Archive for April, 2008

Most people watch TV; I tend to watch commercials.  In particular, I watch a lot of soap commercials. Not because I have a ‘thing’ for soap, but because that’s usually what the networks force on me. 

It dawned on me last night — soap hardly ever comes in your basic white color. There’s pink soap, gold soap, green, and even blue.  So, how come is it that the lather they workup on TV always comes out white? Where does the color go? 


The commercial for ClearBlue Pregnancy Test; the one that claims they have “the most sophisticated piece of technology you’ll ever pee on”.

Eeeww!  That’s totally disgusting.  Maybe I’m a prude, but that commercial truly offends me.  Especially the part with the very graphic stream of “urine” raining down on their sophisticated piece of technology.


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We found the house.  This is a perfect house for us.  True, it has more square footage (nearly 5,000) than we need, but it meanders, which is exactly what I’ve been looking for.  It’s okay for beauhunk who goes to work every day and gets out of the house and into a different environment; but for me, who stays at home and rarely leaves the house because of the damned agoraphobia, I need a house that provides variety.  This house is still under construction, but even so you could tell that it is going to turn out magnificent.  I want this house.  The problem now is that we need to sell our current house before we can buy the new one.  I worried that someone else would come along and snatch it before we got the chance to put a contract on it, but then I got to thinking… all I need to do is buy a lot, and get that builder to build us a house just like this one.  Brilliant, no?  I’m excited.  Maybe we can be in either this house or a new one no later than January 2009.  God, I hope so!

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My friends and I were out back having lunch, having a grand time, until one of my friends, who happens to be black, brought up the old movie Amistad.

“You know,” she said in conversation, “all the trouble started when the whites first bought our people into slavery.” 

“I don’t think so,” my other friend replied.  “All the trouble started when the African people started selling off their prisoners as slaves to the whites.” 

I didn’t say anything.  I can’t stand conversations like that.  And why my two friends choose to get into a debate over “whose fault it was,” is beyond me. 

My white friend was not there to buy anyone, and my black friend was not there to be bought.  Neither were their respective parents, or their respective parents’ parents. 

Me thinks these two people just like to argue and quibble about anything having to do with history, but you’d think they could have picked a better topic; their chosen one served nothing except to get into a heavy duty argument that could not be resolved or agreed upon.  These two, they haven’t very much to do, and with so much time on their hands, that they have to dig into the lives of four generations back or so, for some juicy stuff to argue over. 

I didn’t say anything, of course.  But I wanted to shout:  WHO CARES?  Quit the quibbling!  I’m so tired of all the militant shit.  And I’m so tired of all the arrogant  defense. 

I thought I had two friends.  Turns out I have a slave and a merchant.  Geez.

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I’d like to take a few moments to talk about something that while on the surface may appear trivial, it is actually important to me.  The raspberry.  You know the one I’m talking about… the  Pfffffftt !!!!!  one.  I’m sure you’ve all had cause to use it at one time or another throughout your life.  I’ve had plenty of  chances to do so, but never have because for some reason, my tongue, teeth, or whatever the heck one uses to execute the raspberry, just doesn’t work for me.  I’ve tried, but can’t.  I’ve had to resort to extraordinary and imaginative uses of the English language, some pretty bizarre gesturing, and some pretty piss poor excuses for insults whenever I’ve been that angry.  Which is often these days. 

I can’t begin to tell you  how many times I’ve wished I could give somebody one.  How many times people,  places, things (do insects count?) have annoyed me to no end.   You can’t begin to imagine the godawful things that have sprung to my mind in retaliation, when I’ve been trod upon, pointed the finger at, pulled in 15 gazillion directions, made to do things I didn’t want to do, and made to compromise when I didn’t feel like it. 

Well, I’m here to tell you NO MORE.  Because, little ole me, while still not able to effectuate the raspberry sound, has learned to SPELL it. 

Yes, that’s right.  Watch out world, because I now can give it right back to you.  If you don’t believe me, go ahead…. cross the proverbial line.  I’m ready for you.  And to all of you who rightfully deserve this from me… Here ya go…
Pffffffffftttttttttt !!!!!!!
Ain’t life grand?

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The Drama Queen, DQ for short, just doesn’t get it.  I love my grandchild, but let’s face it, there’s a reason why women can’t have children after a certain age.  I don’t have the energy it takes to keep up with an extremely inquisitive, hyperactive, almost 2-year old boy.  He runs me ragged.  He runs me into the ground.  He’s always into something he shouldn’t be into, and when I “gently” try to divert him, he throws himself on the ground and cries as if I’ve beat him with a switch from the nearest tree.

So I say to the Drama Queen, “Don’t you think Zee should be in day care?” She looks at me funny like I’ve grown horns or something.  “Maybe not 5 days a week,” I continue “maybe just 2 or 3 days.  You know, to give me a break?”

At this point DQ starts freaking.  “You could have warned me, Mom!  How am I supposed to get care for Zee at such short notice?  I’ll have to quit work.  I’ll get fired!  I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”  Oi.

I’ve been taking care of Zee since he was born because DQ was ill right after giving birth; and my thoughts on raising grandchildren are thus:  There’s no doubt we all love our grandchildren and love to watch them or have them over periodically; even when that time is an entire week or even a whole month if we don’t see them much throughout the year.  However, when you have them on a daily basis for 10 to 12 hours a day and then sometimes the weekends too, it’s a bit much.  You find yourself pulling out your hair, biting your nails, and looking to God for strength at least 8 out of those 10 to 12 hours.  You end up bitching to your husband or anyone else who will listen about how worn out you are, how you’re being taken advantage of, yada yada.

The DQ and her husband went to New Mexico on a four day weekend because the husband had a gig there.  Zee didn’t stay with me (thank the good Lord!) and instead stayed with his other grandmother (who, by the way, never sees him).  Coming off that four day weekend only served to make me realize just how important my own time and life are.  And… missing your grandchildren is a damned good thing.

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A So-So Week

That stupid builder from Stone Ranch never got back with us in time, so we weren’t able to go look at houses this weekend.  We did contact a realtor who will go with us next weekend.  Our standards have had to come down a bit because apparently builders built so many houses that they are now having a difficult time getting rid of them.  Therefore, nobody is interested in building us a home.  We’ve decided that we’ll take a standing one, and maybe we can get close enough to what we want that we will be able to make the last modifications to floor plan, etc. ourselves.  Shit, me may even have to go to a one story which will really depress me.  I hate one story houses.  Too monotnous for me.

On The Sims Front. . .

My neighborhood is becoming a bit congested.  In the London household alone, I had 8 Sims and a pregnant one at that.  I thought since Brandi was so close to dying, that the pregnancy was allowed by the game, but Brandi is still here and so is the new baby making a household total of 9.  The game only allows you 8 per household.  Hmm.  I’m not complaining, I’ve always thought the 8 Sim limit was stupid, especially if your system could withstand more.

On The Pogo Front. . .

I hit 23 million today, woohoo!

I really, really need a life.

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But I don’t.  A couple of weeks ago I got word that the man who happens to be my biological father is dying.  I suppose my brothers will be angry if I don’t go to this final get together the family is planning for next month; but the truth is, I can’t go without calling myself a hypocrite.  I can’t stand the man.  He has never been a father to me so why should I start being a daughter at this late stage of the game?  In my 54 years of living, I have never received a birthday card from him, not even a happy birthday phone call.  To write about all the wrongs he has committed against me would take up an entire book.

No, quite frankly, I want him gone.  I want him away from me and from my life.  Completely.  I don’t want to be related to him and I hate the fact that we are.  Serge thinks I should go and “talk” to him; that this will be my last chance to set things right.  Excuse me?  ME set things right?!  He’s got to be kidding.  Even if I did as Serge asks, would it make me feel better if the man apologized (ha!) or acknowledged his many sins against us?  Not hardly.  It’s really too late now, and he can’t undo a lifetime of hating him and resenting his very existence.

I know, I know.  I need to learn to let go.  Me.  Not him.  Because this is about me — about my life, and how I allowed him to destroy it.  Or at least that part of it anyway.  I’d like to wish him well, wherever he’s going — but I can’t.  I just can’t.  What I really want is not to feel anything at all, either way.  So, will I attend his funeral or his goodbye party?  I don’t want to.  What for?  It would mean my acknowledgement that he is my parent, and I can’t stomach that.  I do want to let go of my anger, though.  I should have done so ages ago.  But people tend to hope, and I’m no different.  I hoped my life away and now all I have is anger.  In a way, I’m not sure I can let go of the anger because there may not be anything else there except a great big void.  Am I making any sense?

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