mother only has six to eight weeks if they don't begin the treatment. I think I know what to say now.

Nic's Website

2007-10-30T09:06:00.000-04:00

I should have included this in my last post, but my brain is...Scrambled? Fried? Over easy? I dunno. Anyway, here's Nici's website.

If you venture over to her journal via the link there, and read some of her posts, it may surprise you to see that this mighty woman (thank you, dear Yvonne -- "mighty" is the perfect, perfect, perfect word to describe Ms. Olivia) worked forty hours a week through all of this, while single-handedly raising her daughter.

It was only last week that she said to me -- finally -- "Lor, I'm so done with work now."

I just can't believe she's gone.

Nic

2007-10-28T21:55:00.000-04:00

I have been keeping a secret from you guys, a painful, gut-wrenching secret that I've been wanting to spill, needed to spill. But I couldn't.

Sadly, I now can reveal what has been breaking my heart for the past two years...

My best friend, Nici, whose pen name was W. Olivia Race, died today. She was diagnosed in April, 2005 with stage 4 breast cancer, and she died today, with her young daughter by her side, as well as Nic's cousin and his wife, my hand holding tight to Nic's, Yvette holding her other hand.

She was surrounded by those who loved her most, and she slipped away quick as that. Just silently slipped away.

Being that she was an intensely private person, she would have punched me upside the head if I dared whine and sob in public about her situation.

She wanted no pity, and fully expected those close to her to shut up with the cow-eyed moping already and just let her live. She wanted to laugh, so I made her laugh, she wanted to bang her head to electric guitar and talk about writing, and act like goofs, and eat ice cream, and watch horror movies, and...

Well, she did -- we did. But...

Okay, Nic, I shut up already. I kept my cow-eyed moping to myself, for the most part. Now, however, I intend to shout my sorrow to the world.

Some of you might have noticed that I haven't exactly been as prolific a blogger as I used to be. Well, now you know why.

Some days it was just too painful for me to try and be witty, pretend that my life wouldn't soon be so different -- bad-different.

I'll be taking a long break from blogging, but I shall return.

I've got a lot of mooing to do.

Until then, here's something I wrote on August 22, 2004, eight months before Nic was diagnosed.

Reading that now creeps me out in the worst way. It's almost...I don't know.

It's just damn weird is all.

Firing Doctor Dipshit

2007-10-26T11:12:00.000-04:00

Oh, my Goddenheimer. My poor girl, the oldest one, has been in excruciating pain for the past week and a half. I'm talking bad, bad, bad pain. Can't walk, can't lie down, can't think straight.

So we go to the doctor -- let's call him Doctor Fucker for now, shall we? -- and he tells her it's a bruised coccyx. Okay, then, he says, take this pain medication plus three adult Advils every eight hours. Fine, we say.

Days go by, no improvement. Even worse, the pain becomes more intense. My girl now cannot even breathe without wanting to scream from the pain. Then something horrible happens, something that would strike fear in any parent's heart -- her tailbone begins to...Leak. Blood, stuff, and things not of this world, are leaking from my poor girl's tailbone.

I run to Google and frantically do a search, diagnosed her in, what, two minutes? She has a pilonidal cyst, and it's infected.

She was up all last night crying, and I could nothing but hold her hand.

Oh, I could not wait to confront Doctor Fucker this morning.

So, we go see him at 8:00 this morning, and as my girl is weeping and hunched over, he inspects the leaking mass, and he says, "Hmm, yes, that's a pilonidal cyst, all right. I'll go call the surgeon." And that's all we get from Doctor Fucker.

My girl's eyes practically popped out of her head.

So, now she's in excruciating pain and is terrified beyond belief.

The old dipshit couldn't employ a bit of compassionate bedside manner? Couldn't acknowledge the fact that he screwed up, misdiagnosed her, thus causing undue pain and suffering? Couldn't say "oh, don't worry dear" and explain what the surgeon will do, what to expect during the surgery, how much better she will feel afterward, blah, blah, blah?

FUCKING FUCKHEADED FUCKER FROM FUCKWAD CENTRAL!

Plus, he looks like a pedophile. Been wanting to get rid of him, anyway.

Uh, where was I?

Ah, yes -- the operation. 2:00 this afternoon. Female surgeon, at Strong Memorial Hospital. Should be a relatively simple procedure, and my girl will feel like a million bucks by tomorrow (I hope and pray).

I swear, if I had the stomach for it (and 250,000 bucks lying around, as well as a nanny and maid), I'd go to medical school and show these dipshit doctors what's what.

Whip it! Whip it Good!

2007-10-21T09:24:00.000-04:00

A bit of background for those who might find the following anecdote confusing...

I am compelled to shout out words, be they short bits of dialog from commercials, invented words, or words that I find interesting or that taste especially good. I've always done this, my brother, Rob, has always done this, my middle daughter does this. It's just something that's done in this family.

True story: Last summer, Rob and I were driving somewhere...Don't know where, doesn't matter...When he yelled out "Arapaho!"

Arapaho? What a fantastic word! Musical, comfortable, and tastes like powdered doughnut! I just had to repeat it, and so I did.

Arapaho, said I.

Arapaho! said Rob.

On and on it went, louder and louder with the Arapaho, the both of us bellowing in unison until we hit a red light, noticed the driver next to us gawking; we abruptly stopped Arapahoing, looked at one another, then burst out laughing.

Jesus, good times...

But as I was saying, I'm a word-shouter, though a private one. I usually save my outbursts for home (in public, I whisper), preferably when Lar's not within earshot. I mean, my husband knows that I'm stranger than fiction, has become accustomed to my odd ways, but I've learned through the years that it's very possible to frighten the daylights out of one's significant other with one's propensity for the bizarre. I respect my husband too much to subject him to my full-out baffling behaviors.

Although I must admit that I do occasionally enjoy causing Lar discomfort, such as repeating "Head on! Apply directly to the forehead" fifty times in a row.

All right, then.

So, here we go...

Thought Lar was out in his workshop/garage/Fight Club gathering place yesterday afternoon, was going about my usual business, doing Lori stuff, stuff that includes Windex and verbal assault of a vacuum cleaner, when, as I was bounding happily up the stairs to retrieve laundry baskets, I began shouting these three words:

Cat o'nine tails.

Cat!

[first step]

O!

[second step]

Nine!

[third step]

Tails!

[fourth step]

[Rinsed and repeated until the final twelfth step]

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature fey holding eight tiny cold beers.

And he said, "Need me for something, Lor?"

Well, I was aghast! I also had many questions: Why wasn't Lar at work? Why must I embarrass myself this way? Why is he holding eight tiny cold beers?

But more importantly, why am I injecting a bastardized stanza from "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" into this blog post?

I simply stood at the top of the stairs, me and my laundry baskets, and silently shook my head. Lar nodded once, gave me one of his Gawd, That Woman looks, then went out into his workshop.

Another man, a lesser man, would have said something to the effect of, "What the hell is wrong with you?" or "Hey, I married an imbecile!" but Lar is Lar, and that is why I married him. He makes no mockery of my quirks -- he ignores them. Or, upon hearing his wife shout "Cat o'nine tails," sticks out his butt and says "Need me for something, Lor?"

All of you ladies out there should be so lucky.

You Lie Down With Dogs, You Wake Up With Fleas

2007-10-19T07:07:00.000-04:00

In my neck of the woods, it's no secret that I'm in love with Stephen Colbert. It is, of course, an unrequited love, but enjoyable nonetheless.

My kids don't understand the attraction, as he is too "nerdy" and "old" for their tastes, and my husband, ever the stoic Stonehenge head, basically just ignores my squeals of "Ooooh, my boyfriend's on, my BOYFRIEND'S ON!"

(He makes up words, people. SEXXXY!)

It's only when I begin slobbering the television screen with my passionate kisses that Lar bothers to say or do something about my obsession. I just wish he'd remove his shoes before putting his foot up my ass.

Anyway.

I had an incredibly hot dream involving my darling boo last night, and though I'd like nothing more than to divulge the naughty details, I shan't. For reasons that only my ass can explain.

One part of the dream was very telling, however, the part where I was frolicking with Stephen's dog (I don't even know if he has a dog, mind you), and I spotted a multitude of fleas hopping on the dog's head. I said to my dear loverboy, "Mr. Colbert, there appears to be fleas hopping on your dog's head."

Mr. Colbert's right ear wiggled a bit, then he crossed his stiffly-attired arms before his magnificently stuffy chest, and said to me this:

"You lie down with dogs, missy, you wake up with fleas."

Paging Carl Jung!

In other fascinating news, Dan, Dan the Dancing Man is through to the next round! Yay!

Dan, Dan the Dancing Man

2007-10-15T19:35:00.000-04:00

Nope, not talking about my brother this time (Dan, Dan the Garbage Man cum attorney) -- I’m talking about this handsome devil:

That’s Dan Playfair, my friend Kim’s husband, who will be performing on our local news tomorrow morning in its annual

Mr. Playfair, a teacher here in Rochester, will be ~~butchering~~ dancing the cha-cha along with his partner, Bubbles Anne LeBoomboom, a dance instructor from Arthur Murray Studios.

I kid. I don’t know the dance instructor’s name, but I’m sure she’s a lovely woman with a perfectly normal name.

So, if any of you kind folks have a minute, why not check out Dan and the lovely Bubbles here and punch in a vote (or two, or three). Voting begins October 16 at 12:00 p.m. EST, and anyone can vote, regardless if you live in England, or Egypt, or Holland, or even Idaho.

If Dan progresses on to the next level (he needs your votes!), then he will perform again next Tuesday, and if he gets enough votes to continue, the whole process repeats until, hopefully, he is crowned Lord of the Flatbush.

Kick high, Mr. Playfair! And don’t forget to make a sultry face!

UPDATE: Wooo! He totally nailed it! Go see Dan do the cha-cha, people! Go! Vote!

Oh, this is so exciting!

Aaaand Yer OUT!

2007-10-08T08:51:00.000-04:00

This past Saturday, which was rainy and humid as an alligator's butthole, my brother, Rob, and I decided to go grab some beer from Wegman's. No big whoop, right? Well, when folks such as my brother and myself enter your plane of existence, the inconsequential can be a big whoop, most indeed.

So there we were, running toward the store entrance (of course, the lot was packed, and everyone and their second grade teacher had taken all of the prime parking, which meant that Rob and I had to park in Texas), so I, being the Olympian I am, made it to the entrance before Rob, my hair dripping, my mascara streaked, then promptly slid into third base on one knee, my arms spread wide, as if I were performing a silent rendition of "Mammy." Not pretty. Not even cute.

To make matters worse, no one around me laughed, even though I was guffawing like the idiot I am. I mean, is it not funny when some jerk slides into third base on one knee while doing an Al Jolson impression? Come on, sure it is.

I would've laughed had it been you.

But what really put the burn of shame in my cheeks was when a kindly, middle-aged, rubbers-wearing store employee hydroplaned on over to me with a WAY too concerned expression on his face, grabbed my arm (I'd only been on my knee for, oh, one tenth of a second -- as I stated, I'm an Olympian, and have the reflexes of a cat), and said WAY too loudly, "Oh, DEAR! Oh, dear, me oh my, DEAR! ARE YOU OKAY?" To which I replied, "Honey, I did that just for you."

Thank my ever-loving flapjacks, at least that got a laugh or two from the four thousand patrons that had gathered around to gawk.

Rob, my non-Olympian, sloth-like brother, finally made it to the entrance, and noticing my muddy left knee, my frazzled, Marilyn Mansonish appearance, dutifully asked what had happened. Upon my telling of recent events, he did what any good brother would do -- laughed his ass off.

And kept on laughing.

The aisles rang with his laughter.

It was beautiful.

As we stood in the checkout line with our beer, however, he stopped laughing. The reason for this is simple -- my brother, although a superb human being, is tight with the bucks. The physical act of pulling out his wallet is painful for this man, perhaps even psychologically traumatic, so he often becomes vewwy, vewwy quiet at the register, pulls a dour face, and goes into his own world, a world where everything is free, and double cheeseburger trees grow in fields of golden French fry bushes, and crisp, clean ponds of LaBatt's Blue Light pockmark the land.

The beer, although advertised as the usual price, was more expensive than in previous purchases, meaning only one thing -- sneaky sin tax.

Rob, being Rob, murmured under his breath about this abomination -- at first, only I could hear. But as he slooowly flipped open his tired wallet, slooowly handed money to the cashier, and grappled with his hatred of all things tax-y, his murmurings became intensely audible to those around us. And then he slapped the thirty pack of brew and uttered "sin tax." Then he did it again, slapped the thirty pack and said, "sin tax." And again. Then again.

As we left the store, Rob broke free of his strange trance, and began laughing. I asked him what the deal was, and he told me that he did the repeated slapping/sin tax thing for the sole benefit of the guy standing in line behind us.

Apparently, after Rob's initial slapping/sin tax utterance, the guy whispered to his friend "Weirdo." So Rob, being Rob, God of All That is Odd, felt compelled to put on a bit of a show.

My laughter rang throughout the aisles of BlockBuster. And it was beautiful.

I'm Sort of Dumb, But I Mean Well

2007-09-26T12:29:00.000-04:00

My oldest daughter had her senior portraits taken last night, and I, unfortunately, may have caused her some embarrassment during the process.

I can be childlike at times, talk too loudly when excited, and have difficulty with instruction if not written out in 1-2-3 steps…So she became a bit agitated (rolling eyes, exaggerated sighs) when, during her photo shoot, I snooped around in the photographer‘s prop boxes, retrieved various objects of interest, such as a gigantic purple flower, a yellow stuffed ducky, and waved them behind the photographer’s head, did a little dance with them.

She also might not have enjoyed my outbursts of “Gee, when I had my senior portraits done, the stupid photographer guy kept telling me to lick my lips," and “Honey, just look at this fabulous feather boa!" (Moooommmmmm! STOP IT!)

Then came time to choose the best pictures, which one goes into the yearbook, which ones to give out to family and friends, how many sheets to purchase with which package, what the cost would be, and all that jazz, and I, of course, was perplexed and overwhelmed beyond what should be normal. I also loudly demonstrated my love of quite a few of the pictures. Like, loud loudly. 'Cause that's how I am when I love something.

I sounded exactly like this: Ooooh, that one is SOooooo beee-YOO-teeee***screech***ful! (Mooooooommmmm! [glances nervously over at the family next to us, lowers voice to harsh whisper] I HATE that picture!)

The photographer was very kind, very patient with me, despite my too-loud shrieks of picture appreciation, my unbelievable confusion, calmly repeated (over and over again) what each package would cost with this many sheets, and what pictures go where, etc., but my girl was not so patient, and I don‘t blame her one teensy bit. She finally ripped the brochures from my hands and said (with an exasperated exhaling of air), “Mooooooommmm! Just let me handle this, okay?”

Thank goodness I had no trouble writing out the check.

Mole!

2007-09-23T00:33:00.000-04:00

Just thought I'd mention that I'm #12 out of 165,000 on Google for "Aaron Neville's mole."

Lie prone and whimpering before me, peasants.

The Uncertain Romeo

2007-09-20T08:44:00.000-04:00

Me: So, Mr. Papa, who's your best friend in Kindergarten, eh?

Brandon: Well...No one, really.

Me: Oh, come on, buddy. There must be someone special...Do you still like Annikan? He's a nice boy!

Brandon: Yes, I like Annikan. We play a lot. But we don't sit next to each other.

Me: I see. Who do you sit next to, then?

Brandon: A very pretty girl.

Me: What's her name, pray tell?

Brandon: I don't know. I keep forgetting. She's very, very, very pretty, though. She has brown skin and brown hair. I look at her all the time. Sometimes she smiles at me. Like this [smiles girly-like, disturbingly so, and tilts head, bats eyelashes].

Me: Goodness gracious! She sounds delightful.

Brandon: She is! I try to sit next to her as much as I can. I think she's my girlfriend.

I'm Not Thrilled With Life Today...

2007-09-18T08:16:00.000-04:00

So here's Robert Blake with pancakes on his head.

Baby Got Book!

2007-09-15T10:21:00.000-04:00

Oy. I'm sicker'n a dawg, coughs, headache, runny nose, gooey substance drip-dripping against my epiglottis, small baby elephant sitting atop my chest, crushing the very life essence out of me...Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

I feel the need to worship.

Won't you join me, brothers and sisters?

Hold ya hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care!

Warning: The following video may be offensive to some viewers, especially atheists, agnostics, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, your Uncle Moe, the friendly grocer down the street, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Daddy Warbucks, Charlie Brown and all the Peanuts gang, Sophia Loren, and red-headed folks who wear horn-rimmed glasses.

Want more? Fall on your knees and pilgrimage on over here!

A Hater Defends Britney

2007-09-10T12:53:00.000-04:00

Jeepers, I didn't sleep a wink last night due to my obsessive, intrusive thoughts on all things Britney.

What, you're surprised?

Oh, really?

Well then, you obviously do not know Ms. Lori very well, do you?

I obsess over the thought of my cat dying, for Christ's sake. Every day for the past month or so, I stare lovingly into my cat's eyes, my own welling with hot tears, and murmur "I will miss you when you die." Sometimes I say, "When you die, I will purchase another cat just like you..."

I say the latter while focusing intently on her face, so that its image will be forever burned into my brain. I want to remember each freckle on her nose, every whisker...You know, for when she's dead and all.

It's no wonder my cat has been trying her best to stay clear of ol' crazy, obsessive, morbid, depressing Mommy. I don't blame her one damn bit.

So anyway, after I turned off the tube last night, I tossed and turned, kept thinking about poor Britney Spears and that dreadful MTV Video Music Awards performance of hers, thought to myself that I'd just witnessed one of the worst displays of career suicide ever, kept pondering the whys and whatnots of her shocking-pink skin color, Cut & Kurl discount weave, embarrassing stage-wandering (did she think she was taking a leisurely stroll on the Las Vegas Strip, perchance?), and humiliatingly obvious lack of practice, discipline, self-respect, and...Sanity.

So troubled was I by my Britney thoughts, I leaped from my bed (facile like a doe, graceful as a windblown flower) and ran to my office for a smoke and some Internet gossip. Had to see if others thought the same as I, if others were obsessing much, and tossing and turning, and feeling like the world was at its end.

They were, and they did, every last gossip monger and sad, obsessive soul had joined together in an evil, gleeful chorus of hate, and I rejoiced, and I banged two rocks together and grunted in agreement, yet..

Fat, she is not.

Take a gander at that bod, people, and I dare you, if you're a woman with even a smidgen of vanity, to tell me that you wouldn't be happy with that knockout figure. Go on, I DARE you.

Hell, most women who've never even had one kid, let alone two, like Britney, never looked like that, nor will they ever. They didn't in high school, they didn't in college, and they damn sure won't after they pop out a human being or three.

She has great legs, a fantastic ass, a wonderful, healthy and slim tummy (women are NOT supposed to have six-packs, dummies), and despite the unfortunate choice of wardrobe, hairstylist, and forty Red Bull and vodkas (hence her stage-wandering and trembling, crooked lip?), Britney looks perfectly lovely.

Okay, so her thigh blotted out the entire bottom half of one of the emaciated male dancers when she wrapped it around his serpentine waist, then almost knocked him to the ground when she wagged it suggestively, but still. She looks great. Not fat. Sexy. Not cow-like. Hot. Not walrus-y. Healthy.

To sum up my completely unimportant and worthless point here, I'd just like to state -- emphatically -- that I am publicly defending Britney Spears' body, because honestly, I've been coming up empty in the blog posting department as of late, so this is all you get.

Tune in next week for an equally scintillating blog post about my cat's adorable anus.

Go Kart A No-Go

2007-09-03T09:57:00.000-04:00

Went to the end-of-season kart club races yesterday to watch my husband and middle daughter tear it up, man.

(This is a picture of Lar being very intense as he sizes up the competition -- taken at last year's event, and not by my own little hands, but I really fucking like how hot he looks here despite the helmet hair, and so, felt the need to post it.)

Where was I? Ah, yes, the races...

Um. Hated every minute of it. Not because I had to stand around for ten hours in the blazing sun (sunburn hurt, me cry, me dumb for not putting sunscreen on), and not because a couple of the racers, who shall remain anonymous at this time, cheated like the dirty birds they are, thus swiping first place from my ever-so-honest and superiorly-skilled husband and daughter (seriously, they are both the best drivers in their classes), but because I brought along my boy and my youngest daughter.

Bad deal.

Ten hours of whining, moaning, complaining, and public wiener-pulling (my boy refuses to use public bathrooms, and will hold it for all eternity -- his secret to perpetual pee-holding? Grab da weiner and hold on for dear life). Not a fun way to spend a lovely Sunday.

All in all, not the worst day I've ever had, though. There was the time when I broke my wrist in third grade...And the time I peed my pants in first grade -- during Reading Circle Time, no less...And the day I tripped over a blind man's wildly-swinging, out-of-control asshole cane and fell flat on my face in the middle of Midtown Plaza, to which I promptly hurled a chain of curses at the poor dude...

Really, yesterday wasn't all that horrible. The people are very cool, especially when they aren't cheating, and the picnic was awesome (saucy kielbasa in a crockpot? I'm so there!), and there was beer, which, in my humble opinion, is de rigueur for any event. It was, however, warm beer. Still, better than no beer at all, right?

Today will be another sunny day filled with whining, complaining, and perhaps a bit of wiener-pulling (the boy hates to take bathroom breaks when he's busy playing outside), but the beer will be cold, the tunes loud, and Ms. Lori will keep her ass under the patio umbrella. Gonna be a good day.

My Cup of Tea...

2007-09-01T10:21:00.000-04:00

But perhaps not yours.

Vocalist/writer Otep Shamaya, guitarist Aaron Nordstrom, drummer Brian Wolff, and bassist "Evil" J. McGuire are OTEP, a delicious, heady brew made of steaming hot angst, intense, tasty lyrics, and aromatic charisma -- with a touch of honey thrown in for good measure. OTEP aren't to be chugged, rather, they should be breathed in, sipped, savored, appreciated.

Okay, enough with the asinine tea metaphor (I'm dopey like that) and on to whimsical opining...

Granted, OTEP may be an acquired taste, but for someone like myself, an old school punk from way back when, no sound has excited me as much as OTEP's since, well, way back when. Sure, I've come across many, many bands in the last twenty years or so that made my blood rush, electrified the roots of my hair, induced manic bouts of impromptu air-drumming (I have an embarrassing, involuntary "tic" wherein I flap my thumb and forefinger against my thigh -- wildly -- to the beat of something good, whether it be during a live act, heard on the radio, or in my head), but not since the days of "back when" have I so loved, nay obsessed over an artist.

Otep Shamaya is somewhat of an enigma; her age is unknown, her life's resume shrouded in dark, tantalizing veils of obfuscation, though her lyrics and poetry give us a balls-out peek into what appears to be a turbulent, tragic past that, at times, lends to the listener/observer an almost voyeuristic feel. With raw, completely unselfconscious abandon, Otep whispers, shrieks, growls her pain so effectively, it's as if we are there with her, inside her psyche, inside her rage. It is disturbingly erotic.

Political, steeped in activism and social concern, Otep is more than just another pretty face who happens to possess the voice of a demon (yes, that really is her voice -- no studio magic involved whatsoever); her obvious intellect and writing skills, combined with the aforementioned features, bring forth an artist that is not only powerfully unique, but influential. Otep speaks the truth, you see, and although some may question the overt violence of her music, her persona, her message, are to be respected, marveled over.

With all of the fluffy, anorexic, devoid of substance, crotch-flashing, convicted "role models" our girls and young women are bombarded with these days, it is refreshing to see someone such as Otep Shamaya step from the shadows, fist raised, and speak out against injustice, poverty of the societal soul, indifference to human suffering, and ignorance. Otep is an anti-hero in a world full of poseurs, liars, and do-nothings, a woman's woman. She is the mouthpiece for those of us who have been ignored, forcibly silenced, dismissed. She is the voice of revolution.

#7 in My Series of “Incredibly Bad Poetry by Celebrities or Fictional Characters”

2007-08-24T09:27:00.000-04:00

Vodka Does a Body Good

by Vladimir Putin

Comrades! Gather 'round
And I shall regale ye with hilarious tales
Of my adventures, all
True
Listen to me speak, with open mind
and open gullet
For I am not only fantastically masculine
I am wise, and I have much white lightning
In my pants

I rode my steed, dear Joseph
O'er the unforgiving, lady-like terrain of Tuva
With effortless though practiced grace -- observe!
Am I not manly, do I not appeal to your aesthetics?
I frighten myself with my own machismo
And sexual fires

My skills include handling a rod, as well
Note how my forearms are large as briskets!
My tender expression, as I gaze to my left
Reflects the yearning in my breast
For the days of yore
When I was very, very, very handsome
In fashionable, terrifying suits
As I made The People quiver with fear
And, I suspect, lust

I caught many fish, some big, some small
I brought home the sturgeon
Fried it up in a pan
While at the same time
Handling government affairs
Competently
According to state-guided media

The Americans should be so lucky

President Bush, you are a giant potato
That is half baked
Who rides like a woman
And catches no fish

Cooking With Christopher

2007-08-16T10:18:00.000-04:00

You take da chicken, okay?
Den you put stuff up its ass
Right?
Maybe a little pepper on top of dat bitch
Perhaps a bit of salt
The thing is
You gotta have some pears
Nuzzling da poultry-meat
Sorta like a fruity hug
And what you have here, den
Is an elegant variation on da roasted bird

Rove, Rove, Rove, I Gloat

2007-08-13T09:20:00.000-04:00

Bush's top political advisor, Karl Rove, announced in today‘s Wall Street Journal that he will be resigning on August 31. “For the sake of my family,” he said.

Well, goodness! I think it’s super lovely that a perjuring, war-mongering, traitorous fella like Karl Rove actually has enough heart left in his tiny icebox of a chest to put his family first. Really, I do.

I am confident that this fine, upstanding American is not abandoning his beloved president for any reason other than wanting to throw a football around with his son on a warm Sunday afternoon, or whisk his long-suffering wife away for a romantic weekend in the Poconos. I admire a man who would tuck his rodent-like tail between his furry hind legs and scurry from such a high position in order to shield his family from further embarrassment and public scrutiny. That’s nice. That’s peachy-keen and warm and fuzzy and…That’s exactly what I'd hoped would happen. I'm loving the resignations, waiting on Gonzales to join the party, but I won't hold my hand on my ass...

Unlike Rove, many of those who've resigned in the past few years did so, I'm sure, for the sake of their own conscience, or were pushed out because they attempted to counsel, with good conscience, a decidedly incompetent Commander in Chief (***cough*** Colin Powell ***cough***), and it'll be those folks who will one day speak the truth. In public. Under oath. You know, without fear of bodily harm to themselves or their loved ones.

As the clock counts down to a preciously welcome new election year (Jesus, Neocons, why even bother campaigning, huh?), we’ll see more of the rats jumping ship, and once the Democrats take the helm, the indictments will fly, heads will roll, asses will be grass (insert your favorite cliché here), and maybe justice will finally be served, maybe this awesome country of ours will return to its even more awesome people. Maybe Valerie Plame will win her appeal and receive some sort of compensation for all of the pain she and her family suffered?

Yes, the end times are nigh, but not exactly the way some religious rightwingnuts may wish. No skies opening up, and no spontaneous disappearances; nope, no Armageddon to be had -- only blissful retribution, sweet, sweet times in which big corporations won’t own our elected officials and their appointees, and people won’t be dying by the thousands for the sake of an idiot’s pipedream, and sanity prevails over corrupt madmen who honestly believe it’s best if you and I have no eyes, no mouth.

Goodbye, Mr. Rove. We hardly knew ya…But that’s exactly how you wanted it, yeah?

ADDENDUM: Holy crap, am I not the queen of bad blog post titles? Respect!

My New Crush

2007-08-07T20:19:00.000-04:00

British: Check
Jewish: Check
Gigantic UFO attached to head: Check
Big drunken dork: Double check
Makes Ms. Lori's heart go pitter-patter: Oh, my GOD, CHECK!

Don't Feed the Animals...

2007-08-06T12:15:00.000-04:00

I learned a very important lesson this past weekend:

One should never feed the neighbor's dog hotdogs and spareribs if said neighbor appears agitated by one's childish, compulsive, dog-feeding behavior.

But I couldn't help myself, see. I have this thing, a thing with no name that is buried deeply within my cerebral cortex that compels me to feed processed foods to adorable, furry faces.

My cat, thank goodness, is smart enough to turn her nose up at the slices of salami and curls of Cheetos I throw her way (although she enjoys bouncing that sweet nose of hers against the offending materials, getting a whiff or two and licking her chops for ten hours afterward), but dogs, now they appreciate crap. Love the crap. Live for the crap.

I am only too happy to fulfill their crappy wishes.

Unfortunately, I have zero capability when it comes to reading others' body language and/or tone of voice. I figure, hey, I'm loving that the dog is loving the crap, so everyone else is loving it too, right?

***obnoxious buzzer***

***Patti LaBelle screech***

***maniacal laughter***

Well, apparently NOT. Took me a while to figure out the error of my dog-feeding ways, but it finally hit me yesterday that the vibe I was picking up from my neighbor wasn't altogether lovey-dovey, and perhaps I should just come out and ask my neighbor if it was bothering her that I stuffed pounds of bologna into her beagle's maw on a regular basis.

I said, "Bambi-Jo, please be truthful with me -- do you not want me feeding Shloob (not the dog's real name)? I mean, because if it does in fact bother you, I will never again sneak Shloob forty bratwurst, complete with mustard and onions. Just say the word, my friend, just say, Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, then Bambi-Jo said -- with a straight face, mind you -- "Ms. Lori, stop feeding my dog, you stupid fuck."

Heaven help the likes of me -- I am a dolt.

Mandrill!

2007-08-01T07:32:00.000-04:00

Is that not the weirdest word?

Say it with me...Mandrill.

Again...Mandrill.

Once more, with feeling...MANdrill!

Now take a look at one of the creepiest, most awesomely awesome faces ever:

That, my friends, is a mandrill. Isn't he dreamy?

I met him at the Buffalo zoo this past Sunday, and I love him.

He has a whoopie cushion for a butt, which I happen to think is marvelous:

Hard to make out in that picture, but his whoopie cushion butt is also psychedelic, very aurora borealis, all purple-y and pink and greeny-blue, depending on how the light hits it.

As I said to my kids, upon observing said whoopie cushion butt, "It appears as if he has a balled-up prom dress, circa 1989, attached to his ass."

I believe I spent approximately forty-five minutes just staring at Mandrill, saying asinine things WAY too loudly to Mandrill, much to my husband's chagrin (Manny-poo all mean and scary-looking! You're not mean, are you Manny-poopers? Dear me, but you're a handsome devil! Yes you are! Such a handsome, handsome Manny-poop!).

Lar had to bribe me with pizza in order to get me to leave my Mandrill.

Unfortunately for Lar, the next exhibit featured a darling rhino -- spent a good half hour gawking at Mr. Ronald J. DeRhino:

That's me, Brandon, Sarah, Veronica and Ariel

(I'm the one with the junk in da trunk and wicked-cool platform sandals -- click to enlarge junk).

Lar bribed me with ice cream, then we hit my favorite exhibit of all time:

What gorgeousosity! How regal and fierce and ohmygodso...Oh, I dunno...LionTASTIC!

You would be correct in assuming Lar had to bribe me away yet again, but this time he was forced to pull out the big guns due to my trance-like state and alarming cooing and baby-talking (ooooh, sweet lion! Wookit da sweet manly man! Manly man gots him some pretty bitches, yes he does!) -- BEER.

Catch was, we had to go home to have the beer.

Much as I love animals, I love my beer even more, so away we went.

The end.

Wow, what a lame post this is, huh?

I apologize, but it's ninety-five degrees up here in my windowless, un-airconditioned attic office, and I honestly cannot think straight. I simply can't write in an intelligent manner when my skull is melting.

I realize that the above lament is oft repeated here on OWM, especially when the end of July, beginning of August rolls around, but when I say that it feels as if a giant white candle is sticking out of the top of my head, I mean it.

My head would be the perfect accoutrement for, say, Vincent Price's end table, or Edgar Allan Poe's writing desk.

Okay, now I'm just babbling.

Elizabeth Kucinich For Prez!

2007-07-24T10:18:00.000-04:00

Here are my impressions, short & sweet, of the eight remaining Democratic presidential candidates during last night's CNN/Youtube ~~comedy roast~~ debate (in order of preference)...

John Edwards: Purposeful, sincere, weird stare-y eyes (BIG plus)

Hillary Clinton: Strong, determined, made me feel like I was cheating on John Edwards (seriously)

Barack Obama: Focused, intelligent, has an awesome, regal profile (but still reminds me of Skeletor)

Christopher Dodd: No-nonsense, trustworthy, magnificent hair (I’ll bet it smells like freshly carved sandalwood)

Joe Biden: Charismatic, confident, presidential-looking (but it ain’t gonna happen)

Dennis Kucinich: Innovative, fearless, has a hot wife (he must be great in the sack)

Bill Richardson: Caring, down-to-earth, sweet face (think I’ll refer to him as Unca Bill from now on)

Mike Gravel: Courageous, truthful, a bit insane (not always a bad thing)

Winner of last night's CNN/Youtube debate: Hillary Clinton

***shakes fist at John Edwards*** Step up yer game, boy!

To the Great, Big Makeup Counter in the Sky....

2007-07-22T10:24:00.000-04:00

I've been a longtime fan of Tammy Faye Messner, ever since she and her then husband, Jim Bakker, ran a darling little morning show called "P.T.L." (Praise the Lord).

Oh, dear. I just picked up on someone in Waco, Texas mentally shrieking, What?! Ms. Lori?! A fan of evangelicals? Of the Christian persuasion? The kind that shout hosannas and beg for money? Preposterous!

Hard to believe, yet, it is true.

I was newly on my own, a weird, sensitive kid trying to get along in this callous, indifferent, conformist world of ours, alone -- very alone -- terrified, confused, still reeling from a recent past full of violence, betrayal, and lessons hard-learned. I was deeply in need of an understanding ear, someone who would not judge me or make me feel less than. I desperately wanted to belong somewhere, be a part of something, feel as if I truly had a purpose, a reason for existing.

One morning, as I readied myself for another crappy day at a crappy, menial job, feeling low as low can be, I flipped on the television, hoping to catch the weather report (I walked the mile and a half to and from work every day), but instead of tuning to my local news, I found myself transfixed by a babydoll-voiced woman whose thick, black mascara was cascading over her heavily rouged cheeks. The woman was weeping -- really weeping -- as she sang a song of praise, her tiny, bejeweled fingers gripping onto a mic that appeared too heavy for her, bulky, out of place.

What the hell?

She was fabulous. Her face beaming though rivulets of mascara, the woman accepted the audience's applause with small nods of appreciation, a few kisses blown to the crowd, then toddled on four-inch heels to her place beside her husband, a frog-faced imp of a man who seemed pleased as punch to be there.

The two of them chit-chatted about this and that, topics ranging from religion to what they had for lunch the day before, their children, their pets...Inane, really, yet...Something about those two got to me, intrigued me, made me feel...Calm?

Yes, calm. Peaceful. The two of them were, in my eyes, endearing, prattling on the way they did. The tension that'd wormed its way into my back only moments before had eased to a quiet pinch, the apprehension of heading out into a world I wanted nothing to do with settled into nonchalance.

How strange. How utterly and unbelievably ironic that I, of all people, should be lulled into a sense of well being by God warriors. It wasn't their evangelistic message, however, that did it for me -- at least, not their intended message. No, I easily filtered out the Jesus talk and the requests for money, focused on the humorous, down-to-earth couple who sometimes playfully threw barbs at one another or looked straight into the camera and spoke of goodwill, kindness, love, all of which I'd experienced precious little. I focused on a husband and wife who seemed to honestly enjoy each other's company, who expressed affection openly, emotions freely, without embarrassment, without shame. Foreign to me, that, yet once I became acquainted, I easily warmed to such alien notions.

They were oddballs, peculiar in their look and mannerisms, and they were familiar in that respect. I understood odd. I got peculiar. And at a time in my life when I felt that being odd and peculiar was a weakness, something to be hidden, either by pretending to be "normal" or literally physically hiding away, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker gave me, crazy as this may sound, some semblance of self-esteem. They flaunted their eccentricities, embraced the flamboyant, always with a bit of tongue-in-cheek, a wink.

I liked the fact that they were passionate about their mission, but without too much self-importance, no delusions of grandeur. You could tell they didn't take themselves 100% seriously. They preached good things, without fire and brimstone, spoke of acceptance for all, without discrimination. Hip in a kooky way, quirky, devoted to their cause, they did good works, contributed to and built many worthwhile organizations, helped untold thousands of those less fortunate, I latched on...They became my daily meditation, a way to start the day with a smile, my surrogate friends.

So, when Jim was convicted of fraud, I scratched my head and thought "Why?"

What fraud did he perpetrate?

How can it be fraud if he used monies given to his ministry for the very purposes he stated? The key word is "given." No one was coerced into donating money, no one was threatened or cheated. Sure, he fudged his books, sure he grabbed a big, honking, illegal piece of pie, but fraud?

It's not like they were popes or anything. Geez.

Oops, off on a tangent there. I apologize.

I'm attempting, in my usual expository way, to express my sadness over the loss of someone who never knew me, whom I'd not personally known. She never knew I existed, but that doesn't matter -- regardless of the fact she never met me, never heard my name, listened to my stories, she was my friend, and I will miss her.

Thank you, Ms. Tammy Faye, for being my company when I had none, a kind voice that filled my empty room, a small but not insignificant light that brightened my day, made dark days bearable, a feisty firecracker of a role model who endured so much heartache, yet persevered.

Make sure you give Jerry Falwell a swift kick in the groin when you see him, won't you? I think God might have a good laugh over that.

Kirk Cameron is Smart!

2007-07-20T10:15:00.000-04:00

All right, here's the rundown: Been doing stuff, feeling stuff, annoyed by stuff. Hands hurt, look like Muppet hands, only not as colorful.

Rheumatoid arthritis is the shit! I mean, who wouldn't want hands like a Muppet? Very handy (pun!) when it comes to scaring small children.

Thing is, I must shave my mother's head today (how many of you have that on your daily schedule, huh?), and as cool as my Muppet hands are, they're not exactly working properly...Think I'll fortify myself beforehand with a Blue Light (or two), perhaps a Vicodin. Maybe a bologna sandwich.

Oh, don't worry, kids, no exposed, potentially lethal blades involved -- I'll be using clippers on Maw, will make sure the buzzing flappy thingie is set very high, so's not to, you know, accidentally scalp her.

Don't want to scalp my mother, oh, hell no.

Hey, speaking of hell, if you have a minute, or perhaps an hour, check out Kirk Cameron's nifty site of shame. Go ahead, if you're interested in having a good laugh. Seriously, I'll never look at a banana now without thinking of Kirk.

I also will never be able to say his name without smirking. Or referring to him as: Captain Kirk of the Starship Gloria in Excelsis Deo, Kirk of Nazareth, Kirkus Christ, Quixotic Kurt of Kalamazoo, Kirk, Son of Cthulu... Kirky, Kirky, Who is a Bit Jerky.

Eh.

Listen, if any of you happen to be fundamentalist Christians, and are appalled or offended by my obvious disdain for this mentally disturbed man and his, um, philosophies?

Please accept my sincerest fuck you.

If This Doesn't Put a Smile on Your Face...

2007-07-11T07:24:00.000-04:00

Then you are either dead or:

a) hate Lost

b) hate prairie dogs

c) hate Ms. Lori

d) all of the above

Semantics Shmemantics

2007-07-09T04:38:00.000-04:00

Thought I'd share a little story about my mother, her Pekingese, and an elderly landscaper whose grammar skills were less than perfect. And I'm being kind here.

Politically correct, this is not -- it is, however, absolutely true.

Back in the late sixties, when I was but a tot, my mother owned a vicious bitch of a Pekingese named Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell had a habit of not only biting small children, but she would, when let outside to do her business, run from the yard as fast as her nasty little legs would carry her. She had to be closely watched lest she journey into busy roads or large, snapping German shepherd jaws. Anyway, one morning, at our newly built home that sat in a newly developed tract, my mother let Tinkerbell out as usual, only this time, Mom was distracted by my baby brother, so Tinkerbell, being the idiot she was, ran from our yet-to-be-seeded, extremely muddy yard.

When Mom realized that Tinkerbell was gone, she panicked, rushed out into our muddy yard while still in her nightie and short robe, and was met by an elderly gentleman wielding garden implements. "Have you seen my Pekingese," my mother asked the kindly old gardener.

He replied, "No, ma'am!" while vigorously shaking his head.

"Are you sure you haven't seen my Pekingese? She was right --"

"Uh-uh, no, ma'am, no way was I peekin' at yo' knees!"

"Oh, Jesus. No, I think you've misunderstood, sir. I was wondering if you'd seen my little Pekingese, she --"

"I said I wasn't peekin' at yo' knees! No, ma'am, I would never peek at yo' knees!"

At which point he turned to his workmate and shrieked "She think I be peekin' at her knees! I ain't peekin' at no damn knees!" His workmate could only shrug.

Mom stood there open-mouthed as the poor old gent scurried away muttering, "She crazy, she damn crazy!"

Tinkerbell, unfortunately, found her way back home by noon.

ADDENDUM: Ew. Upon rereading this post, I am appalled by my complete lack of storytelling skill. I mean, "kindly old gardener"? "Poor old gent"? And just look at the horrid syntax!

Geebus Cripes.

That's what happens when one attempts creative nonfiction at four in the morning...After two hours sleep...For the fifty millionth night in a row...

Apparently, insomnia causes one to write like a precocious twelve-year-old Nanny McPhee fan.

Good day.

Eight Random Facts About Me

2007-07-06T10:03:00.000-04:00

I've been tagged by the scrumptious Ms. Jordan Rosenfeld.

The rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Fine. Here are my eight random facts.

A Word of Warning: I am so fascinating, you may be lulled into a hypnotic trance, whereupon I will control you with my extraordinary psychic powers via remote mindfuck, and you will be my intellectually-controlled slave forever and ever and ever.

Which is just fancy talk meaning I will take over your brain and you will unwittingly buy me lots of books and send them to me on a weekly (or daily, depending on how grabby I feel) basis. Also chocolate.

Eight Random Facts About Ms. Lori

1) My middle daughter, my oldest brother and I all have Asperger’s Syndrome, although only my daughter and myself have been diagnosed, e.g., spent two trillion bucks to sit in a shrink‘s chair and stare numbly at their flapping lips.

My brother, forty years old, loves lizards and spiders, still lives at home with ~~Joan Crawford~~ Mom, and will ask you how much you spent on a gift you give him. He’s also the smartest, funniest, kindest man I’ve ever known, and one of the few people on earth who doesn’t get on my last freaking nerve.

2) I adapt well to living on the streets, as evidenced by my stints in Manhattan and York, England. Park benches, cozy courtyards, and abandoned storefronts can be lovely if you have no sense of fear and at least two dollars in your pocket.

3) If someone is in trouble, especially women or children, I will attempt to help. I do not understand people who stand around and do nothing.

In my next life, I shall be either a first-responder of some sort or an exotic dancer.

4) I taste words, a phenomenon known as lexical-gustatory synesthesia. My name, for instance, tastes like the gel-like icing they put on birthday cakes. The name “Boris” evokes bad breath smell, and makes me a bit nauseated. Seriously, I can taste it in the back of my throat. It is not pleasant.

5) I have smoked cigarettes since age twelve.

6) My handwriting/printing is like that of a four-year-old, unless I take my time and try really, really hard. It’s difficult for me to hold pens or pencils, and I often become “stuck” while writing something, almost like being trapped for a moment in quicksand. I also transpose letters, have to stop and think before writing a word. Which sucks.

7) I am afraid of wild ferns. Quick, embarrassing anecdote: During a Girl Scout camping trip when I was eleven or so (I lasted two weeks in the Scouts, by the way), the girls and I went exploring in the woods. Fine and dandy. Unfortunately, we came upon a huge patch of fern, and in order to get to the babbling brook ahead, we had to cross through the ferns. I stood there shaking as all the other girls carelessly trod on through the dark, fluffy, disgusting, monster-hiding hell. And then I cried.

I was forced to return to the campsite and sit there with Ms. Wackadoo, one of the chaperons. She was very old and very insane. I learned more than I needed about how to whittle Ivory soap into hideous duck-shaped figurines.

8) I am not ashamed to admit that I love Tom Jones.

I am tagging the following people. Ignore if you must, darlings, but I always play by the rules…

Gerry

Kirby

Olivia

Cassandra

John

Mr. Biscuits

Josh

Victor

Screw Toledo

2007-07-02T10:33:00.000-04:00

Lar and I moved to Springfield!

Here's a still of me waiting in line at the supermarket. There's an asshole ahead of me paying for a pack of gum with a check, hence the look of disgust and bewilderment on my face.

Of course, I always look that way, anyway.

And here's Lar. I believe this shot was captured during a conversation he was having with a couple of nice folks who dropped by one day. They were bearing good news, and very eager to share!

I'm quite pleased with how well Lar and I have adapted to cartoon life. It never rains here, there are always plenty of doughnuts and beer, and we've become best friends with Homer and Marge.

Sure, we miss the kids, but here in Springfield, no one stays sad for long...Besides, Bart promised to build us four little robot children that will be close proximities to our human offspring. Even better, he said that he'll incorporate vacuum cleaners into his designs. How awesome is that?

Okay, gotta go now -- Lar and I are off to Moe's for a late morning round or two.

Cowabunga!

P.S. Want to join us? Click here .

Toledo?

2007-06-30T10:06:00.000-04:00

Well, it was bound to happen...I lost my mind this morning.

Was just a matter of time. A matter of two long months of extreme mental anguish, stress, lack of sleep, screaming children 24/7, premenopause, and Lar buying vanilla frosting instead of dark chocolate -- LIKE I EXPRESSLY WROTE ON THE SONOFABITCHING SHOPPING LIST!

One cannot put vanilla frosting on a white cake. Should never be done, not ever.

One cannot expect a human being to gracefully endure all that I have lately without some sort of repercussions. I am not a robot, despite my stolid exterior. I have tried to hold it together, truly I have. But my God, VANILLA FROSTING???

I believe with all my heart that Lar deserved to be threatened with a cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese.

Yes, you read that correctly -- I raised the cup of Kid's Kitchen Macaroni & Cheese and threatened to smash it on his head.

I also screamed at the top of my lungs and hurled toilet paper about the kitchen.

Then I shrieked the following:

WHY DON'T YOU TAKE THE KIDS AND GO TO TOLEDO!

I admit, that was shameful.

I hang my head in shame.

I Told You Phones Were Evil...

2007-06-29T08:43:00.000-04:00

I'm a longtime hater of phones -- hate the way they look, sound, feel. Hate using them, hate speaking to disembodied voices, squirming through uncomfortable silences, vapidly staring at the wall while smiling and nodding at air.

Salespeople get to you through phones. Fund-raising hooligans bother you at dinnertime. Your mother calls when you're getting your freak on. Sure, you could just let her leave a message, but she'll keep calling, keep leaving messages, and the sound of her voice will cause your significant other much aggravation, will put a damper on things.

By the forth message, you and your honey muffin will be sober as popes, and the whipped cream will have turned into soup.

Phones are a hideous creation, to be sure. Alexander Graham Bell, I once read, was a disciple of Aleister Crowley.

No, I didn't really. But still.

Phones are evil, evil, evil, and anyone who does not realize this fact -- or worse, disagrees -- is a fool. Satan is reaching out to the masses via phones, he'll grab you with his smoky fingers and choke the life out of you if you're not careful.

And your soul will be his.

Throw your cell phones in the trash, people. Employ only one line in your home, and use it only for emergency purposes. You want to talk to a friend? Write a goddamed letter, like back in the good old days, when folks knew how to spell. Make a date to actually see your friend face-to-face.

Think I'm crazy, do you? Think Ms. Lori has finally lost the last five working brain cells she had left in her slightly misshapen skull?

Behold.

Hate Thy Neighbor

2007-06-23T10:20:00.000-04:00

The following post, along with profanities galore, will be written in short, to-the-point sentences (well, I'm going to try -- you know how I love long, heavily punctuated ramblings) because I am very tired, and the thought of long, heavily punctuated sentences makes my nostrils flair right now...

Aw, shucks, there I go again.

Let's begin anew, shall we? Excellent. All right, then.

I live behind an old hippie and his Amazonian wife. They have one child, a strapping, lovely sixteen-year-old boy. The wife wears a bright orange bikini that I suspect she's had in her wardrobe since 1972. The wife often grooms her lawn with a pair of scissors, and graces us with a view of her behemoth bikinied backside as she bends straight-legged and snips, snaps, snips stray bits of weed and non-existent imperfections.

She is the Edward Scissorhands of Brighton, New York.

She has the personality of a tree stump.

The husband seems like a nice enough fellow. Always pleasant, always busy in his yard, ostensibly for the express purpose of avoiding contact with his dour-faced, Amazonian, tree-stump of a wife.

Thing is, as pleasant as the man may be, he listens to really bad music. I'm talking bad. Like, ancient Grateful Deadish/Country Joe journeys that lead us nowhere else but to nauseating flashbacks of bad brown acid, even if we're too young to recall Woodstock, even if we hadn't been to Woodstock, even if we hadn't yet been born. This music will take you there, believe you me.

Their son, apparently, has been heavily influenced by his parents' musical tastes.

Following me so far? Spectacular!

So last night, round about nine or so, I flopped onto my bed, fully anticipating a rare night of actual rest and recuperation -- something I desperately need, because honestly, I'm near death -- when lo and behold, instead of my head falling into a soft, inviting pillow, I found myself falling into the pits of Hell.

No sooner had I quick-slipped into fuzzy unconsciousness, there was a terrible crashing, a boom, a torrent of indescribable aural assaults that shook me to my very soul.

There were tomtoms, there were morrocas, there were twangs and tweets and blasts of goat's horn. There was hooting and hollering, shrieks and bellows, cackles that swelled with the rise of bass drum.

My first thought was, "My god, we are being attacked by wild voodoo people from parts unknown."

My second thought was, "Those are actual instruments being thumped and blown in that there backyard. Actual live drums and horns and things of that nature. Things that belong in a basement or garage, things that should not be outside on a lawn, at night, behind my home. At night. When it's sleepy-time. Evening. Behind my home."

My third thought was, "Why, those miserable fuckers. They shall die now."

Being the tolerant shrew that I am, I lay for quite some time, hoping against hope that the cacophony soon would end. Tossed and turned. Poked Lar in the ribs, just because. Fretted and fumed. Became insane.

Ten o'clock, and I couldn't bear one more second. My kids had woken, terrified and confused. Lar continued snoring. I was on the verge of hysterical laughter, which is never a good sign.

I rose like the living dead from my Hellpit, grabbed my smokes, and went outside. I wanted to make my presence known. Wanted the child, that sixteen-year-old, lovely boy, to cease and desist, wanted his friends to shut the fuck up, the drums to go away, the goathorn to stop its bleating.

I walked across my damp, dark, recently pesticided lawn in my bare feet and nightclothes, cigarette ember my only light, and waited by the privacy fence that separates me from them. What to do? What to do now? I can't make my presence known behind the eight foot tall fence, now can I? Should I mosey on over to my next door neighbors' backyard, a backyard sans privacy fence? I could certainly make my presence known then, could pop my head over the short picket fence and say, "Hey, could you please stop being assholes? We're trying to sleep here!"

But that wasn't possible because my neighbors have a motion light, and a frisky little beagle who alerts her masters to intruders, and I had visions of the husband, A.K.A. The Squirrel-Slinging Firefighter, running out into the backyard with his ax and chopping me into bits.

I walked back to my patio and sat there for a long time, just sat and smoked and thought of awesome things to scream at the dingdongs across the way, things like "Did you know that it's extremely difficult to walk with a bass drum up your ass?" and "What the hell's wrong with you people?" (Fine, that last thing wasn't all that awesome, I admit, but I was tired. Very, very tired. Too tired for witty, veiled threats, I suppose.)

I felt better, though, having had my imaginary verbal confrontation, and went on back to bed.

Where I lay restless and insane once again.

Until the break of dawn.

Don't eat the brown acid, man.

Peace.

Pieces

2007-06-17T10:50:00.000-04:00

I sometimes speak of you, but not enough
Sometimes I mention your name
Usually when dusk begins to settle down
Around my shoulders, soft and gray
And your grandchildren are close to sleep
It’s strange that I summon only misty bits
Like remembering a painting seen long ago
A portion of shadowed forest, a corner of sky
A flicker of sunlight warming one single rose

And they ask me who you are, and I cannot recall
The entire picture, just a fraction of your profile
While you drive and pump your hand against the wheel
Off time to The Cars
Your laugh, oddly high-pitched and infectious
When the dogs all jump in your lap
The sound of ice, like Christmas bells
Against your whiskey glass

I tell them snapshots, I sometimes speak of you
But not enough, sometimes I mention your name
Spin stories from raw wool, color them with comfort
Weave you from diaphanous thread, present you
As I see you on Sundays, hot summer days
The wind tumbling through your hair, the scent of
Conesus lake, the dip of red and white bobbers
Blue and gold dawns, omelets, Atlantic-colored eyes

Atlantic-colored eyes, closed, the corners of your mouth
Turned down, white T-shirt, always
With your novels, and your first prize ribbons
Scattered amongst your other treasures as you nap
I tell them parts, but never the whole, I offer them
Heritage unfinished, and loss, and Elvis-like sideburns
Your Dress Whites, stark against the gunmetal ship
Dogwood, poplars, the yellow roses you sent
I keep those fragrant petals still, dewy, fresh, alive

I sometimes speak of you, sometimes I mention your name
If the night is deep into its journey, and neglects to
Bring me along, the walls hear me tell
Of grand days, Fourth of Julys, Buicks and ducks, of
Ports of call, good steaks, bad rhythm, Cindy
Who lay her head on your chest and passed into
Forever, you who never cried, wept that August day
I recall every detail then, left behind to face dawn alone, I see the whole
Of you, as if in a hologram -- I see you best in the dark, but
Not enough

Sniffing Kittens

2007-06-14T10:42:00.000-04:00

STRESS! It’s the pits, lord, yes.

Makes a woman do odd things. Makes an already loopy woman even loopier.

Case in point: A certain someone you all know has been dealing with stress in her usual atypical way -- no overeating for her, no valium jonesing, no nail-bitey, fidgety, explosive ragey shit for this chick. No, this certain someone that you all know, this magnificent, goddess-like albeit kind of stupid (in an endearing way) woman deals with her bottled-up feelings of hate, resentment, sensory overload, and quiet despair by pulling out her eyelashes. At night. When she’s asleep.

Fine, now that you know of whom I am referring, please allow me a moment of tender reflection, a small mental health intermission , before I continue.

Tender Reflection #1: Newborn kittens make me happy. They smell like Necco wafers.

Tender Reflection #2: The first time I was introduced to Godiva chocolates, my tongue actually leapt from my mouth, hopped onto the table, and did an erotic bump and grind.

Tender Reflection #3: The Marie Collander chicken pot pie I ate a few months ago was really, really good.

And now a few seconds of self-pity.

SELF PITY
SELF PITY
SELF PITY

All better now. I shall continue.

So last night I woke up pulling out my goddamned eyelashes, a hideous behavior I thought I’d kicked some two years ago. ‘Course, my stress level has climbed to an all-time high of 17.5 on the Richter-Hades scale, so I shouldn’t be surprised by the return of this abhorrent nighttime OCD thing of mine, but I am repulsed.

Oh, this has SO been a month of cruel, totally not funny jokes….Screw my lashes -- it’s a wonder I haven’t pulled my damn lips off.

Couple-few (charming Dansville, N.Y. colloquialism, “couple-few”) random yet soul-killing thoughts for your dismissal (seriously, please do dismiss them -- I'm just whining out loud here):

I’m so sad that I had to let a dear, dear, DEAR friend down recently…She understands why, but that doesn’t ease my guilt and disappointment.

My guilt and disappointment are exacerbated by my reluctance to learn how to flush the chemo port in my mother’s chest. My brother and I are going in today to watch, listen and learn, and honestly, I’d rather eat a pile of bunny pellets…But it must be done.

I feel like screaming obscenities at my mother, for reasons I shan’t express.

I feel like the worst person that ever walked the face of this godforsaken earth.

I still hate Tim Allen. Why am I thinking about Tim Allen? Well, I don’t know. I just am. And I hate his guts.

I need to sniff a kitten right about now.

Gandolfini's Nose (Among Other Things)

2007-06-12T08:22:00.000-04:00

1) Love it or hate it, The Sopranos finale was something, wasn't it?

Not sure what that something is, exactly, but it certainly was...Something.

2) I love James Gandolfini, always found him sexy, but DEAR GOD, what's up with his nose lately? I have to watch the finale again because the first time around, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Gandolfini's disturbingly expanded nose and missed quite a bit of dialogue.

But forget the nose for a second, and hear me now -- the last five minutes of that finale brought about a horrible feeling of unease and sadness, and I still can't quite shake it.

3) I kept waking all Sunday night with this running through my head: "Just a city boy/Born and raised in South Detroy-oit/She took the midnight train going aaanyyywhere..." (Yes, wrong lyrical order - I never hear or remember lyrics correctly and often murder them, much to my kids' delight.)

4) "Standing in line to see the show tonight/Leave the light on/Heavy load" (Sincere apologies to Anthony Kiedis and the rest of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.)

5) Seriously, that was some kind of finale. WHY WON'T IT LEAVE ME BE?

I am haunted.

6) Today is my husband's birthday. Which has nothing to do with James Gandolfini's curiously expanded punching ball nose, of course, but I thought I'd mention it nonetheless.

Happy Birthday, Lar. I love you, stoopie-head.

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and
Just forget the world

Would you just stay here
In our bed
Chasing cars
Around my head

Addendum: I think there may be some grammatical errors in this post, yet I do not care enough to fix them.

Hark! The End Times are nigh!

Gay Bar Superstars

2007-06-08T09:54:00.000-04:00

Here's a fine example of my warped sense of humor.

I watched this three times in a row -- not for the lyrics, and not because I thought it particularly clever, but for the ridiculous expressions on their faces.

Okay, watched it again, still laughing...

Why do I find long, empty gazes so amusing?

My Infrequent Blogging...

2007-06-06T11:46:00.000-04:00

Will continue to be infrequent. As some of you know, my life has been, um...Interesting...To say the least.

And I thought last year was bad...I haven't even told you the half of it. Don't feel insulted, though -- I am, if you're not yet aware, one of the original See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys (yes, there were four of us at one time, but I evolved beyond my brother monkeys some two hundred years ago). I was known as "Spew No Evil," my place being to just sit there and internalize everything my fellow monkey brothers ignored (Speak No Evil actually did speak, but only in my ear). My monkey brothers jokingly referred to me as "The Robot Monkey About to Blow a Gasket." Which is amazing, really, considering robots hadn't yet been invented.

Anyway.

I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically, and my circuits may be shorting out. Probably due to the mass quantities of light beer I've been consuming lately.

The upside to this current personal hell of mine, however, is that by this time next year I fully expect the following to occur:

1) I will discover ancient tablets buried in my backyard that prove the existence of a tiny race of people that once ruled the universe.

2) Some anonymous benefactor will write out a check in the sum of one million dollars to cover the cost of my four kids' Harvard education.

3) I become head writer for "Late Night With Conan O'Brien."

I love me some karma.

Ms. Lori's Latest Senseless Statement

2007-06-01T08:46:00.000-04:00

"Why doesn't he just give blowjobs for drug money like any respectable crack addict would?"

--Ms. Lori ranting to her husband yesterday about her crackhead family member's most recent appalling acts of crackheadedness.

Her husband burst out laughing, which kind of angered Ms. Lori.

Rambling Thoughts of a Sleepless Ms. Lori

2007-05-29T05:14:00.000-04:00

"Wow. I can't believe I'm not sleeping."

"Oh, who am I kidding? Of COURSE I can."

"What is this -- like, the ninety-fifth night in a row? The one hundred and tenth?"

"Larry King sounds like he has a corncob stuck in his windpipe."

"Holy God! Do I have lice?!"

"What if I were to scratch my itchy cheek right now, and my fingers make contact with something leggy and kind of big? Something that feels black?"

Vivid mini-movie of me jumping out of bed and slapping at my own face, spider bits flying everywhere.

"I won't scratch my cheek."

"Lar's nose is whistling WAY too fucking much."

Vivid mini-movie of Lar's nose prancing in a field of wild flowers. It suddenly sprouts two tiny white wings and sails over a meadow, then disappears into a dark, foreboding forest.

"I made the best strawberry shortcake today."

"BISQUICK!"

"Okay. Today's gonna be busy. Gotta do the second lice treatments on everyone, gotta clean everything AGAIN. Gotta wash all the bedding, gotta vacuum the furniture, the mattresses. AGAIN."

"I hope the neighbors didn't hear me screaming at my whore vacuum cleaner yesterday."

"I should keep the windows closed when I vacuum."

"My burn hurts. Why, oh, why did I feel it necessary to rest my forearm on the inside door of a 425 degree oven?"

"Because I'm tired, that's why. Unbelievably tired."

"The name 'Jonas Salk' tastes like orange Jujy Fruits and talcum powder."

"I can't believe Lucy crapped in the car."

"See, that's why I prefer cats. Cats do not crap in the car."

"But they do, on occasion, crap by your foot while you're doing dishes at the sink, because they are really, really mad at you."

"Ohmygod! Sapphire is sooooo cute!"

Vivid mini-movie of Sapphire's face floating before me -- no body, just her head. Her cuteness is almost too much to bear, and I bite her on her sweet pink nose.

"Where's my cat? I want my cat!"

"Ah, it's five a.m., and here comes the boy, right on schedule."

"Great. He's picking his nose. I can hear it."

"I shan't sleep a wink."

"There are probably boogers on the sheets now."

"I'm glad the boy is over on Lar's side of the bed."

"Coffee."

"Boogers."

"Coffee."

"Cigarette."

"I'm outta here, man."

HAHAHAHA!!!

2007-05-26T13:47:00.000-04:00

I needed a good laugh today.

I also need about ten million dollars and my own personal lucky elf, but a bird pooping on President GoofyLips will do just fine.

My Mother...

2007-05-22T05:11:00.000-04:00

Was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia yesterday, a cancer of the white blood cell that had developed from previously undiagnosed Myelodysplastic syndrome. This form of leukemia is particularly aggressive.

She’d been feeling quite ill since December, but her primary doctor kept telling her it was all in her head, and threw every pain med (she also has degenerative arthritis of the spine) and anti-depressant on the market at her. A few weeks ago, she convinced my mother to see a psychiatrist.

At one point, my mother was so doped up, she was slurring her speech and frequently appeared disoriented. I don’t even know how she went to work.

Mom went to the emergency department last week, unable to cope with the constant fatigue, nausea, vomiting, and pain, and the preliminary blood tests showed abnormalities. Upon seeing her primary doctor after the initial worrisome test results, the doctor had this to say (paraphrasing here): “I apologize, Suzanne, for not investigating your symptoms more vigorously.”

Well, goodness, it’s nice to know that Dr. Incompetent Drug Pusher is sorry, isn’t it? Restores my faith in humanity, it does.

Today, my brother, Dan, will accompany Mom to meet with an oncologist to discuss treatment, which will involve some heavy duty chemotherapy. They want her to begin as soon as possible. I’ll be going with her to the hospital on Friday for more tests, and to speak with her doctors.

At least Mom is in good hands now.

UPDATE 5/23:Good news and bad news -- Mom's doctors have determined that her leukemia most likely is not a result of Myelodysplastic syndrome, meaning that her prognosis is looking much better. Awesomely awesome news. She's going into hospital on Thursday to begin inductive chemotherapy, and will stay there for an entire month.

Now for the bad...One of my kids caught lice.

Someone pass me the Jose Cuervo.

My Prom Queen

2007-05-15T11:26:00.000-04:00

My girl, Veronica, and her beau, Steve, before heading off to their junior prom.

Click to enlarge the gorgeousness...

If you ignore the facial piercings, they look like movie stars!

Brings back such fond memories of my own prom...Yes, I remember it as if it were yesterday...The hideous hairdo of my own design, which involved two thin braids on either side of my face -- rabbi chic, I believe they call it -- and a dress that appeared to be made of a ninety-year-old woman's sofa doilies. Ah, yes, I was a vision to behold as I walked (hobbled) toward my corduroy leisure jacket-clad boyfriend and his beat-up Chevy...I can still smell the resentment that wafted through the air as he stepped on the gas and peeled from my mother's gravel driveway...

A magical night, my senior prom...I shall always treasure the two hours I sat staring at all of the other couples dancing as my date scowled and complained...There was a twelve of Budweiser waiting for us at his house, you see...

Good times.

Antonio's Pit

2007-05-11T10:07:00.000-04:00

So, I was watching Jay Leno last Wednesday, and...Well, sort of watching. I was doing my usual "observation of objects" thing (O.O.O.), my sleepy yet too-irritated-to-sleep, sort-of-watching-but-not-really thing I tend to do when the weight of the world is pushing down on the top of my head, which causes my sleep-deprived brain to scrunch down into my nasal passages and my eyeballs bulge into twin balloon-like radar devices, which in turn causes me to focus on parts of a sum, not the whole.

In other words, my eyes are drawn to certain details, automatically hone in on them, such as Leno's chin, or the ever-present coffee mug setting on his desk. Though I may be taking in every word that tumbles from Leno's curiously boyish mouth, I am not watching the man, really -- I am watching his chin, engrossed in its curvature, mesmerized by the subtle bobbing with each syllable, lost in wonderment as to the possibility it may in fact be stuffed with fiberglass and uncooked pinto beans instead of cartilage.

O.O.O. mode is not something I am able to control at will, unfortunately, and oftentimes occurs during the day as well, especially if I'm tired. I attempt to hide my ostensibly disturbing radar-gaze from others by forcibly shifting my attention from whatever object has set off the blip, be it their mouth, their nostrils, or the fabulous way the wind is dancing in their hair, and try to focus on the whole. I nod my head a lot while appearing earnest, and look at the spot between their eyebrows so that I seem to be making eye contact.

Sometimes I fail, however, and that can be embarrassing for me, as well as uncomfortable for the one who is witnessing my O.O.O. Example: The other day, as I was visiting with my neighbor, having a beer, enjoying the late afternoon sun, my radar honed in on a button on my shirt. I couldn't stop staring at the damn button. Couldn't break my gaze, no matter how hard I fought the overwhelming urge to get lost in its lovely roundness, the warm glint of sun lighting its circumference, and I was, alas, found out.

My neighbor: Staring at your cleavage, are you?

Me: Um? Huh?

My Neighbor: You keep looking at your cleavage.

Me: Oh! Heh. I, um...No. My button. Just...Looking at my...Heh. Hey, wanna another beer?

Anyway, the reason I digressed so abruptly from my original statement, the reason I'm going on and on about my odd observational behavior, is because I'm hoping that you will understand why it is that I, while watching Antonio Banderas on Leno last Wednesday, became fixated on his armpit.

There Antonio was, being all Spanish and things, and I, at first, was enthralled by his glorious Spanishocity (and really, who isn't?), but as is usual, my attention quickly wandered, and my radar loudly beeped as it honed in on the large perspiration stain under his left armpit. Mr. Banderas had been sitting in a relaxed, conversational position, his left arm draped over the back of the chair while leaning toward Leno, his legs crossed, and I initially was pondering over the reasons why he might not have used Degree antiperspirant that day. Do Spanish people not use Degree? Did he forget to apply some? Did Melanie use the last of it, and he was in too much of a hurry to get to the studio to go buy more? I didn't know.

But that stain fascinated me more than words can convey. I lost track of the interview, completely missed the last half, as I pondered and wondered and eventually grew to despise Antonio Banderas as his pit squished along the back of the chair.

Didn't he know his pit is dripping all over Leno's furniture? If so, why doesn't he care? Shouldn't someone off camera give him a clue? A little sign, perhaps a quick point to their own underarm to alert Antonio to the problem?

And is Leno thinking what I'm thinking? What about the next guest, who I imagined was watching the whole deal from the Green Room -- are they thinking "Ew! I am so not sitting in that chair!"

I know I would be thinking that. I know that were I the next guest, I would insist on another chair, or, if one was not available, a large, fluffy towel, folded into neat quarters and placed directly on top of the pit-pond, preferably duct-taped into place.

The interview finally ended, and do you know what Leno did? He reached over and patted Antonio's left shoulder! Yes, he did. He put his bare hand right there, right near the Loch Banderas, and his thumb actually made contact with the pit!

After a couple of dry heaves, I calmed myself by thinking of minty Altoids, and anticipated the reaction of the next guest to sit in that seat, looked forward to any subtle body language that would suggest disgust or annoyance. I wondered if the chair smelled of chicken noodle soup.

Unfortunately, I fell asleep during the commercial break.

Dan, Dan the Garbage Man, Esq.

2007-05-09T11:03:00.000-04:00

My second-youngest brother, otherwise known as Dan, Dan the Garbage Man, has passed the New York State Bar Exam with flying colors.

On his first try.

With no help from the recommended and extremely expensive preparatory classes (hey, we're not the Rockefellers).

He saved his pennies for the past year and a half until he had enough to pay for the exam and the two-day trip.

You did it, bro'. But then again, I always knew you would.

People

2007-05-06T13:44:00.000-04:00

Suck.

What I mean to say is...People really, REALLY suck.

Not all, mind you, but most.

So, now that you know Ms. Lori's true feelings regarding people, many of whom might just include YOU, here's a top eleventeen list for your enjoyment, and perhaps, embarrassment.

Should you see yourself in the following descriptions, I'll take no responsibility for your feelings of inadequacy or shame. That's your problem, not mine, Now fuck off.

Why I Dislike People

1) They smell bad

2) They talk about stupid things. Example topics:
a) Themselves, and themselves. Also, themselves.
b) Their high school glory days. Take your trophies, crowns and banners, and stick 'em up yer ass, you repugnant twits. You were the type of kids that made fun of me in eleventh grade, the type of person that shot their glory wad before age eighteen, and are now bitter, middle-aged, vainglorious gossip-mongers who pine for their lost youth.
c) Their "health woes," which are mainly psychosomatic in origin.
d) Their weight.
e) Their children and how perfect they believe them to be.
f) Roadkill.
g) How to find the way to San Jose.

3) They smile. A lot. Excessive smiling is nothing but a hideous mask that belies the true monster within.

6) And it is expected that you put on a mask as well, because if one does not smile, even if one feels like punching the smiling idiot that stands before them -- a smiling idiot who is going on and on about Stupid Things -- one is seen as "odd" or "aloof."

B) They lie. And smile while they're doing it. Usually about Stupid Things.

5) They take great pleasure in another's misfortune.

6) They believe that they have experienced or are experiencing a painful existence, regardless of the fact they:
a) Had a normal upbringing by normal parents
b) Brought their own present "misery" upon themselves, yet behave as if they are a victim with no recourse.
c) Are surrounded by friends and family who support them, and would do their utmost to help them.
d) Have never truly experienced victimization, abuse, loneliness, or extreme hardships.

6) When faced with someone who has experienced or is experiencing "d," it is beyond their comprehension, and are incapable of feeling true empathy. In fact, they will use someone's painful past or present as a means to feel superior or gain leverage of some sort.

7) They are intolerant of others who look, act, and believe in ways that are not mainstream.

8) They allowed and encouraged the tragedy that is the current administration.

9) They like receiving blowjobs, but believe it is an impeachable offense if a president fudges with semantics when questioned about receiving one. Evidently, it's fine and dandy to commit treason and wage unjustifiable war, though.

10) Their word is not something to be trusted, as it is rarely heartfelt.

11) They blame.

12) They champion the most deceitful of our society, sneer at the truth-tellers.

11) They make disgusting eating sounds.

13) They don't wash their hands properly.

14) They always want to shake your hand. One reason why I love Japanese culture.

15) They believe looks are everything. A person's character means squat if they aren't also conventionally beautiful. Funny, but in my experience, the most outwardly attractive people had the blackest of souls.

20) They believe status is everything. But guess what, assholes? Real people, as in folks like me, find your car boring, your house boring, your designer labels boring, your income boring, your liposuction boring, your hatred of poor people boring, your intolerance, graceless pandering to the "elite," and self-absorbed nattering BORING.

So, to sum up, most of the human race is comprised of a smelly, filthy, prejudiced, status-worshiping, lying, cruel, non-empathetic, boring subspecies.

And that is why I prefer the company of my cat. Sure, she may lick her butt once in a while, but at least she's real about it.

Habitable Planet Discovered in Sanjaya’s Mohawk!

2007-04-25T10:40:00.000-04:00

Okay, although the newly discovered planet, 581 c, may not, in fact, be suspended within Sanjaya’s Mohawk, despite the girth of his gigantic, revolving head, not to mention its magical ability to bend the space-time continuum, this is still some kick-ass news.

Earlier this week, astronomers revealed the discovery of 581 c, a thrillingly Earth-like ball of goodness, merely 20 ½ light years away, that appears to have many of the requisite attributes needed to sustain life. It’s only 50% larger than our world (important to note, because too large a planet has too strong a gravitational pull, resulting in massive asteroid attacks, as well as inability to form mountains and continents -- very small planets cannot hold much of an atmosphere, thus causing water to either freeze or boil due to insufficient temperature regulation), has an atmosphere that might possibly be similar to Earth’s, do-si-does with a red dwarf (cooler than our sun, but hey, it's all good, especially due to the star’s proximity), with temperatures varying 34-104 degrees Fahrenheit, which are within conducive range for liquid water.

I’m sure you understand what this means, right?

Mama, Ozzy Osbourne and I are coming home.

In other news, Sanjaya’s Mohawk spontaneously combusted in Washington D.C. hot spot, “WTF?” late Tuesday night, injuring six. Counted among the superficially injured are Paris Hilton, best known for her droopy left eye and infantile behavior, and Katie Couric, who sustained minor scrapes to her gums.

The Sun...

2007-04-20T11:32:00.000-04:00

Is out today. An estimated high temperature in the low sixties.

O Rochester, thine springtime is but a retarded tortoise whose smiling, wizened face, although late to my doorstep, is a welcome sight indeed.

I shall sit on my patio, beneath a giant umbrella (so that I may keep my ghoulishly pale skin as corpse-white as possible), and indulge in a Corona with lime -- perhaps two -- and just...Chill. You know, like the dead thing I am.

Random thought of the day: Anyone else feel intense embarrassment while watching Gonzales whimper and poop all over himself during the hearings?

Ah, probably just me, then...

One Hour, Thirty-Four Minutes, Two Seconds of Truth

2007-04-16T15:04:00.000-04:00

“Kiddo, if the public knew the truth, there’d be thousands of idiots blowing their own damn heads off.”

--Circa 1971, my late father, Robert S. Howe, who served in the U.S. Navy 1959-1962, and subsequently, the Pentagon, in response to my asking him if extraterrestrial life existed. He never did give me a definitive answer despite repeatedly asking him for one.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God, Mom! What is that?”

--Me, summer of 1979, finally getting my answer.

Corn on the Bone

2007-04-10T13:29:00.000-04:00

My girl said to me yesterday, in reference to a meal she once had during her school's "Civil War Day" a couple years back: "I liked the bread, but I didn't like the chicken on the cob."

I, of course, understood what she meant by "chicken on the cob." Plain as day to me. Chicken on the cob, for those in the dark, means a drumstick, something I rarely serve due to the disgusting visual of meat attached to bone.

Made for a good, long round of laughter for all present (including myself), but my girl was utterly perplexed as to the reaction.

Reason number 598 why people with Asperger's rock and roll.

It's a Beautiful Day

2007-04-08T12:35:00.000-04:00

Here I am, sipping champagne, waiting on my Easter cake, which I will decorate with pink and green sugar sprinkles, and a brightly colored marshmallow egg set in the center. Turkey and all the fixings are ready to go in the oven at two o'clock. The Sopranos new season (and last, wah!) starts tonight, and I am looking forward to a lovely evening full of blood, profanities, chocolate bunnies, and more champagne.

I feel good today.

Cumorah My House, Cumorah My House…NOT!

2007-04-03T11:48:00.000-04:00

Mitt Romney, former Massachusetts governor and devout Mormon, or “Mr. Creepy Pants,” as I like to call him, raked in 23 million buckensqueakers during the first quarter of his campaign drive.

Hillary Clinton, Hollywood darling (but not mine -- I’m an Edwards girl) and domestic goddess cum fashion plate extraordinaire, scored 26 million.

How, you may ask, did Romney, this heretofore barely visible zit on the ass of our rotund and cellulitic political machine, suddenly become a festering, unsightly herpes blister the size of Texas? I’ll tell you how…But not right this second. First, I must digress with three statements, followed by a bunch of hoohah…

1) If you don’t get the pun in this entry‘s title, you’re not only sorely lacking in religious knowledge, you need to brush up on all things Rosemary Clooney.

2) Or perhaps I’m just flexing my impressive talent for obfuscation, as usual.

3) Which is most likely the case.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Tainted pet food. Wait, no, that’s not it. I was talking about Creepy Pod People invading Washington under the guise of moral righteousness and sanctity of Constitutional rights. Yeah, that’s the unbearable ticket.

Why not take a minute and read some of Mr. Romney’s flip-floppy political views? Go on, I’ll wait.

Finished? Well, now, are you ready to don your hairshirt and abstain from Coca Cola? Not yet? How about after you consider these beauts, lifted from Mormon.org:

On homosexuality --

"We want to help these people, to strengthen them, to assist them with their problems and to help them with their difficulties. But we cannot stand idle if they indulge in immoral activity, if they try to uphold and defend and live in a so-called same-sex marriage situation. To permit such would be to make light of the very serious and sacred foundation of God-sanctioned marriage and its very purpose, the rearing of families" (Ensign, Nov. 1998, 71).

On polygamy --

In 1998, President Gordon B. Hinckley made the following statement about the Church's position on plural marriage:
"This Church has nothing whatever to do with those practicing polygamy. They are not members of this Church. . . . If any of our members are found to be practicing plural marriage, they are excommunicated, the most serious penalty the Church can impose. Not only are those so involved in direct violation of the civil law, they are in violation of the law of this Church."
[Yet they add the following. You know, just for the purpose of…Um, I dunno…Why did they add the following?]
At various times, the Lord has commanded His people to practice plural marriage. For example, He gave this command to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David, and Solomon.

In this dispensation, the Lord commanded some of the early Saints to practice plural marriage. The Prophet Joseph Smith and those closest to him, including Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, were challenged by this command, but they obeyed it. Church leaders regulated the practice. Those entering into it had to be authorized to do so, and the marriages had to be performed through the sealing power of the priesthood. In 1890, President Wilford Woodruff received a revelation that the leaders of the Church should cease teaching the practice of plural marriage.

[Of course they don't openly condone plural marriages, but jeepers, their faith is based on King Prophet himself, Joseph Smith's doctrine, and they so love their unvarnished doctrine…Could be why, other than a finger wag and a showy boot-in-the-butt to those Mormons who do practice polygamy, it is rarely prosecuted in Mormon-heavy areas of the United States.]

On curious attitudes toward equality between the sexes:

Gordon B. Hinckley, President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, said:
"[Women do not hold the priesthood] because the Lord has put it that way. It is part of His program. Women have a very prominent place in this Church. Men hold the priesthood offices of the Church. But women have a tremendous place in this Church. They have their own organization. It was started in 1842 by the Prophet Joseph Smith, called the Relief Society, because its initial purpose was to administer help to those in need. It has grown to be, I think, the largest women's organization in the world with a membership of more than three million. They have their own offices, their own presidency, their own board. That reaches down to the smallest unit of the Church everywhere in the world . . .
"The men hold the priesthood, yes. But my wife is my companion. In this Church the man neither walks ahead of his wife nor behind his wife but at her side. They are co-equals in this life in a great enterprise."

[That's nice. Separatism is always nice...]

And finally, just for shits and giggles, on unholy nectar:

Your body is a precious gift from God. To help keep our bodies and our minds healthy and strong, God gave a law of health to Joseph Smith in 1833. This law is known as the Word of Wisdom.
In addition to emphasizing the benefits of proper eating and physical and spiritual health, God has spoken against the use of:
Tobacco.
Alcohol.
Coffee and tea.
Illegal drugs.
God promises great physical and spiritual blessings to those who follow the Word of Wisdom. Today, the scientific community promotes some of the same principles that a loving God gave to Joseph Smith nearly two centuries ago.

[Why that evil, EVIL Jesus, turning water into a Satanic love potion! And I didn't realize that Folgers was the gateway to Hell! Really, I had no clue!]

Shall I go on and on…And on, and on…? Nah, I didn’t think so.

Suffice it to say, I would break down and cry like baby Jesus if, God forbid, Romney somehow won the presidential elections, then decided to ban Folgers Crystals, Broadway shows, and monogamous marriage.

Oh, and the answer to my original question is this (bet you thought I'd forgotten, eh?): Powerful yet desperate corporations and Evangelicals who have a lot of money but no feasible Baptist candidates, and figure to themselves that it's better to have a homophobic, flip-flopping, Mr. Creepy Pants in office than no pious, special interest-sucking, crony-loving asshole at all.

Swamp Thing

2007-03-30T09:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, as I was cleaning my bathroom, the doorbell rang. Now, for most folks, this is a non-event -- for me, however, it is an apocalyptic intrusion on my daily routine. If I'm not expecting company, I do not answer the door. I don't take kindly to unexpected visitations.

So I was cleaning away, and happy to be doing so, I might add, when the doorbell rang, which produced the expected shrill shrieks of excitement from my boy. I went into automatic panic mode, as usual, and tore out of the john, Mr. Bubbles circling my unkept head in a frothy, almost holy halo, and loudly whispered to my son to be quiet. Shhhhhhhh! Ohmygod, SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Be quiet, son, for there be unwanted visitors among us! ShhhhhhhfuckshithellSHHHHHHHHH!

He would not comply. He kept shouting that it was "DADDY! IT'S DADDY, MOMMY! DAAAAA-DEEEEEE! Waaaaaaaa-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! DADDY!" And the more frantic I became, the louder his shrieks. I offered Pop Tarts, I offered Gummi Bears, I offered him a Harvard education and a BMW. He declined, and none too politely. As his shrieks grew louder, I knew that I had no choice but to answer the godamned door.

Warily, I approached the French door that separates the living room from the foyer and peered through to the front door's frosted window. I could tell immediately that the behemoth standing on my front step was not my husband.

Terror seized my very soul as I watched the looming shadow bend forward, ostensibly to peek into my home, then step back and ring the doorbell again. And again. So many thoughts rushed through my frazzled mind: Police? Dear lord, could it be the cops? I do have a sixteen-year-old, after all. She rides in cars with friends now, you know, friends who, although very nice, are still kids. Snippets of eleventh grade driver ed films depicting laughing youths, speeding tires, and sickening metal-crunching-on-metal slow-motion images danced in my skull. Tears began to well as I imagined the worst, but quickly dried up when my next insanely ridiculous scenario emerged...Oh, saints preserve us! It's G__ from across the street, and he's doing his yearly charity run and wants me to match or beat the $60 I sponsored him with last year! Shit! I can't very well tell the man that my generous sponsorship was due to my being mildly intoxicated, thus feeling exceptionally altruistic, and my husband, unfortunately, did not find my generosity endearing whatsoever. I can't say to G__, "G__, I'm very sorry, but the last time I sponsored you, I'd been hosting a lovely barbecue, and had been drinking Corona, you see, and well, you caught me at a vulnerable time, and, um..."

Weary of my own racing mind, I bravely answered the door, Clorox Bleach Pen gripped tightly in my left hand. At first, I was grateful to see that it was not a cop, nor the pleasant yet annoying G__, but that quickly turned to horror when I realized just who the beast before me was -- the meter man.

I loathe meter men. Apologies to any of you who might be meter men or women, but I just really hate you. You come unannounced, for one thing. Secondly, you refuse to give up and go away regardless of the fact no one answers the door despite your ringing the bell fifty times. Thirdly, you might be an ax murderer. Fourthly, oh, fourthly...You track mud and dog feces throughout my spic and span home. Yes, you certainly do.

So I let the fucker in. And the fucker, although not an ax murderer, thank goodness, proceeded to track great gobs of mud and dog feces throughout my freshly washed hardwood floors. And over my freshly washed kitchen tiles. And down my freshly vacuumed stairs, over my family room rug, through the exercise room, and back again.

I didn't know what to do with my rage. I was so enraged, I actually hallucinated, saw stars and red and decapitated Teddy bears...

I did the only thing I could do to release my rage -- I stabbed the fucker repeatedly in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen.

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

My boy, though, being the son of Ms. Lori the Obsessive-Compulsive Clean Freak, said to the fucker: "You made a BIG mess all over Mommy's floors!"

The stupid fucker Swamp Thing bastard didn't even acknowledge his dirty deeds. Didn't even muster a weak apology. That's when I lost it. I stabbed Swamp Thing in the eyes with my Clorox Bleach Pen over and over and over again until he ran screaming from my home.

I feel no remorse.

Wake Up Call: Which Truly Are the "Odd" Ones?

2007-03-27T08:45:00.000-04:00

Neurotypical:

Asperger's:

Neurotypical:

Asperger's:

I rest my case, forever and ever and ever.

Angels and Demons

2007-03-23T10:05:00.000-04:00

Well, goodness, went to register my son for kindergarten yesterday, and was told that he needs another MMR inoculation. This news, of course, pleases me to no end.

The old battleaxe will be positively thrilled to see me again, as I will her. Mayhap I should attempt to engage her in a deep, intellectual conversation about the many virtues of Miller's “The Crucible,” but I have a sinking suspicion the witch will shriek “NEVER AGAIN!” or “REMEMBER SALEM!” or worse, begin babbling in Latin while her eyes roll back in her head. That would frighten both myself and my son, and we can’t have that.

I’ll just smile politely and point at my son’s immunization records with my middle finger or something.

Let’s see, what else…OH! I received a lovely letter from Dr. Tony Attwood (one of the world’s leading experts on Asperger’s syndrome) last night in reply to one I’d sent earlier this month regarding his ultra-fine and bodaciously righteous book “The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome.” Totally surprised and delighted me that he would take the time. Also, he’d said something in his letter that completely validated certain frustrations I’ve had for years vis-à-vis the miserable lack of competent clinicians in my area. Dr. Attwood is someone I very much admire, not only for his wonderful work and expertise in the area of AS, both pediatric and adult, but for his unrivaled passion for the subject and obvious compassion and understanding.

I wish he were my daddy.

Oh, god, I didn’t just write that, did I?

Apparently, I did.

Pretend you didn’t see it, and we won’t speak of this again.

An Open Letter to the Old Battleaxe Receptionist at my Kids’ Pediatrician’s Office

2007-03-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

Dear Battleaxe,

Although I realize that this letter is a fruitless attempt at working through my disdain for old battleaxes who are:

1) Ignorant of Italian opera singers

And

2) Ugly, bereft of common courtesy, void of intellect beyond that of an empty can of Green Giant corn niblets.

I feel that I must try, Battleaxe, I must try, if only to somewhat quell the burning obsession to ruminate that I unfortunately suffer with. You see, when I feel that someone has been rude, unjust, or just plain battleaxe-y, it eats me up inside. I think about people like you, worry over people like you, and oftentimes mentally kick myself as regard my not saying the right thing at the right time, e.g., knocking your balding, badly permed skull into submission with a sarcastic retort or stinging affront.

There is no existing court that would convict the likes of you, and that is unfortunate. You and your ilk should be required to stand before a jury of your peers who will deliberate on your wicked behavior, and once a guilty verdict has been passed, a stern but affable judge who has forty years’ experience in proper decorum law, will sentence you to death by hanging. Or, if you throw yourself on the mercy of the court, a more lenient punishment requiring you to undergo behavioral therapy consisting of two weeks in the stocks, followed by a good old fashioned scarlet letter A -- which, of course, stands for “asshole” -- tattooed upon your forehead.

Alas, this court will only ever exist in my dreams, but due to my enormous imagination and thirst for rectification, I shall hereby call my court to order…

Abridged Fantasy -- wouldn't want to strain your already weak neurons, now would we?

Conan O‘Brien: All rise for the honorable Judge Ms. Lori.

Gavel: Bang bang.

Judge Ms. Lori: You may all be seated. Will the prosecution please call your first witness.

Prosecutor: Larry Young, is it true that at approximately twelve-thirty p.m. on March fifteenth, your wife, Judge Ms. Lori, approached the reception desk with the intent to make known your children’s presence in the waiting room?

Larry: Yes

Prosecutor: And is it true, Mr. Young, that your wife behaved in her usual gracious manner?

Larry: Yes.

Prosecutor: Now, Mr. Young, would it be fair to say that the battleaxe at the reception desk caused your son undue stress when the battleaxe, inpatient with your wife’s apologetic explanation as to why your son would not comply with the allegedly required urinalysis, bared her teeth, retrieved a pee receptacle from some mysterious pee receptacle drawer beside her desk, and shrieked, for all to hear within the waiting room, “BRANDON! YOU MUST GO IN THE CUP!”

Larry: Yes.

Prosecutor: I have no further questions.

Judge Ms. Lori: You may call your next witness.

Prosecutor: Brandon, how old are you, son?

Brandon: This many!

Prosecutor: Tell me, Brandon, did the mean old battleaxe scare you?

Brandon: YES! I didn’t want to go pee-pee in the cup, even when Mommy promised me TWO candy bars if I did. But the scary monster lady didn’t care that I cried oh-so-many-tears.

Prosecutor: I see. Now, did your mommy say that it was okay if you didn’t go pee-pee in the cup? That it was okay, because your big sister, Veronica, wouldn’t either when she was your age?

Brandon: Absolutely. It was explained to me that the doctor wasn’t concerned with the lack of a urine specimen. Apparently, a urinalysis is necessary only in cases of obvious health concerns, or suspected atypical conditions, not in routine well-visits for toddlers.

Prosecutor: My goodness, Brandon, you have an extraordinary vocabulary for someone your age!

Brandon: I like Pokemon!

Defense: Objection!

Judge Ms. Lori: Overruled.

Prosecutor: Brandon, did your mommy, in order to appease the old battleaxe as well as to avoid further public humiliation, then coerce your daddy to take you into the bathroom while she finished filling out ridiculously unnecessary paperwork -- paperwork that had been filled out time and time again for the past ten years, thus causing your mommy extreme agitation?

Brandon: Yes. But Mommy also tried to be nice to the scary prune-lipped harridan… When the battleaxe was talking to her cohorts about Italian opera singers, she was so obviously putting on airs, she forgot the name of her supposed favorite -- my Mommy, in an effort to be helpful, butted in their conversation with “Oh, do you mean the blind one?” and the battleaxe turned toward Mommy with a scowl and said icily, “Blind? What ever do you mean?” And Mommy replied, “Andrea Bocelli? The blind tenor?”

The battleaxe ignored Mommy, then shoved some weird electronic signature thing at her, without explaining what it was, and when Mommy just stood there, perplexed and embarrassed, the battleaxe said sarcastically, “Um…You sign it?”

Defense: I object!

Judge Ms. Lori: Fuck off, bucky. Court is in recess. Actually, I think I’ll just adjourn altogether.

Defense: Your Honor! This is unconscionable! What about my client’s right to due process?

Judge Ms. Lori: [grabs crotch] Here’s your due process, counselor. Think I’ll skip right to the verdict. Foreman, what say you?

Jury Foreman: Guilty on all counts.

Judge Ms. Lori: Good enough for me. Will the defendant please rise? I sentence you to two weeks in the stocks, whereupon the good citizens of Rochester, New York may freely pelt your miserable old face with wet sponges and the contents of Nic Tahou’s Dumpster. Following two weeks of stocks and public-pelting, you shall be tattooed on the forehead with a garish red “A,” so administered by Big Fat Sweaty Joe, premier tattoo artist and ex-Marine of questionable mental capabilities.

May God have mercy on your soul.

Sincerely,

Ms. Lori

P.S. I enjoyed gloating when the doctor good-naturedly confirmed my belief that the urine specimen was of no great importance. My son did not have to pee in the cup despite your wholly irrational and possibly traumatizing demands. Oh, and the next time you try to appear knowledgeable about something you are painfully ignorant of, might I suggest you simply nod your head and feign interest instead of opening your wrinkly anus of a mouth?

Stumbled Upon, and Sickened

2007-03-13T11:26:00.000-04:00

I rarely write of personal happenings regarding family or friends, and if I do, it’s only about good things, birthdays, marriages, graduations and the like. Although I have in the past alluded to hurtful behaviors on the part of acquaintances or family members, I have always been as discreet as possible. I don’t believe in using my blog as a whipping post, no matter how badly someone has hurt me.

Today, however, I will be blunt, I will be insulting, and I will enjoy every minute of it.

While Googling my name this morning, a formerly obsessive practice that I’d nearly given up due to my not publishing in fifty years, I came across this .

If you go to about the middle of the page, you will see this paragraph:

“That's right- Stephen King signed this! Best of all, this copy belonged to L Lynn Young (who contributed a story)- at the end of her story (we purchased this from her brother), she added two lines to the story, initialed it, and dated it 12/6/03."

Yes, the seller is referring to my brother. That rotten, no-good bastard.

The winning bid was $290.00. To my mother, however, it was priceless. I'm sure she hasn't yet realized it's missing from her bookshelf.

In the immortal words of Whitney Houston: Crack is wack.

Indeed.

EDIT: Sorry for the broken link...All fixed now...

Rotten bastard.

Pissed Off, Yet Amused (Pused?)

2007-03-09T11:49:00.000-05:00

Why won't the "New Blogger" keep me signed in? Big pain, especially considering my DSL is running approximately 27 kbyomamas, half the speed of dial-up, and it takes about ten minutes to sign in here. I feel hatred.

I can't even visit my favorite blogs or MySpace pages because the DSL is so slow, it won't load pages, no matter how many times I hit refresh.

So that's why I haven't been visiting or commenting on your blogs, people. And that's why I'm stinking drunk on screwdrivers before noon. All right, maybe not "stinking drunk," but I am buzzed off of the two I indulged in. I rarely drink during the week, let alone before noon, so this is unusual for me. But it's been a rotten couple of weeks regarding Internet speeds. I'm only human. I can only take so much before self-medicating, you know?

I am not happy when my Internet experience is a slow, painful one.

I'll mention this to my shrink, whom I will be seeing at five this afternoon. Perhaps she'll offer some advice pertaining to fucked up DSL and how drunken, frustrated people with Asperger's might overcome compulsions to throw the computer across the room. But I doubt it.

Hey, a thought just popped into my head: What if, all of a sudden, I yelled "NOBBLE NOSE!" in the middle of our session today? Would the good doctor smile? Would she frown? Would she join in by shouting "BEHEMOTH BUTTOCKS"?

During our session last week, she laughed out loud (then quickly covered her mouth and apologized) after I told her how I regularly shriek "you dirty whore!" at my vacuum cleaner. I'm thinking she may laugh if I were to suddenly shriek "Nobble nose!" but one can't be sure of these things. Perhaps I should just keep my nobble nose to myself...

In other news, my boy answered the phone yesterday by saying, "Ohmygod! Who is this?"

He simply won't answer with the proper "hello?" It's either, "Who is this?" or "Yes, what do you want?" Now he's added "Ohmygod! Who is this?" to his repertoire. I'm at a loss. Yet highly amused.

Have a wonderful weekend, you bunch of nobble-noses.

Good Gossip/Bad Gossip: It’s All About Context, Stupid

2007-03-07T09:57:00.000-05:00

I’m not ashamed to admit that I love celebrity gossip as much as the next American slack jaw. I was raised on tabloid news (thanks, Maw), and can remember devouring the weekly issues of The Enquirer, Star, and People, among others, before I even entered first grade. Celebrities crave publicity, good or bad, which is all too evident by increasingly outrageous behaviors among the current flood of household names and wannabe household names (who, without controversy, would not even be known outside their hometown trailer parks or low-income projects). I'm all too happy to indulge them their idiocy.

As you may have surmised, this post will include many (many) parentheses. I’m just in that kind of mood.

(Mmm bop.) Okay, then. Celebrities + gossip = lifeblood.

If most folks don’t know your name -- at least heard of your name, regardless of how ignorant they may be to the significance of your name -- then you are not a celebrity. Example: I know the names Tara Reid, Sienna Miller, and Pete Dougherty, but I do not know what movies, television shows or music genres they practice their “craft.” I just know their names, mainly due to gossip rags gossiping and ragging and doing them a favor by giving them their fifteen or twenty minutes. I enjoy reading about the stupid things the aforementioned (and most other celebrities) do or say. I smile at the gross lack of common sense many celebrities possess, laugh at their bedazzling, laser-bleached smiles captured by the paparazzo’s lens as they “covertly” cuckold, or fall down drunk, or expose their grotesquely manicured private parts while sitting in their limousines, legs positioned to gynecological specifications…All hilarious, all silly, and all requisite behaviors important to the continued buoyancy of their usually undeserved fame.

In other words, I truly believe that most celebrities, especially small-timers who have contributed nothing of artistic merit, have an intelligence quotient closer to a rabbit’s pellet than to the actual rabbit. I base this conclusion on two words: Paris Hilton. Now that’s one dumb bunny pellet, if you ask me. Ms. Hilton is perhaps the dumbest pellet ever to be evacuated from a bunny’s ass in the history of lepus butt expulsions.

As my mentor, Forrest Gump, always says: Stupid is as stupid does. And stupidity should be exploited for all it’s worth.

But.
I digress.
As usual.

Now, having said that I enjoy celebrity gossip, that does not mean that I enjoy all gossip. Couldn’t be further from the truth. While I get my kicks on celebrity Route 666, I hate -- HATE -- lip-flapping concerning folks I know personally (or even peripherally). When someone begins spouting juicy tidbits based on hearsay (or worse, information given in confidence) about real people, my hands immediately curl into little quivering balls. I do not wish to hear the intimate details of Mrs. Knackslacker’s sex life, do not need to know that Mary down the street once “strolled” Joseph Avenue, or that Mr. Brown (who happens to be the president of the neighborhood association) has a teenage son who smears his own excrement on his bedroom walls.

I believe that most human beings of the non-celebrity genome pool deserve the respect and dignity to live their lives in quiet, anonymous pain, just as I do. I believe that gossiping about your neighbor, or your neighbor’s step-daughter’s husband’s neighbor, is injurious not only to the gossipee, but to all individuals. When one gossips, one is displaying behaviors better suited to pre-teen chimpanzees, if chimpanzees could speak fluent English while snapping bubblegum and rolling their eyes a lot. Yes, we may be descended from apes, but surely we’ve evolved somewhat during the last couple million years, yeah? When we lean close and speak sotto voce of our neighbors/family and their unfortunate happenings, it cheapens man’s very existence; it minimizes our intellect, plants seeds of lurid titillation that only produce opiate crops of addictive, quasi-confidence boosting, mind-numbing spiritual apathy.

I never quite got the appeal, and so do not gossip. I don’t need to utter nasty things about others or divulge information given in confidence to boost my self-esteem, nor do I ever feel an urge to suck on the offered pipe, as it were. Yet…I can intellectualize the reasoning behind gossip, can understand why folks find it so intoxicating, and may have cupped my ear toward the buzzing stage whisper to my left, but only in instances of gossip pertaining to someone I care about. I will listen intently to the buzzing gnat, hone in on its position, then raise my quivering little fists and squash said gnat, no holds barred.

Which simply means that I will do one of the following, depending on how well I know and like the gossipee:

A) Stare glumly at the lip-flapper’s lips with the express intent of displaying my boredom

B) State my displeasure with lip-flapper’s flapping lips while staring (glumly) at their forehead

C) Call lip-flapper a fucking idiot while staring glumly at my quivering little fists

That doesn’t mean, however, that I haven’t bitched about another’s behavior to someone I trust. I have and do complain to trusted sources about someone’s vile, destructive, selfish behavior. Oh, you bet. Thing is, my trusted source isn’t the first to hear my complaints -- that would be the vile, destructive, selfish person himself. I much prefer to confront those who offend me, but if my confrontation proves fruitless, well then, off I go to my “bitching-board.”

Bitching boards are important for one’s mental health -- buzzing gnats, however, are not.

The moral of this rant should be obvious, and so will end it by saying only this:
Listen to your inner voice. If it buzzes, do me and everyone else a favor and squash the little bastard before it escapes your mouth, ‘cause believe me, if you don’t kill it, I most certainly will.

But, if you’ve got a lovely piece of gossip regarding, say, Ann Coulter’s true gender, then by all means, lay it on me, baby. Especially if you’ve got it on good source that he once posed for Blue Boy back in 1980, depicting acts of bondage and discipline. Please, just don’t show me the pictures, okay?

Apparently, Porn Stars Age in Dog Years

2007-02-28T14:04:00.000-05:00

This is Jenna Jameson, age 32. If you're curious to see what mange may do to human beings, please click on picture.

Let this be a lesson to those of you who are aspiring porn stars.

Awesome. Now that I've provided my monthly public service announcement, I'll write the post I originally came here to write before being distracted by Old Yeller...

Um. Books. Had to do with books...Old books? Yellow books? Shit.

Old books that give excellent head?

Wait, hang on...REVIEWING books! Yeah, I'll be reviewing a couple of books in the near future. Been a while. Too long of a while.

I've turned down quite a few books during the past year due to my inability to concentrate on any text other than my weekly grocery list. The last time I promised a review, I read maybe 1/4 of the book, then gave up like the heathen I am. Guilt ensued. Terrible guilt that haunted my dreams and made me feel even more incapable than usual. So I thought it best to stop accepting books until I felt I could make good on my promises. It's only right.

First book up for review will be "Mommy Millionaire" by Kim Lavine. Received it yesterday from St. Martin's Press, flipped through it, and liked the easy-to-follow format and friendly tone. So, gawd willing, that'll be posted sometime before my firstborn is married. I kid. Maybe.

The second book is one that I've been dying to read for ages now -- Ellen Meister's "Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA." This is the first book I've ordered off of Amazon (or purchased anywhere, for that matter) in centuries. Was supposed to be ordering some book that my shrink suggested I read, but upon perusing the descriptions and sample pages, became turned off by the "goodness gracious, you are special, and are in fact god-like for becoming overwhelmed by lights, noises and smells that normal folks don't notice at all! Yes, it's true, Special Person, your discomfort with humans and inability to swing with the status quo is fantabulously fabulous! You, Special God-Like and Better Than Everyone Else Person, are not a freak, but a special god-like being who, although shunned and misunderstood by the general population, is special! And did we mention god-like? " ca-ca feel I got.

Okay, I'm embellishing a bit here, but the fact is, I hate goopy "feel-good" self-help books that do not address issues, but merely skirt them with tulle and tie it all up in silk ribbon. Screw that, man. I know I'm weird, I know what my problems are, I know that my brain is wired differently than most, and to believe for even one second that the difficulties I face on a daily basis are anything other than distressing and embarrassing, not to mention incurable, would be delusional. I refuse to waste twenty-five smackenheimers on fluff and circumstance.

So I ordered Ms. Meister's book instead.

And then I ate a large ham sandwich with swiss, mayo, mustard, lettuce and tomato. It was a good day.

My Academy Awards Experience

2007-02-26T15:54:00.000-05:00

I don't like Jennifer Hudson. WTF?

Gwyneth Paltrow looked absolutely ravishing. WTF?

Ellen Degeneres makes me laugh really, really hard. And she's obsessed with vacuum cleaners, which makes her, like, my soul sister or something. WTF?

Jack Nicholson's wrinkly potato head frightened me and made me cry. WTF?

I actually stayed awake for the whole show, but after I drifted off to my local news, I had bad dreams starring Jack Nicholson's head, Jennifer Hudson's wailing overbite, and a vacuum cleaner named Spud. WTF?

My Heart Lies Dormant

2007-02-23T06:50:00.000-05:00

Ms. Lori is disappointed with the lack of hot male studery on this season’s American Idol.

Also, I think Simon Cowell may have had breast reduction surgery, but I can't be sure...There's a strong possibility that he's merely strapping his manly mammaries against his ribcage with some sort of leather contraption designed for such purpose, which, if true, is to be commended. His bounteous bosoms of seasons past were the source of much distraction for me, especially when he would casually toy with them, rub them, slap them, make them dance...Shameful, it was. Dirty and shameful.

That is all.

Oh...There's a Forest?

2007-02-19T18:45:00.000-05:00

Listen, "the big picture" usually escapes me, but when that picture finally does come into my fuzzy, narrowly focused view, I get a sense of Aw, for Christ's sake! Why didn't I see/hear/notice/realize that before? It can be a good feeling to recognize what that nagging little bird of common sense has been trying to tell me -- the little bird who sits in the tree that grows in that forest I alluded to in the title of this post. A real honest-to-goodness A-HA moment. I like those moments. Sometimes, however, it can be a bad feeling, and that my friend, sucks beyond all sucking to the point of sucklacious suckodomy.

So, thanks once again to my little bird of common sense -- the little bird who sits in the tree that grows in that forest -- I finally realized only just now, like thirty minutes ago kind of now, that certain things I have been writing here can be and are read by anybody who wants to. And their Aunt Begonia, too, and Uncle Kip, and Grandma Clackdogger, and Cousin Twirly (so nicknamed for her moonlighting position at The Pink Pussy), and...Well, you get my drift, yeah?

I've deleted all entries that I don't wish Cousin Twirly, or Donald Trump, or that creepy guy on the corner of Mother Mary Way and 9th who always leers at you when you walk to Starbucks for your usual double latte with cheese, or...Again, you get it, I'm sure.

I have saved the posts and all of your comments for my own personal eyeballism, because those comments of yours made me smile, laugh, feel gooey inside, and made me cry, too. You don't know how much it means to me that you, my awesome, awesome friends, understand and support me during this very weird and wild ride. Sad as this may sound (and I really don't mean it to be), this blog has been my only structured emotional outlet, one of my few connections to those confusing, frightening, wonderful things called human beings...

It still will be. But I've got to keep that forest in my view, got to remember what that little bird told me. However, even though I may not post overly personal details here, I will continue to do so over at MySpace, because MySpace has a lovely privacy function that allows me to set posts to "Friends Only." Blogger is not able to give me that option, so...

Oh, shut the hell up, bird. I heard you the first time. Freaking nag.