Home on Fumes

I'm kinda hinky about religion. I'm trying to work on it, but this general outlook results in a habit of not making bargains with G*d.

I do, however, on occasion find the need to enter into small agreements with inanimate objects and small children and pets who have no possible way to understand the ramifications of the covenant I'm making with them.

When my adorable, little puppy ran into the middle of a flag football game being played by a dozen hot guys down on the Mall that day in my 20's, I promised then that I would forgive the future destruction of one item that she was sure to undertake.

When my youngest child behaved incredibly in the ER waiting room for hours on that visit when he was two? Well he doesn't know it yet, but he has one free pass on breaking curfew when he's a teenager.

I forgot to get gas before leaving for home tonight (what is it about the gauge that it always ends up in my blind spot?). I had to be home in twenty minutes. There was no time to stop and even to make it in that time I'd have to take the HOV lanes (there are no gas stations or exits on the HOV lanes).

The needle was on empty as I pulled out of the garage. The little orange light was on.

I really didn't want to run out of gas. I didn't want to stand in the cold. I didn't want to wait for AAA to bail me out. I DID NOT want to hear it from my husband.

So I made a bargain with the car.

She has more than 100,000 miles on her. I tend not to give her the respect she deserves. I often let my eyes stray to other cuter, younger cars.

But I made a bargain with her.

My little car got me home tonight. I wasn't late, and more importantly I didn't have to listen to my husband rant about my inability to pay attention to the gauge (or the clock).

So I will stick by my promise. Next time I'm tempted dismiss that little car, I'll remember she got me home on fumes.

A Thought From Game Night

I'm sure playing cards were purposefully created to be difficult for children to hold in a fan to keep them from losing all their money at poker.

Turns Out I'm Sugar Mamma to the CEOs

This bailout makes me want to storm executive suites and board rooms with a wooden spoon in one hand a pair of leather gloves in the other.

WHO THE HELL DO THESE CORPORATE CEOs THINK THEY ARE?!!!!!!!!!!

Today we hear that Citigroup is buying a corporate jet for $50 million. How much was the check they just received that included my hard-earned tax dollars?

Last week after Bank of America took over Merrill Lynch, we heard that Merrill's CEO (who no longer has a job now) had just spent $1 million renovating his office--most likely having to put his designer on hold while he groveled to Congress for some of the bailout funds.

These are just two small examples out of hundreds I could go and research if I wasn't so irate.

I'm a dyed-in-the-wool liberal. I believe the government does have to help prevent hard-working citizens (and their children) from living below the poverty line--or even at the poverty line.

BUT I CAN'T SUPPORT THIS BAILOUT FOR ONE MORE MINUTE!!!

I don't believe GM employees should lose their jobs. I don't want entire areas of our country to turn into rust belts. But they're about too.

And you know who needs to take responsibility?? The CEOs and other corporate leaders who drove their companies into the ground.

If you ask me, it would be too kind to string them up by their wrists, slather their armpits in pollen and let some bees loose.

When their personal bank accounts and stock holdings have been zeroed out, then--and only then may they be welcome on my doorstep (and they better be on their knees) to ask for help.

Every day we're hearing about more stores closing, friends losing jobs, companies laying off employees.

The bailout money isn't stopping any of this. When will citizens rise up and scream NO MORE?!

I could rant here forever, but I think I've already been incoherent enough for one day.

I blame it on my anger.

It's fierce, it's white and it's hot.

Hmmmm...sorta like me.

Wisdom Inspired by Seuss

"I wish I had a tail. Then I could grab things from behind me."

-- 6 y.o. commenting on Dr. Seuss' Oh the Thinks You Can Think

1.20.09--And We Lived Happily...

What an incredible weekend! What an incredible day!!

I'm exhausted and I'm not sure why, but I think it's because I've been holding my breath for so long.

And today I exhaled.

I expected tears, but none came. There were plenty of goosebumps, but no tears--and I cry at the M&M Easter Bunny commercial every year.

Barak Obama doesn't represent a panacea to the world's problems to me, but the possibility of change in our country that makes me hopeful.

I tried to figure out how to convey the importance of this event to my sons. I brought the two oldest to the inaugural concert on Sunday.




We all watched the swearing in (on our feet) today.

But I don't know if they understand.

And you know what? That's okay. It means that they see nothing remarkable about a black man leading our country. Hopefully some day they will think nothing of a woman or someone of hispanic descent or of gay identity leading our country.

A world where my children don't expect that all leaders are white men? Is it really true?

Now I think I may cry.

Let It All Hang Out!

I see these exotic (and not so exotic) locations stream by on my stat counter every day and I wonder about who you are sitting in front of your computer screen and what brought you to my little corner of the interwebs.

Blogging turns out to be more revealing than I originally thought it would be. Who knows, maybe I just happen to be more of an exhibition*st than I originally thought. I mean I've shared moments of pride and moments of...well...moments.

Either way, it's time for you dear readers to give back.

Peek out from behind your keyboards and say hi. Tell me a bit about yourself. If I know you in real life, leave me a hint.

Who knows. If I find out my readers are all women I might feel free to talk about my b00bs more.

Loss

Sometimes when you lose something you don't even notice it's gone until you see it in an old picture and casually wonder where it went. Other times, the loss is so great you don't know if you'll ever stop looking in the back of that drawer just one more time.

Why are some things so hard to let go?

Bedtime Stories (without Adam Sandler)

Bedtime has arrived again and I haven't recorded any grand thoughts, figured out which came first--the chicken or the egg--or even found some mildly funny words to make at least myself giggle.

In exchange for the prophetic, I leave you with some little nuggets of late.

As I sat in the doctor's waiting room today--the foot and ankle surgeon--I looked up and took in the image of the man in a wheelchair sitting across from me. He had no legs from the knees down. WHAT THE HELL WAS HE DOING SEEING A FOOT AND ANKLE SPECIALIST?? HE DIDN'T HAVE ANY.

First grader came home from school before the holidays with a 3-D paper creation. The hubs complimented him on his dreidel. Son gave him the hairy eyeball and proclaimed, "Duh, it's not a dreidel dad, it's a lantern. The Jews use it to celebrate Ramadan."

My first activity of the new year was so incredible that I don't know how the rest of the year is going to be able to compare. I woke at 7:00 a.m. to the sounds of a whining puppy. I tried the time-tested approach of putting the pillow over my head to make her stop, but that approach was a failure. I rolled out of bed, threw on the closest items to protect any still-partying neighbors from the sight of my pale flesh and shuffled down stairs. And what was I greeted with?? A nearly six month-old puppy covered in her own poop looking up at me from her crate. So weird how the rest of my family was so tired they didn't hear any of the whining.

There I was trying to get her out into the backyard and the crate...well somewhere without getting covered myself. Crate unceremoniously deposited in the carport awaiting some other sleeping ass's attention, the puppy was brought upstairs for a bath--AT 7 FREAKING 30 on New Year's Day. Oh yeah, it's gonna take a lot to improve on the start of this year.

My Absence

My muse has run away. I hope to be able to write again without him, but I don't know.

He was actually my personal cabana boy and I relied upon him to bring me fruity adult beverages with little tiny umbrellas. Those drinky-poos and his handsome visage caused the words to flow like coconut-scented tanning oil.

Right now I am just grieving the loss.

I just know the asshole is some place warm not even giving me a second thought.

Serves me right for hiring on looks.