"Some Assembly Required"

DG has discovered words more horrifying than "Some Assembly Required."

"Made by Mattel."

Thing 2 wants her toy. DG sets out to accomodate the Thing.

Half an hour later, he's still trying to remove ... THE PACKAGING. I've seen less restraints in S&M clubs. This might even require power tools.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Zamboni is in cardboard heaven. Boxes! Everywhere! Oh bliss! He has snurfled and flopped and writhed in them all, even the ones that are impossibly too small for him to do it.

Zamboni is a fruitcake. With nuts.

I'm getting "swish and flick"ed by Thing 1.

Thing 2 is trying to make me walk the plank. Aaargh, Matey!

Harley has gotten distracted from her mousey by DG's Eddie the Eagle. She keeps tryin to steal the puck, eh?

Felimid, having grown tired of trying to set the new land speed record, has settled into a perch of dominance over the heathens below. Of course, getting there almost shattered the patio door, since his massive bulk sent the 5' tall cat tree a'rocking.

Oh god, the Things are eating more chocolate.

Oh god. I just discovered that Thing 1 knows most of the words to "15 Men on a Deadman's Chest." I do not want to know how or where she learned this.

No, Mommy does not want to walk the plank.

No, DG cannot come search my treasure chest.

No, Mommy is not going to explain that one to you.

Kids, cats, sack the wives...

Thing 1 leaves for school. Mommy is asleep. Thing 2 is asleep. DG left 15 minutes before she did, will be back after he finishes walking heathens across the street.

Thing 1 does not close the door entirely.

The wind is blowing, it is very cold.

When DG returns an hour later, the door is wide open.

Zamboni is missing.

The other two cats, being far more intelligent, realized that it was way too cold and wet to even consider a trip outside. They are in bed with me, where it's warm.

Through sheer luck, nothing other than the cat is missing.

DG leaves to search for stupid.

Almost an hour later, he's found ... peeking out from the porch next door, dry and cold, but safe. And sheepish. And whining.

Thing 1 will get a talking-to.

Zam is home.

But don't think this will change his mind about the next escape attempt.

---

Thing 2 walks out of their bedroom with a blue plastic steak knife in hand and a maniacal grin on her face.

Thing 2: "Wookit me, I the doctor an I gotta CUT KAIWEY OPEN to see whats wong wiff her!!"

Me: (knowing that Daddy and I both have had surgery and this is a semi-logical conclusion) "Honey, doctors don't always have to cut someone open to find out what's wrong."

Thing 2: "Good ones do! CUT CUT CUT! Kaiweeeeey, come heeeereee!"

Run, Thing 1, Run.

Whose kids are these, anyway?

Thing 2: "Daaaaaaddy? Will you PLEASE stop Kaiwey from whining? She is SO bitchy!"

I'm anticipating a Lina fireball any moment.

Thing 2: "Daddy, do you HAVE to go bring Kaiwey home? It's SO much quieter here wiffout her."

---

(door opens, enter the Squealer)

Thing 1: "Mama, Heather accepted a sword fight with a bunch of boys and then she got hurt and so now she's going to come inside, m'kay?"

Keep in mind that Thing 2 will be 5 on Tuesday (dur), and is smaller by far than most 2 year olds.

Thing 2: (she's doing fine, not even crying, until she sees me) "MOMMY!! I was fightin wiff this boy an I was kickin his butt an we was sword fightin an I went WHAM WHAM HIYAH pow an I was kickin his butt (yes, she pointed this out at least twice) an then his brother got mad an he came an HIT me an Oh Mommy lookit my finger!"

So now she's beating up boys to the point that their big brothers have to come defend them from the pint-sized terror.

She, of course, after bandaid, is ready to go back outside.

Thing 1 was bleeding worse than her sister. Apparently she "fell down."

I had to emphasize the point repeatedly with Thing 2 that if she insists on fighting with boys, she's going to get hurt eventually. I think she's ready for round 2. I feel sorry for those boys.

Score:
War Wounds - 1
Sidewalk - 1
Thing 1 - Zip

Misunderhearings

Thing 2 and I are watching Cartoon Network, and they show a commercial for the Barbie Nail Studio.

Thing 2: "Mommy, how do you get them off?"

Me: "It's just glue, honey, they come off easily."

Thing 2: "You mean you don't gotta use a knife and cut off your fingers and wipe the blood clean so those will stick?"


Now me, I wanna know where the hell she got THAT idea from ......

Wasn't there, didn't do it, you can't prove anything

It's lies, I tell you, all lies. Don't believe DG, he's just making it up!

Oh. Shit. Wait. You mean he didn't say anything?

Uh. Nevermind, carryon.

Apparently ... and this was after I opened my eyes and realized I'd passed out cold onto my laptop and it was cussing at me at binary ... after I went to bed, DG shifted, and it startled the sleeping me.

Apparently ... I snapped upright and screamed, one of those throaty warpath everyonedies screams, and turned on him. "Feral," and I quote.

Apparently I scared the shit out of him.

And then, some minutes later, without ever focusing on him or answering him, I laid back down and went back to sleep.

*I* don't believe this. *I* don't remember shit. I'd honestly believe he was making it up ... if he didn't look so freakin startled while he was asking me about it.

(Jon says I looked like this every time he woke me up, however, his memory must be faulty and therefore he's not an acceptable witness for the prosecution.)

The leg is HURTING him today. Right on schedule.

He tried getting up, didn't last long, so I had to get up and make sure he was fed so we could dump pain pills into him.

Of course, that means I still haven't gotten nearly enough sleep, so we're working ourselves into some serious fucking sleep deprivation now.

I need an assistant.

America: Land of the free, Home of the Carnivore

Frozen dinners are designed with the carnivore in mind.

Look at them.

Look at the vegetarian dishes while you're at it. "Mock meatloaf." "Tofu corn dogs." "Meatless Vegetable Burgers."

90% of them have some sort of Meat Substitute.

There are times when the fibro has me in too much pain and too incoherent to "create dinner." If I want to get fed, I'd better hope there's something easy I can nuke.

And there are lots of things that LOOK good out there.

9 times out of 10, I pick what passes for meat in them out. There's a saucy noodle thing with BIG chunks of carrots and peas in it. Lots of noodles, the sauce is pretty good .... but then there's this CHICKEN in it. Urgh. Pause to pick chicken out. It's mindless, so I can get that part right.

Michelinas has a pretty good stroganoff. I gotta pause to pick the meat out.

I finally found a chicken minestrone (Stouffers) that doesn't make me gag. No, I take it back. I ADORE it. Lots of zucchini (proof that God really exists), and BIG chunks of chicken (not mystery meat), so it's even easy to pick out if I can't stomach it at the time.

Mexican dinners usually aren't as bad about it, by the time they've processed the ground beef THATfar (IF that is indeedy what it truly is) and mixed it with all the goop, there's nothing TO pick out.

And have you ever stopped to pay attention about proportions? "Rice and chicken (turkey, whatever)." You get all this goop, lots of meat, and a bare-assed spoonful of rice. Huh?

Meat, tons, check. Sauce, tons, check. Cool, that means we can skimp on the noodles and veggies, Americans LIKE it this way!

I don't make claims to be a vegetarian. It's not a principle thing. I am firmly convinced that we are mostly carnivorous by nature -- at the very least, true ominvores. There are times when I just oooooooze over a really good steak -- and it better still be mooing on the way to my table. Bloody, please. A good vet could still save it.

But meat just doesn't like my system very well. In anything more than mild doses, it reacts badly with my fibro and then I have to spend the next few days dealing with a total gastrological riot. Dairy is pretty bad about it too, so I must do without cheesy goodness and yummies like ice cream and cheesecake and even milk except for sparingly.

America: Land of the free, Home of the Carnivore.

When Cats Err

Zamboni is a very large cat. Zamboni is a very large very FLUFFY Maine Coon cat.

Zamboni decided that while he was sniffing at the table, it would be fun to sit in Thing 2's forgotten waffle plate. Full of syrup.

Now we have to catch the Elusive CactusTailed CowCat, complete with bits of paper and string for camoflague, to either bathe or shave.

Important Notes:

Cats and syrup don't mix.
Thing 2 needs to be retrained.
Laughing your ass off with a sore throat is a Bad Idea.
Bathing a Coon is JPG worthy. Drowned rat, anyone?
Zam has a opossum tail under all that fur. Eeeeww.
Zam does not like baths.

WOW, can he yowl indignantly. Wow, he's loud. Wow, he's mournful.

He even has Harley and Flea seriously upset. Harley tried to come over and give him a consolation bath while I was holding and drying him. Poor kitten about gagged on the mouthful of fur. Zam doesn't particularly allow the other cats to groom him, so this was quite an experience.

All three are now hiding under my futon, plotting the demise of DG.

Babes in Fearland

We think that they're too young to understand, that it rolls right past them.

We think that they're not listening.

DG and Thing 1 just left to try to get food -- not that any of us have really eaten at all the last few days.

Thing 2 just came running out of her room in DG's floppy jester's hat and a striped dress, jingling away ... to see only mommy.

Thing 2: "MOMMY! Where's my daddy???????"

She's shaking, eyes wide.

Me: "It's okay, honey, he just went to go get dinner."

Thing 2: "Oh Mommy, I worried. I thought he was dead!"

I hug her, try to soothe the kid. Then there's a pause.

Thing 2: "Where's KAILEY???"

Me: "Honey, it's okay, she went with Daddy. They're all right, I promise."

Thing 2: "Oh good, Mommy. I was SO worried."

I'm trying not to cry.

Shots in the Dark

Sleep eluded me last night.

No, incorrect. Let me not be guilty of false information, however inane it might be. It's certainly relevant in this case that I be accurate.

While sleep managed to find me, the quality left a great deal to be desired, sporadic and poor as it was. Nightmares stalked the world behind closed eyelids, nightmares that I honestly thought I had put behind me.

And in those nightmares, a gunman with an AK-47 stalked the halls of our hospital. This time, I didn't cancel my appointment for the day. This time, I was there with the infant Thing 1.

This time, my family didn't escape.

I attempted to go to sleep around 1 am or so. Lesson learned for the moment to not even try it without being utterly exhausted. At least then the dreams have to fight overwhelming coma to affect me.

There was a sound, somewhere between 4 and 5 am that had me sitting upright, even more panicked. I hadn't set the alarm last night, but even without that, as I startled out of yet another nightmare, I heard the quiet "snick" of the front door.

DG came very close to getting a baseball bat in the head.

I was grateful that he was home. I know that some of the fear in my dreams came from real enough worries about his safety, but the early presence spawned all new concerns. Why the hell was he home early?

I know he had a good response, (because he couldn't possibly have really told me that "I just didn't want to be there anymore" -- RIGHT dear?) but my brain seems to have misplaced it. I stumbled somewhat dully back to bed.

I shouldn't have been all that surprised when I had what little sleep I might have returned to violently disrupted by the ring of the damn telephone every half hour.

And in between, more shots in the dark.

Good morning, America

"Good morning, America, how are you ...."

Drained. Crawled into bed somewhere after 4 am. Finally was talked into attempting food around 3ish, I think.

Worrying about DG, standing out at crossing guard. All right, worrying a lot. See, DG is dark, very dark, skin, hair, eyes. So much that especially in Hispanic strong areas, people have walked up to him and started speaking in Spanish, expecting him automatically to understand.

It's not a far leap for some minds to assume he's something else. So I'm worried. In the small town we call home, it's not TOO much of a worry, but elsewhere ... I can't help but worry about my husband.

It struck me some time yesterday evening just how very old are our souls becoming, and at an early age as well.

I was born during Vietnam.

I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the collapse of the USSR, and thinking "It will get better now."

I got married during Desert Storm. My in-laws lived in Saudi at the time. They were issued gas masks and chem gear.

I clearly remember the first WTC bombing. And the Sarin Gas attack in the Japanese subways.

We were stationed at Fairchild when a gunman, ex-AF, walked into the HOSPITAL and opened fire -- on everyone. My husband worked in that hospital. He came home with blood on his uniform. My eldest daughter was born in this hospital. I knew most of the dead. One was my doctor.

The same week, a B52 went down on our base with half the flight command staff on board. My husband was on Search and Recovery when Fairchild AFB lost the BUFF. We distantly saw part of the crash from our front yard. We could see and smell the smoke from our house.

At our next base, we felt the shudder when the Alfred P. Murrah Fed Building was bombed in OKC.

Bosnia. Serbia. Yugoslavia. Israel. Palestine. Northern Ireland. Afghanistan.

I watched yesterday as the World Trade Center fell. As the Pentagon burned.

When is it supposed to get better?

I saw so much anger and hatred yesterday -- both directed, and aimless. After a few of the worst, I kept to reading posts from people that I knew to be, on the average, reasonable and intelligent instead of knee-jerk extremists.

Being an ex-military family -- DG was an instructor for Red Flag, the field hospital school -- as soon as the initial shock was over, he was on the phone, making calls, volunteering if needed. We're far away, but it's instinct. Many of my friends are either military, ex-military, or grew up in military families.

There's a saying about military spouses. If you think the soldiers are tough, look at the ones they leave behind.

We have to pull together. It's a pack instinct to the greatest degree. When one is hurt, we're all hurt and work together to solve it.

There's no other way to survive.

The skies are still silent today. There's not a cloud in the sky. The blue is rich, innocent, forgiving. There are no contrails. There is no roar of engines, no flashing of lights.

It remains an eerie silence.

Christ.

The building is GONE. The south tower has collapsed amid another explosion apparently.

All those lives .....

God.

The second tower has fallen. The World Trade Center is totally gone.

90-odd passengers/personnel on the planes. Thousands in the buildings.

Hundreds of police officers and firemen trying to rescue survivors.

The silence is deafening.

We live 5 minutes from the DFW airport. Airplanes -- and low ones, coming in on approach -- are a 24/7 fact of life.

There is nothing in the air right now but birds, and it is very, very quiet.

The local world has come to a screeching standstill. Things have changed forever, in a very dramatic way. The innocence, the shelter that we lived under is gone.

The grass is still green, children are still playing, and the skies are still blue.

They are also silent.

The innocence of the country is gone, wiped away in flaming moment after flaming, smouldering moment.

It is possible that we will never know the entirety of what has happened. We may never learn the names of all that have lost their lives today. Many of the missing will remain missing, with no body to grieve over, and only memory left in their place. Recovery can never be complete. There will always be guilt, horror, anger and grief.

So many lives lost.

The shoe, as they say, is on the other foot.

What has been Real Life for the rest of the world has now been made real for us as well. We've joined the victims of mass destruction, become the newest children of violence, become another statistic.

Will we cope as well as they have? Will we come together and go on?

Will anger win out? Revenge? 'Justice?'

The dying, I fear, is only beginning.

.....

Oh. My. God.

Kinda makes you think about that recent Infocom data seizure, doesn't it?

Fuck.

And with passengers on board.

I'm going to go throw up now.

Packrats Anonymous

DG went through the two HUGE moving boxes that he's stacked by the door to our bedroom for the last two years at last.

He found the grenade again. Go figure.

Oh, right, sorry, DG. A cluster bomb. My bad. At least it didn't roll out of a jacket pocket onto my foot in the closet like it did last time.

And your average issue chemical agent testing kit.

And about 3000 yards of sticky tape.

And a full set of restraints, including leg irons .... I'm considering offering them on EBay if Sorcha doesn't threaten me with death for getting rid of them.

Semi-full surgical tool/dissection kit, including the massive swab hemostats and scapels, and I'm sure there's suture kits around somewhere.

Ammo box or two. MREs that are God-only knows how old. Super Boy Scout Compass thing.

Things that I don't even want to try to identify.

"Honey, do we need .... "

"Honey, can you think of any reason to keep ....."

"Do we have any room for ...."

Dude. Packrat's Anonymous. Try it. Really.

Jabberjaws

Thing 2 is in a Mood. I blame my Momster entirely.

I let them outside to play when the sprinklers came on, despite the heat warning and the code red air quality alert. Sprinklers, man. Gotta do it.

They didn't want to come in of course.

Thing 2 is now "dressed" (with her still-wet swimsuit under the dress), insisting on riding the hot pink Barbie scooter around the living room. 'No' is some foreign language right now.

Red ropers. Denim dress. Dripping swimsuit. The Wet Look hair. Crocheted jewelry.

And she hasn't stopped jabbering since she woke up.

"Mama, when we woke in the hotel, they had my favorite cereal. CORNFLAKES. For real! Really! And milk, and cereal, and we got a bowl, and we came home and you painted our room so we can go outside and play sprinklers after eating cereal."

I think she's hungry.

Now she has cereal. And she's still talking. Spraying a fountain of Froot Loops everywhere. Duct tape wouldn't even stop it.

Last night she went and went and went till she literally passed out in the middle of the floor.

Today ... God help me.

---

Thing 1: "Wow, those trees are really dark. I bet there are wolves out there that would get me."

Me: "Nah, no wolves, but I'm sure there's a man-eating tree or two."

Thing 1: ::yowls, whines, whimpers -- giggling::

Thing 2: "Ooo, yeah. I wicked. I'll cast a spell and make the trees go eat Kailey. See, here's me casting a spell so they'll GET HER! Eat Kailey, trees!"

Thing 1: ::more yowling, no longer giggling::

Thing 2: "Oh chill OUT. I just teasing you!"

---

"Mamamamamamama, watch Dracuwa!!!"

"WHAT?"

"Mama, I wanna watch Dracuwa 2000."

I cave.

She's rooting for the vampires. She squealed and sniggered when the first robber dies.

"Mama, is Dracuwa gonna show up?"

"Yeah, eventually, hon."

"Good, cause he's COOL!"

She has a stuffed black cat she's named Salem.

She's wearing this burgundy and black choker. With her 'spell book.' And watching Dracuwa 2000. And singing.

Wednesday Addams ain't got nuthin on this kid.

What Colour is Estrogen?

I can tell you what colour mine isn't -- pussy power pink.

After staring at an entire wall of that colour, I decided that I had somehow failed a vital test in Grrlyness. Boy, was it pink. Really pink. Really bright pink. Really girly fun pink.

Wow. That is seriously ... seriously ... Pink. We're talking John Cougar "Pink Houses" - "Paint the mother piyunk!" pink.

Pink. Pink in ways that seriously threaten testosterone. Pink in ways that could make a little boy curl into a fetal ball and weep for his mother. "Usul, we have pink the likes of which God has never seen." "Houston, that's an affirmative, we have Pink!"

Pink. Nothing in nature comes in this shade. Well, there was that one spider, but it was his own fault for climbing back into an area I'd previously prepped, and that wasn't nature but Darwin at work.

Christ. I've been sucking down too many paint fumes.

A wall and a door are completed in Petunia Pink. A door is done in Cornflower. The side of the room that will be Cornflower hasn't been scrubbed and primed yet.

DG has pretended to scrub one wall, and moved some furniture. He sat around and watched me put the primer on one door and the wall earlier. I asked him why he was just sitting and watching.

"You didn't tell me I could do anything else."

Stare.

I suppose I asked for this. After all, I blindly decided to embark on a detailed home improvement project with a man whose entire idea of spring cleaning consists of shoveling all the piles on his desk onto the floor to be kicked around for the next year until it's time to relocate them again.

I consider standing over him with a paint stick and a scowl until he scrubs the wall right and primes it. I know this won't work. I have no idea what will work, but I do know that isn't it.

So I take a break, ponder why it seems like there's a big hairy pink caterpillar creeping its way across my face, and consider going back in there and finishing the work by myself.

Wow. Um, I didn't know caterpillars had that many eyes. Or feet. Or tentacles.

And every damn one of them is pink.

Alice, move over.

Painting With Cats

Using hot water to clean a metal-edged paintbrush means ... never having to feel the deep slices in your fingers until it's too late to realize you're being cut.

Ow.

I think I shall be writing a new list entitled: "How to Paint with the Assistance of Your Cats."


Get paint can ready. Find your work tray, and the can opener.

Steal can opener back from cat.

Open Can. Prepare to transfer paint.

Get cat out of paint can.

Get paint foot and nose prints off the furniture. Chase down and clean cat.

Pick up spilled gallon paint can. Find second cat.

And third cat.

Bathe. See instructions on how to bathe cat. Figure out how to get a gallon of paint out of a longhaired cat.

Shave cat.

Visit ER.

Tear out carpet that received the rest of the paint.

Get new paint, try again.

Have everything ready and in one place this time. Make sure opener is on a leash so cat can't steal it.

Open can, transfer paint.

Remove cat's paw from tray. Clean.

Get bandaids.

Finally get paint set up. Get chair.

Fight cats for chair.

Get new chair.

Start painting. Get cat out of paint tray.

Follow the trail of pawprints. Decide you didn't need carpet anyway, and the floor might as well be painted too.

Clean cat.

Return to painting. Pick three pounds of cat hair out of not-yet-dry paint.

Find cat. Clean. Get bandaids.

Decide to try a power system.

Shave cat, after scraping it off the ceiling.

Move.

Karma Chameleon

Parents left with the kids, DG and I started making plans.

We left the apartment to get food, then head out to pick up the paint and paint supplies for the Things bedroom. Give em a real surprise to come home to.

Only, when we got back to the car, it was Dead. Deceased. Not even a click.

Karma Point 1: I got AAA. We called for a tow truck that cost us nothing.

Karma Point 2: It wasn't HOT. The sun wasn't overhead, we were in shadow, and it was relatively comfortable.

Karma Point 3: We weren't in the middle of nowhere. In fact, we were on main street, right in front of an address and between two major cross-streets. Easy to find.

BIG Karma Point 4: No Things. The kids didn't have to wait in the heat or be bored or cranky.

So actually, DG and I didn't have a bad time at all while waiting.

Guy gets there, goes to try to jump the car and see if it's the battery. Well, it works. Briefly.

It was most definitely the battery. The heat had cracked the damn thing so that the terminal BROKE OFF.

Karma 5: We weren't moving when it snapped.

Well, what the heck. AAA tow drags us to WalMart. We get new battery, we go home.

Karma 6: We HAD the money to do it.

All right, so our battery blew up. This sounds like a bad point, right?

Newp. Surprisingly enough, neither that WalMart nor any in the area carried the right size and style. Had been out for a week or so. Apparently there's been a HUGE run on the things, and the factory can't keep up.

We weren't the only ones in there at that same exact time looking for the same battery, either.

So, they got one that worked with the car, did the work yadda yadda.

The only REAL problem with the entire thing was that the money used for the battery was the money intended to paint the kids' room. No idea what we're going to do now, but that's right out.

But we're all home, we're all safe, and the car works.

The battery was going to die anyway. We'd been having a few problems as it was. The moment that it chose to breathe its last was crucial.

Now, if I could just stop breaking my fingernails ....

Proof Pain is Mental

DG: (outside with Things) Heather? Why are you bleeding?

Thing 2: Bweeding? I not bweeding!

DG: Uh, yes you are.

Thing 2: I not bweeding. Hrmpfh.

DG: Look at your leg. You're bleeding. What did you do?

Thing 2: Bweeding? AAAAAHHHHHH!!! I'm bweeding! I'm dying! Daaaaadddddyyyyyy!

If I had a box just for wishes ...

Threw away a box of memories today.

Hadn't opened them since we moved here 3 years ago. Boxes were in the way. Screw it. Opened em up first, though. Got to remember, and say goodbye.

Trinkets from ex's, reminders of family best forgotten, broken items I fixed and refixed and could never part with before, little goofy inside jokes. Some hard reminders of hard times in a few.

I am an admitted packrat. Today, I stuffed the packrat in a box and sent her out with the trash.

In some ways, clutter can be comforting. My desk, my futon, my "living space" is surrounded by bookshelves stuffed to overflow. Little gadgets and gizmos inclined to promote thought and creativity. Comfort. My cave.

Three large boxes.

And I feel more accomplished than melancholy over the loss. I hadn't opened the boxes in three years. They were distant memories. In all, there were very few that I decided I could not live without.

It's progress. But there are still more boxes ahead.

Maybe one of these days, I'll get to those skeletons in the closet, and banish them for good.

Katie KaBoom

There is a tantrum of Biblical Proportions going on in the Thing's bedroom.

I've not heard NO this much since either of them first learned the word as a baby.

Dogs miles away are cowering and howling in pain.

Linda Blair just called with the number for her exorcist.

Glass is shattering. My ears are bleeding.

It's gone from mere tantrum to Academy Award performance.

And now they're both crying. And screaming. And howling.

Warning, Houston. Situation approaching Critical Mass. Evacuate, evacuate. Proceed to the nearest exits by any means necessary. Run for your lives.

If you think I'm going to wade into the middle of it, you're crazy.

Looking for a bomb shelter, humming "Katie KaBOOM" .....

.... and this one isn't even a teenager yet.

Posting on the net...

... anywhere there will ever be an audience larger than one.

1) Debate the issue, not the poster.

2) Never point out that someone is debating the poster instead, for this maketh you a target.

3) Read. Write. Re-read. Re-read. Repeat. THEN post.

4) When posting on a controversial subject, expect someone to disagree.

5) When someone disagrees, do not immediately take it as a personal attack. They are disagreeing with your idea, with your opinion, your fact. They do not automatically think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves (or given to Morax for his birthday, whatever). Even if the poster DOES think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves, disagreeing with you is not always a personal attack.

6) See Point 1.

7) See Point 2.

8) Wear asbestos underwear.

9) Be open. Be honest. If you're making a personal attack, good God, say so. Don't mince words. Be specific. Be brutal. Get it over with. Then delete it and act like an adult. Walk away, or post something that adheres to Point 1.

10) Realize when the Horse Is Dead.

11) When dealing with a Repeat Offender ... don't. You're just asking for it, and deserve what you get. Be realistic.

12) Know when to give up and walk away. Most of the time, they won't even notice you've left the thread until there's no one left to bite.

13) "My uncle's sister's cousin's brother's friend that knows a guy that lived next door to someone that saw it happen" is a Non-Answer, and does not deserve a response. Should you feel the need to respond, feel free to do so in kind. After all, your "father's uncle's grandmother's cousin that once went out with the guy that lived next door to the other guy" is just as much of an expert in the field.

14) See Point 10.

15) When you start taking yourself too seriously, keep in mind that there's at least one other person in the world that doesn't take you seriously at all. Take it as a hint. P.T. Barnum was right. So was Darwin. Think about it.

16) See me? This is me walking away. Practice it a few times yourself. Make it your friend.

I'm walking away now .......

Stray Thoughts

... One size does NOT fit all.

(Bonus brownies for anyone else that remembers it)

Thing 2 is pretending to throw up into a Halloween bucket. She's going to make it happen at this rate.

I don't think I'll ever buy a desktop computer again. Laptop is the only way for me.

My monster gets here tomorrow. The house looks like a bomb was dropped on it, and the kids won't help. Will Not. I'm trying to use the presents the monster is bringing as a bribe for them to work. Ain't helping.

I still want a Chia Penis.

There is an awful ache crawling down the back of my neck from my skull. This is the headache only Zebutal could handle, only, my doc won't give me any meds. Grr.

Clover, Green Grass, and Tomato Vine ... heady, rich, earthy, and I don't have to scald myself in the sun to enjoy them.

I should have practiced shouting the names of the Things before we named them. I'm getting really tired of hearing them repeated time after time.

If you're lost you can look and you will find it ......

I want to be held. I want to be enveloped in strong loving arms and told that it's going to be all right. I want someone to make me believe it. I don't want to face this alone anymore.

My monster is coming. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. I'm already stuttering, I'm already a child again, I'm already crawling into my shell, quiet and lost and fearful. I just want her to go away.

My grandparents are dying by the day, and now my monster expects me to support her in facing it.

Rich and spicy, a sting at the nose. Tomato Vine. God, I love this smell. Makes me remember itchies from picking okra and squash, the buzz of locusts and the sweettart bite of berries straight from the vines, thorns in my fingers and all.

Chocolate Cream Oreos. I like them better, not as sweet. I can eat the whole thing, instead of just parts. Amy thinks I'm a heathen for picking the chocolate ones.

I don't really like Chocolate Fudge PopTarts.

I can see regular Oreo shells discarded all over the living room. DG must have left them where Thing 2 could reach the cookie bag. Damn.

I miss my friends. I miss having friends around me. I miss the physical social interaction. I miss going places and doing things with them.

I'm lonely.

I don't want to be a mother. Where did I go wrong? Where did I NOT go wrong?

Bring me the hockey stick. It's Butt Season.

I'm still lonely.

Warning: Curves Ahead

Perhaps instead the warning should read, "No Curves Allowed."

Those of a delicate nature would be advised to skip over this. I feel a rant coming on, sing it sister, hallelujia.

Bras.

I'll wait for the booing and hissing to die down.

Bras. There's that ugly word again. When you're my size, you can't go without one. I'm a Very Big Girl. Most of it is in my chest. I'm a 40-42 J cup. Big Girl.

Circus Freak big. I'm a monster.

No? You disagree?

Go shopping. Search the net. Search your local malls.

Find me ONE bra that is less than $30.00. Find me a GOOD one that's less than $40.00.

I'll be here waiting when you've finally given up in frustration and want to strangle someone. See, I'm already at that point.

A smaller woman can walk into Walmart and walk out, spending 30 bucks and carrying away 2-4 bras. I can't get one for that.

I have fibromyalgia. I can't wear underwires. I bruise. I blister. It's very unpleasant. Go ahead, find a soft cup bra big enough to fit me that's affordable. Find me a sleep bra, or a sports bra that will actually fit.

Forget it.

It's worse because my breasts are way too large, and the rest of me is much smaller. If I wore a 50 something band size, I'd be easier to fit.

I'm frustrated. I'm annoyed. I'm depressed. I want to be comfortable, dammit, and not have my kids starve to death because I dared to buy a new bra.

My last "new" bra is over 4 years old. I've bought a few since, and they never fit right. All too small. I was desperate. I won't waste the money again. I'm tired of maybes and almosts and not quites.

I want a bra that fits, dammit, and I don't want to have to sell a limb to get it.

Once Upon a Starry Night

... there was a lonely, scrawny, fey little thing that had a penchant for getting "lost." Oh, she knew where she was, but no one else was ever able to find her when she had to get away. There were legends about her ability to vanish, jokes about the fey creature's ability to teleport, even when being watched. I'm still reminded of these legends, every blue moon.

One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.

Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.

The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.

This night, she was alone.

The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.

I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.

Blank Pages

Tell a simple machine that '2+2=4', and the machine will log it away in memory, and from that point forward, '2+2 will always =4' until such time as new stimuli is added.

Tell a sentient organism that '2+2=4', and he will ask you 'why'?

The day that your computer begins to ask you 'why' upon receiving new data is the day you've lost your position. Welcome to the world, little brother. You're now an AI.

Stimuli. It all revolves around stimuli. It's how we learn. Kept in a blank, dark box, no contact with anyone or anything, even a sentient organism cannot learn. There must be some sort of data input for learning to take place.

As a programmer, you are the stimuli, the computer the student. The moment the machine learns to ask 'why', the situation is reversed. Until then, the computer is like a blank page of paper, capable only of receiving stimuli and input, then reacting accordingly. Paper can process just as well as a computer, because they're both dependant on the mind of the one utilizing them.

The blank page theory is also dependant on yet other stimuli, yet another series of 'whys'. 'Why' is the programmer telling the machine to perform this function, 'why' is the writer committing these words to paper, 'why' is the artist turning the blank space into a canvas. A simple machine accepts the change without question. A blank page accepts the change without question. They're incapable of being stimuli directly, in most cases.

There are precious few in the world that embrace stimuli in every bit of creation. These are the few that see every blank page, every virgin expanse of paper as a challenge to be met. The space must be filled. How few? Try this.

Find a relatively busy sidewalk, outside of a business is perfect. You will require several sheets of blank white paper (spares in case, trust me on this). A bit of sticky tape is a bonus, so that the page remains where it is, without being subject to wind and human motion.

Set the page on the ground. Step away. Leave it alone. Sit back and watch.

Count twenty organics that pass by. You won't need any more than that.

See how they react to that page. Watch just how many completely ignore its presence. These are the cases where you might have to switch the page out. Footprints negate the experiment, since the page is no longer blank.

Who tries to pick it up and see what it says? Who tries to just throw away the trash? Who, if anyone, tries to make some use of it?

Do you want to be disappointed now and be told just how many of your subjects will show no reaction to the page whatsoever?

It's simply a page. It has no 'why'.

Sometimes, I feel like that blank page.

Acute Viral Gastroenterits. Tummy Flu. Whee.

I'm still not back in my own skin. This is a really unpleasant and creepy feeling. College and late high school were very very good to me ... I had my fair share of drug use. I NEVER felt like this. Not good.

4 baths, 3 changes of sleeping venue, at least 3 changes of sleeping clothes (including the total loss of them at one point), and I still can't comfortably sit still. Replace sit with a number of other words, like sleep/stand/slouch/lay down, etc, and you get the picture.

First shot they put in my IV was a painkiller. I still don't understand this one. The majority of pain was from the massive stomach upheaval when some group of collective dumbasses brought huge smelly bads of Wendy's food into the ER waiting room. I should have upchucked on them. Then, from the doc poking around on me.

Of course, at least it did help with all the multiple BPs they took. I've got blood blisters from the damn cuff. Why the fuck do they always insist on slapping a cuff on the arm that had the surgery? I am SO sensitive. Assholes.

IV. Three x-rays. Urine sample (which is just always fucking fun when you're dehydrated). Blood tests, which he took through the heplock -- and then wondered why it was going so damn slow. Shoulda barfed on him, too. Oh, and buddy? "As little adhesive as possible because I'm allergic to it" does NOT mean "lets wrap tape all the way around her wrist for the IV tubing." Asshole. The nurse that took it out had to cut the stuff off me.

I only know one of the three things they shot into my IV along with the saline, and that was the standard Phenergan that I had to ASK for -- I'm barfing, HELLO -- but they happily shot me up with a painkiller that is still totally fucking with me over 12 hours later.

I don't feel good.

Okay, I'm not technicolour power yarking anymore ... but the dizzy out of body thing I've got going on is far worse in many many ways.

Ptooey.

Theowho?

I don't know what I am. Eclectic Catholic, perhaps. I've touched the Other World, so to speak. There is No One Truth. My faith is a wide and generously forgiving creature, touching points of knowledge from everything I've absorbed and incorporating it into something distinctly my own.

I still wear a little gold cross. It's hanging not all that far from the pentacle tattooed on my hip, or the Eye of Horus that will eventually be on my lower back and part of a larger blended vision of combined Faith.

I believe in Free Will, only to the extent that we are allowed to make certain choices within the threads of our pattern. The keystones, the laylines, the basic warp of our lives, our Destiny, is pre-ordained. The weft in between is where we're allowed to make the most of how our Fate is woven.

Too much "wrong" can happen to those using Free Will to the very best extremes for any other course of belief. If Free Will was so effective, then logicially speaking, the life of that Good Child would always flow along the same comfortable lines of Will.

But Bad Things happen. No matter what choices we make, there's always what seems to be a "wild card" thrown in that tosses our lives out of our chosen path. It's no wild card, it's Fate, and it's guiding back towards the path Destiny intended.

Fate, you see, is not a fickle mistress. Fate is true balance. There is neither good, nor evil, nor right or wrong. The Wheel spins equally, and the Fate of one is balanced by the Fate of another. Fate chooses without bias, through that single half-blind eye that the Sisters of one mythology share.

It's the turn of a card, the fair lot drawn while another gains the short straw. Someone must win, someone must lose. Life works that way. There can never be one extreme without the other.

In the end, everything balances out.

In perspective, it may seem unfair. Cast your lot beside that of another, and see how he feels. Or another. Or another. Tally up the good and bad amongst you, the life of total hardship of one to the fairy tale life of another.

Black and White become Grey.