Joe anyone?

Dear Google,

I am less than pleased with the service I have been re- (5 minutes later). This is exactly what I mean! I can’t even get what, 10-11 words into an email and bam! the stupid thing locks up on me!

Okay, Okay, let’s try this again. (Civilized Leila, you paid good money for that anger management class…)

Dear Google,

I am less than please with the service I have been re- (5 minutes later). Jesus H. Doodlebug! You have got to be kidding me! Again? (muttering)

Dear Google,

I a- (5 minutes later). ARGHHH!!!!

REBOOT

Dear Google Joe,

Listen hear turdbasket. I’m friggin fed up! I’ve been with your lousy organization since it was a gleam in your daddy’s eye and you didn’t even have a chat client. Now I can’t get my email to work for 5 friggin seconds? WTF is up with that? I’m tired of getting the yellow blob of doom “STILL WORKING” at the top of my screen. Since I can work in other tabs without any issues, obviously my browser isn’t the problem. No, what I think it boils down to is your INADEQUACIES, inadequacies as an organization, as a division and as a man writing a simple piece of code for a program to work properly on the internet.

How does that feel Google Joe? To know that you are INADEQUATE. To know that you couldn’t get it done. To know that you’re just… eh.

I have things to do, places to go and people to annoy but since my email is not meeting my needs it all gets to be rather frustrating. But again, it all comes back to being inadequate doesn’t it? Well you know what, I’m not going to sit around stuck in a unfulfilling relationship with some half-assed email client. I’m not going to put up with emails showing up a day late or no replies from my chat client. I’m not going to look in my outbox to see 5 emails that haven’t gone out for some inexplicable reason and I’m not going to put up with “STILL WORKING” all the time. I’m not usually an ultimatum kind of gal (okay, that’s a lie) but I’m telling you now, I am looking for a new Joe. One who meets all my needs in a more than adequate way. So you might want to start working a bit harder and faster at making me happy. Oh, just to let you know, Yahoo’s been toying with me again… mm-hmm, he’s looking mighty fine these days. Wonder if he got himself a make-over or something? Fella named MSN too. I’ve heard some things about him. Good things. Real. Good. Things.

Just sayin…

~Leila~

As the ambulance neared me, I deftly pulled to the right lane in order to clear the lane for easy passage. I didn’t see the possum in the road until it was too late. I hit it. It was already dead; victim of another driver. I just managed to squash the part of the animal that was still three-dimensional.

I hate possums. They are like huge, stinky, devilish rats. They remind me of those rat thingies in the movie The Princess Bride. You know… these?

Well, I couldn’t shake the repulsion in my heart. It was like the time I accidentally stepped on a huge cat spider with my Nike Pumps and then threw my shoes in the trash because I couldn’t wear them without thinking of the spider guts that were a mere inch from my actual fleshy foot. I want to sell my car now.

That may make me a total lunatic… but I just may be the lunatic you’re looking for.

Is there anything that repulses you this much?

I almost didn’t make it there on time, because the cab didn’t show up until over a half hour after I’d asked to be picked up. I’ll remember to schedule one for even earlier next time if I have to take one in the early morning again just in case. The boys were still snoozing good when I left, but were awake by the time I got home.

Even with a nap after I got home I am still feeling tired, and a bit headachy from the early morning. I’ll be happy when it’s time for our eye doctors appointment in a couple of weeks and I can finally get some new glasses. I don’t think these glasses are doing very well anymore since the baby was born, and I’m having some issues with eye strain. Then again, I hate having to finally admit that I do need the glasses all the time now. I can’t read a thing without them anymore.

John says they are calling for several days of snow coming up, but I’m not too worried about it until we have to go out in it Monday and Wednesday. Well really I can stay home and skip Monday if I really wanted to, seeing as that appointment is for John, but I would go along for moral support if he wanted me to. Besides I like going up to Bellevue and walking around looking at things in the shops up there, even if I really don’t have the money to be doing much shopping.

For the moment Thor is contentedly playing in his pack and play. He loves to just lay in there and wiggle and kick at times while he looks at the pooh bear toys that are on the toy bar above him. He chews on his fingers, and sometimes tries to stuff his whole fist in his mouth. Maybe that means that he will be cutting teeth soon. He seems to be doing everything else a little early, so I don’t see why he shouldn’t get some teeth a bit sooner than usual too.

As for me, baby allowing, I am going to take a nice hot shower and try to call it an early night tonight after I get done with a few things I still need to do. If I hadn’t already committed to doing something online with friends this evening, I think I would be in bed already snoring.

Tomorrow I am sleeping in…well…if the baby lets me.

Fortunately, after the receptionist entered all my info into the system, the wait wasn’t too long. The nurse called me in and got to work right away. She entered my info into the system (again), checked all the stuff you normally do, including my temperature (no fever), and the reason for my visit. “I need to get my annual and physical. I’d also like to talk about these headaches I’ve been having.”

She left the room, instructing me to get undressed, leaving me a tissue to cover up with. To say the room was freezing was an understatement, an observation that was simply laughed off by the nurse, “Yeah, it’s always cold in here”. Nice to know they take their patient’s comfort seriously.

After a 10 minute wait (again, not bad really, although icicles were forming on my nipples by this point),  my new doctor old lady clown in a doctor’s coat arrived. Imagine bright red lips, a bright blue scrunchie with matching bright blue headband AND bright blue eyeshadow. Now amplify the color in your immagination… Ladies and gentleman, the woman that will be spending her time between my legs.

She asked me the regular questions, as in the EXACT same questions the nurse just did. After reentering in all the info in the computer AGAIN, she asked me yet AGAIN if I had a fever. It had not changed in 10 minutes, so I said no. I tried to talk to her about my headaches. I explained that I’ve had them since I was a kid and that’s why I wear reading glasses. “You should get your eyes checked.” Ok, so apparently this woman doesn’t listen.  “Do you eat breakfast on time” she asked. “Yes” – is what I should’ve said. Instead I made the mistake of trying to explain that I’m a comedian and actor, so “on time” was relative to my crazy schedule of going to bed at 2am and waking up at random times in the “morning”. This almost blew the blue scrunchie right off her head. She had no clue what I was saying, so eventually I told her that yes, I eat breakfast on time. She seemed satisfied with this answer. I also told her that I eat healthy, I don’t skip meals and I keep snacks like trail mix or fruit with me, because sometimes getting too hungry will trigger a headache. Her helpful was response was literally, “Well make sure you eat healthy. Keep snacks, like nuts or fruit on you in case it triggers a headache.” What a great suggestion. I was beginning to think I might end up stabbing her with the icicles.

Next I spent a good 10 minutes declining all the tests she wanted to do on me, including an anal exam. Umm, is this now a thing we do? Maybe it is and I need to do my research, but I certainly wasn’t going to take the advice of Dr. Tammy Faye Ignore-y.

Now comes the part nobody likes, the actual exam. In my experience, though it’s a bit uncomfortable, my vagina has always been treated with the utmost professionalism and taken care of quickly. It does not typically get get left out in the open while the doctor did who-the-hell-knows-what over at the counter for 5 minutes. If you are a doctor and you’re reading this, do us ladies a favor when you’re working on our lady business – be discreet, do it fast and don’t leave our goods out there in the meat locker you call an office. And for God’s sake, don’t take that time to talk about my comedy career while you’re down there. Yes, Chicago is a great city for theater. Yes, there are a lot of good shows, but I really don’t feel like giving you a run down of my resume while you poke and prod (and not so gently I might add). As my mom once put it to ease my embarrassment- It’s not a big deal to the doctors, it’s just like they’re looking under the hood of a car. Since this is your job, why don’t you stick to that and not take this as an opportunity to give me joke suggestions.

After once again turning down the anal exam (what is this, a frat party?) she finally let me change, gave me another long talk about eating healthy, sleeping and keeping nuts in my purse and refused to prescribe me any medicine for the headaches without an MRI. I assume she meant to look at my brain, but who knows with this lady. She is the “expert”, so maybe she can help me figure out these headaches, but I seriously doubt she can help my comedy career. I think I’ll just keep that side of me and my lady business to myself and find another doctor.

- The Wife

F–U and the horse u rode in on…

To Whom… Again,

Just wanted to quickly touch base and ackowledge that the GLOVES ARE OFF!!! I guess our last correspondence did not make it clear that I wasn’t up to tolerating any penny-ante bullshit this year from the powers-that-be. Your smarmy come-back could hardly be taken seriously ya know. It was juvenile and trite. The past week on the other hand… kiss my ass! We can go back and forth all day long. Y’all wanna act like adolescent boys lighting off fireworks in your hands be my guest. Just remember, sometimes little boys lose their fingers when they hold onto those firecrackers too long or they get hold of one with a short fuse! I’m not anyone’s bitch and I’m not going to take anything laying down!

Bunch of pansy-asses…

~Leila~

Leila,

Boo-hoo…

Whom

Oh and also because now we don’t have to see stupid shit like this in the stores.

Is this a joke? I don’t remember ordering any fucked-up fortune cookie to go with my coffee. Just where do you omniscient beings get off, sending out this kind of crap to start a person’s year with.

The previous year has been a test.

You know what? I’ve got your test right here—bite me!

Is this your way of telling me this next year is going to be more of the same? Do I get a do-over?  Or is somebody gonna rub my feet… maybe something as simple as get a week’s worth of decent sleep? How about you smartasses keep your pecker-pullers out of my life for a while and leave me in peace, hmm? That’d be nice, and a change. No, you with your terse one-liners expect me to just sit back and wait for it don’t you, ya lousy SOB’s. Y’all are probably sittin’ around a table in some ethereal whorehouse, smokin’ dope and boozin’ it up while you pull names out of a giant fishbowl.

These are the ones we’re gonna fuck with this year… screw the sorry bastards if they can’t take a joke.

I’m just wondering if you honestly think you’re funny. That people appreciate the joke. Personally, I don’t feel it. Matter of fact; if you were to walk in my door right now incarnate I’d probably shoot your stupid ass—and laugh. ‘Cause I AM a funny person, ha-ha. My name has been pulled out of the bowl one too many times. Hear me [?], ONE TOO MANY TIMES!

Test my ass… I better have a goddamn good year for once!

~Leila~

Leila,

Life’s a bitch.

Whom

1) The Weekly Photo Challenge: Surprise.  I don’t have many surprises in life anymore.  I don’t get worked up about much.  Wait, there was one, which leads to my second near-prompt.

Not something that happens every day, and not my surprise today, either.  Photo courtesy of jokeroo.com.

2) Money:  The only thing that surprised me today is that I managed to figure out how to pay my rent (late), make sure my water and TV don’t get shut off, and pay my son’s tuition (late) without having to skip groceries.  What’s really surprising is that my husband is making $80,000 a year and we are still struggling to make ends meet.  You’d think we live a lavish life… but we don’t.  I don’t want to talk about money, though.  It is frustrating to me.  Needless to say, I’ve taken over the reigns and we will get out of the 6-year financial hole we’ve been in.

Photo courtesy of fahv.com

3)  Underage drinking on shows.  I will address this in tomorrow’s WTF Friday post.

4)  The draft that keeps blowing over me.  It feels like someone has opened a window just to the right of me.  I keep feeling a cold wind on my face and hand.  I keep hearing Haley Joel Osment telling Toni Collette that the cold wind on the back of her neck is “them.”  I am a bit freaked out right now.

Could you please direct your chilly breath elsewhere? Photo courtesy of scienceinseconds.com

5)  How lame of a mother I feel I am now because I seem to have lost the zest for being a SAHM.  I used to hate the TV, now it is on most of the day.  You don’t have to tell me I am shite, I already know it.  Maybe I will make getting rid of the TV one of my New Year’s Resolutions.

I still hate the TV.

6)  Outing my husband’s new favorite TV show: Gossip Girl.  Yes, we are a day (or six seasons) late and several hundreds of dollars short.

Photo courtesy of CW.

Hi guys!  It’s me again!  We’ve been waiting all week, haven’t we?  It’s been a tough week, though.  I want to apologize for the silliness of my three posts last Friday (here, here, and here).  At the time they were published, I was unaware of the tragedy in Connecticut.  This week, I held my son and daughter a little tighter, called my absent sons a few more times than normal, and prayed for those who were grieving.  It’s amazing how closely emotions relate to one another.  I often laugh until I cry and sometimes I cry until I laugh.  We must carry on, no matter what life decides to test us with.  Some of my items this week are not very funny, but very relevant.  So, without further ado, this week’s WTF hit list:

1)  Tabloids.  I was waiting in line at the grocery store and perusing (from a distance, no touching allowed) the headlines of the tabloids.  For the most part, I just shake my head and carry on.  I only tend to give them any credit if two or more of them are carrying the same story.  But on this day, my under-dog-defending self was surfacing.  As if the pictures weren’t disgraceful enough, they had to name the owners of said bodies.

Celebrity Cellulite? Umm…. aren’t they just real people?

Suddenly, my feelings about The Enquirer went from jocular and pitying to down-right pissed.  I understand that some individuals find this poor excuse for news to be good entertainment, and that smut sells, but this is taking it too far!  On one cover you have celebrities that are too skinny (such victims include Kate Moss– ironically, Nicole Ritchie, Taylor Swift, and Kiera Knightly) and on another you are ridiculing celebrities who are battling weight and age (Kirstie Alley seems a favorite, Jessica Simpson has been targeted, Britney Spears is also punished).  Well, I am not sure what kind of fem-bots you have there on your staff, but celebrities are real people with blood and bones and hair and flesh that decides to pucker and/or break out every once in a while.  They are bullied if they have too much plastic surgery and then bullied again if they have too many wrinkles and are (GASP) aging!  There is no middle ground and no one who is beyond reproach for you journalistic terrorists.

I would boldly submit that, as a normal woman who hates that I am aging and my body seems to be in revolt to my wishes, I am tired of reading your headlines and seeing your humiliating pictures.  Celebrities are real people.  They are someone’s daughter or someone’s son (but men seem to escape this farce more than women do, which is rather interesting).  Celebrities feel bad about themselves, worry about their image, and break down under pressure.  Celebrities make mistakes and usually end up getting caught (aren’t you glad that you weren’t a celebrity when you drove drunk the other day?  If you’d been a celebrity, you’d be in jail now).  Women (famous or not) are not perfect, and your continued berating of their natural (or unnatural) bodies does nothing to help anyone– well, except your bottom line.  Stop bullying people!  YOU are the problem, not them.  Start printing something edifying, not filling your headlines and pages with stories and pictures meant to hurt.

FYI, I am 5’6″, I weigh 125 pounds, I’m 31 years old, I eat fast food about once a week, I run 5Ks, I am a former athlete, a former beauty queen, and I am in a life-long battle with an eating disorder.  Here is a picture of my cellulite.  Go ahead and print that up, Enquirer.  Oh, and guess what!  Regardless of these ripples, I am DAMNED sexy.  Solidarity, people, and WTF, tabloids?!

Dems my thighs!

2)  While we are on the topic of making people feel bad, I want to introduce you to my neighborhood.  I don’t live in a gated community, but I don’t live in the ghetto.  I live in a neighborhood filled with middle-class people.  We keep our yards nice because we understand the importance of curb appeal and house values.  For the most part, everyone keeps to themselves, but we nod and wave at each other when we pass.  Then Thanksgiving passed and my neighborhood turned into a war zone.  My next-door neighbor, and dear friend, drew first blood.  Her lights were up before my Thanksgiving shopping was done.  Not to be outdone, another friend across the street and down a few houses forced her electrician husband on to the roof with thousands of strands of lights and a staple gun.

It is on like Donkey Kong.

Then I drove around the corner and saw this:

Argh! Not feeling Merry at all.

Then down the street a little more….

This house looks fairly normal. But it’s not! The lawn is covered in lighted objects.  There is a whole light show set to Christmas music. It’s a good thing I am not an epileptic!

I am even getting it from my neighbors across the street…

Besieged by my neighbors across the street.

A week ago, I decided I couldn’t go down without a fight, so I braved my fear of heights and climbed a 20-foot ladder to hang my Christmas lights (my husband stayed firmly planted on the ground, claiming the ladder wouldn’t hold him).  But all my efforts are for naught.  I am still living in the least lit house on the block and my neighbors are making me look like Grinchy Claus.  On December 26, I am going to the store to buy every 50% off strand of lights I can find.  I don’t even care if they match.  Next year, it is on!  I will not lose the battle in 2013.  I will NOT!

This ain’t got nothing on me in 2013. My electric bill will be $2,862 in December!  We aren’t getting Christmas gifts next year because we won’t be able to afford them, but we will WIN this battle!

The light war that I didn’t know about, WTF?!

3)  I spend a lot of time in my car.  I travel 60 miles a day just doing the run from school and back.  On my commute, I get to witness a lot of really bad driving, and California drivers are about the worst I’ve seen.  The other day was a wet, cold and rainy drive.  The roads were slick.  As I was traveling (probably a bit too fast for conditions) down the street, the car two cars ahead of me slammed on their brakes and began to turn into a parking lot without signalling.  We were heading down a hill and I drive an Expedition, so slowing down in a hurry is tough to do.  Add in the rear tires on my truck that are balder than a baby’s backside, and it was a recipe for disaster.

Now, I openly brag about my great driving skills.  I have been driving for 15 years and have never been in an accident.  Part of the reason is that I am a very defensive driver.  I realize that people can be idiots and I give them the space to be that way.  I also know what is going on for 360 degrees around me and my car.  Additionally, I have been very lucky because I haven’t been hit by another driver (I am knocking my hand raw on wood right now).  But yesterday was a different story…

The view from here is great. Nice bumper, lady.

Not only was the guy two cars ahead turning, the girl in front of me was turning as well (also not using her signal), and had decided to come to a dead stop in the lane we were traveling in instead of just making her turn.  So I had to stop my car, on a hill, going 40 MPH, in the rain, with no indication of what was coming.  I pumped the brakes once (because I couldn’t risk not slowing down, I probably would have run her Malibu over), but ended up having to stand on them.  Everything in the back seat slid forward and one of the kids’ toys wound up under the brakes.  Fortunately, I used my other foot to kick the toy away, slammed on the brakes again, and the girl turned right before I hit her.  Closest I have ever been to a wreck while driving.

So who is to blame here?  I take responsibility for driving the speed limit (which, as I said before, was probably a bit fast for the conditions), I also realize that I shouldn’t have toys in the car that can roll (I normally don’t allow balls in the car for this reason, but this one was sneaked in), and I need to get my tires changed.  But had I any indication that these clowns were turning, I probably would have given them plenty of space to turn without all the superfluous drama.  So my #3 WTF goes out to drivers who don’t signal.

It happens all over the place.  I even do it occasionally, but I always feel bad about it (like the same caliber of bad that I feel when I walk out of the store and realize that I didn’t pay for something– I always go back in and pay for it).  But why do people do this?  And why are they so flipping BLITHE about it?  They look at me like I am insane when they see me swearing at them and flipping them off.  But what did they expect?  Your car has indicators for a reason, and you ought to use them properly.  If you get into an accident because you feel you are exempt from using them, it will ALWAYS be your fault, even if Officer Friendly sees it differently.  People who go indicatorless, WTF?!

The Dubs knows what’s up. Yeah, lady, he’s talk to you!

4)  Shout out to Fitzy for this WTF.  When you make a poll on polldaddy.com, you can give an option for “other” but when the poll is published, the written answer does not come up in the poll and your brilliant response is lost forever in a void of anonymity.  Is this like the electoral college, where you’re led to believe you have a vote, but really, no one cares what you think?  If so, that just blows.  If we are giving the people the right to air their opinions in our polls, their opinions ought to at least show up on the poll or in the commentary.  WTF, polldaddy.com?

Take this poll:

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For more WTF-ery, check out:

WTF Friday: Volume 1

WTF Friday: Volume 2

WTF Friday: Volume 3

WTF Friday: Volume 4

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P.S.  Did I tell you that I am on Twitter now?  Follow me on my trip through life and then on to Hell….  @RealUndercoverL (because there is a fake one out there)

Unfortunately, I was working on my third pint of beer (I admit I am a light-weight, so while I was not drunk, I was tipsy) and I forgot what I was laughing at within 10 seconds.  The amazing post I had conjured up for the day was gone in a puff of giggle-filled smoke.  The odd thing is that I knew I had forgotten what I thought was so clever, and I knew it was because I was tipsy.  That’s when the epiphany hit.  As I wended my way through my thoughts, I realized that some of my best writing has come forth in a state of slight inebriation.  In my previous blog, I was openly blogging.  I would blog about people while I sat looking at them.  I would giggle and laugh and read my posts to my husband (who gave less than a shite about it).  And because I wasn’t blogging in secret, sometimes my blogging would take place after 5:00 and I would have a little help from Madam Vodka or Monsieur le Brewe.  My blogs were hilarious back then.

I can’t blog while drunk anymore.  Why?  I blog in the middle of the day when my husband is at work.  I don’t drink during the day because I have a 2 year-old.  (When she goes into kindergarten, I will probably become an alchie.)  So you readers who are new to me and don’t know my real name won’t ever get to experience UndercoverL on a bender.  You have no idea what you are missing, but I will give you a moment to picture it….

Drunk posts? Totally NSFW!

What they are both thinking: “I would totally leave you for this chick.”

The girl on the end just wet herself. Aw, girl, that’s okay. I wet myself while writing this sh*t.

Even O-Dog thinks I’m a hoot. He asked me to sign his chest.

See the company of my previous followers?  Now, don’t you feel bad?

As I see it, there are three ways to rectify this situation.  The first is that I come clean with my husband and resume blogging from the bottle.  The option is dangerous because it could lead to arguing, divorce, and possibly death (of this blog).  He may not care because none of you know my real name.  But it’s still dangerous territory because I may have made him look like a bit of an arse-hole (which I didn’t mean to do because he is ah-may-zing).  The second is that I can just say “F*ck it all.  I am going to drink during the day and give these readers what they’ve been severely missing.”  But, obviously, that is going to be a problem.  The third is that we can petition WordPress and/or hackers to find my old stuff and give it back to me so I can re-post it under my pseudonym.  That seems the best choice.  Would they do that?  Can they do that?  Anyone know the answers?  (There is a potential fourth choice.  I may be able to beg my husband’s ex to give me back my posts.  I know that when she found them, she printed them to use against me in court.  Maybe she’ll say yes if I take out what I said about her, which was unnecessarily unfair.)

WordPress:  I will pay you money in American dollars (which are worth more and better looking and have better nicknames than Canadian dollars) if you can bring back my missing 110 posts.  I will probably have to steal it from the piggy-banks of my children because I am not allowed to carry actual cash, but I can wrangle up about $7.52 (USD, don’t forget).  Would you help a girl out?  Please?  I know when I erased my blog that you warned me that all would be erased, and that I said “yes” anyway.  I know that you shouldn’t really care what I lost because you believed that none of it was good enough to be “Freshly Pressed” (you were mistaken and misdirected from my verbal splendor).  What you don’t understand is that I am a victim of cyber bullying and that when I gave up my previous work I was under duress, packing up a house, living apart from my husband, and trying to organize my life from my rooted Nook, which is like shaving your back with a BIC disposable razor that is rusty.  I know how computers work and that none of it is really gone, it’s just been filed away somewhere.  (I am certain that some of the posts are being held in a file by the CIA and the FBI because I wrote content that may or may not have been questionable.)  Can you do it this once?  My new friends add their name to my petition.

Take this poll:

P.S.  Did I tell you that I am on Twitter now?  Follow me on my trip through life and then on to Hell….  @RealUndercoverL (because there is a fake one out there)

Reblogged from Marriage Is A Joke:

Good thing we happened to stumble upon this well placed note telling us at the last minute that our water will be turned off for the night. Thanks for the heads up city of Chicago.

Dear Cardinals,

I am not sure if you are angry at me because I was desecrating a picture of Jay Feely (here, here, and here), or whether you believe that being on a 9 (or is it 10?) game losing streak is the key to getting a great QB in the draft for 2012-2013.  But seriously?  If you can’t pull your heads out of your arses, you are going to lose God’s gift to football: Mr. Magic Hands himself, Larry Fitzgerald.  See, his stats are proportionately diminishing as you twiddle your thumbs and play musical quarterbacks.  May I suggest either asking Kurt Warner to come out of retirement, or selling Scott Wedige to Matt Leinart as a personal slave in order to entice him to come back?  And while we are on the topic of centers: Scott Wedige?  Seriously?  The guy couldn’t superglue the ball into John Skelton’s hands.  I new it was a train-wreck from the moment I saw his snap the ball on the sideline.  Perhaps Larry Fitzgerald can snap the ball and then go out and make an amazing catch.  I am sure Wedige’s job is tough and all.  I mean, how do you simultaneously snap the ball the quarter back and think at the same time?  Especially with all that noise.  It must be nerve racking.

I don’t pretend to be an NFL coach, but I am going to say that no Cardinal will be featured on my blog again.  I am also hanging up the three Matt Leinart jerseys and the Edgerrin James jersey we have.  They sell Green Bay Packers shirts here, so maybe we’ll switch to our second string team.  Clearly that’s the way we do things around here, right?

Sadly,

UC/L

RIP Cardinals and Eddie Murphy.

Dear Editor-at-Large,

I laughed it off when I made a comment on a post written by The Daily Post and you felt so inclined to edit my comment.  (And a holler to my girl, Cheri Lucas, who’s clearly got my back.)  But it’s been bugging me ever since.  It’s not like I have a hit list for people who use public arenas to point out my errors.  As a matter of fact, I am the kind of girl that is self-deprecating because it is easier for me to point out my faults than let someone else do it.  That is due to the fact that I got lost in the shuffle of a crappy marriage between my parents who were both work-a-holics because I was the child that wasn’t meant to be conceived.  (Translation: I was an accident.  My mom actually told me she thought of aborting me.  How sweet.)  Now I have a naturally delicate self-esteem.  It’s not that I like to foist blame and error elsewhere so as to avoid the spotlight (I believe, contrarily, that being a victim is the weakest position someone can take, so I take ultra-responsibility for what I say and do).  I am irritated because I can’t stand it when someone decides that a public arena is a good place to openly humiliate or correct the errors that other people make.

Sure.  I made the error of turning a plural into a possessive.  Omigod.  I cannot believe how embarrassed I am that I wrote “should’s” and “ought-to’s” instead of “shoulds” and “ought-tos.”  I might die of shame.  But in all probability, I won’t.  See, your comment rolled off me like water of a duck’s (possessive, not plural) back, but there are people out there who haven’t survived Hell and would retreat to their corner of authorship and artistry at an unwelcome, unsolicited open critique of their work.  (“Oh, Mr. Picasso.  I am sorry, but that just does not look like a nose.”)  What I am trying to say, Madame le Perfection, is that if you plan to flaunt your error-free editing all over the web, your writing better be flawless.  Some of us don’t blog on WordPress so we can get published.  Some of us don’t give a sh*t about grammar, punctuation, dangling participles, or even spelling.  Some of us are on here to share our burden.  Some of us are on here to get a message across.  Some of us are on here because we need to feel heard and we need acceptance.  I doubt many of us are on here because we are spot-free in our writing.  Does John Grisham have a blog here?  I’d wager NOT.  Did Charles Dickens?  Nope.  Would Herman Melville have had one?  I doubt it, and even if he had, I wouldn’t be following him because getting through Moby Dick is driving me absolutely BATTY!  But I digress…

What I would wager on, Madame le Perfection, is that there are a lot of bloggers out there that do not appreciate your editing-at-large, ad nauseum.  From now on, when I want you to edit my cast-off commentary, I will send you the rough draft so you don’t have to correct me in public.  It doesn’t make me look like an idiot.  It makes you look like a bitch (even if you are a nice woman, which I am sure you are).  Is that the kind of perception you want people to have of you?  Not that you asked me for advice…

Warmest Regards,

UC/L

I need to start by making am admission. I ask absolutely, positively, 132% not a morning person. I hate mornings. They are a horrible way to begin what had the potential to be a great day. So if getting up after a reasonably normal night of sleep is rough, imagine after a night that was interrupted every 20 minutes from 4:00 am until 7:20 am. My husband finally rolled out of bed with his typical ‘f*cking hell,’ which was the response to me telling my son that he could not play my Nook because he won’t just stay in his room and play quietly until one of us is out of bed. According to my husband I shouted it… I didn’t. But thus began my battle for the day.

The reason I have chosen the playroom is that everyone is under the impression that I am cleaning in here. Everyone is leaving me alone because they are afraid I might go postal and start lighting things on fire if they interfere.

I am royally irritated because I am tired of my family expecting the little gnomes that live in our house to go about their business of tidying, laundry, washing dishes, cooking meals, grocery shopping, coffee brewing, toy repair, key finding without the head gnome to give them orders. Oh, wait a f*cking minute! There aren’t any gnomes in my house. I guess that leaves all this on my shoulders. So, given that all I wanted was one more hour of uninterrupted sleep, but got an ear full of bitching instead, my morning was even more enjoyable. I told my husband I was taking the day off. He could do the normal things I do on Sunday and I would sit on my arse on my pajamas until one o’clock watching football like he does. Then I will jump off the sofa and declare that it’s time to get the day started and order everyone to stop sitting around doing nothing. Then I will hog $30 of the $100 grocery bill to buy a 30-pack of beer and another bottle of rum and eggnog. And I will get drunk.

Meanwhile, he can feed the kids breakfast while fielding complaints about how they don’t want this, they want that. Then he can clean up breakfast and make me a coffee just the way I like it. He can take the kids upstairs and get them dressed and washed. He can clean their rooms, make their beds, and then go into our room and clean up my laundry that I’ve thrown all over the place (making sure he doesn’t read any of the receipts that he pulls out of the pockets of my pants before putting them in the laundry). Once the floor is clean, he can make the bed.

After the trip to the grocery store, where I’ve insisted that we spend $20 on snacks that we will end up throwing away because they will have gone off before we can finish them, I will resume my post on the sofa. I will ignore the fights and tantrums of the kids and turn the volume on the TV up to 70 decibels so I can hear it. I will go shave instead of helping the kids get ready for bed. Then at 9:30 tonight I will ask my husband if he’s washed and ironed my shirt for tomorrow. The answer will be no, because guess what! I still don’t f*cking iron, bitch!

P.S. Don’t forget to vote for the Trifextra challenge. Voting begins this evening.

1) My kids were gabbing as fast as their little lips could move all the way to school this morning (20 minute commute).  Not only was this irritating because I just wanted to listen to the radio, but also because most of their questions were kind of ridiculous (i.e. ‘Mom, what do big kids say when they get hurt?’ Or ‘Mom, if a bird is sitting on a electric wire next to a person, would the person get shocked?’ Or ‘Mom, where is gymnastics?  Where is down the street?  Where is over there?’)  WTF, kids?

Photo courtesy of beingawomanofthebible.com (hahahaha)

2)  The Swype feature on my phone makes me sounds like an illiterate pervert.  For example, every time I write ‘you’ I get ‘tits’ and every time I write ‘post’ I get ‘pussy.’  I am constantly writing ‘if’ when I mean ‘of’ and ‘out’ when I write ‘our.’  Every time I use a single quotation mark, aka the apostrophe, to begin a word or quote, I wind up writing ‘shrooms, which makes me sound like a druggie.  I am also constantly referring to my ‘son’ as my ‘soon.’  I have no idea what NTT is or why it keeps surfacing in my writings.  I spend more time correcting what my phone writes for me than I do writing what I am trying to say.

I am going to indulge myself by wiring a compete paragraph just so tit can see what I come across as when I do bit correct NTT good forsaken phone.  See what I am taking about?  I may not have graduated from college, I may not be a published author, Burt misty of the time I can put together a relevant paragraph and concert my thoughts and ideas without sounding like I am missing part of my brain.

WTF, Swype?

My phone would have done just that exact thing. Photo courtesy of damnyouautocorrect.com

3) My daughter has toddler PMS again this morning. She is on quite a tirade today. I don’t know what the day will hold for us, but when she was like this on Tuesday, this was what happened to my forehead:

(I was going to take a picture of the 2″ long scratch on my forehead, but then saw how awful my skin is close-up and witnessed the wrinkles, and figured eff that stuff. You can imagine it. My makeup won’t hide it, either.)

WTF, Princess?

4) Referring to above statement: my skin. How is it naturally just or possible that my skin can look like a teenager’s (spots, acne, etc) and like an old woman (wrinkles, sagging, bags under the eyes) all at once? What did I do to the gods of healthy skin to deserve this crap karma? WTF, skin?

5) Fanny packs. No commentary needed. WTF?

No, we can’t change the title from “fanny pack” to “f*ck-me pack.” Hawt. Photo courtesy of ticketnetwork.com.

6) There is a lady at the gym whose license plate frame says ’51% sweet 49% bitch, don’t push it.’ With odds like that, and looking at her, her attitude is probably limited to knitting my scarf with a knit 2, purl 3 pattern rather than the knit 3, purl 3 pattern I requested. Lady, I am 95% bitch 85% of the time.  You ought not push it.  WTF, pseudobitch?

Again, a few things: 1-Sorry, again, Jay Feely. You are becoming a guest contributor to my blog. 2- Notice how I switched the direction of the kick? 3- GO CARDIES!

7) Everyone calling every female ‘mama.’  Not only is it irritating because it’s the 2010-2012 version of ‘hunny’ and ‘sweetie,’ but because I worked hard to earn the title of mama.  I actually used my females bits to earn the title, I don’t get the title because I just happened to have the bits.  WTF, mama?

8) Decorating your car for the holidays, especially antlers or a Rudolf nose? Just don’t. WTF were you people thinking?

You are just begging to be a target. Clearly you want people to hate you and think you have to be impossibly annoying.

Why do I always have to start my topics with a disclaimer?  Probably because I write and speak without thinking.  That thing that I wrote up there (you know, the “Joy-ish” thing) is not a play on words for Jewish.  Actually, I wasn’t thinking about Jews at all when I wrote that.  Not that I don’t think about Jews.  Not that I do think about Jews.  Oh snap.  I wasn’t being mean or politically incorrect or insensitive.  Promise.  Oh, good God (Allah?  Buddah?  Great Spirit?  Mohammad?), someone stop me.  Back to what I was originally thinking about when I wrote that thing up there:  It’s holiday time!

I don’t know if I can speak for everyone, but I am going to pretend that I have that right when I say this.  The holidays came up waaaay too fast this year!  What the eff happened to 2012?  Why did “back-to-school” specials suddenly get replaced by Halloween costumes?  I almost died when I went into the dollar store on October 20 and saw ornaments and snowmen cutouts.  Slow the eff down, Mr. Calendar Maker!  I am still trying to catch up on the past-due tuition from October, I can’t even think about Christmas!  Great Scott!  Looks like my son is getting private school for Christmas this year.  My daughter?  Ballet and gymnastics.  (So what if they’ve been doing that for the last three months, right?  It still costs me more than getting my artificial nails done, which was my Christmas present on Monday.)

Geez, mom. Melissa got a pony! Photo courtesy of retail-digital.com.

As I drove my son to school this morning (it is a 60-mile commute.  I am not kidding.  I am thinking about boarding him there.  They don’t board kids, but I am sure he can sleep in the tube slide at the playground), I was listening to the radio.  The station is giving away 4-packs of Disneyland tickets 10 times a day for the next three weeks.  If you call in and give a good sob-story, or answer a question right, or happen to be caller 20… you WIN!  This morning, a lady called in and correctly identified the secret Santa celebrity and won four tickets to the happiest place on Earth.  She told the DJ (do they still call them that?) that she was so excited because her husband just lost his job and he is depressed because they don’t know how they can afford Christmas.  Now they can give their kids Disneyland.  I, for one, think that is totally great!  I think people like that should win every time.  But that got me thinking about all this holiday hoopla.

I want to ask some questions, and I want answers!  Who has managed to escape the economic crisis that the world has been in since 2008?  (No, this is not a political rant.  I stay far away from politics.)  If you have been able to maintain your pre-2008 lifestyle, or even had economic success despite the downturn, how have you achieved that?  How has your life been altered by the financial spiral of the last four years?

It is no secret that there are more suicides around the holidays than there are at any other time of the year.  Why is that?  Is it because, as we see commercial after commercial after commercial advertising more gadgets, toys, and luxuries, we begin to feel as if we will never measure up to what we ought to be?  Is it because our need to keep up with the Jones’ completely overshadows what the season ought to be about?  Is it because we realize that we don’t have everything we need and everything we want, and there is no hope, so why even try?  I will freely admit that I hate seeing that goddamned Lexus commercial where the lady goes outside and sees that her man has spent $100 on the biggest bow he can find to wrap up her  $50, 000 vehicle.  WTF??  I will never open my doors Christmas morning and see a beautiful new car in my driveway as a present… and that has nothing to do with the fact that I am a hot, sticky mess in the morning.  The reason I won’t see that is because a) my husband would never buy me a new car and b) if we were going to make a purchase like that, it would only be after car-shopping for months and months, number crunching, arguing, number crunching again, and then having miracles both in our bank account and on our credit reports.

Gives a new meaning to kicking the tires. And also… GO CARDIES!

In my estimation, the reason there are more suicides around the holidays is that the commercialization of holidays has given us the freedom to feel absolutely inadequate compared to everyone else.  The holidays are no longer about getting  that one big gift that you’ve always wanted and your parents have saved up for all year.  Now the holidays are about “Well, Johnny has every single book in the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series, every new game for the PS3, a brand new Xbox Kinetic, a bike, two scooters, and a skateboard.  What else can we get him?”  I am finding that my husband (who is very much about immediate gratification) has bought my son hundreds of dollars worth of Lego figures and models.  In our house, holding off on gifts until the holidays is unheard of, and saving up for a big spending spree at the holidays is virtually impossible.  With less than three weeks to go until Christmas, I have one present for my daughter, one present for my son, two presents for each of my step-daughters, and nothing for my older sons.  I have almost no money in my checking account, I am behind in tuition, and my extortionate rent is due.  As far as Christmas is concerned, things are looking pretty depressing.  It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes and a knot to my stomach.

That’ another reminder about the tuition. It looked better before you opened the box, dear. Photo courtesy of gizmodo.com.

Let me explain why I am so upset.  I am pretty old-school when it comes to being a parent.  I don’t consider things like cell phones, video games, laptops, and mp3 players to be rights that kids have.  To me, they are privileges, if they are necessary and useful.  I don’t even consider a social life to be a right for a kid.  I am very basic when it comes to my kids.  That is not to say that I am a hard ass, I am just old-school.  I consider Christmas and birthdays to be the two gift-giving holidays in a kid’s life.  I don’t mind blowing a wad on either holiday.  (A wad being less than $250 a child.  With six kids at two holidays each, that is $3,000 a year.  Ouch.  But do-able.)  As kids get older, their desires become more expensive.  The quantity of gifts decreases as the quality and cost increases.  It’s just the way things go.  But that is not what my kids expect.  They want everything they see on the TV, even if they have no idea what it is.  If they don’t get everything they want (or what their friends have), then I get to hear about how great their friend’s parents are and deal with pouting.  It makes me sad because I don’t feel that I can combat media, commerce, friends, and parents who spoil their kids with teaching my kids to be grateful for what they have and give away what they don’t need.  I want to rewind the clock and teach my kids about gratitude, service, and sharing.  I want to teach my kids to put off what they want right now for what they want the most.  I want to teach my kids to save, not spend.  But it is a fight that I am ill-equipped to fight on my own.  Even my husband is batting for the other team.

Photo courtesy of nannynannynannynannynanny.blogspot.com

Why does this even matter?  Can’t I just hop off my soap-box for three weeks and enjoy the holidays?  Can’t I stop making overindulgent parents feel bad and just celebrate my holidays the way I want to, in peace?  No, I cannot!  And here’s why:  By teaching my children to want, want, want, and buy, buy, buy, I am teaching my kids to be on the hunt for a constant upgrade.  I am teaching my children that what they get is easy to come by, that money is not valuable, that affection can be bought, and that there is always something better out there.  With 1,001 toys to play with, my kids don’t have to have a favorite.  With 253 stuffed animals to cuddle at night, there doesn’t need to be one to hold on to and cherish.  Nah.  With so many replacements, there is no prized possession.  (Can you see where I am going with this?)  As a young child, the important things are toys.  Whether it be a bazillion army figures or thirty dollies, toys are most important.  As kids grow and turn into teens, it becomes more intricate things.  Rather than playing with army guys, boys start wanting to complete Assassin’s Creed 3 or World of Warcraft 8.  Girls go from dollies to make-up and preparation for dating and boys.  Once they are done with that, they look for a replacement.  As they grow from teens into young adults, the need changes from games to people.  Get it, use it, master it, get rid of it.  Is it any wonder, in a world of upgrades, that marriages don’t last either?  We are not teaching our children to value what they have and what they need, we are teaching them to value what they want and have yet to get.  We are actually encouraging the thrill of the chase and the dissatisfaction that comes from getting what we want and realizing it’s not what we thought it was.  We are teaching kids to forsake what they want most (long-term) for what they want now (immediate gratification).  This is my problem with the holidays.  Perhaps I am waxing a bit philosophical, but I see it as a much bigger problem because of a lesson that is being taught (or not taught).

Everything can get better… right? Photo courtesy of zulumedispa.com

What we need is an all-out effort from parents who want to raise children that are not continuing to contribute to the decline of mankind through selfishness and excess.  We need a brigade of parents who are willing to say “Absolutely Not.”  We need parents to raise the ensign of “Not Right Now” and sound the war cry of “Wait Until Christmas!”  Can I get an “Ask Santa,” people?

Weigh in here:

I mentioned in an earlier post that I was about done with being a SAHM (stay-at-home mom).  I have held this title since I was 20 years old and deemed “too ill” by my doctor to continue working while pregnant with my first child.  From resigning from my government position, it has been a slippery, downhill slope.  With the advent of dedicating my life to motherhood (pregnancy, delivery, rearing, repeat) came the end of my life-long dreams.  I was never the girl who played house.  While my friends were busy changing their baby dolls and putting them down for nigh-nighs, I was teaching school, running a restaurant, selling various and sundry items on the front lawn of my childhood home, and plotting more pursuits.  Unlike a lot of people who grew up in the “culture” I did, I did not aspire to being a mother.  That is not to say I didn’t want kids, I just wasn’t really interested in staying at home.

I was coerced, manipulated and- let’s be honest- brainwashed by my first husband to be a SAHM.  I gave up going to school while he got his degree.  When technology made it possible for me to take classes online, I was only able to do that until he uprooted the family to follow another one of his schemes.  There were a thousand and one reasons for me to never return to school, and there was certainly no room for me to pursue a career.  (As a matter of fact, when I voiced my desire to go back to school to pursue one of my interests– architecture– my ex got so mad that he didn’t talk to me for three days.  That was the beginning of the end.  Another post.)  During these 5 years, I did my best to turn being a SAHM into what everyone wishes it to be:  Dinner on the table at 6:00.  Bath time every night at 7:00.  Bedtime at 7:30.  Playdates.  No TV.  Potty training.  What I didn’t realize is that being a SAHM is a 24/7/365 job.  Quite honestly, a stay-at-home mother does not get a break.  It became so ingrained in me that I nearly panic every time I have a babysitter because I feel like I am shirking work.  I gave up everything that I had ever put any stock in.  I gave up every ambition.  I put everything I had into my children.  I worked tirelessly, and I began to accept and love what I was.

I even ironed back then.

Then I got divorced.

Without going into detail (which got me into trouble in my previous blog), the outcome of a 3 year-custody battle was that I lost custody of my sons.  The biggest reason?  I had no education, no work experience, and no way to provide for them.  What should have helped me keep them made me lose them.  When people find out about this, their first reaction is disbelief.  I must have done something to make the judge take my kids.  The truth is that I did nothing.  No drugs, no alcohol, no abuse, no criminal activity.  But I also did no work, no school, no saving, no studying, no planning.

From that time on, the esteem of my position and role in life was gone.  My experience taught me that there is no power in the role of being a mother.  All the five years of being mommy had done was leave me hopelessly hopeless.  I was stuck to do anything to fix what I had done.  Even now, 11 years after choosing motherhood over school, I hate myself for the choice I made.  (Let me point out, again, that this is not about whether or not I love my children.  This is about how I am viewed by society and by myself.)  I have loathed being a SAHM ever since.  I no longer value what I do for my children, especially because I realize that, at any point in time, this could all happen again.  God forbid my husband decide he wants to upgrade wives again and I get the boot.  I will lose two more children.  It’s terrifying to me.

Photo courtesy of familybroken.blogspot.com

Last night at the concert, I was speaking to our host (also a friend of mine whose only daughter is in my son’s kindergarten class) about our children.  This friend is only a few years older than me and she has a highly successful job as a banker.  She rolls around in a Lexus SUV, wears perfectly tailored clothes, is always dressed to the nines, is constantly travelling and makes a 6-figure salary.  She is a single mom.  Oh, did I mention that she is gorgeous and that she is totally my husband’s type with all her terms, conditions, notes, prepayment penalties, and ROI talk?  (I am happy to admit that I am a smidge insecure about this.)  She tells me that as much as she likes being “Career Lady,” she is jealous of me getting to be “Mom L.”

It’s not the first time that a woman has told me I am fortunate for having a quiver full of children.  I do have a lot of children, and I do dedicate my life to them.  But given the choice I made to get married at 19, what other option do I have?  Especially in this economy, I am totally effed.  As I read a very popular blogger’s post on having another miscarriage, I remember thinking:  ”It’s true.  One man’s dream is another man’s nightmare.”  At this point, the worst thing that could happen to me is having another child.  I have grown weary of this phase in my life, and I realize that my impatience with the everyday shenanigans (fits, tantrums, fights, complaints, late nights, midnight wakings, insults, ingratitude) only shortens my fuse with my kids.  As I once said about someone I know who was never meant to be a mother but has tons of kids, and wants more, find your role and stick to it, for the sake of everyone.  I have passed this point in my life.  I did the SAHM thing.  I want to try the other.  I want to greet my kids at the end of the day and consider my home a refuge, not an office.  And that is what it is to me: my office.  It’s the same four walls I see everyday.  It’s the same routine everyday.  I talk my husband’s ear off when he gets home (and probably bug the s#!% out of him) because I don’t have any other adults to talk to during the day.  But for some women, that is all they want in life.  To each her own, right?  I don’t judge.

So now I face the biggest predicament.  My youngest is ready for preschool.  In order to afford it, I have to go to work.  With a boat load of “I wanna get outta here” ambition, no college degree, no work experience, and an economy that just won’t throw me a bone, what do I do?  I find myself powerless thanks to a dumb decision to get married at 19 and forego a semester of college.  I find myself the oldest and most hopeless 31 year-old in the world.  I had a lifetime full of possibilities, which I promptly set on a pyre and pushed out to sea.  Now I am stuck realizing that if my husband wants to take a roll in the hay with my banker friend, I can do nothing but shrug my shoulders and pretend I don’t care.  What choice do I have?  It’s better than reliving the last 6 years again, isn’t it?

Photo courtesy of privateinvestogatornyc.com.

Having said all of that, I do credit my two youngest children for pulling me through the last six years.  I adore my children to no end and I don’t know what or who or where I would be without them.  The are, and always will be, my top priority.  I am truly blessed to have them.

So I got the kids to bed at 8:00, as normal.  I went downstairs, put a bottle of Moscato in the freezer to chill quickly, tidied up the small messes around the kitchen and family room, put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher… As you can see, I am delaying the movie.  I guess I was building anticipation.  Kinda like foreplay, I guess.

My first attempt at a photo alteration. Laugh away, bastards. And, no, I don’t iron. Ever.

After doing a little of this and a little of that, I returned to the freezer and took my Moscato out to open it.  Then it hit me:  If I open this bottle and drink it all alone while watching a movie about male strippers, I may as well go buy a litter of kittens, update my wardrobe with Hanes sweats in various colors, and throw out my deodorant, because I am thisclose to becoming a cat lady.  (BTW, I hate cats with a ferocious passion.)  I put the Moscato in the fridge to save for my husband’s homecoming tonight and made myself a proper cup of English tea.  Then I put on the movie.

Now THAT is hot.

The plot of the movie was meh.  It could have been Striptease minus the child.  Of course it was minus the child because hot single men don’t have the baggage of children, right?  (I mean, in Hollywood.  And no, K-Fed is NOT hot.)  The ending sucked.  Kill the main guy… Right Panda of Ferocity?

The muscles were great.  I will be encouraging my husband to cut back on the beer, do more sit-ups, and put that Bowflex in the garage to use.  The dancing was great, though I had flashbacks of watching the Thunder Downunder doing a pseudo-striptease at an expo in Las Vegas a few years ago.  It’s like watching a cruel mixture of football, cheerleading, and pep-club.  (I was an athlete, not a cheerleader, so my respect for cheerleading is very wanting.)  All that genital rubbing was awkward and I was grateful that no one was there to witness me witnessing that.  Having said that, the actual non-genital touching dancing was amazing!  Boy can that Channing chap move!

I began my mental relationship with Matthew McConaughey when ‘A Time to Kill’ came out.  He has almost made me swoon in every movie ever since (I went to go see ‘K19: Widowmaker’ just to see him in uniform).  But I hate his long hair in ‘Magic Mike.’  I guess, based on the end of the movie, he was meant to be portrayed as a royal knob, and that hair did it.  I just don’t dig long hair on dudes.  I think Jack Sparrow is the only guy who can pull it off… and I do mean Jack Sparrow, not Johnny Depp.

There were only two scenes that made my ogle.  (Spoiler alert! But seriously, not really a spoiler, more of a tease.)  The first was when ‘Magic Mike’ went on the stage and danced to Ginuwine’s ‘Pony.’  Oh my… Yes I will happily ride your pony.  The other was when the whole cast donned camo and danced.  There is something about a sexy man in his dirty fighting gear.  That was hot until they began using their man bits as M16′s.  Then it got very ‘Thunder Downunder.’

All in all, I am glad husband didn’t see it with me because… awkward!  (And not because it got me hot.  It didn’t.)   I hope my husband never sees it because then he’d be like:  ‘Woman? You cheated on me with this sh*t?’  He’d definitely lose any respect he had for me.

I grew up in a fairly sheltered place.  Although where I grew up was affluent, and drugs were rather rampant, I have never used drugs (illegal drugs, I mean) or misused prescriptions.  The idea of a crack-whore, a crack-baby, or any long-term affects of drug/alcohol use while pregnant was limited to videos in high school health class.  Drugs just weren’t part of my life and the topic of addiction to anything was utterly foreign.  The first real-life exposure came to me when I was 20 years old.

I was in the hospital where my older sister works as a labor and delivery nurse.  I had just given birth to my first son.  My sister came into my recovery suite to suggest that I keep my son in my room with me the whole time we were in the hospital because the nursery was a bit of a fiasco.  I asked her what was going on and she let me know that my cousin (we will call her ‘M’) had just left the hospital, against medical advice, abandoning her newborn baby who was addicted to crack and going through withdrawal.  Additionally, he had been born with birth defects that the medical staff were unable to diagnose completely.  The nursery staff were overwhelmed by the drama surrounding the issue and my son would probably have a very unpleasant first few days trying to sleep during the cacophony.

I found it incredibly ironic that my cousin had chosen this hospital out of the ten or so hospitals in the area to have and leave her baby.  (Incidentally, it is not a crime to abandon your child to a hospital.  It is one of the only places where abandonment of a child is legal.)  Then I remembered how close she and my sister had been as teenagers and I realized why she had chosen here.  Still, I was shocked that such a travesty could take place in my own family.  We had all come from the same lineage!  How could some of us be so normal and some of us be so… so… wrong?

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first or the last time ‘M’ did this.  At last count, ‘M’ had given birth to 8 children conceived and incubated while she was addicted to crack.  Some of the children were given up by her voluntarily, like the one she abandoned while I was at the hospital, and some were taken from her by the state, like the one she gave birth to while incarcerated for grand theft.  She did not raise a single child she gave birth to.  Of the eight children, only two have managed to escape long-term affects of her drug use.  Every one of the surviving children is being raised by a foster or adopted family.

The story sickens me.  After hearing of her most recent crack-baby-birthing, where my sister was her nurse and my sister took the remainder of her shift and stayed another 12 hours after her shift to hold the poor, innocent, screaming newborn as he withdrew from his addiction, I realized that my feelings on this topic were deep and angry.  I felt that it was justice to court-mandate her sterilization.  For me, ‘M’s’ rights were no longer applicable or relevant.  Regardless of her recovery from addiction (which never happened) or her desire to have a normal family, she had made a choice several times which warranted her incapable to make such an impactful decision.  In my mind, her choice to irresponsibly conceive and continue to carry the pregnancy while addicted to such a horrible chemical was a choice to destroy lives.  The choice she made may have had long term affects on her in the form of guilt (which I highly doubt given that it wasn’t a one-off event), but they have life-long affects on the children she birthed.  For the two “lucky” children who were not physically incapacitated or handicapped by their selfish mother and her irresponsibility, they still are being raised apart from their seven other siblings in a horribly flawed foster system.  For the six who would have life-long physical and mental handicaps, the price is much higher.  (I believe one of the children succumbed to his handicap at the age of 9 months, if memory serves.  He is the luckiest of them all, from my perspective.)

If a person can receive jail time for getting into a fight and causing physical harm to another person (who will most likely make a full recovery), why can a woman repetitively give birth to children who are innocently dealt physical harm that is irreparable and life-altering with no repercussions?  Why is there no “three-strike” law about this?  Why is there no “one-strike” law about this?  If someone kills a woman who is pregnant and kills the unborn child as well, that person is charged with two counts of murder.  In the case of the poor angel who died as a result of ‘M’s’ actions, why wasn’t ‘M’ charged with murder?  Because she is an addict?   Because she was not of a sound mind?  Does her addiction make her legally insane?  If so, shouldn’t she be disallowed to have children anyway because she cannot take care of them?

In my Machiavellian perception of this, a woman or man who parents a child while dealing with addiction should be court mandated to be sterilized.  Addicts, nearly by definition, are selfish individuals.  Chalk that up to whatever you’d like (mental capacity diminished by chemicals, personality flaws that create addiction in the first place, circumstance), but it’s true.  Addicts (especially those in recovery) agree.  By it’s very nature, parenting demands selflessness.  There is no way to be a good parent without devoting the majority of your life to your children.  Children require sacrifice, and a good parent is willing to do that.  (For instance, I would give up any of my senses, all of my senses, my arms, my legs, anything but my other children to have my older sons back.  I would give up my life in an instant to save my child’s life.)  Addicts cannot make those sacrifices.  They are mentally and physically unable.

Photo courtesy of the DEA

Granted, I know that recovery from addiction is possible.  It’s a wonderful miracle when people do recover.  Most sterilization procedures are reversible, so should the addict recover, a chance for parenting is still possible.  Sterilization does not have to be a life sentence to barrenness.  Of course, on the other hand, there are plenty of selfless, loving, caring potential parents who cannot have children and resort to adoption (which, in my books, elevates you to near sainthood).  These people have no choice about their circumstances and have to resort to other options for children.  Why not a former addict who (oops) made a mistake?  See, in life, sometimes we make mistakes that we cannot fix.  Sometimes the affects of our actions are irreparable.  Murderers on death row may ‘find Jesus’ while in the slammer, but that doesn’t undo the decision that got them there.  The sentence ‘M’ gave to her children was a life sentence.  Shouldn’t she have to face a similar result of her choice?  Her right to make a choice about this ended the minute she gave birth to a second child who would have to wear ‘M’s’ burden throughout her innocent little life.

So, that being my opinion, I applaud this organization.  They actually pay addicts to get sterilized and the addicts is at choice about having the procedure.  Seems like a pretty cushy deal to me.  If I ran the world (thank God, for most of you, that I don’t), there would be no choice and no payment.  That’s just the way I roll.  I am intrigued to know where you stand on this, readers.  Let me know below!

1) Let’s begin with the most obvious: pain in childbearing. Granted, I understand that this issue is painful to those who yearn for a child but don’t have one.  What I say is with reverence and sympathy for your trial.  Giving birth is not fun.  It hurts.  I often wonder whilst in the throes of labor and delivery (about every two-to-three years) what it would have been like if babies were… I dunno… Maybe the size of hamsters?  Wouldn’t hurt so much.  Thanks Eve, for granting us babies the size of medium watermelons (and the occasional resulting ‘bucket vag’).  Even men thank you for this one.

Awww, so cute. Ooow, so big. Photo by Anne Geddes.

2) The many faces of wardrobe malfunction. As Adam and Eve were naked in the Garden, once she ate the fruit, Eve became aware that her girly bits were on display. First comes naked, then comes clothes, finally comes wardrobe malfunction. Without clothes there would be no malfunctions. Malfunctions often present themselves as follows (in order from least to most egregious):

• The bra strap peep-show.  This can happen to the best of us and the only way to avoid it completely is to fully cover your top half or to skip wearing a bra (which leads to other malfunctions, see below).  This isn’t the worst malfunction, and while it can be sexy, most of the time, it’s just trashy.

There are definitely ways to avoid such trashiness. First, wear only one bra. Second, wear a tank-top with a built-in. (Yes, they make those.) Photo courtesy of boards.weddingbee.com.

• Muffin top.  Without pants, muffin tops would be relegated to bakery-shop windows only.  And that is exactly where they belong.  Muffin tops are generally found at the corner of “I Swear I Wear a Size 6 Street” and “This Shirt Makes My Boobs Look Huge Boulevard.”  For those of you using iOS, that would be roughly around “My Clothes Don’t Fit City.”

This poor girl. I am sure she recognizes herself based on the pink polka-dot tie/belt. I hope she threw out the pants. Photo courtesy of dayumilookgood.com.

• Tramp-Stamp Preview.  Okay, I do not shun those who like tats.  I would get one, but I am a total chicken, and figure my taste in ink might change as my age and IQ increase.  But some things are best meant kept for the bedroom.  Like your tramp-stamp.  Let your intimate partner see that and spare the rest of us (unless you are posing for sexy pictures, in which case I wouldn’t have to see them anyway).

Ooh, does that arrow go all the way down?  Photo courtesy of muffintopmadness.com.

• Plumbers Crack.  Being a witness to plumbers crack can range from mildly discomforting to mandatory therapeutic catharsis.  When you see it on a man, it can be life-altering.  On a women, sometimes it isn’t so bad.  But in the end (no pun intended), it’s like showing the world a sneak -peek of your pooh-hole.  Only certain animals would think that is sexy.  For heaven’s sake, my plumber’s crack grosses me out and it is attached!

I don’t even know what to say. Plumber’s Revenge. Photo courtesy of aquaboards.com.

• Nipplegate.  If you don’t know what I am talking  about, it goes a little like this:  Sheer/No shirt + Nipple + Other People’s Eyes = Nipplegate.  Just wear an undershirt, a bra, or a full-coverage shirt.  Nipples aren’t meant for public viewing, even if the girls just want to have fun.

A moment of respect for the originator of both “Wardrobe Malfunction” and “Nipplegate.” Okay, enough of that. Like you were surprised, horrified, or even embarrassed, Miss Janet. Any time, any place, right? Photo courtesy of idolator.com.

And now for another take of Nipplegate. In my humble opinion, she shouldn’t be on the X-Factor for two reasons. That nipple is only one of them. I wouldn’t mind if Mario Lopez had a Nipplegate incident. Just saying. Photo courtesy of insidetv.ew.com.

For goodness sake, Khloe, keep your nipples hidden. These bad girls just want the world to look them right in the eye. Shame. Photo courtesy of hornpmshow.blogspot.com.

Okay, I am pretty sure this is a man and doesn’t count as Nipplegate. Just as I said to my brother-in-law when he walked in on me nursing, “My breasts aren’t real, so don’t feel guilty.” Photo courtesy of flickr.

J-Lo makes me feel more confident. I don’t have the biggest nipples on the block after all. At least she looks appropriately shocked. Photo courtesy of blog.singersroom.com.

3)  Make-Up and Hair and this whole “fairer sex” business.  Adam didn’t tell Eve that she needed to get a haircut or botox or that she ought to lay off the Twinkies.  (Moment of silence.  Rest in Peace, Twinkies.  Rest in Peace.)  As a matter of fact, it might be possible that the original sin was Adam noticing Eve had been snarfing on the marshmallow tree a bit too much and she had the rolls to prove it.  But thanks, Eve, for allowing Adam to understand that you were naked.  Aren’t you proud of yourself?

Photo courtesy of bloggernews.net and Hostess.

4)  Periods.  I am pretty sure that Aunt Flow was not in the Garden of Eden.  So, Eve, thanks for cramps, bloating, water-retention, heavy flows, stained clothing, embarrassing “oopsie” moments, and no-sex week (also known as ‘Shark Week’ to some).

Photo courtesy of sipsofjenandtonic.com.

5)  Weakness and disobedience.  Women are now to blame for just about everything that goes wrong.  That’s your fault, Eve.

For the rebuttal, see here.