They don’t fuck around in Iraq

Saddam Hussein executed.

How do you feel about that?

(also, I hope everyone had/is having a wonderful holiday season)


Here comes Santa Clause

In our little town, when it gets close to Christmas, Santa comes around on the firetruck to talk to the little ones and dispense some candy.

Now, Pooter ( my 4 year old’s new internet nickname!), has had his share of Santa sightings this season, including one Santa who must have awful tendonitis from all the elbow bending he’s been doing. In case you didn’t catch that, Santa was a lush.

The firetruck Santa, though, you can’t get any better than that. You have Santa and you have a firetruck. Add a train and a puppy and you have Pooter’s every reason to live right there in one big unwieldy pile.

Before Santa came, I’d spent the better part of the evening trying to convince Pooter to clean his room. I wasn’t expecting hospital corners on the bed or gleaming baseboards, but a path through the jungle of books and toys would be nice. I feel that if I’ve provided both bookcase and toybox, I’ve done my part.

I even called Pookie and had him talk to the boy, ending with Pooter happily tottering off to his room to clean, clean, clean. Unfortunately, the gravitational pull of the mess sucked him in, causing him to forget, forget, forget.

So, while Santa was here; after pleasantries had been exchanged and candy had been given to the deserving (and me!), I took advantage of Santa’s presence and asked him to talk with Pooter about his room. Santa explained how he can’t bring any more toys if there’s no place to put them, which is the exact same logic I had used not an hour earlier, but I guess it sounds better coming from the Big Guy, because that room is getting cleaner by the minute.

Oh, and while Santa and I were chatting, he remarked on how we still had those big dogs and reminded me that he had been in our house before. See, Santa is a police officer and had helped us with a little breaking and entering issue we’d had a few years ago.

His fireman escorts didn’t know why he’d been in our house, so I told them, ‘It’s not because I did anything wrong!’, to which one of them replied, ‘Oh, yeah, you’re just a naughty girl.’

And then I squealed and giggled and hit him on the arm.

Ok, I didn’t squeal or giggle or hit, but it was a close thing. Apparently I’m a lot closer to my inner 14 year old than I thought.

Defcon 1

You can stand down, Internet. I heard from the boy. He’s fine. He is very sorry he worried his mother and he will never do it again. Or, you know, else.

(I am totally attempting to use humor to mask my relief. It’s what we in the business call a ‘coping mechanism’. And to those who can’t help but think to themselves, “what humor?”, I say, yeah, no kidding, right?)

In his e-mail to me (before he called), he meant to type “(nothing) bad has happened” but he typed ‘…bad gas happened’, which I think is the funniest typo I think I’ve ever seen.

That’s the big news for the day, but I do have a few more tidbits to share with you.

1) Jack is back in the hospital with a DVT (deep vein thrombosis), but it is not expected to be a huge issue and they’re gonna clear that bad boy right up and send him on his way. Now, all that shiny optimism aside, it still worries me so put your thinking about Jack caps back on and send good thoughts his way.

2) My daughter, who will be 17 on Christmas Day, and I were watching Inside the Actor’s Studio with Eddie Murphy this evening. As a consequence, I had to explain the words ‘queef’ and ‘cunnilingus’ to her. Considering the fact that each of my chidren probably heard the word ‘fuck’ for the first time while in utero, I’m remarkably hesitant to discuss queefs and cunnilingus with the girl child. This is the kind of shit that happens when you tell you’re children that you will answer each question they ask you honestly and to the best of your ability. They turn on you.

The fact that I have PMS isn’t helping much either

Let’s just skate right past the part where I haven’t blogged since God was a pup and get right on to the post. It’s just better this way, really. I won’t feel the need to defend myself and explain how busy I’ve been, and y’all won’t have to think about how you’re busy too, but you make the time to stop by here and visit and I don’t even have the decency to throw up a
Youtube video and a ‘Howdy do!’.

Ok then.

I try very hard to keep any angst I might be feeling out of this blog. Mostly because I have so few reasons to feel angsty. There are a few bloggers out there who are going through genuine bad stuff and they write about it and they write about it well. You end up caring about them and how their story will come out.

Then there are people like me. Most people are like me, I think. Basically happy, with very little angst factor. When the best I can come up with to complain about is how my kid kept waking up last night, or the cat’s latest disgusting hairball, or how tired I am from working a job I love which pays reasonably well and has good bennies, I should really just keep my complaints to myself.

But I’ve been feeling quite angsty lately and well, now I’m gonna bitch about it. Everybody who knows me in real life has had to listen to me bitch about it, so I figure it’s your turn.

I’m quite peeved with my oldest son. As most of you, I think, he’s in the Army, stationed in California. Which isn’t all that far from here, unless you consider ‘across the country’ to be far.

Anyway, the last time I had direct (telephone) contact with him was about 2 1/2 weeks ago. Since then, the only signs of life I’ve seen from him are a comment he left on this blog, on an old post, and that he approved me as a ‘friend’ on Yahoo.

That’s it. No IMs, no e-mail, no phone calls. Now, I know he’s a big boy and all, but it’s the holidays and he was supposed to let me know what he wants for Christmas and he wanted to know what we wanted. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not at all about the gifts (but I do wish I knew what he wants, because its late enough now that I’ll have to guess and chance it getting there late.).

I guess the deal is that we’re normally in touch in some way 2 or so times a week and I’m a bit worried that all meaningful communication has been abruptly cut off. Basically, all I know right now is that he’s alive and is able to type.

I know he’s a grown man and doesn’t need his Mommy worrying about him, but it doesn’t work like that. You get worried about whether you like it or not, so do yourself a favor and go call your Mom.

Ok, bitch over. For now.

Now, the good news! Remember when I mentioned my friend Jack? Well, he went through some serious stuff healthwise and almost didn’t make it, but he’s home and he’s getting better.

He left what has to be my favorite comment ever. He said “…Well I almost died, but at least I finally got mentioned in your fucking blog…” Ha! I bet Dooce never got a comment like that.

And now, to make up for my recent absence, I have a video for you! Be prepared to ‘awww’.

Book ‘Em, Dano

From this story:

“A Rock Hill, S.C., woman called police and asked them to arrest her son who opened a Christmas present early after being told not to, the Rock Hill Herald reported. Police went to the house and arrested the boy and charged him with petty larceny.”

Yep. The police arrested him. They helped the mother foster a very deserved distrust of authority in general and the police in specific. Good call, guys!

“The women said that the boy lied to them at first, saying he was unaware of where the video game system was. After threat of calling the police, the boy apparently gave the toy back to his mother, the paper reported. But the upset mother called police anyway.”

So she manipulated him into telling her the truth and she lied to him. Somebody call those Mother of the Year people and tell them we have a winner!

“I’m trying to get him some kind of help,” the 27-year-old mother told the paper. “He’s the type of kid who doesn’t believe anything until it happens.”

She said he has shoplifted, stolen money from her, punched a police officer and is nearing expulsion from school. ”

I’m not sure what made her wait until now to decide to ‘help’ her kid, but I think her timing is off. You have to admire her resolve, though. She’ll put up with shoplifting and battery of a police officer, but she by-God will not stand for early gift opening. I wonder what the penalty for just shaking the gift box is. Maybe an Indian burn?

“The mother plans to have her son placed with the state Department of Juvenile Justice in Columbia at his court appearance, the Herald reported.”

While I agree that he should be removed from his mother’s ‘care’, I tend to think the wrong person is going to jail. She’s going to put her kid in Juvie Hall over this, instead of seek out and provide therapy for him to help with his obvious issues. Nice. Whore.

Of course, all those years ago when my brothers would open their presents and then open mine and tell me what I got, I coulda used a cop.

Speaking of Christmas (how’s that for a segue?), I have been doing some online shopping for Pookie’s gift. His only request was for ‘something to do with the World Champion St. Louis Cardinals’. Which is both specific yet really kind of vague all at the same time.

I’ve been trolling Amazon this evening and I came up with a few ideas. Tell me what you think.

No? Really? You don’t think?

I’ve actually found a couple things I think he’ll love, but I’m obviously not posting links to those here. Because if he were to click on those links and take a look, I’m pretty sure that would be illegal. Or maybe that’s just South Carolina.

Anyway, if any of you happen to know Albert Pujols or David Eckstein, please ask them to send an autographed ball or jersey over this way. Just have them write; “To Pookie, that nutjob must really love you”.

Ho Ho..oh.

I started my day sitting at the kitchen table in my drawers, sewing up a mighty hole in the hind end of my work pants, during which a cat fight broke out under the table.

Honestly the coffee was just unnecessary after that.

And now in the interest of giving the holiday season a kick in the ass, I would like to present the following video. Make sure your volume is up, so that you don’t miss any of the sweet, sweet holiday goodness.

What’s black and white and read all over?

Can a person really be judged by what newspaper they read? Let’s have a look-see:

(I didn’t write this. I don’t know who did. I “borrowed” (read: flat out stole) this from someone who also doesn’t know who wrote this. So if you know who wrote this, let me know so that I can give the proper credit.)

1. The Wall Street Journal is read by the people who run the country.

2. The Washington Post is read by people who think they run the country.

3. The New York Times is read by people who think they should run the country and who are very good at crossword puzzles.

4. USA Today is read by people who think they ought to run the country but don’t really understand The New York Times. They do, however, like their statistics shown in pie charts.

5. The Los Angeles Times is read by people who wouldn’t mind running the country – if they could find the time, and didn’t have to leave Southern California to do it.

6. The Boston Globe is read by people whose parents used to run the country and did a far superior job of it, thank you very much.

7. The New York Daily News is read by people who aren’t too sure who’s running the country and don’t really care as long as they can get a seat on the train.

8. The New York Post is read by people who don’t care who’s running the country as long as they do something really scandalous, preferably while intoxicated.

9. The Miami Herald is read by people who are running another country but need the baseball scores.

10. The San Francisco Chronicle is read by people who aren’t sure there is a country, or that anyone is running it; but if so, they oppose all that they stand for. There are occasional exceptions: if the leaders are handicapped, minority, feminist, atheist,
dwarfs who also happen to be illegal aliens from any other country or galaxy, provided, of course, that they are not Republicans.

11. The National Enquirer is read by people trapped in line at the grocery store.

I don’t read any newspapers. What does that say about me?