Why the teenage male sexual organ is more dangerous than nuclear weapons:
1. The teenage male organ is more likely to be used than a nuclear weapon, thereby increasing the danger.
2. Nuclear weapons and the use of them is generally controlled by a select and small population of presumably intelligent people. Teenage male sexual organs, on the other hand, are not controlled by anyone, let alone their handlers. In fact, it is often said that they have minds of their own.
3. There are a great many more teenage sexual organs in the world than nuclear weapons (and the number increases everyday), thereby increasing the level of risk of release.
4. In the event of a nuclear war, there is time to recall the weapons and avoid their use. In the case of the teenage male sexual organ, however, the time from firing to detonation is very short and, even were it not, impossible to stop anyway. The teenage male just isn't programmed that way.
5. Nuclear weapons are only good for one shot, while the teenage male sexual organ can be refired after a short rest, repeatedly.
6. And last, but not least, while nuclear weapons exist with the hope that they'll never be needed by their possessor, the teenage boy yearns to use his, thereby increasing the liklihood that it will be used and the frequency with which it will be used.
So how about it? Why don't we rally 'round the flag and put an end to reckless use of...nah, nevermind. It'll never fly.
I know, I know. This isn't the sort of thing I post ordinarily. Did you think you were, perhaps, somewhere else? Hey, look, I can't be responsible for all of the things that occur to me in the middle of the day, can I? Besides, you needed a good laugh.
The Wizard has pointed out that the most recent Demystifying Divas and Men's Club topic was a bit one-sided. How despicable of us to not treat the ladies to the same pointed observations and ridicule. As such, in the near future we will be tackling the topic of unsightly hairs on the female form and how they repulse.
We are nothing if not slaves to our readers. As such, you can expect to read all about untidy landing strips and hairy hag's moles here.
Now that's a tagline: Untidy landing strips and hairy hag's moles: All you'll ever need to know.
The highlight of my weekend was the Mini-Blogmeet. I'm not sure you can call it a Blogmeet, though.
I met Amelie and her friend for lunch. It was a good time, though the waitresses were more than a bit enamored of Bunny Boop. Yes, she's adorable. Yes, she has a sweet smile and lovely disposition. Can we get back to our conversation now?
Seriously, the waitresses at TGI Friday's are baby-crazed. The patrons too. One set of soon-to-be-grandparents quizzed me liberally and flirted with Bunny shamelessly. I'm telling you, this little girl is going to be real trouble when she is more ambulatory. No doubt she'd go home with anyone who told her she was cute!
But, yes, I had a lovely time and enjoyed meeting some fellow bloggers.
I am a bit late in posting this, but you can find Chapter 2: Death Tolls, written by Lolly, at the link. In case you missed it, Christina wrote the first Chapter, Resurrection, and began our spooky tale.
Chapter 3 is already written in rough. I wrote it yesterday while the baby napped. I've never written anything in this genre, however, so I would urge you to not set your expectations too high. Chapter 3 will be posted here on Friday, per the usual deadline requirements, unless Friday looks crazy, in which case I will post it Thursday afternoon.
Special note to Christina: I think we should try a romance after the SpySistah Chronicles. That could be really fun if we could get some guys in on the action...
The calendar has landed on Thursday again and this means more scintillating coverage of male/female topics. This week we are taking a lighter track and tackling Nostril and Ear Hair on Men: Taming the Twin Beasts.
Already you are intrigued, admit it. You can't wait to see where this subject will take me. Well, strap in campers and keep your arms inside the vehicle until we come to a full stop.
Okay, so today's topic du jour is about grooming. Again. Now, I am no fan of the Metrosexual Man, but I do like a man to land closer to Metrosexual than, say...Grizzly Adams. If you like your man with that earthy, slightly pungent, hairy beast from the cave look, you can skip over this entire post. Me? I like a man who is a little better groomed.
I find the vision of nostril hair wildly growing out of the orifices repulsive. It is almost as if the scent of the man is so bad, even the nostril hairs are rampaging refugees seeking solace somewhere else. Ditto ear hair. Ear hair, to me, seems to indicate a man is going feral. As though any minute he'll let out a blood-curdling howl, leap onto his back haunches and go racing into the night in a desperate search for a willing or unwilling vessel for his seed. I like a frisky man as much as the next girl, but this is a bit too animal for me. This is the guy who will pee on your drapes when he's had too much to drink.
Nooooo thank you. Not for me.
To be fair, it isn't something the men have a lot of control over. Men may gain a distinguished mein as they age and somehow avoid the sag and drag and unattractiveness that we women get, but they too have their crosses to bear. These would be the sudden growth of hair in odd spots. It is almost as though they go through a second puberty. You have to feel bad for them. I think it is a trade-0ff for having avoided 25 years of PMS and tampons - sort of God's little equalizer, but it matters not.
Gentlemen, as you reach your Sexy Sean Connery years, we entreat you to tame these hairy twin beasts. Yes, you can be sexy and a love machine long after your female peers have gone granny and are puttering in the garden, but please do us all a favor and trim your hedges. Wild hair escaping your nostrils doesn't send an appealing message. And the wolf ear look is long dead.
Thank you ever so much.
Now, for more advice on this topic, check out what the other Diva and our counterparts in the Men'sClub have to say.
The entire family is now convinced that you are a secret agent for some agency.
It is your own fault. Nobody goes to that many weddings in a year. Nobody!
Listen, if you need help coming up with cover stories, let me know. I am very creative. You know that. Did I teach you nothing about the art of a well-crafted lie?
How many "weddings" have you attended this year? 16? If you aren't a wedding planner, florist, or pastor, then you are telling lies - and not well.
Nobody has that many friends who all get hitched at the same time. No. Body.
I swear - you are going to get caught if you don't come up with a better story. I swear.... If you are going to be a spy, at least be a good one.
High school has been on my mind quite a bit lately. I've had supper with an old friend who I've missed quite a lot over the years, shared emails back and forth with other friends, and most recently been discovered by an old boyfriend and renewed contact with my best female friend from high school.
So, it is no wonder that I've been reliving those days in my dreams. But before I get into the reason for this post, I need a rambling moment or two.
I had some really great teachers in high school. No, really. I did. I had 2 really good French teachers, one of whom I still talk to now and then. I had a physics teacher who tried really hard to make the lessons exciting, but I'm afraid I retained little. He was great, though. So was Mr. Hall's AP Bio class. But I think my favorite teacher will always be Mrs. Mendro. Calculus is not fun for all of us. Mrs. Mendro - and I'll never forget it - gave all 14 of us in AP Calc an eraser on the first day of class. She said we were going to make lots of mistakes, and that was the tool we would need. She postponed an exam once when our Physics teacher told her we weren't ready. Then she held additional after-school study sessions until we all understood the material. I wish all teachers were so intent on teaching...what a world that would be.
But, I digress.
My stumbling trip down memory lane has reconnected me to some old friends. Really good old friends. I can't explain it, this comfort of knowing someone is both changed and largely the same. It is odd to find someone after nearly 13 years and still feel perfectly at home chatting with them. It is like a warm hug, or like getting that favorite sweater back out of a box. Well-worn and comfortable, smelling of good memories and fun times.
In high school, and I know that I've posted about this before, I was a part of a pretty tight group. We were 2 girls and 8 guys. That was the core group. Of course, there were always others added in at times, somebody or other's date or teammate, but the core always remained. We had quite a lot of fun.
The boys were never really good planners and relied on us girls to plan, coordinate, and disseminate information about the weekend plans. We did homework together. Ha! We even had our own Junior Achievement Company - of which I was the President, thank you very much. Christine and I would decide which movies we were going to, where we were going to eat, where we were watching SNL.... Of course, once the guys started getting driver's licenses things changed. All of a sudden they weren't dependent on us girls quite as much anymore. We were so very close. I used to talk to Matt when I was babysitting somewhere in the Hollow. Craig used to write me funny letters when I was away for the summer. Steve and Andrew used to write me poems in Mr. Lyle's Analytical Geometry class. Brad and I rubbed along like glass shards on silk...I'm still not sure why. Mark and Mickey could always be counted on to provide a laugh, when they weren't chasing after SpySistah (before she was a spy, that is). I miss them all so much.
College and life sent us all drifting in different directions. It would be really nice to get everybody together again. Maybe walk the Hollow one more time or just have a party. It would take an eternity to catch up on all we've missed. These were the people that made my high school experience. I could count on them and they knew they could count on me. So it makes me feel really...happy to be reconnecting with these people who were such good friends.
Maybe next year I'll work on reconnecting with friends and sorority sisters from college....
I guess I'm not as good at correspondence as I thought.
I don't care if my husband visits an establishment of scantily-clad women. Well, so long as there's no touching.
I don't care if my husband gets drunk, so long as he doesn't wake up the baby.
I don't even care if he leaves the toilet seat up. Frankly, I've been trained to look before I leap, so to speak.
So, good news, gentlemen. Womankind is adapting.
Perhaps you could do the same?
Perhaps it doesn't have to make you crazy if we spend $150 on another black leather handbag. Or take the day off and spend it at a spa. Or, you know, ask you to please not track mud through the house. That would be nice.
(Just for the record, my husband is evolved too. None of these things bother him. But, I am aware of others who are less fortunate. This post is for those women.)
If I may be so blunt, you are an idiot. You are wholly incompetent. You manage to make an extremely ineffective UN to be even less: corrupt, criminal, even ideologically bankrupt.
Your recent accusations, that Israel "apparently" (you want this word emphasized, so I do this for you) targeted UN "workers" stationed within spitting distance of Hezbollah outposts, is so much huff-n-puff I wonder if you aren't a Saturday Cartoon villain.
Seriously, man! Did you smoke your breakfast, or are you seriously this stupid? It seems to me a foolish thing to do to set up your outpost so close to an outpost of one of the engaged parties. More specifically, it seems beyond foolish - stupid really - to set up that outpost nearer to the likely loser in the fight in terms of technological bang-for-the-buck, if you know what I mean.
Furthermore, it takes a phenomenal idiocy, the type that measures on the Richter Scale, to continue to hold your ground as a non-engaged observer once the bombs begin to fall. Ya'll need a good lesson in Rattlesnake Diplomacy. That is, when you hear the rattle, it is time to turn tail and run. If you are dumb enough to wait to see the fangs, you freaking deserve that bite, idiot!
You don't have to be in bombs way to "observe". Jackass.
Quit blaming Israel for your own failure to lead. She has a right to defend herself as she sees fit. She did not abdicate her defense to the yahoos doing coke in the UN parking garage, much as you wish she would. Some of us take Defense seriously.
I haven't said much about what is going on in the Middle East right now. There is a reason for that. Basically, I feel there is no hope.
There will never be peace in the Middle East. These people are intent upon killing, seemingly for killing's sake.
Why else would some ragtag bunch of out-gunned yahoos invade Israel and abduct her soldiers? They know that Israel will retaliate. They also know that they can't possibly win against her, no matter what weight Hezbollah's Arab fans bring to bear at the UN. The fact of the matter is this was simply a grander-scaled suicide mission. Dumbasses. Don't they know that this does nothing but piss people off? Ask the Jordanians how they feel about terrorism brought to their own hometowns. They didn't like it so much.
All sensible people can understand a nation's right to defend itself, even anti-Semites who despise Israel's existence. So, in my opinion, Hezbollah was asking - nay begging - for it. And, you reap what you sow.
Of course, it is the Lebanese who have been hijacked here. Their government has failed to rein in Hezbollah, and now her people are being punished.
As a sidepoint, who the hell goes to Lebanon on vacation? Disney World not exciting enough for you, or what?
So, there will never be peace in the Middle East. So, I'm not going to bother posting long essays on the matter. There is no hope.
I'm telling you, I am useless at sports. You are a fool if you think I'm going to be an asset in this department. The highlights of my sporting career are these:
* In gradeschool, I was an important member on the 2nd place beachball volleyball team. That's right, volleyball played with a beach ball. Now that was fun, and it didn't hurt a bit.
* In middle school, I was the winning quarterback on the Memorial Day Weekend girls vs. boys touch football games. Every year. I can throw a nerf football in a beautiful spiral that even a girl can catch. We decimated those boys everytime. I was a football goddess!
* In high school, I was decent at badminton.
But other than that, you'd be better off with any random armadillo. Seriously.
So it is with that preview that I tell this story:
I was once a very important member of a 2-man basketball team.
In high school, one of the gym teachers/coaches decided that the same people spent all of their time together in Gym. So, he decided to mix it up and created two-man teams for an all-out basketball tourney. In gym class.
As the short, brainy, girly type, I was not much skilled. So what did the coach do? He paired me with this tall, built, black basketball God. You know, shorter and more built than Jordan, but born palming a basketball. We looked like a comedy routine. It could have been a sitcom, it was so ridiculous.
So our game plan developed. The basketball God asked me if I had any skills, then he put me to the test. I can catch the ball when it is passed to me. I can even put the ball in the basket one out of every three attempts. I can not, however, stand my ground against guys who had an 18 inches of height and reach on my 5'3". So, a clever devise was employed.
The Basketball God was exceedingly clever, if not book smart. He told me to hang out around below the basket in what I will refer to as my comfort zone. He would do all of the ball handling and draw the opposite team's 2 men to him. He would handle the scoring and the defense. What was left for me to do? Ah, therein lies the beauty. Every once in a while he would pass me the ball. I could then, he directed me, either attempt a basket or pass the ball back to him once he had shaken one of the defenders.
You wouldn't believe it, but we were very successful. We didn't win the tourney, but we did much better than I would have expected. So there you go. The crowning achievement in my sporting career: Chief Distraction. That's right. I'm proud of the fact that I stood around and got in the way and scored maybe 10 points/game. Well, I was the second-highest scorng member of the team!
Alright. You read blogs. Clearly you read this one at the very least.
The ranks of the feather-boa-ed and smoking-jacket-ed knowitalls is getting thin. We need some new blood. As such, I am taking nominations.
Leave a comment if you feel that any blogger (or three or four), male or female, has what it takes to proudly preen in their pumps or pipe. I don't have time to surf all day, so the nominations shall begin. Feel free to nominate yourself too. I will take all nominations seriously and keep them confidential.
Last night we had a real barn rattler blow through. I usually sleep like the dead, but last night even I woke.
The rain and wind were pounding on the windows and roof. It looked like 10 am at times, the lighting was so bright and frequent.
Bunny Boop woke up from her Princess-y bed not once, but twice. I held her until she fell back to sleep, as a good mommy should. Then, my teenage sister woke up afraid of the storm. I closed the drapes in her room, pulled her door shut, and told her to go back to sleep.
Then I had trouble falling back to sleep.
This morning there were trees down and farm equipment obviously astray at the places on my route to work. Lots of people in Madison were without power still this morning.
So I suppose I shouldn't complain too much about being tired.
Today's Thursday, so I must don my feather boa and post another scintillating treatise on relationships and/or the Man/Woman dichotomy.
This time the question posed is: Do you follow any internal relationship rules, and if so, what are they?
Hmm. I don't know that I've ever really thought too hard about it.
I can say with total conviction that I act with integrity. I don't keep things that are need-to-know to myself. I may, however, not tell him everything about me. A girl should maintain a veil of mystery about her. And, some things are private. In the same integrity vein, I try to treat my man with a great deal of respect. I do not lie to him, unless it is about a gift I'm giving him and then it is a lie of omission.
I can also say that I try never to diminish his sense of self. I want him to continue to be a strong individual. I want to encourage him to think about the world and that sort of stuff. This is why I never so much as bat an eye if he wants to golf, sit at the bar with his friends, or watch the game. He needs that time to keep him centered, relaxed, and happy.
I also try to give him his accolades and brag about him. My husband is a wonderful, giving, and multi-talented man. He can wire things, he can build things, he can schmooze, he can grill. He doesn't mind running the vacuum once in a while and does his share of dishes. He lets me sleep in on the weekends and takes care of Bunny Boop while I catch 2 extra hours. (Sleeping in means 7 am, folks.) So, I like to brag on him so that he knows that he is valued and treasured.
And, the last thing I try very hard to do is to be playful and affectionate. I like to kiss him for no reason and be playful to keep us both young. It is easy to get mired in schedules, particularly when there is a baby in the house. You have to catch what time you can to keep things interesting.
So, those are my rules: Be honest, Let him be himself, Make him feel valued, and Make him feel like he is the only one who can rock your world.
It works pretty well, although this isn't a comprehensive list.
For more internal relationship rules, go see what Arielle, Mark, and Jamesyboy have to say.
I am a bit moody today for multiple reasons, one of which I will speak about in generalities, the other which I shall only mention in passing. (That's all you will read about it.)
I'm feeling so...I don't even know the word. Scared, confused,...fragile.
I have spoken in the past about how I narrowly escaped rape in my Freshman year of college. If you are a regular reader, you will know this, though I don't believe I've ever posted a blow-by-blow. Anyway, this episode and the emotional damage it and the surrounding events and other emotional abuse I suffered took a very long time to get over.
I don't intend to put myself in the same category as women who actually are raped. I know that I am lucky. I know that rape survivors have much more to deal with than I. So, you won't catch me putting myself in that category.
I will say, however, that there is abuse that has nothing to do with scars or bleeding that takes just as long to get over. And, the vast majority of my pain has been of this type. I would like to be able to say that I've gotten past it, but I'm not sure that I have. Even typing this I am crying. Surely that is a sign of unresolved issues, or at least a symptom of something.
What is prompting all of this flooding back now? This thing that tried to rape me has sent me an email. In fact, I found out yesterday that he has also sent my sister an email, inquiring about me. And this troubles me. Greatly.
I have absolutely no desire to allow this person to victimize me again in anyway. I'm not a pathetic puppet, or a gullible idiot anymore. I am a strong woman. That was a learning experience. But, it isn't one that I intend to repeat.
I am happy in my life now. I think I've gotten past all of these issues and no longer suspect all men have the same nefarious intentions. It took me a long time, but now I am healthy. I think.
But now I am scared. He sends me an email and it has me breathing differently. I'm nervous. I've thought long and hard about it over the weekend and have decided that this is a reasonable response, given the circumstances. Why, you ask? It could be a simple request to allow him to apologize?
Yeah. And maybe he has some beachfront property to sell me in Nebraska.
The fact of the matter is that if he wanted to apologize, he's had ample opportunity. My parents lived at the same addresses he was familiar with long after the incident. He could have sent an apology to either of those locations and it would have reached me. But he didn't.
So here we are, 13 years later, and he sends an email. An email, I should point out, that still isn't an apology. Nope, even having ferreted me out that far he still couldn't do that. So, why should I believe that he has changed? I've bitten by this camoflaged snake before, I'm not going to get bitten again. No. It is merely another one of the tricks in his evil bag. He acts all charming and, as in this case, remorseful without actually saying anything, to lure me into his trap.
To be honest, it is insulting that he would think I'd fall for it.
But I still feel all of this rage. Not rage exactly, but pain. Kind of like an injured animal, I'm ready to lash out. I want to hurt him. It is wrong, I know, but there it is.
I don't want to feel this brittle halfness. I don't want to be this frightened person afraid of the motorcycle-wearing blond behind me on the interstate. I want to be my superwoman self, confident, clever, and sincere.
I was careful to wear a mask all weekend, not wanting to ruin the planned festivities celebrating Prince Charming's birthday, but it hasn't gone away. I'm still jumpy.
More than that, though, I feel guilty. When the incident happened, I didn't press charges. I've always wondered if the next girl wasn't so lucky. Rape isn't about the girl, it is about power. I know this, but what if my inaction led to something far worse?
The whole thing is weighing on my mind like a battleship-sized anchor in a dinghy.
There won't be much other posting today because of this.
I am uncertain who is supposed to begin the next blogvella, and in light of Christina's troubles, it might be wise to postpone. I'm not sure. I will attempt to uncover the details and post them so that everyone is on the same page.
Boo-hoo. My name is Valerie Plame. Boo-hoo, I couldn't do better than marry this stupid jackass, Joe Wilson. Boo-hoo, boo-hoo.
I'm such a poor, pitiful character. Boo-hoo-hoo.
I must do something more to bring myself into the spotlight and headlines. I know, I know!
I'll sue those Bushitler minions who ruined my life. And put me in danger. Ya know, 'cause I'm the kind of secret agent that poses for Vanity Fair and let's her husband list her name in Who's Who. Super Double Top Secret Agent that I am.
'Cause it would be ever so cool to get to be on magazine covers in a scarf and sunglasses again. Did I mention that I'm a Super Double Top Secret Undercover Agent who rides a desk at Langley as my cover? I'm like so freakin' cool!
In fact, you don't know this, but I like totally rock. For reals. Like one time, I went and had lunch on the Mall and this pigeon came and pooped on my shoe and I totally threw a rock at it. And it totally died!
I'm licensed to kill (houseplants) and handle chemical weapons (hairspray).
And those evil Bushitler minions are gonna pay.
They are going to supply me with Hermes scarves for life. 'Cause they're so mean. And now I can't do my secret lunch missions with the pigeons anymore.
This article, linked by Drudge yesterday, reports on the crime rate in Florida. A crime rate, I should add, that has dropped for the 14th straight year to below 1971 levels.
The article concedes that Florida's concealed carry law is probably a deterrent.
Probably? Probably?
You are damn right it is a deterrent.
Have you ever been to a gun show? It is a more polite setting than a flower show or garden party of old biddies. Guns everywhere, and everyone is on their best behavior. This just makes sense.
You think twice before robbing or mugging somebody in Florida because the law there says that your intended victim has the legal right to defend his or herself, "meet force with force", without fear of prosecution. You could be putting your life in jeopardy over $15 and a AARP card. You think twice. The rest of the nation should pay attention to these statistics.
In particular, I find the following argument compelling:
New York's mayor Michael Bloomberg is still pushing the line that there would be economic collapse without illegal immigrants. But, despite the scary picture of 12 million illegals being suddenly deported, the cold fact is that 12 million young Americans in the prime of life were removed from our economy to go into the military during World War II and the economy did not collapse.
These 12 million young men went into the military a lot faster than 12 million illegals can be rounded up and deported.
Yet the American economy boomed, producing an incredible amount of output, half of it going into the military to equip and support our own troops and to supply the British and the Russians with vast amounts of war materiel.
Today's topic for the sadly thin ranks of the Demystifying Divas and The Men's Club is a doozy sure to bring up all sorts of scandalous tales.
What is the most brazen thing you've done to get the attention of a member of the opposite sex?
Me? I'm a good girl, I am. The most brazen thing I've done was offer a man my cherry. And then, I fed it to him.
It was so bad girl, at least to my drunken mind.
I took the cherry right out of my drink, held it up to him, made the offer, and then looked at him deeply and meaningfully as I lowered the fruit into his mouth.
It worked too. I got exactly what I wanted.
Now, I'm not saying that you should, but if you decide that you need a little more brazen in your life, I have a few pointers.
1. Don't mistake brazen for slutty. If you are going to behave in a way that draws male attention to yourself, don't be vulgar. Do be suggestive, but in a creative way. Don't be manipulative. Don't be bitchy. Do be playful and fun. Men are always more interested in a girl having a good time and laughing than a scantily clad ho looking for someone to tie to her bedposts.
2. Don't overreach or overact. Do have the decency to verify that your intended target is unattached and available. Don't make an ass of yourself.
3. Be the most beautiful, exciting, confident, and cleverest version of yourself. That will be enough.
To the Rude Road Rage Bitch Who "Introduced" Herself to Me This Morning:
(Warning: Pointed Rant Ahead.)
Fellow occupant of the planet:
(I searched at length for another title, but found you undeserving of Lady, Ma'am, and other honorifics.)
Despite what your electric gratification aids may suggest, you are not the center of the universe.
I know, you are shocked.
The rest of us have an equal right to the road. If you are merging onto a road, it is your responsibility to move into the ongoing traffic. It is not, as your flailing arms, rude gestures, shouting, and general fit would suggest, everyone else's responsibility to make way for you. Now, we may choose to do so, as is polite, if it does not trouble our own travel plans to do so.
However, seeing as how my exit came immediately after your entrance, I didn't see the time necessary for me to move over and make room for you. I say again, you are not the center of the universe. America does not recognize any royal titles your gratification device or cocker spaniel may have bestowed. You are no better than anybody else. And perhaps, just perhaps, a good deal worse.
If you find traffic is heavy and your merging into traffic is not as easy as you would like, I would suggest you either speed up or hit the breaks. I'm not going to miss my exit so as to feed your delusions of self importance. Furthermore, your unladylike display of road rage over my seeing to my own safety and travel agenda conveys a selfishness that must be answered. And so, I take out my mightiest weapon - my keyboard - and thoroughly hound you with the embarrassing retelling of your horrid behavior.
I say again, that your merging with traffic - according to the Rules of the Road - is your responsibility. I do not have to yield to you. And, as my exit was immediately after your entrance, I saw it counterproductive to my morning plans to accomodate you.
You can stick your nasty mouth, waving hands, and gesturing fingers in that void where your gratification device resides.
'Cause honey, I don't give a rat's ass.
Get over yourself.
This concludes this morning's rant. Thank you for your forebearance.
I am deeply mortified that I missed the anniversary of your glorious arrival to the blogosphere. Three years, in this johnny-blogger-come-lately world where most bloggers become roadkill on the information superhighway, is a true accomplishment. If I have offended you overmuch with my omission, I apologize. I stand ready to kiss the hem of your ermine cloak and spit polish the jewels of your bejeweled myllan cap. It is a travesty and I should be flogged, but please don't let Small Holder do it. I think he would enjoy it too much.
I renew my pledge to not Vanquish your Naked Villainy.
And, Congratulations on surviving another year and putting up with all of us smartasses. Of course, you are our leader...
I would ordinarily wax poetic and acerbic on the story of Paris Hilton giving up sex for a year, it being too delicious a story to pass up, but I find that The Hatemonger's Quarterly has already said what I would have.
Drudge is linking to a story today in LiveScience about how mothers prefer the smell of their own baby's poop. Why this is a surprise to them, I'm not sure. I told you about this back in March, as part of my post on my recent Defecation Education.
The story reports that...
In a new study, 13 mothers were asked to sniff soiled diapers belonging to both their own child and others from an unrelated baby. The women consistently ranked the smell of their own child's feces as less revolting than that of other babies.
This effect persisted even when the diapers were purposely mislabeled.
One possible explanation is that the mothers were simply more accustomed to their their baby's stink and therefore found it less repulsive. A more intriguing possibility, the researchers say, is that the mothers' reactions are an evolutionary adaptation allowing them to overcome their natural disgust so that they can properly care for their babies.
But, that is no surprise, at least to me. I wrote a much less scientific article that came to the same conclusion (among others) and it cost nothing but experience:
I mentioned it briefly above, but the smell of baby poop also deserves in-depth study. As vile as it smells, it can become almost absent to those who smell it frequently, like the parents. You get used to the smell. You can still smell it, of course, but for some reason you begin to grow accustomed to it, even finding the smell comforting. I have developed a theory that it is this nature of parents to grow accustomed to the stench of their children's shit that led to the popular vernacular saying "your shit don't stink." Because to some, it doesn't.
The entire post is worth your time, if only for laughs.
There you go. Villains Vanquished: Scooping the Crap Scientists on All Kinds of Shit. Hey, maybe we aught to change our tagline to that! Hmm...Phin may already be using it.
No matter, we endeavor to keep our public informed, even if the highlight of our topical repertoire is baby poop.
A bitter divorce has resulted in a decree from the court that he must sell his $10 million mansion, a home he has long loved.
So, he decides he's better off trying to kill himself in a gas explosion, taking the house with him.
Strangely, the story goes on to inform readers that this is not the man's first attempt at suicide. Twice previously he has attempted to do himself in. The first time, by breathing in gas fumes in his basement, and the second time by breathing in fumes from a bug bomb.
This story is so much like The War of the Roses, it is kind of funny.
Check out this story of a Russian man who recently asked Putin for permission to marry...his cow.
Compelling stuff, I know.
The man's reasoning says it all:
"All the girls have left our small village and moved to the city, so I cannotfind a woman to be with. But I see the solution to the problem. I love animals very much and want to ask when we will be allowed in Russia to marry domestic animals, such as cows?"
Today, the Demystifying Divas and The Men's Club are supposed to be tackling our most shameful relationship moments.
Personally, I am ashamed of the whole fiasco surrounding one of my college breakups. Here's the gist...
I was nearly raped my freshman year of college by an ex-boyfriend. He was also the frat brother of my then current boyfriend. After some initial hysteria (3 days), I finally told the boyfriend of the near rape. Whereupon he intimated that perhaps it had been my fault.
I didn't take that very well. But, I was still pretty emotionally fragile, so I took it.
A couple of months later, boyfriend is planning the rest of our life together. I may have still been skittish, but something tells me that this guy deciding the rest of our lives without my input irked me more than he suspected. But, Christmas break was coming up and I didn't want to break up with him right at the holiday, so I pushed it off.
Then, I went home for Christmas and caught my stepfather cheating on my mom. In a classic reaction, we then played "Shoot the Messenger" and I was again emotionally wrecked. I went to this New Year's Eve Party and got really stinking drunk. I'm talking tequila shooters and everclear. I was too upset to be drinking. And the alcohol didn't help matters.
That night will live in infamy in the history of my life because of the confluence of events. My first love and would-be rapist showed up at the party with the girl he cheated on me with (the same one he swore wasn't interested in him in "that way" and was "just a friend") and nobody knew what he had tried to do, the soon-to-be-exboyfriend with the grand plans for our life together decided to surprise me at the party, and I had just caught the stepfather in flagrante delicto. I was walking through an emotional field of landmines. Did I mention that alcohol made me unsteady on my feet?
I puked a lot. In an act of drunken defiance I completely ignored the boyfriend who was telling people we were all-but engaged, and then passed out between my two guy friends (there was no hanky-panky) so that I would feel safe and secure in a place where I knew a rapist was running around. Those guys made sure nothing bad happened to me, except for the horrendous hangover the next day. And I didn't even lose my pearls. Of course, I don't remember a whole lot about that evening...
Of course, I had behaved childishly to the boyfriend. I am ashamed of my behavior, of course. This shame is mitigated largely by the fact that he turned out to be a stalking psychopath, but that's another story.
The Divas and Gents are currently in disarray, but theymaypost on this topic if they get the chance.
I know what you are thinking. I'm a little behind the times on the text message revolution. I can explain. I've never seen the point of text messaging. You have your phone in hand, why not just call? This has always been my hangup. No more! Now I can text message, though I don't buy into all of that shorthand mumbo-jumbo. I'll continue to spell things out, thank you very much.
I spoke with Christina last night. The house is completely gone, but they managed to get all of the animals and a few precious mementos before the place fell down around their ears.
One thing they haven't lost is their fighting spirit. Christina is my new hero because she has handled this entire tragedy with the most amazing grace and humor. She was joking and telling me about running through the burning house trying to save certain items. I didn't know, but she was happy to enlighten me, that there are two different colors of smoke: black and blacker.
She did want me to convey to everyone that they are doing fine and she sent her thanks for your good wishes and prayers.
She is a strong and amazing woman and they are a terrific family. I have no doubt that they will overcome this, but damn, it just sucks. State Farm is taking good care of them, but they may be living in an apartment for a while. Keep them in your prayers, please.
I'm sorry that I haven't been able to post this week until now. Things have been more than a bit hectic. We are shorthanded at work and I've been pulling double and triple duty at times.
In my non-work life, I've also been busy. My house got a good cleaning over the weekend and I finished up on the 4th. Just in time, I should note, for us to have houseguests. My cousin came to visit with her husband and two boys. We had a great time talking about old times. It was a lot of fun. We really enjoy their company, even if we rarely get to see them.
I was so exhausted from a day of cleaning and playing hostess that I overslept this morning.
Christina, Dash, and the girls have lost their home to a fire over the weekend. Go give them some love. I'll keep you posted on any developments and if there is anything we can do.
