Just… Don’t pay attention. For now.

You know, some people say life is short and that you could get hit by a bus at any moment and that you have to live each day like it’s your last. Bullshit. Life is long. You’re probably not gonna get hit by a bus. And you’re gonna have to live with the choices you make for the next fifty years.

- Chris Rock

Via by teresa wu – You know, some people say life is short and that….

People: Apparently, stupid.

“My name’s Raz, I’m 25 years old, I’m a massive Xbox gamer. I play every day after work and all day on the weekends.

With that much game time, I’m assuming he means ‘massive’ as in “people mistaken me for a planet”

The Xbox for me is just about playing online, that’s why I love it – well did!

WHAT A TWIST!

It was a big day yesterday, the latest game we’ve been waiting months and months for. We’ve played the whole series and this one’s come out, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.

Nothing seems amiss here. What a happy little story here on the BBC. Don’t know what that foreboding twist was about…

All loading up, everything’s going well, I was happy. It came on to the start screen of Call of Duty and I thought, ‘Do you know what, let me quickly sign in online’.

There is literally zero chance that you thought in grammar that good. No one does. It’s ok.

I sign in online and next thing I see, ‘Your console has been banned from Xbox’.

*head asplode*…oh wait- it was banned from Xbox LIVE. That actually makes sense. I mean, if you banned an Xbox from Xbox then that means tha- dear lord, I’ve gone crosseyed..

I was pretty distraught at the time, I can’t remember exactly what it said but I saw the words ‘banned’ and I was gutted, completely gutted.

“I modded my Xbox, violated my TOS and was punished for it? … … … There is no God.”

At first I was in shock, I mean it’s always at the back of your head using pirate games you know there’s that possibility but you haven’t heard about it, there’s been no warnings and you haven’t heard it happen to anyone in the last two years.

Warnings? You don’t get warnings for that stuff. You don’t steal stuff from a department store and get a warning. I mean, I’m not saying I’ve never done anything remotely illegal (I admit it- I caught a whale in a stream in Ohio. I’M SORRY, OK?), but don’t act surprised if you get punished for it.

I wasn’t expecting it. I was just like, ‘OK, what do I do now? Is this just a joke?’ So I thought, ‘Let me restart the Xbox’. I restarted, signed in again, same message. I did that three times, same message.

Definition of insanity, yada yada yada.

I love it, I love playing Xbox live. I play with my mates all the time. It’s just a good laugh, we all sit there chatting, playing games. Now I don’t know what to do.

“It’s like…I did something wrong. Or something. Man, I don’t even know.”

To be honest, I’ve contemplated whether to move to Playstation 3 or buy another Xbox. I wouldn’t do it again but I really don’t know if I’m going to get the Xbox again now.”

See, Microsoft? You lost a valuable customer who stole most of his games to the Playstation by banning him. If you would have only continued to cost yourself and game developers money, he would still be an Xbox gamer. For shame…

Nowadays it’s very popular among adults, youngsters and children to share their most intimate details with their friends on the Internet. People use blogs, websites, Hyves, Twitter etc. to tell their friends about themselves or others. This is not without a risk. Many of the readers may appear to be friends. In reality they have a whole different agenda. I’m going to highlight a few dangers of this popular pastime.

First, the information you share, is also accessible to everyone else. Therefore anything you write or show, can be used against you. Innocent words or pictures might end up in a different context. Criminals use all sorts of methods or sometimes even blackmail to pressure you, in exchange for not revealing your personal information.

Secondly young children are extremely vulnerable to be exploited by all sorts of perverts. Some of these adults look for a chance to get in contact with children in order to persuade them to tell things about themselves or worse to expose themselves. At first they try to get the confidence of children by presenting themselves as someone of their own age. Later on in the ‘relationship’ they’ll try to make real contact by setting up a date. The consequences can be disastrous and children may be damaged for life.

Short, adults can think for themselves, but children need to be protected. They have to be made aware of the dangers of sharing personal information on the Internet. This should be an important task for parents, teachers and other educators.

Twitter is a valuable tool for communication. Ashton Kutcher underlined this statement by reaching 1 million followers on his Twitter account and therefore winning the bet with the Cable News Network. But how did Twitter help him to win his bet? What makes Twitter a valuable tool for communication?[1]

First of all, the usability of Twitter is very high because of its rudimentary social networking features. The only thing you have to do to participate in Twitter is to answer the question, ‘What is happening’. That makes it much easier than any other social networking site.[2]

Secondly, Twitter is up to date. The messages you post on Twitter are very concise therefore it doesn’t take much time to post your story. Besides by accepting messages send by sms, web, mobile web, instant message, or from third party API projects, Twitter makes it easy for you to post messages any time you want.

Thirdly, Twitter is very free of character. You don’t have to comment on your friends activities or receive messages if you don’t want to. It is designed as a social network that is easy in its use and suits your needs.

Fourthly, it is really enjoyable to Twitter. You can stay in close contact with your all friends and get to know things about people you might not have found out otherwise.

Thus Twitter is of great value to the way you communicate because it is rudimentary, up to date, free of character and overall enjoyable!

[2] http://twitter.com/about#about

Customization is a huge trend in society. These days we are living in a time where control and freedom are the keywords in our daily lives. There are in fact scientists who see customization more as a niche than a trend.[1] But not al forms of customization are so explicit as others. Therefore I’m going to make you more aware of it by giving several examples.

First a popular one: social networking sites like Facebook, Hyves etc. Almost every social network site contains a form of customization by giving people the opportunity to upload their own pictures, blogs or setting of the webpages.

Secondly, the fashion industry. People these days don’t want to look like everybody else. They want to distinguish themselves from others by wearing clothing or shoes that reflects their personality. This is a profitable market for many companies. Nike for instance has created a website where you can order your custom made shoe.

Next is the market of electronic devises. Nowadays you can customize your cell phone or PC with a variety of applications like ringtones, background, programmes and gadgets. Apple for instance has created loads of applications, ranging from games to GPS programmes, for the Iphone.

Fourthly, the government and the economic market also, took over the customization trend by providing websites, also called mashups, that combine two or more external sources to create a new hybrid service.

Although I have shown that customization is a huge and profitable trend it is questionable if it will develop into a niche market.

[1] http://mass-customization.blogs.com/mass_customization_open_i/customization_trends/

I come from the deep. From the very same substance that makes me what I am, from that which holds me together. I wasn’t always this shape. At first I was unsure of the form I should take, until I reached the surface that was. Now my shape is dictated by my brothers and sisters and we vie for space, from above and below as well as from the side. I was once small but I am bigger now; bigger than before.

What do I look like to you? What do you see? I watch as you peer at us. We can change colour you know! Blue, pink, yellow or green. When you watch us we change together in perfect harmony. We won’t tell you how we do it. It’s a secret!

You lift us up from our safe haven within the great white wall and I have a glimpse of your world; hard and cold, not at all like ours. Ours is warm, soft and gentle and oh so sweet smelling. You lower us back to sanctuary. Ahhh, bliss!

I start to hear stories from my brothers and sisters. Stories too bad to tell. Tales of siblings that disappear! I shut it out, I don’t want to hear. A sound reaches my ears. I’ve never heard it before and it scares me. There goes another, then two more. “They’re going.” My sister says beside me. “Where to?” asks another. I turn back to the first but she’s gone. I shiver.

I’m back on top of the deep again, sandwiched between the two things that make me. I notice a subtle difference in the deep. It’s no longer clear and has become cloudy and feels strange. Not as light as it was before and it burns me slightly.

I’m on the edge now. Most of my brothers and sisters have gone. I heard their screams of agony as they exploded into air. Who’s next I wonder, will it be me? No. My brother beside me screams as he dies. I watch as he turns purple and then explodes into hundreds of pieces, some hitting me. They make me feel stronger somehow.

I glance beneath me to see the deep change again. It’s darker now, milkier even. I watch as the cloudy mass moves closer, almost touching me now. It stings and burns my outer existence. I can’t bear it! Please stop!

Time stands still as I start to scream. A hole appears in my side as the milky substance eats away my very being. I no longer feel pain. Droplets of me scatter in all directions; some into the deep and some over my family.

And then? And then I am no more.

pools of sorrow/ waves of joy/ are drifting through my opened mind/ possessing and caressing me – “across the universe,” beatles

Via hsay whut? — pools of sorrow/ waves of joy/ are drifting….

Via What the Hellz?!! » Girls Dont Poop.

I think that Peanut gets her rhythm from the Detective.

 

Why would she do this? In front of other people. She wasn’t around for the breakdancing craze of the 80’s. She is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum.

The family plus lots of my in-laws went to Tablerock Lake over Labor Day. I was sick for the first 36 hours, but turned around after that. The Detective’s family is really big into fishing. I am not. But the kids love being there and there’s always a cooler full of beer on the dock so I’m good with it.

Peanut loves it. She’s having some growing pains though. She’s a bit to big to play with the little ones, but still too little to be able to go out on the boat with the big kids. There were a few hurt feelings, but she made the best of it.

 

Bubba wants to do anything Peanut does so he had a blast on the jetski.

 

Slim doesn’t like to be left behind so he went out on the jetski as well. But it scared the hell out of him. He did finally stop freaking out and then would scream when it was time to get off or someone went out on it without him.

 

And of course there was fishing. Lots of fishing. Bubba couldn’t put drop his bait in without something immediately biting. We threw back all of his, but he probably caught 30 fish that weekend. This picture was right when his cookie wrapper blew into the water. He really doesn’t like to litter.

 

It’s been a loonnngg time since I last posted!! Probly cuz ClubPenguin doesn’t have much new goin’ on…

  Anyways, the VIP page is under construction, for all my V.I.P.s. It’ll be back up and runnin’ soon, chickadees and dudes. (:

  Check out the new PenguinTimes. I haven’t read it all yet, but if I find something interesting, i’ll report back.

  Remember, the new play and some new Postcards come out tomorrow! Be sure to check back here for some pictures!! (:

That’s ’bout it. Check out my Chatbox, (Chatbox page) and play on the free penguin I made (on the ‘free!’ page). <3 See ya guys later!

xoxo,

M110♥

Hm? Wie? Was??

Achso… Er ist da. Na, dann wollen wir mal… Brrr, verflixt kalt ist das.

Ey, hör auf zu kratzen! Mach das zärtlicher!
Wie denn, was denn? Schon fertig ?!? Nein, das reicht nicht! Herrje, ich bin zwar fast blind, aber was macht das schon… Vollidiot!

Hey, hey, nicht so hektisch! Bin doch kein Frühstarter!

Der fährt heute wieder wie Sau – schlecht gefickt oder was? Mannomann.

AUA!! NICHT SO RUPPIG, DU ARSCH!

Ich hab echt bald den Kanal voll von dem. Bald streike ich! Jeden Morgen der gleiche Mist: Er ist spät dran, und ich darf dafür büßen. Da war mir Boris lieber. Der war ‘ne unendliche Trantüte, aber bei weitem zärtlicher und pfleglicher… Um so auszusehen wie ich, werden manche Frauen jahrelang im Keller eingesperrt und verdroschen. Mich hat er in nicht mal einem Jahr so zugerichtet.

Ich sollte mich trennen. Jawohl! Einfach aufhören, ihm ständig zu Diensten zu sein. Dann kann er sich…

MAAAAAANNNNNNN!!! HETZ MICH NICHT SO, ICH KRIEG NOCH EINEN ANFALL!

Ja, ich sollte mich trennen. Das ist Misshandlung, was er da treibt. Das muss ich mir nicht bieten lassen. Und – OH!

AUA! Das – war – nicht – gut. Da ist irgendwas gerissen. Und dem Gefühl nach würde ich sagen: Kupplungsseil. Na super! Und wenn er weiter versucht, ohne Kupplung zu schalten, steigt das Getriebe auch bald… uuuuuuhhhh… zu spät! Jetzt geht gleich gar nichts mehr. Wie lustig. Jetzt hat er es endgültig geschafft. Wenn mein Getriebe durch ist, war’s das für mich. Abwrackprämie gerade so eben überstanden, und dann mit 9 Jahren zum Schrottplatz?

JETZT HAST DU WICHSER ES GESCHAFFT! BRAVO! DEINETWEGEN KOMM ICH JETZT IN DIE PRESSE! KANNST DU WIRKLICH STOLZ DRAUF SEIN!

Tja, nun kommt er richtig zu spät. Das hat er wahrlich verdient. Bin nur gespannt, ob er die Eier hat, mich reparieren zu lassen. Getriebe und Kupplungsseil wird nicht billig.

ICH WILL NOCH NICHT ZUM VERWERTER !!!

First, check out the new Penguin Style in the Girft Shop.

Second, go get the new pin. Location: SKI HILL. Pin: SLED PIN

 

Thats about it. OH! And I forgot to mention, there will be a new game for Member Ninjas. Emphasize on the ‘MEMBER’. Alright, so its going to revolve around fire… and Card Jitsu. It’ll have its own room, hidden in the Volcano. how cool is that?(:

xoxo,

M110♥

There she goes again

Maggie stood at the mirror and sighed. She closed her eyes and sighed again. Another day…another day. She considered her options: laundry, cleaning, going up to Willow Pond and visiting with Mr. Hickock and Mr. Pharr. Laundry could wait. Cleaning is tedious, and pointless in a household with 4 kids, 5 dogs, and 2 cats. Willow Pond it is. She’d read a book on the India-China-Burma theater of World War 2, and was anxious to talk to Mr. Pharr about it. He was there, he knew what it was like. Mr. Hickock had gifted her with information from The Battle of the Bulge…interesting stuff, too…involving corpses. She liked that. Perhaps that was the agenda for the day.

The phone rang, it was Redel, her Sudanese friend, calling to accuse her (again) of being a White European Heathen for not attending church. “Get to a church!” Red shouted at her, “You need a church, you heathen!” Redel meant well, and Maggie understood that. Maggie had recently called Redel an “Ox-Blood Drinking North African Nomad!” but she meant it in the kindest way, as Redel meant her insults. “We must get together tomorrow.” Red informed Maggie. “I have recently read a book that will certainly convince you of the presence of demons, because I am certain your Presbyterian self is sceptical, and I have no patience with sceptics today.” Maggie agreed to meet her at the Daily Grind, a local coffee shop, where they would split a muffin and argue loudly about theology. Redel, being raised Sudanese Coptic, and Maggie, Scottish Presbyterian, met frequently to discuss (loudly) their differences of opinion on everything from demons to salvation, from how long to cook a beef roast or breast-feed a child. Maggie was happy, another day’s activites planned. They could make the discussions last for hours.

Satisfied, Maggie returned to the mirror. She sighed as she looked at the 44 year old face staring back at her. “Find something beautiful every day.” Dr. H told her, 15 years before. “Ok. Here goes.” Today, she decided, she’ll look at the hair. Hair is pretty. It’s straight, thick and short. Shot with silver at the temples, honey blond elsewhere. She was happy with the cut, finally, and the color. After 13 years of Clairol 7B, she’d let it grow out and was excited to see the silver. “I’ve earned every last hair.” she told herself. After the Car Incident and the Pot Incident and that crazy LSD thing she’d rather forget about, she felt the silver hairs were well earned. Her husband liked them, saying he felt like he was finally married to a full grown woman now, instead of that girl he met so long ago. She blew out her cheeks and made a noise, uncomfortable with the attention she was giving herself. “10 minutes. He said give yourself 10 minutes. That took up 45 seconds. Eyes. Look at the eyes.” She pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and leaned in close to the mirror. She was terribly nearsighted, and standing a ‘normal’ distance away would result in a blurry unidentifiable blob. Grey-green eyes stared back. “I’m not a heathen.” she thought. “I’m…agnostic. A sceptic. I need proof.” She pulled down one eyelid, then the other, grimacing at the late-night bourbon induced red, then stared back into the watery grey- green irises. “hmph.” she grunted, dissatisfied with the uncertain color. “I need green contacts. And proof. And a maid.” She turned away from the mirror, 8 minutes short of the required 10 minutes. She heard dogs scrabbling under the bed, and the sounds of a 10 year old in the shower, singing and playing “slap the monkey” on his stomach. It’s a good life, she knew, even without the certainty of green eyes and maid-given order.

“um, Mags,” her husband was standing by the dresser, waiting. “I got some news at work yesterday. They want me to go to China for a couple of weeks, and the new mill in Dubia is cranking up and needs a firm hand. Oh, and we hired that fellow I told you about from Rome, the one with the wife…you know…’the WIFE’. Do you think you could…well…” Tom winced as he considered what he was about to say. “Could you take her around tomorrow and show her the town, and maybe Savannah? You can expense it, of course.” Tom ducked as he expected shoes to start flying. Maggie stared at him for a minute, considering her options. China, Dubai, and the WIFE. All in one statement. Where’s those shoes? Maggie thought carefully. “the WIFE.” She considered her options again. The Wife, Savannah, maybe 6-8 hours in the car with this foul-mouthed damnyankee of a woman, but in Savannah, with lunch paid for maybe even a reservation at Lady&Sons. “I was in labor 29 hours with the fourth child. I can stand 6-8 hours of anything.” she thought. “of course, hon! I’d be happy to take her around, you just be sure and bring me something pretty from China ok, maybe a baby?” Then she remembered her conversation with Redel, and the promise to meet tomorrow. “Shoot.” she thought. “Oh well, I’ll call her and postpone until Friday.”

The day passed happily, with Mr. Hickock explaining the differing aromas of corpses, based on weather conditions, and Mr. Pharr rhapsodic about Madame Chang. Redel had been called, a middle-America meatloaf prepared for dinner, and all those other delights of Housewifery performed. Night fell and then it was Thursday. Time to meet The WIFE. Maggie armored herself with the finest from Talbot’s, gassed up the minivan (after picking the mushrooms from the back seat, where the window leaked), and met The WIFE at the local Holiday Inn. Maggie had decided that, since The WIFE was unfamiliar with Savannah, she’d take a slight side trip through Porterdale, where the Don Vraden Classic Car Emporium was known to occasionally show an object of great desire. Last time she went through, the turntable featured a customized 1957 Chevy Nomad, gloss black with a red interior like some sort of fantastic beast…she’d mooned over that car for days. Anything she had to put up with from The WIFE would be made worthwhile, if she’d be able to aquire fantasy fodder.

“Goddamnfuckin’incompetentwhitetrashhickclerkscrewedupthefuckiblahblahblahnoisenoise” Maggie was greeted by The WIFE, a Bostonian by way of Newark who, Maggie believed, would have trouble fitting in to the ways of the genteel Southern town of Statesville, Georgia. “I can do this…6-8 hours, tops.” she thought. “Porterdale. Don Vraden. It will be worth it.” Maggie nodded politely, and asked if The WIFE would like a cup of coffee before taking the 15 minute tour of the town. “ASIFICOULDGETADECENTFUCKINNOISENOISEBLAHBLAH” The WIFE roared. Well OK!. Maggie took the bypass around Statesville, pointing to the football stadium and cotton fields, taking a quick tour through Irongate and making brief comments about housing prices and grocery stores before turning onto Highway 80, the Pretty Drive to Savannah, which coincidentally, passed right through Porterdale. More noise from the wife, with polite nods and conversational prods from Maggie, and 20 minutes later, they reached the stoplight in Porterdale. Maggie looked to the left at the Don Vraden sign, and imagined the gates of heaven opening up, shining light down on the turntable. Angels sang, The Allman Brothers started the opening riff of “Jessica” and she imagined reaching over and pushing The WIFE’S mute button.

There was, on the turntable, a 1970 Chevelle SS. It was dark red, with black rally stripes and it was a convertible. Her nearsighted self knew it was the SS because it had nostrils on the hood. A very discreet scoop, advertising power and muscle and daring anyone to drive that 454 beast. Maggie felt a little dizzy, and the car behind her honked it’s irritation. “Oops!” she giggled, “I got a little distracted there.” “Godamnedsouthernditz” The WIFE muttered. Maggie’s hearing was well trained from 20 years of child-rearing, but she chose to ignore the comment, focusing instead on the idea of running The WIFE over with a ‘70 Chevelle. ” Dark red is a good color,” she thought. “Blood won’t show.”

Another monster anthem from the Grime collective:

Goin’ In features Skepta, JME, Frisco & Jammer, so you have four different styles and personalities over a literally crazy instrumental, this was not created with the intention of a musical masterpiece, it was created from a vibe, a vibe that takes over, this may not be played on radio, it might not be played in clubs (although I think it should), however throw it on before you head out to the club and you see how it gets your night started, the infectious guitar strings merge with Skepta’s comical intro which then turns into a vital harmony, each person brings their own charisma to the record, “The Rasta’s ready”, Jammer offers the hype element, Frisco brings solidity and the street feel, JME provides the quirky and witty lyrics, “I’m a big kid, like Benjamin Button”, this all blends with Skepta’s obvious presence to form a unified and versatile party track.

The track itself, as revealed by Skepta (exclusively to GrimeDaily) was created from a vibe in the studio where Skepta was messing about in the booth with the autotune on and Jammer was actually asleep, hence the, “I don’t beleive Jammer’s sleeping…”, I feel that this could be as big..if not bigger than their previous smash ‘Too Many Man’, with already over 50,000 views within a few days, the video (Directed by Scorcher and Staple House) captures the party vibe perfectly, with each feature playing out their role and visually offering the same energy as their vocals, featuring cameos from Badness, 13, Logan Sama and Little Dee, Goin’ In is set to gain Boy Better Know plenty more fans and recognition.

Goin’ In – available for Download on 14th December via iTunes

BBK ..They're "Goin' In"..

• Sometimes we all wonder, “What all does Google know about us ?”. Now you can, as Google comes clean with Google Dashboard

 

• Threadsy lets you view all updates (mail, tweets, facebook) in one cool place.
• Valid measurement of Code Quality : count the ‘WTF’s/minute
• HQ : Websites and blogs that boost your happiness quotient

:Shorties #1:

Sometimes she thinks too much

Maggie stood at the mirror and sighed. She closed her eyes, and repeated the mantra taught 15 years before, by the kind-voiced and steely-eyed therapist, “You are not a dog.” She opened her eyes, and tenatively eyed the face glaring back at her. It was not a dog. It was a…ok, she thought. He said “you are not fat.” She was…she thought of all the currently popular euphemisms women used to replace “fat”. Zaftig, Rubenesque, Curvy. “Which one will I use today?” she pondered. ” Today is a rubenesque day.” This decision was useful, because it allowed her to choose appropriate clothes. She sighed again, and recalled Dr. H’s 15 year old instructions, “I want you to spend 10 minutes every day looking in the mirror. Look at yourself. Look in your eyes, at your nose and cheeks. Observe the curve of your mouth when you smile, and the way your hair falls over your smooth forehead. Notice how much green in is your eyes, that your nose is small and slightly upturned, elfin-like. You are beautiful. You are.” In the 15 years since his instruction, she had never spent 10 minutes looking in the mirror. The face that looked back had a tendency to shout, and she was a quiet sort. She sighed again, 3 minutes later, after determining that the broccoli was not in her teeth and there were no errant zits adorning her nose. That was all she could manage.

“You look beautiful!” her husband said, as she trudged out of the bathroom. “Thanks!” she cheerfully replied, thinking “liar, you just want something.” MirrorMaggie reached through the bathroom door and slapped her on the back of the head. “YOU KNOW BETTER THAN THAT! “she roared. MirrorMaggie was a better wife than RealMaggie. She knew how to accept a compliment. Maggie briefly wondered why it was so hard to embrace her (adoring, affectionate, generous) husband’s compliments, or those from anyone, for that matter. 23 years she’d been married to the man, and every day he’s told her she was beautiful. Married at 21, she’d lived with him, and his good cheer, for over half her life, and yet, the strongest voices in her head were the ones planted there by her father (it’s a good thing you’re smart, because you’ll never be pretty) and her peers (God! Why don’t you wear a bag over your head so we don’t have to look at you!). In spite of empirical evidence to the contrary, she believed herself to be plain to the point of invisibility. She recalled a conversation with Dr. H. He was frustrated by her self-image, and dug up a scientific study that quantified “beauty”. “Look at this!” he shouted at her. “Beauty! High forehead! Wide set eyes! Curves! You!” She remembered turning away from that, and crying. Empirical evidence said so. Her heart said no, impossible, how could all those people be wrong?

She looked in the closet and sighed again. Clothes weren’t exactly her thing. Give Maggie some money to spend, and she’d head straight for the Hobby Lobby, or the local plant nursery for a rose. Clothes were something to cover her (44 year old, lumpy..No! Not lumpy! Today it’s Rubenesque!) body, nothing more. Long, leg-covering skirt, loose blouse, practical shoes, those were her style. Maggie thought “I look like a nun. A Quaker. Someone you’d trust to watch your baby while you went into the store to buy a vibrator.” She wondered what would happen if she decided to wear a tight tank top and fishnet stockings. If she traded in the minivan for a ‘69 Chevelle convertible. What would happen if she took the KitchenAid stand mixer to the pawn shop and swapped it for a .44 magnum? “Hell would freeze over. Pigs would fly, and many other cliches that mean ‘yeah right.’” she thought. It was fun to consider, though. “What would the women in Prayer Group think if I pulled up in a ‘69 Chevelle?” That made her laugh. They were practical minivan-driving Presbyterians, every one of them. Proper and saintly. Fishnets would make them sweat, and Chevelles would make them nervous. “Their slacker 24 year old sons would appreciate the Chevelle”, Maggie thought. She’d been working hard to gain the respect of these women, though, and didn’t want to lose it by doing something…hm…less than saintly. They might kick her out.

“Prayer Group meets today,” Maggie thought. “am I in the mood to go?” She realized that “not being in the mood” meant that she probably needed to go, but MirrorMaggie laughed at the thought. Going meant listening to women wish their children would behave, listening to them pray that their slacker sons would shape up and be nice and learn to appreciate all their parents do for them. “Sympathy is for wussies.” Maggie thought. “I am not sympathetic today. I’m not going.” She didn’t want to have to bite her lip to tell Beth that it was time for 25 year old Tucker to get the boot. “Failure to Launch” came to Maggie’s mind. She’d tossed her kids out a long time ago. Straight onto the street, they went, at the tender age of 18. Oh sure they struggled, but Maggie was in no mood for Beth’s whining about Tucker. Nor was she in the mood for Cherrie’s fervent prayers that her sister wouldn’t get the boot from her $2million dollar home. “They may have to go to an APARTMENT!” she’d said with horror the week before. Maggie briefly reminisced about the 30 year old rat infested housetrailer they’d lived in years ago. “I would have loved a nice clean apartment.” she thought. She made the decision pass up prayer group, and watch a Will Ferrell movie instead. “Y’know,” she thought, “something redeeming and high quality.”