The Mother Fucker Disease

I am dying here, people. DYING! I mean, not literally, but just call me Supah Bitch, because my hormones are on overdrive and I am eating every high-fat, high-sodium, high-sugar thing in sight. I feel like Jabba the Hutt. The temptation to consume a giant slug and throw Luke Skywalker in a dungeon with my pet rancor grows by the minute.

A few years ago, after some extensive bloodwork, my OB/GYN discovered I possess a rare blood condition called MTHFR. The verbose medical name for MTHFR is
Methylenetetrahydofolate Reductase. Apparently MTHFR mutations are fairly common within one gene site, but I have a double mutation of the enzyme MTHFR. What does this mean? Well, basically, I have a tendency to suffer from blood clots, so I am supposed to choke down one baby aspirin and one high folic acid supplement per day. (And so help me GOD, some day I will remember to do it!) Oh! And I can't take hormones; therefore, I am not allowed to take birth control pills.

Herein lies the genesis of my out of control junk food binges. The restriction of hormone therapy has morphed me into Supah Bitch. Supposedly, birth control pills (ie, hormones) will kill me. Considering that death is the alternative to Super Bitchiness, I briefly considered the risk worth it . . . because stuffing my face with chips, salsa, chocolate, and ice cream, all in one sitting, and then screaming at the wall because it dared to move and hit me (yeah, I'm clumsy) really fucking sucks.

But. Death? Eh. Maybe not. So I'll keep moseying thru these few days of the month when Hormonal Jabba raises her ugly fist in protest.

Out of sheer sympathy, the Doc prescribed Serafem for me - it is supposed to take the edge off during my Bitchy Days. Did you know that Serafem is actually Pro-Fucking-Zac in disguise? Well. It is. And it doesn't do a goddamn thing for me. I'm BITCHY, not DEPRESSED.

Anyhoo, I feel that the acronym for Methylenetetrahydofolate Reductase could not be more appropriate. MTHFR = MoTHerFuckeR.

Poifect. Now excuse me while I clean out the remaining 30,000 calories from the pantry and gnash my teeth for an hour.

Reconnecting

Never thought I'd say this, but God Bless Facebook!

When my beautiful and super talented friend Laura told me last year that we should both sign up for Facebook I wasn't sure what to think. Digital networking? Is it worth my time? Strangely enough, Facebook morphed into a communication line to my past, so yes, it has been worth my time. First, I reconnected with tons of folks from my college days. Then I rediscovered my high school amigos. And then the best shock of all: I found my childhood friend, Shar.

Shar and I grew up on the same dusty, pothole-ridden street in rural Oklahoma. Shar and I share birthdays a few weeks apart, possess similar names, and as children we closely resembled each other in looks, size and temperament. Shar's mom, JoAnn, babysat me on the rare occasion when my Ma trounced off on a do-gooder Jesus mission. I vividly recall being with JoAnn and Shar one fine day and peering up at an old lady that commented, "How nice. You two must be sisters!" to which I promptly responded, "Nah. We're just twins."

The last time I saw Shar was in 1988 at an ice cream shop. Then, lo and behold, I found her on Facebook! And the coolest part? Shar only lives 1 1/2 hours from me. So we've been meeting up lately to hang - our kids are close in age and get along famously.

Shar has had an amazing time during our 21 year separation. She married a gem of a guy, J, and lived in South Korea for 4 years. Shar is incredibly intelligent and a fantastic cook. Talking with her is like opening an exciting book - her brain is chock full of interesting topics, fresh foods, awesome Okie tornado stories, fabulous earthy concepts, and karmic yoga beauty. In short? I love Shar and I am thrilled we found each other again!

J, Shar's husband, relayed a hysterical story to us this past weekend and I tagged it for the blog. He shrugged his assent, so I am hijacking his story below:

J has a wacky aunt who happens to be convinced that she is fluent in Spanish. J's aunt has been married five times. At one point, the unlucky bastard occupying her open husband position was a Peruvian man (Green Card Marriage Alert!) At a family event, J's aunt flitted around, informing the family about her strong Spanish communication skills, until her husband du jour let it be known that he couldn't find his camera. I guess he used sign language to share this information with the family, since he didn't speak English well. After some back and forth broken discussion, J's aunt swooped into the middle of the discussion, turned to her Peruvian husband and explained to him the location of his lost camera. This is an excerpt of her "Spanish."

"Your-o camera-o is in the car-o."

Her husband stared at her indignantly, clearly-o not-o understanding-o her-o awesome-o Spanish-o skills-o. Finally, J's mom jumped in the fray and said quietly, "Your camera is in the car." And the poor Peruvian husband said, "Thanks," and walked to the car to retrieve the camera.

Heh. That's-o funny.

Can't wait to spend more time-o with Shar!

Shiner Haiku

In honor of the birth of our nation, I've decided to wax eloquent about my favorite beer: Shiner Bock.

What do beer and the 4th of July have in common, you ask? HELLO! What do they NOT have in common? What is the #1 American beverage of choice at 4th of July picnics? BEER. What is a commonly available liquid that creates a euphoric feeling of freedom and celebration when consumed? BEER. What is worth defending with your life, even if you must wreak havoc and bloody carnage all over the damn earth? B-E-E-R, my friends. A little thing I like to call beer. And the best beer in the universe is Shiner Bock. Case closed. Move along.

The wee town of Shiner, Texas, is the home to Spoetzl Brewing Co., the proud creators of Shiner Bock. Because Shiner is made in Texas and not, say, Pennsylvania, it is considered an import north of the Mason Dixon Line and that royally fucking sucks. Supposedly, Shiner is sold in my Keystone State, but I have yet to unearth a vendor that carries it and believe me, I have searched far and wide.

So, I simply snatch up a case every time I hop over to Baltimore.

I've plowed through two full cases in the last two months. Rock on.

I've always found the art of poetry to be the utmost example of reverence; therefore, I shall bestow some lines of Haiku upon my beloved Shiner. Enjoy! And tip one skyward for me on Saturday, will you?

oh Shiner my love

amber liquid so divine

you make me burp loud

Shiner dear Shiner

how my state yearns to sell you

aloof is not cool

Mason Dixon BAH!

import truly you are not

join the sweet Yankees

dammit Shiner Bock

without you I am nothing

bubbles of glory

respect is given

hair washed in beer shines brightly

wine and liquor suck

"Born On" dates so gay

Shiner born now dies NEVER

eat that Budweiser

Going Out on a Ledge

My "this freaks me the fuck out" category contains random, sundry items such as spiders, fake hair, and Nancy Pelosi's weird ass smile.

Allow me the pleasure of introducing a new item . . . Chicago's famed Sears Tower and its new feature: The Ledge. Via WGN news online:

"The inspiration for The Ledge came from hundreds of forehead prints visitors left behind on Skydeck windows every week," according to a fact sheet from the Sears Tower.

Shit-your-pants-frighteningly scary, no?

I know the real story behind this acrophobia-flogging contraption. Some Windex-wielding Grammy Janitor (toddling around on her swollen, elephantitis ankles at 3AM, scratching her facial moles and hissing to herself about those DAMN tourists and their DAMN greasy foreheads and their DAMN determination to break her blessed back) decided to create a stink with her union, the union contacted the ACLU, the ACLU threatened to sue the owners of Sears tower if they didn't start handing out mandatory facial oil blotter papers to the tower visitors, and the Sears tower owners threw up their collective hands in disgust and said, "FUCK IT! We'll build a skywalk so Grammy Janitor will be happy!"

I ain't kiddin'. Guar-damn-tee-ya that's what happened.

This is a sad, sad day. Farrah is dead.

This is not a tongue in cheek post, nor is it meant to be sarcastic. I am truly sorry that Farrah Fawcett died today. I am positively despondent that she had to endure the pain of cancer.

Considering how Farrah was bigger than life, I always figured the brightest angel of Charlie's trio would go out with a bang . . . like, maybe, in a spectacular car crash that involved a sheer 300 foot cliff drop and a shiny Jaguar convertible. Or, maybe, she'd dive off a bridge in her undies to thoughtfully save a drowning infant, with the current carrying her away in a blaze of glory. But never once did I imagine beautiful, blond, sexy Farrah Fawcett wasting away with cancer. It is heartbreaking.

She was a Texan goddess and loved her Daddy fiercely - two qualities that put her on DG's A-OK list.

This is how I choose to remember her:

God. She was stunning. Look at those teeth! That hair! That body!

I soooooo wanted to be Farrah Fawcett when I was a child in the 70s. (Um. Wouldn't have minded being her in the 80s or 90s, either.) I begged my strict parents to let me watch Charlie's Angels (they said NO - pure corruption and titillation!) (So I snuck over to Tiffany's house to watch it.) Can you blame me? Look. At. Her. Hair.

Tousled flippin' perfection.

You will be missed, Farrah.

Teeth Trials

Previously, I blogged about my oldest son, Carter, and his tempestuous relationship with his teeth. In November 2007, he lost his first tooth, but not without a helping hand from the dentist. That sucker did not want emancipated from my son's gums. A lil' Novocaine and the twist of a mouth wrench and it was free! As was the $100 from my wallet.


Before that toothscapade, my younger son, Zachary, experienced a tooth-venture of his own. When he was just a wee tot, and quite wobbly on his tootsies, he cruised around the ancient wooden coffee table in my living room and fell squarely into the corner of it, efficiently clipping his bottom two middle teeth (which happened to be the ONLY teeth in his head) inward, so that he resembled an upside down beaver. I gently pulled the bleeding chompers forward until they were vertical again, and then crossed my fingers and prayed to the Tooth Fairy (henceforth known as the Fuckin' Tooth Bitch, because it is obvious she hates my children.)



Sees-toh is a Dental Hygienist by day, Martha Stewart by night. I frantically dialed her that day and she told me some very interesting facts about baby teeth. For instance, did you know that if a child knocks a baby tooth out of his mouth completely, you can soak the baby tooth in milk to keep it fresh, and then rush the baby to the dentist? AND, that the dentist will then take said milk-soaked baby tooth and shove it back into the hole in your child's mouth?


Being the practical person that I am, I decided that should either of my children choose to have an unfortunate meeting between their baby teeth and a solid object, I would do the shoving of the tooth in the mouth myself and save a few bucks at the dentist. Naturally, I chuckled to myself as I made this decision, because, really, how likely was it that either of my kids would have any more tooth related accidents?


Sadly, I must report that it is very fucking likely.


After Zakky slammed into the coffee table and knocked his two bottom middle teeth horizontal (and I raised them back properly vertical, by hand), being the meticulous boy that he is, he decided to grow a pair of matching top middle teeth, and then chose to climb upon a (very dusty) exercise bike and FALL FACE FORWARD into it, thereby knocking the top set of pearly whites inward, again causing himself to resemble a very bloody, unhappy beaver.


Being well seasoned in the Rehabilitation of Baby Teeth, I carefully pulled them forward, amidst much screaming and sobbing.


To date, all of those abused teeth are still alive and kickin'. Sometimes, the blunt force trauma is too much for the baby root, and even though the teeth are repositioned in the mouth, the root dies and the tooth turns blue. They're all white, as of today.


But the Fuckin' Tooth Bitch has not smiled upon us. Oh no! For the previous tale of woe only covered the Teeth Trials of one son. Now we must move on to Tooth Killer The Elder.


So, like I said at the start of this stupid post, Carter's first loose tooth was removed professionally. That pisser just did NOT want to come loose. Fast forward several months, and Carter finally lost several more baby teeth, and several more permanent teeth popped gleefully through his gums and found a happy home in his mouth.


One day last summer, as Carter zoomed around on his scooter, one of those teeth met a tragic end. My son sped straight into the front concrete steps and chipped one of his bottom middle teeth in two.


Blood everywhere. Tooth bits tossed about the front porch. Wailing, screaming, crying, and gnashing of unbroken teeth. It was ugly.


I carted his ass to the dentist, who quickly bonded something or other to his jagged tooth, and voila! the little sucker looked like new! I waggled my finger in Carter's face and lectured him about safety and caution and how damn expensive fake teeth are. And a year passed with no one in our home suffering from mouth injuries.


Until this weekend.


Cap'n Recovery calmly plodded inside on Thursday evening with a piece of something white and jagged in his hand. I'm all, WTF? And he's all, It's Carter's tooth. And I'm all, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!!! And then I realized my Super Christian Parents are visiting and I'd better clean up the language or my mamma's hand was going to meet my face in a slightly unfriendly way.


Apparently, Carter endured yet another scooter spill . . . only this time, the BACK of his head hit the pavement. Not the front. So, I guess he must have clenched his teeth so hard upon impact that his FRONT TWO MIDDLE TEETH CRACKED AND SPLIT OPEN.


Can you effing believe this shit?


He actually wasn't in much pain. At least, his teeth weren't. A giant goose egg popped up on his head, and we applied boo boo cubes (translation: ice) to it.


And verily, the swelling subsided, and we still drove up to Niagara Falls for the weekend. I'll post pics on that later, but let me just say that Niagara Falls = AWESOME. The city of Niagara Falls, NY, sucks wind (except the casino) but the literal falls are a wonder to behold. Nature in all her glory and whatnot.


Here is a shot of Mr. Magoo's slanted front teeth.





The theme from Deliverance still applies to this kid. I need to buy him a fucking banjo.

Just got back from the dentist, and $505 later, Carter's smile looks brand new. Booyah.

Incidentally, I also purchased a MOUTH GUARD at Target. From this day forward, if he is on the scooter, that piece of plastic had better be shoved in his mouth.

People Egregiously Thwarting Acumen - PETA

I realize that I am not President Obama's numero uno fan, but COME ON . . .

Via the AP:

The group People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals wants the flyswatter in
chief to try taking a more humane attitude the next time he's bedeviled by a fly
in the White House.

PETA is sending President Barack Obama a Katcha Bug
Humane Bug Catcher, a device that allows users to trap a house fly and then
release it outside.

"We support compassion even for the most curious,
smallest and least sympathetic animals," PETA spokesman Bruce Friedrich said
Wednesday. "We believe that people, where they can be compassionate, should be,
for all animals."

During an interview for CNBC at the White House on
Tuesday, a fly intruded on Obama's conversation with correspondent John Harwood.

"Get out of here," the president told the pesky insect. When it didn't,
he waited for the fly to settle, put his hand up and then smacked it dead.

"Now, where were we?" Obama asked Harwood. Then he added: "That was
pretty impressive, wasn't it? I got the sucker."

Friedrich said that
PETA was pleased with Obama's voting record in the Senate on behalf of animal
rights and noted that he has been outspoken against animal abuses.

Still, "swatting a fly on TV indicates he's not perfect," Friedrich
said, "and we're happy to say that we wish he hadn't."

Deputy press
secretary Josh Earnest said the White House has no comment on the matter.

Christ on a cucumber. A Katcha Bug Humane Bug Catcher? REALLY? Listen, PETA-turds, the only thing that could have made that brief, shining, moment of perfection (the first of Obama's presidency, mind you) any better, would have been if he had whipped out a flyswatter the size of Texas and smashed the motherfucker right onto the CNBC camera lens, leaving behind a gooey, squashy mess of guts.

Swatting a fly on TV indicates he's not perfect? Hum. I can think of about 1,000 things that render him short of perfection, and oddly enough, swatting a fly doesn't quite make my list.

Dumbfucks.

Jolly Good! Cheerio!

Unlike many of my friends, I am not much of a world traveler. I can count the foreign countries that have been graced with my presence quite easily: England, Japan, Mexico, Bermuda, and Canada (shut up!) (Toronto is totally across the border - and I've visited multiple times and even went to Nova Scotia, so suck it Technicality Police!)

Having already reminisced about my affection for Japanese potties and desiring to completely forget my Mexican trip (thanks to a vicious bout of Montezuma's Revenge), I shall delve into my pock-marked memory to conjure up images of my 1990 foray into all things Anglophile, because, trust me, the folks I journeyed with to Merry Olde England most definitely fit that bill.

While a Junior in college and an English major to boot, I signed up for a trip across the pond with a group of like-minded literary buffs. Our main goal was to submerge ourselves in Chaucer, Keats, Shakespeare, and a pile of other British geniuses.

Over-scheduled to the hilt, we criss-crossed the dripping English countryside, visited an ancient monastery-cum-medieval-times-type dinner theatre (wherein I drank every drop of meade I could get my hands on - the prudish group I traveled with were tee-totalers, except for my pal, M, and me), gaped at Stonehenge (some asshat had spray painted the word "LIVE" on it - I have a photo of that if you wanna see it), toured countless cathedrals as my eyes teared up and I drank in the beauty of the setting sun streaming through a rose window (absolutely stunning at Eventide when the little choirboys sang their tiny lungs out), stared at a billion fucking dead people in countless tombs, and ate so many croissants and cucumber sandwiches that I endured a nasty case of constipation.

British people really dig bread, man.

We crept through the British Museum of Art and were dutifully breathless over the Grecian Urn that inspired Ode on a Grecian Urn (creative poem, that one) and I couldn't resist tapping a finger on the original Rosetta Stone. I think those museum officials finally got a clue and put a protective barrier around it. (Got a pic of that one, too.)

See, the trip was all about literature and art and history. It was NOT about enjoying London's nightlife, unless you count the horribly creepy Jack the Ripper tour we screamed through - and if you do, then let me tell you, London is fucking scary.

So, M and I decided we'd had enough of this bookish bullshit. After several trips on the tube, we felt confident enough to break away from the group on our own little shopping / night life adventure.

M and I flitted about London one evening and ended up at the tube station, waiting on the very last train to sport us back to our hotel. I don't know if the train schedule still ends at midnight, but in 1990 this was a fact. Terrified that we'd miss the last ride and be stuck in a giant, unfamiliar city, we booked it to the station and crouched down on a bench. We waited patiently in the eerily empty station. Suddenly, the sound of stamping feet and raucous laughter burned our ears. M and I threw each other a frantic OH SHIT look, as a group of handsomely ruffled Italian and French guys clambered down the stairs and landed on the platform.

I guess we figured if we froze on the spot we would be invisible. Yeah. That didn't work.

The dudes noticed us immediately, and surrounded us, murmuring things in French and Italian - clearly dripping with sexual innuendo. Seriously? I don't think I've ever been that frightened.

A red-headed Frenchman leaned down and ran his fingers through his hair. He lowered himself and his nose was about 2 inches from mine. I squirmed in my seat as M said, "OMG OMG OMG OMG," as she stared straight ahead.

"Uh. Hi?" I squeaked.

Frenchy McRedhead asked me if I spoke French. (After two years of French class in High School and a year in college, the sad answer to that question was a definitive "no" because I am a complete dolt and languages just aren't my thing. Yet, he asked the question in French, and I obviously understood him, so I guess I know a lil' sumpthin', eh?)

Anyhoo, he switched to English and I quickly informed him that his gaggle of buddies was freaking me the fuck out as they swarmed around us.

"Oh," he said nonchalantly. "Zees is veh-ye good, what they are saying, no?" He babbled something off to his pals and they burst into laughter. It wasn't exactly a friendly sound, so M and I started to sweat.

"Zees is Ahn-TOE-nee-yoh." Frenchy McRedhead gestured to one of the devastatingly handsome Italian ruffians. "He lahks uuuuuu." One of them gently touched a piece of my blonde hair.

FREAKING OUT FREAKING OUT FREAKING OUT!

Thankfully, the rushing sound of the train disturbed our Fifth Level of Dante's Hell Re-enactment and we all dashed on board. The gang continued to make gestures to us and discuss our American selves in great detail. M and I chuckled nervously, swiped at our sweaty brows, and planned a quick getaway.

"Once we hit our stop, we RUN," I told M. She agreed heartily.

Needless to say, we got away sans violence.

Was this freakish experience enough to deter M and me from venturing out again into the London wild late at night? One would think it would be, correct? Ahhhh, no.

A few nights later, M and I decided to sneak out of the hotel, ditching the group in favor of skulking around Picadilly Circus. We ended up outside a giant club called The Hippodrome. I have no idea if it is still around today - I would guess not.

In order to enter The Hippodrome, you had to have a partner of the opposite sex. No, it wasn't a Swinger's Club. I guess the club owners just preferred to have equal parts male and female in the mix. A few single guys noticed M and me and convinced us to go into the club with them. We acquiesced and entered multiple levels of throbbing music, piercing lasers, and all sorts of whirling debauchery.

We had an absolute blast. But here comes the weird portion of the tale . . .

In the midst of a city of millions, who do you think we encountered in the middle of the gyrating bodies on the dance floor?

None other than Frenchy McRedhead and Ahn-TOE-nee-yoh! (And the rest of their posse.) Shock registered in their collective eyeballs as M and I giggled - we figured we were safe from their advances in the midst of hundreds of revelers - and oddly enough, we danced with them all night long.

I know what you're thinking. Why the hell would you spend time with a group of guys that scared the shit out of you just a few days prior?

Answer: I was 20 years old and a goddamn idiot.

And they were hot. It's pretty simple, really.

That was a great trip. I came home exhausted but happy. Until I found out that my recent ex-boyfriend had taken up with a new girl, a girl that he subsequently married and knocked up 5 times (as of today.) (They may have more kids - who knows?) (Better her than me!)

Now, here's a shot of M with two punkers we met on the street. Their names are Sharky and Yowsa and they were a hoot. Ah. Great memories. It would have been perfect if I had just taken some Ex Lax along.

Cougarific

In this world gone mental, in our current state of economic upheaval, with our National Mint spitting out pallets of greenbacks that have shit for backing, while we're purchasing our own debt because even China won't touch it any longer, as our power-crazed elected officials nationalize everything from banks to car companies and capitalism is vilified to such extent that I stay awake at night and stare at the ceiling in terror - with all of the madness swirling around us daily, one would think I would post some deeps words of wisdom or some snippet of insight and hope. One would think. And one would be wrong.

Fuck this shit. Life sucks, and then you die. Given that, let's have some fun before we kick it!

Listen, I've been involved - I've called my congressmen, my senators, I've written letters and emails, I even threatened Arlen Sphincter via the interwebs . . . all to no avail. These fucktards just won't listen; therefore, rather than beat my head against a pile of bricks, I choose happiness.

So, let's focus on something delightful: The Era of The Cougar

Cougars are defined as confident, independent women of a certain age that date men much younger than them. A woman in her 30s can be a Cougar, as long as the object of her desire is in his very early 20s. From my research, I discovered the minimal qualifying age gap between a Cougar and her prey is around 12 years plus. So, a 33 year old could earn the Cougar moniker by wrapping a luscious little 21 year old around her perfectly manicured fingertip.

Personally, the thought of dating any guy under 30 is unappealing. Face it: younger men are complete tools. Even so, in order to completely explore this topic, I shall power ahead with my Cougarific Analysis.

Since I am 39 (and, uh, married - ergo, I am totally not on the Cougar market), the Cougar Age Gap Rule dictates that I must date a man (and I use that term loosely, because, really, has a guy that young really earned the title of "man"? I think not . . . ) of 27 or younger in order to qualify for Cougarlicious status. Since dudes younger than 30 (and many of them well over that mark) are complete douchebags, I guess I must wait another three years or more until I decide to flex my claws. (And, er, that will never happen because I love Cap'n Recovery too much.)

Names of famous Cougars:

Demi Moore is most definitely a Cougar (but I don't get the Ashton attraction.) (Too scruffy.)

Jennifer Anniston is absolutely a Cougar (although John Mayer is a walking asshole.) (Twitter that, dumbass!)

At least one of Liz Taylor's marriages punted her into the Cougar arena. (Welcome to Mulletville, folks.)

And Erica Kane of All My Children fame is on a one-way express locomotive straight to Cougarville.

Via the AP:

The conniving Erica Kane, with 10 husbands down already, will fall into the arms
of a much younger man on ABC's soap opera this summer. To make life a little
more complicated, it's her daughter's ex-husband and ex-fiance's stepson.

MMMMMMMMM-mmmmmm! And he just so happens to be the smokin' hot Ryan Lavery, played by Cameron Mathison. Susan Lucci, who has portrayed Erica Kane for 39 years (as many years as Cameron has been on planet earth, thanks much) is 62.



Can I have an "R"? Can I have an "O"? Gimme a "W"! And another "R"! Wassat spell???



ROWR!

Anniversary Hell

For years - twelve, to be exact - I've assumed that no married couple could have endured a worse anniversary than I did on my first anniversary. Making it through the first year of wedded bliss is a monumental accomplishment. Many tales of woe have met my ears over the years - how the Mr. and Mrs. discovered rather quickly that being married to each other was NOT a bowl of cherries, etc. - but after 365 days spent with Captain Recovery, I realized that I was quite happy, indeed. Neither of us savor arguing with the other, so our first year as man and wife slid by quite smoothly.

Until the date of our first anniversary.

When he "forgot" to inform me that his mother would be at DFW airport, awaiting pickup, for a short visit.

What the FUCK?

The original plan consisted of my M.I.L. stopping through Dallas on her way to a conference in California, but fleeing town a few days before our special day. OK. Fair enough. Whadevah.

But then my M.I.L. discovered she could save $50 if she switched her flight times. And by God, that's exactly what she did. And Cap'n R. conveniently neglected to share this information with me.

I was not angry.

I was LIVID.

And it only got worse. She swept into our love nest and sat at the table, demanded to watch us exchange our gifts with each other (UGH!) and then sweetly inquired what restaurant "we" were going to visit, to celebrate "our" anniversary.

Here is a tidbit of that conversation:

M.I.L.: (Ever so sugary) Where are "you" going to go eat?

Me: Uh. Well - PF Chang's just opened up. It is difficult to get in there quickly, but Cap'n R. and I can always sit at the bar awhile.

M.I.L.: (Dripping honey) And what type of restaurant is this PF Chang's?

Me: Well, it is Asian-inspired food. But they have Mexican cooks. Odd, yes? Hee. Welcome to Dallas! Anyhoo, it is delicious - I ate at one in Charlotte on a business trip and . . .

M.I.L.: (All traces of sweetness vanished) I DO NOT LIKE CHINESE FOOD.

At this point I mused to myself, "What the fuck does it matter what you like anyway?" when Cap'n R. came to the rescue and inquired exactly what type of food his MOTHER would PREFER on OUR FIRST FUCKING ANNIVERSARY (Sigh. I'm not bitter in the least over this, am I?) and she turned on the high-calorie verbal waterworks again and began to search through some local dining guides, definitively thumping her finger down on a Rib Steakhouse exclaiming triumphantly, "I've never been there! Ooooooh - sounds delicious."

Ribs.

On my goddamned first anniversary.

With her in tow.

I fucking HATE BBQ. (Actually, that isn't true. I enjoy BBQ on rare occasions, but this was not one of them. )

So what did we do? Naturally, we traipsed off to the stupid BBQ rib place and I sucked down approximately one keg of beer, regularly swiping the back of my hand against my foam-ridden mouth, cursing my giggling, bouncy M.I.L. as she dug into a vat of BBQ sauce.

BUT THE FUN DID NOT END THERE.

We got home, and do you know what she did? I swear to you, this was beyond the pale . . .
That woman insisted on eating a piece of the top tier of my wedding cake which had been frozen for a year, saved especially, by moi, for this very important day. THE HORROR.

See, I love wedding cake and my cake was the most stupendous, most lovely, most tasty cake in the history of marital unions. I spent more on my cake than I did on my dress, I SHIT YOU NOT. If you dropped by my home today and requested to peruse my wedding album, the very first photo that would grace your eyeballs is not a smiling shot of me, my bridesmaids, or my groom. Fuck, no. The first visual impression of my perfect wedding day is a full shot OF MY CAKE, dammit.

I wanted to strangle my beloved's mother, I did. I stuck my scowling face 1/2 inch from Captain Recovery's and informed him in a hiss that if he thought he was gonna get lucky on his first anniversary, he'd better think again. No way was I going to get passionate with my man with his mother sitting on the other side of a very thin wall with her ear pressed to it.

ARGH.

Even so, my Anniversary Tale of Woe doesn't top what my parents did yesterday on the 45th year of their union, and that's saying a lot.

My dad is retired, but works part time at a funeral home. Jolly good business, you know. He loves telling dead jokes. Seriously.

Anyway, he gleefully phoned me yesterday to let me know the unique nature of celebration that he and my Ma were going to partake in, to memorialize 45 years of hell bliss together. Now that I think about it, it is a deadly accurate metaphor of the pain they've inflicted on each other during the past 4 and 1/2 decades (excuse the funeral pun.)

Miss So and So at their church kicked the bucket this week. Her funeral was set to take place in Dallas, which is 3 hours away from her hometown. SO... Daddy and Mom packed up Miss So and So's ice-cold corpse, loaded it in the back of the HEARSE from Daddy's place of employment, strapped Miss So and So's brother into the back seat, and drove to Dallas to participate in the funeral. Then they drove home, with Miss So and So's ancient-but-still-breathing brother in the back seat.

Happy Fucking Anniversary, babe.

Jesus. No wonder I'm so twisted.

Top Two Reasons Why Yesterday Blew

We all have days that are less than satisfactory. Yesterday just so happened to embody that description. Why, you ask? (And thanks for asking, because if I didn't bitch on my blog...er...occasionally, I might just go insane.)

1. Starvation

I put on 5 lbs while Sees-toh visited me last week and now I am trying to get that shit OFF OF ME, which means that I am starving myself and making sure to work out every day. No food = Bitchy McSnappypants. This is a recipe for disaster.

Sees-toh and I adeptly consumed the following items during her 7 day visit:

- an entire cake that looked like a hamburger

- a full recipe of monster cookies - which happen to be monstrous

- the remnants of a Memorial Day cake

- countless bottles of beer, Dove Chocolatinis, pomegranate martinis, and other assorted alcoholic treats...I tried to calorie count but gave up at 36,000

- and paninis! Lots and lots of paninis - which reminds me of the good karma I generated - we shopped at Target one evening and Sees-toh wore down my resolve and convinced me to purchase a panini maker (yet another appliance that was certain to need dusting), so I sighed and slapped it on the underbelly of the shopping cart, promptly forgot it was there, and walked out without paying for it. Accidentally, of course! Now. What would you do in this situation? Would you pump your fist in the air and scream, "SCORE!" as your tires kicked up gravel and squealed away with $40 of free merchandise? I confess . . . I did consider that course of action. But, being the strong believer in karma that I am, my shoulders sagged and I stumbed back inside Target to pay for my non-purchased item.

And what does karma repay me with? FIVE POUNDS OF FAT, thanks to the bajillion paninis I can't seem to stop inhaling. Stupid fucking circle of life.

2. Stupidity

Have you ever started a project in earnest for work and applied your brainpower intently for three hours to running calculations, checking and double-checking formulas, splitting out data and assigning all types of necessary distinctions to it, cleaning and polishing the information so that you can then build all sorts of additional reports and presentations off of it; because, after all, MAY just ended and we need to know the final results for MAY, so you work and work on MAY's information all afternoon long, only to discover at 4:55PM that you FUCKING PULLED APRIL AGAIN??????

God. Damn. IT.

Guess what DG is going to work on this AM?

Yep. Gonna make sure I pull MAY. And then I have to repeat all of that effort.

See? Yesterday blew.

Astute Words o' Wisdom

I don't know the author of these literary nuggets, but whoever she was, she's a freakin' genius.

1. Aspire to be Barbie - the bitch has everything.
2. If the shoe fits - buy them in every color.
3. Take life with a pinch of salt... a wedge of lime and a shot of tequila.
4. In need of a support group? Cocktail hour with the girls!
5. Go on the 30 day diet. (I'm on it and so far I've lost 15 days).
6. When life gets you down - just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.
7. Let your greatest fear be that there is no PMS and this is just your personality.
8. I know I'm in my own little world, but it's ok. They know me here.
9. Lead me not into temptation, I can find it myself.
10. Don't get your panties in a knot; it solves nothing and makes you walk funny.
11. When life gives you lemons - turn it into lemonade then mix it with vodka.
12. Remember, where ever there is a good looking, sweet, single, or married man there is some woman tired of his bullshit!
13. Keep your chin up; only the first 40 years of parenthood are the hardest.
14. If it has Tires or Testicles, it's gonna give you trouble!
15. By the time a women realizes her mother was right, she has a daughter who thinks she's wrong.

Suicide This!

Next time some asshole ties up traffic because he's contemplating whether or not to jump off a bridge and kill himself, just call 66 year old Lai Jiansheng. Watch him in action.



Really, you can't blame old Lai too much - traffic was tied up for 5 hours. Obviously, the "jumper" wasn't absolutely certain he wanted to jump. So Lai took matters in his own hands (literally) and threw the guy off the bridge.

Booyah!

To Chemo or Not To Chemo...That is the question.

Jesus, folks. I just don't know what to think about this:

Via the AP:

NEW ULM, Minn. — Authorities sought to arrest the mother of a 13-year-old boy with cancer who refuses chemotherapy after she fled with her son and missed a court hearing Tuesday on his welfare. A judge issued an arrest warrant and ordered that Daniel Hauser be placed in a foster home and be sent for an immediate examination by a pediatric oncologist so he can get treated for Hodgkins lymphoma.

"The court's priority at this point is to try to get Daniel Hauser and get him the care he needs," Brown County District Judge John Rodenberg said.

The cancer is considered highly curable with chemotherapy and radiation, but Daniel quit chemo after a single treatment. With his parents, he opted instead for "alternative medicines," citing religious beliefs. That led authorities to seek custody. Rodenberg last week ruled that Daniel's parents, Colleen and Anthony Hauser, were medically neglecting their son.

The Hausers are Roman Catholic and also believe in the "do no harm" philosophy of the Nemenhah Band, a Missouri-based religious group that believes in natural healing methods advocated by some American Indians.

Colleen Hauser testified earlier that she had been treating his cancer with herbal supplements, vitamins, ionized water and other natural alternatives.

The family was due in court Tuesday to report the results of a chest X-ray and their arrangements for an oncologist. But only Daniel's father appeared. He told Rodenberg he last saw his wife Monday evening.

"She said she was going to leave," Hauser testified. "She said, `That's all you need to know.' And that's all I know."

He said Colleen Hauser left her cell phone at their home in the southern Minnesota town of Sleepy Eye.

Anthony Hauser now agrees that Daniel needs to be taken back to a doctor for re-evaluation for the best treatment, said Calvin Johnson, an attorney for the parents.

The founder of Nemenhah, Philip Cloudpiler Landis, said it was a bad idea for Colleen Hauser to flee with her son. "She should have gone to court," Landis said. "It's how we work these things out. You don't solve anything by disregarding the order of the judge."

The arrest warrant has been distributed nationwide and a crime alert was being issued to businesses around the country, Brown County Sheriff Rich Hoffman said. He said investigators were following some leads, but declined to elaborate.

The family's doctor, James Joyce, testified by telephone that Daniel's tumor has grown and he needs immediate assessment by a specialist. Joyce said he examined Daniel on Monday, and an X-ray showed that his tumor had grown to the size it was when he was first diagnosed.
"He had basically gotten back all the trouble he had in January," the doctor said. Daniel said he had pain on the right side of his chest, which he rated a 10 on a scale of 1 to 10, Joyce said.
Joyce said the pain was around the port that was inserted into Daniel's chest to administer chemotherapy. He attributed the pain to the growing tumor, which is pushing the port out of place. He said Daniel was at risk of substantial physical harm if no action is taken.

Daniel was accompanied to the appointment with Joyce by his mother and Susan Daya, a California attorney. Joyce testified that he offered to make appointments for Daniel with oncologists, but the Hausers declined. He also said he tried to give Daniel more information about lymphoma but that the three left in a rush.

"Under Susan Daya's urging, they indicated they had other places to go," Joyce said.
Daya did not immediately return a page left on her cell phone Tuesday by The Associated Press. Her voice mailbox was full. The court also tried to reach her during the hearing, but got no answer.

In his ruling last week, Rodenberg wrote that he would not order chemotherapy if Daniel's prognosis was poor. But if the outlook was good, it appeared chemotherapy and possibly radiation would be in the boy's best interest, he wrote.

Daniel's lymphoma was diagnosed in January, and six rounds of chemotherapy were recommended. Daniel underwent one round in February but stopped after that single treatment. He and his parents sought other opinions, but the doctors agreed with the initial assessment.

State statutes require parents to provide necessary medical care for a child, Rodenberg wrote. The statutes say alternative and complementary health care methods aren't enough. He also wrote that Daniel, who has a learning disability and cannot read, did not understand the risks and benefits of chemotherapy and didn't believe he was ill.

Daniel testified that he believed the chemo would kill him and told the judge in private testimony unsealed later that if anyone tried to force him to take it, "I'd fight it. I'd punch them and I'd kick them."

OK . . . Right off the bat, here are my thoughts (and I would LOVE to know your thoughts on this, because I am in a quandary over the rightness and wrongness of this entire situation):

1. Daniel (the patient) has a learning disability and cannot read; therefore, his parents have absolute control over his knowledge of his own condition. Considering their strong religious beliefs against treatment, it might make sense that the courts be involved in order to fully educate Daniel on the situation.

2. The Hauser family is part of the Nemenhah Band, a Missouri-based religious group that believes in natural healing methods advocated by some American Indians. Do you think a court would ever in a billion years try to tell an American Indian tribe that they HAD to give one of their children chemotherapy? I doubt it, but I could be wrong. Has anyone ever heard of an instance that involved a US District Judge decreeing that an American Indian HAD to seek medical treatment for a condition? The Hausers subscribe to an odd offshoot of Roman Catholicism, so their religious beliefs appear to be a non-issue. Doesn't matter what they believe. The court appears to know better.

This line of thinking truly bothers me. I have a difficult time imagining a judge taking the same hard ass line with, say, a Muslim or Hindu or as previously mentioned, a native American Indian. But a white Roman Catholic? Hell yeah! Let's tell 'em what to do.

I'm not saying that the judge's recommendation is crazy. As a mom, I would follow the recommendation of my doctor and try my best to fight the disease . . . I want my sons alive, thank you very much. But, what if my core beliefs, the intellectual and moral foundation for my very existence, were at odds with the treatment? Shouldn't that be taken into consideration?

3. The father now believes reevaluation of the treatment should take place. I think this is a key point. Because of this, the mom should at least show up for the doctor's appointment.

4. An arrest warrant is floating around out there, just waiting to nail Daniel's mom on the head. I'm sorry, but that's stupid. I realize you are supposed to appear when you have a scheduled court date, but what the fuck? This mother is now a goddamn criminal and can be thrown in the slammer next door to rapists, drug dealers, child molesters, murderers and the like? Something is wrong with this picture.

5. The very fact that a JUDGE can decide the medical treatment for someone else's child and then criminalize the child's parents if they do not bow to his wishes just bothers me. That is a seriously fucking crazy concept. What's next? All children must not consume transfats, or your sorry parental ass is headed for jail? COME ON. This is a slippery slope. I think the judicial branch of government needs to butt the fuck out of our personal lives; however, I am torn, because I do agree with the judge's sentiments. I think the child should have chemo. I just think the parents and the child, himself, should have the right to choose to accept the treatment or not, even though I disagree vehemently with their desire to deny treatment. It's still their choice. What ever happened to personal choice in this country? (Then again, the whole issue of Daniel's learning disabilities tilts the argument in favor of the courts. See what I mean? This is madness!)

6. Does anyone find it randomly odd that the family's doctor is named James Joyce? WTF??? God. I tried to read the novel Ulysses in college and I swear to you, I fell asleep in the middle of it. Blech.

7. Equally bizarre is the fact that Daniel's mother, Colleen Hauser, left her cell phone in the town of Sleepy Eye. Talk about Little House on the Prairie memories! Pa would never accept this bullshit from a judge. He would have shaken his bronzed fist at The Man and stalked out to go plow a field. (Gosh. I really miss Michael Landon.)

I am lost on this one. So many bizarre angles to this story, the least of which is the James Joyce/Sleepy Eye connection. Weird. Would love to know your thoughts.

Sees-toh Is Perceptive

When it comes to marital tension, my sister (henceforth known as "Sees-toh") has a keen eye for spotting it. Her insightful nature is a natural byproduct of her own wedded discord, which she has endured longsufferingly for over 20 years. (Don't ask me why. Its not like I haven't offered to front a lawyer for her, like, weekly since 1987.)

Anyhoo, it is a known fact that when a person loses one of his five senses, the other four automatically sharpen to carry the burden of the missing ability. In Sees-toh's case, the many years of anguish she has endured at the hands of Shit For Brains, my bro-in-law, have chiseled her a razor-sharp perception into the marriages of others.

Enter this weekend: Sees-toh was unwillingly yoked into becoming a de facto wedding planner for a young gal at her church. The bride's aunt and uncle, a highly educated musical couple from TX, were in charge of producing the music for the occasion. The uncle has held the esteemed position of Minister of Music at a church in TX for many years. Considering that a portion of his professional career title includes the word "minister", is it unreasonable to assume he would be a man of character? I think not. Aren't ministers supposed to, like, read the Bible and stuff? Aaaaand doesn't the Bible tell us to love one another?

I'm pretty sure it does.

So, Uncle Minister of Music (who holds a PhD in music or some such nonsense) began to badger Sees-toh about the wedding program. You know. Because it was HIS niece's wedding. And HIS wife (who has a Masters in music or some such nonsense) was coordinating the audio plans with him. So, instead of checking with, say, the Bride, or his wife, he chose to annoy Sees-toh.

Uncle M of M: Sees-toh! What am I supposed to do with the string quartet and the congregation when the hymn begins? The lyrics of the song are not posted in the wedding program. Am I supposed to tell everyone to stand? Am I supposed to tell them what page to turn to in their hymnals to sing along? WHAT. AM. I. TO. DO?

Sees-toh: Um.

Uncle M of M: Furthermore! Where is the microphone? How is everyone supposed to hear me? Am I supposed to walk to the middle of the stage? Or do I stay on the side? WHAT. AM. I. TO. DO?

Sees-toh: Uh . . . have you checked with the Bride?

Uncle M of M: (Blank look.)

Sees-toh: Oh . . kay . . . how about your wife? Because, isn't she sort of directing the music with you?

Uncle M of M: (Furrowing brow.) (Skin begins to turn a purplish hue of rage.)

Apparently, a simple discussion between Uncle Minister of Music and his lovely wife, Aunt, was out of the fucking question.

Sees-toh had watched the interaction (or lack thereof) between the two of them for several hours. Pretty much, they avoided each other. And so, with a deep sigh, Sees-toh shuffled to the middle of the sanctuary and called Aunt and Uncle together to resolve the deep questions regarding the program, and I shit you not, this is the conversation that took place:

Sees-toh: Aunt? Uncle M of M has a question for you about the music. (Gestures to the man standing 6 inches from her.) (Who happens to be Aunt's husband.)

Aunt: Yes? (To Sees-toh.) (She does not acknowledge her beloved, who, again, is standing 6 inches from her.)

Sees-toh: Er . . . okay. Uncle M of M wants to know if he should have the congregation stand for the hymn, and whether or not he should tell them to open up their hymnals to sing along, or if we should see if the audio-visual people can just project the hymn lyrics onto the wall. (Silence.) Uh . . . what do you prefer I tell him?

Aunt: (Looking at Sees-toh again.) Tell him I said that is OKAY. He can have them stand or not stand. It is up to him. Tell him to see if the AV folks can project the words on the wall.

Sees-toh: (Eyeballs Uncle M of M.) Did ya get that?

Uncle M of M: (To Sees-toh.) I will have them stand. Thank you. But what about the microphone? Ask her if I should walk to the center stage to get a mic, or should I stay on the side . . .

Aunt: (Snaps angrily.) For heaven's sake, Uncle, just walk to the middle and grab a mic!

End scene.

Sees-toh is slightly suspicious that these two have a shitty marriage. I'm guessing she may be right.