The Real Crash Banticoot: The Real Reason Why I Shop At Target?

Hello, world! I am blogging again. You know what that means..... Blogging= angst.

Sigh.

Someone hit my car on Monday. My Volvo!!!!!!

Let me interject, here. My Volvo is not new. Its actually like, ten years old or something. But, I love it. I drives well, the mileage is great, its red, and 99% of the stuff in it works (mmmmm, 95%) In other words, its totally me.

Immediately after said accident, and my very own live, personalized episode of Cops*, the jokes began. My cousins are all, " Another accident? What are you- a moving target?"

Blah, blah, blah...

So Jess, one of my cousins, is like, "How many accidents have you been in, like, ten?"
Then, I'm all like, "Something like that".

Then, I really start to think. How many accidents HAVE I really been in???

The answer will certainly amaze you:

1. In my mom's Volvo when I was 7. Broken nose.
2. In my crackhead stepdad's (take that as literally as you'd like) pickup truck.
3. Age 20, Altima. Two weeks old. Pissed. Totaled.
4. Age 21, Camry. Dodge Truck Hit me on the highway, kept it moving. Pissed Again. Car repaired, and returned.
5. Age 22, Camry. Sleep Driving on Ambien. Confused. Totaled. My next car, the Carrolla, was lucky. It was stolen. As was the Accord.
6. Age 22 or 3. Ford Focus. Fell asleep (probably the Ambien again?) and hit a dude and his wife on the way home from back surgery. Sucks, huh? Totaled.
7. Age 22 (23?), my mom's spare Caddilac Deville. At Fault. Mom was Pissed. Repaired and Returned.
8. Age 23, Crown Victoria. Drunk dude backs into me after seeing the friendly neighborhood prostitute. Pissed. Repaired, returned. Still in my garage (don't ask why).
9. Age 23, Crown Victoria. Lady rear ends me. Not much damage.
10. Age 24, Chevy Blazer. Latino kid runs into the road at Lenox Mall and I sideswipe a pole to miss the bastard. Pissed. Mom pretended to speak no English. Security called cops, told me it was a civil matter. Really pissed as bastard's mom just shrugs. Repaired via uninsured motorist. Returned.
11. Age 24, Chevy Blazer. Rear ended in Atlanta rush hour traffic. Pissed. Totaled.
12. Age 26 or 7, Chevy Uplander. Barely tap a guy. No damage.
13. Age 26 or 7, Chevy Uplander. BRAND NEW. Two payments made. Rear ended by a woman who had spilled her cd's. Took 6 months to repair, ultimately deemed totaled 4 months later. Looooong time in a rental car.
14. Age 27 or 8, my mom's spare Surburban. Aren't I lucky she has a lot of cars? Isn't she screwed for having me as a daughter? Asian man tries to avoid a ticket by backing out of intersection, and into me. Sigh.
15. Age 28, Mom's spare Surburban. Again. Teenager rear ends me in front of the mall. Repaired and returned. At this point, my mom is so disgusted with me that she just gives me the truck. Yay? Not really.
16. Age 29, Mom's spare, no, MY Surburban. Guy hits me, keeps going, and I swerve into the median wall. Terrified. Totaled. Mom was pissed.
17. Age 30, Shiny red Volvo. After living across the street for 4 years from a crazy lady who hates me, and calls the police any time my company parks in front of her house on my side of the street, Her nurse parks in front of MY house on HER side of the street. And I back into her. Ironic? Broken tail light. Pissed.
18. 48 Hours ago, Shiny Red Volvo. Sitting still in front of a Gas station, waiting to turn into the parking lot. Driving while texting lady hits me going full speed. Confused. THEN THE BITCH TAKES OFF. Pissed.

Without giving too much juiciness from the next post, that's 18 accidents. 14, were not at fault. Maybe there's a reason why I love Target stores so much. I am one. A target, not a store.

Sigh.

OW, MY BACK!!!

* Here's the totally awesome news: I'll be posting TWICE. The whole Cops thing requires a post all to itself, and it will be totally worth the wait!

Thirty Year Old Jail Bait? It Really IS the New Twelve!

Let me start out by stating that I've missed you, dear bloggery. The waves of joblessness and poverty ebb and flow, thus I have had less time to pour out my ridiculous soul. I'll take busy over broke ANY day of the week, though. That being said.....
Today when I left church, I didn't feel the spiritual upliftedness that gets me through to, say, Thursday. Today was different. Today I needed several showers and a nap.
Mind you, I did not show up to church today wearing a whore's uniform, either. I wore the cutest blood orange colored linen dress WITH a slip (thank you, Granny), BELOW the knee (cute shoes, too- one of the colors on the shoe matched the dress perfectly, and the heel was just low enough to be comfy). My cutest accessory, Party Sub, was on my lap.
The Party Sub is the reason I usually sit close to the back- in case I have to dash from the church to change a diaper or murder a toddler (Buzz Lightyear goes to Children's church, Carlton Banks, Teen Church). Today, ushers sit us next to the sweetest looking elderly man with thick glasses and two hearing aids. He looks at Party Sub and goes, " CUTE BABY!!! HOW OLD IS HE?!?!?"
Yep- it was THAT loud. During Preservice prayer.

Hold onto your panties, girls. It only goes downhill from here.

He goes on to tell me, during preservice prayer, that he is a ninety one year old Navy Veteran who finally got his recognition from the government, and how he had SO much fun in Normandy last month (thanks, POTUS*, for the pick up line), and now he just needs someone to share his life with.

WHAT? What life? Didn't you just say you were ninety one? Ninety one is SO not the new fifty one, dude.

You know that record scratching noise that happens on television when some bull shit is going down?

I could totally hear it.

Then, he asks me if I am married.

Oh. Hell. No.....

Thankfully (I think), a lady comes and tells him, REALLY LOUDLY, that we are still having prayer time, and to shut up (politely, though).

What does Jesus's third cousin do? He pulls out a PEN.

And writes me a NOTE.

He asks, AGAIN, if I am married. I nod yes.

He asks if I am happy. I nod yes and point to the obvious indicator (a baby) on my lap.

He asks if I need a "friend". I look around for Ashton Kutcher.

As I look for Ashton Kutcher, I see an usher. I whisper the exchange to him, and he LAUGHS.

NOT what I am looking for, here.

He tells me to take it as a compliment and see if I can get his check. Funny, but as much as I need money, I don't want it like that.....

BLETCH. I experience the tiniest of dry heaves here.

Service goes on, and he leans over to look on in my Bible before the preacher begins. At this point, Sub Sandwich is getting sleepy, so the "mommy take out your boob" wrestling match begins.

Old dude is VISIBLY delighted.

So delighted, that he drools on my Bible. Splash.

I know.

You can fling yourselves back into your seat and scream now.

I will pause to allow you to compose yourself.

As I am finally able to wrestle Sub Sandwich's tiny (but very strong) arm from between the buttons of my dress, Chester the Molester suddenly leaps (as fast as he could, anyway) from the pew and races out with his "excuse me" finger held towards Heaven. Then I look over.

And see the wet spot, about the size of a dollar bill (scream again here).

Why Jesus, why?

Don't stop reading. The worst is yet to come.

The usher (the same one, no less) comes with gloves and a cloth, and gives the spot a quick spritz. When the molester returns, the dollar sized spot is covered. Yes, he RETURNS. I guess a little pee in the drawers never stopped a budding romance (he thinks romance, I think stalking)?

Then he writes me a note telling me I am nice, and get this, "prettie". I guess they spelled it that way before the Civil War? As I smile and nod.....

He puts his HAND on my damn thigh. Next to the BABY.

I'll pause again here.

I know I looked at this hand in horror. What I don't know is for how long. I also know that I took that cold ass, bony, ninety one year old hand between my thumb and forefinger and flung it so hard I almost broke is whole arm.

He was completely unbothered by this.

I think he just wanted me to touch him.

GROSS.

So then I write HIM a note, telling him that the pastor was preaching about living a holy life, but I would kill him if he did that again. Also, that there was a girl two rows in front of us that seemed to be wearing a blouse for a dress. He smiled and nodded.

After the benediction, I raced for the door, going the long way down the pew so as not to give Grandpa Perv an accidental lap dance and heart attack.

I swore, as I was leaving, that I heard the shriek of a woman with a hand under her blouse as she passed by. I mean dress.

Dress.

Really (no, not really. It WAS a freaking blouse. Sheer- with no slip. Being a size zero does not allow you to show up a Jesus's house dressed like a hooker. Come as you are, my ass. It was a BLOUSE. It barely crested the bottom of her nonexistent ass.).

Don't ask me what the Pastor talked about today. I really have NO idea.

And so, that was today.....

*POTUS is President of the United States, dumb ass. We don't call the Commander in Chief by his first name like he is our homeboy or something. Oh, and God bless America. Not the person, the country. Just so you know, that's a stupid name. Just saying.

Poverty and the Retro-er Hairdo

I'll get to the shotgun wedding thing soon, I swear. I'm waiting for EVERYTHING concerning said encounter to be over, and it's not... Yet...
So, you totally know I've been having hair issues, right (see "Dude, Where's My Wife" and "The Cost of Customer Service")?
Today I get all fed up with having 75% of a freakin' hairstyle, and decide to give myself a little trim.
At this point, ALL eyebrows should be raised. And someone who loves me should tackle me and take the sharp object, for I am clearly delirious.
Anyone who knows me is totally aghast right now, because the task of COMBING hair is usually too much for me. I just cant do it. I feel that there are certain things that people should be paid to do, like grooming me. Hair, nails, painful crotch snatching (that's waxing for those who haven't had it done), everything. If I could afford bathers.......Here comes the glimmery visual:
"The Royal V-Jay Jay is clean, your Highness". Hilarious.
ANYHOW!!!!!
Seeing as though I can hardly afford the items needed to bathe (water included), the bather, the pedicurist, and the licensed professionals with scissors and wax seem a bit too extravagant right now. So, I take the scissors to my own coif. After all, how hard can it be?
The Answer: Really completely totally hard.
Geometry notwithstanding, if anyone in an actual establishment had done this to my bangs, I would beat. Their. Ass. Royally. But, since this hack job was done by a chef that does a little butchering on the side, I will refrain from kicking my own ass for now. At least its even.
Ish.
Sigh.
So, as I look in the mirror, Ive got serious deja vu. So, I run and grab my tenth grade yearbook, and guess who has mom clipped bangs and a dumb ass look on her face?
This time, throwback is NOT cool.

Next Post

For my next post, I will be discussing how a pregnant, ambivalent bride can morph into the perfect Bridezilla, and why shotgun weddings can sometimes pay the bills.

The Price of Customer Service

I recently mentioned that I had gotten my hair done, and that the encounter was a post all on its own? Well, here it is, in the form of the online review that I posted on Yahoo! Search. Cant WAIT to see it. One more thing? You can pretty much guess that I gave this salon one. Whole. Star. Which was way too many.
Here's the comment I posted:
Ever see those coupons in the mail for hair salons? That usually means one of two things:
1. The business is desperate and in trouble.
2. The offer is too good to be true.
In the case of Yalonda's, BOTH are true.
The coupon says $25 for a wash and set, $50 for a sew in, & $75 for a sew in with a closure. You WILL leave this place with a total WTF? look on your face. Here's why:
Say you go in for the $25 wash and set. They will wash your hair, but not condition it. That's EXTRA. They will be nice enough to ask if you want it wrapped or roller set. When you are done drying, they will NOT unwrap your hair or comb out the curls. That's styling, and styling's EXTRA.
If you you have a bang- and the dryer makes it look all crispy and air dried, don't think you're getting that flat ironed. That's $15 dollars EXTRA.
Notice a pattern? Me too...
So, I go in for the $75 full sew in with a closure. I see the online reviews, but I'm all, "How bad can it be?". SIGH- I'm cheap.
So the stylist (this term is used REALLY loosely), sews in the hair. Then, she she spins me around with kind of a Voila! gesture. She doesn't even comb it through! Not even a finger combing! I'm like, "You're done? The ad says this comes with a basic cut".
She says to me, "That's only if I sew it in crooked. In that case, I just clip off the long piece. If you want the ends trimmed, that's EXTRA."
I cannot forget to mention the poor girl next to me, being serviced by the 17 year old working there without a license. She only mentioned that the sew in was WAY too tight about 80 times. I guess listening is EXTRA.
Next, let's discuss atmosphere, then sanitation and customer service (or the lack thereof).
Say you bought a foreclosed property. Say also that the prior owners were pissed to be leaving, so they threw wet toilet paper balls all over the walls (like we used to do in grade school), then painted all the walls and all the tissue bombs Crayola Crayon Green. You sweep in and get the property for a steal, then put a fan in the window and a boom box in a chair (with a wire hanger antenna!), and your decor is complete.
This is LITERALLY what Yalonda did.
You can actually tell that where she stands to do her "magic" is where the STOVE was! The original counter is still in place!There is not even a wash bowl in there!
Speaking of washing...The ENTIRE time I was there, not one stylist washed her hands even ONE TIME! I know this because neither of them left the room EVEN once, and there is NO sink upstairs. They touched, like, 20 heads, with no soap, hand sanitizer, and none of that green stuff for the combs that real stylists use, either. There were not even EMPTY cups FOR that green stuff (or is that stuff blue? Either way, there was NONE). I guess cleanliness is also EXTRA. I wonder if the wash sink is in one of the old bathrooms??
If you decide to set foot in this place, you had better know where you're going. The entrance of the house is the living room. There is no one there to say hello, or even a BEWARE! sign. Yalonda is up in the kitchen, and I think the stylists down in the bedrooms are independent, because Yalonda spent the entire time discussing how they were down there "'Effing up people's hair left and right". Yes, that's a quote. At any rate, when you come in, don't expect to hear "May I help you?" or anything like that. Everyone will basically stop talking and stare like you were the one they were all just discussing. It's up to you to initiate the conversation, and don't expect any small talk or smiling, either. Customer Service must also cost EXTRA.
The entire time I was there, no one left with a completed hairstyle. Who the hell wants to pay someone to get their hair started, then finish it at home? That's like going to Taco Bell for Fourthmeal and then coming home to assemble your own Nachos Belgrande.
Seriously.
If you want a hair- do complete with air conditioning, customer service, salon products, cleanliness, hair combing, AND a style.. NO WAY.THAT'S EXTRA.

Dude, Where's My Wife?

This will be a rather short post, as I have a real, actual job interview tomorrow, and I am very excited. So, I will be up all night thinking about EVERYTHING. At 3am, there may be pancakes. Maybe I'll bake a cake... Zoloft, pleeze!
So, as I pride myself on being damn near perfect- stable, yet spontaneous, simple, yet complex, funny in a cute sarcastic way..... Things happen that may suggest that I am none of these things (shhh! Dont tell my inner bitch).
Anyway...
I decide to do the world a favor and get my hair done so I can be cute(er) AND funny. So, as I do what pretty much comes automatically, I realize that I've pretty much had the SAME hairstyle for, like, TEN years.
Oh. My. GOD. I am becoming, like, my mom or something.
So, I do get it done, but no details today- that will warrant an additional post, and it. will. be WORTH IT! Shame on people that portray themselves to be respectable business owners.....
SIGH. I think I should maybe start using subtexts or something...
Here's the point: Clinton and I go to Big Box World, to get a big box of something or other, and all of a sudden, he starts yelping my name. I am three feet away- he does not recognize me. The look of surprise and confusion he gave when I poked him was proof positive.
Damn.

And Another One

So, I am back from another Twitter relapse. This time its not my fault, though. I totally blame Anderson Cooper and Ashton Kutcher for this recent wagon tumble- they MADE me do it. Anderson Cooper is so fine, I'll do whatever he asks.
There are many ways I could go with a horrible 360 (certainly involving a reach-around) joke that would scar most of you for life, so I won't.
This time...
Anyhow... In order to remain devoted to my blog and stay off the Twitter-codone (that's Twitter-contin for all you generics), from now on I'll just send my well thought out and counted 140 characters over to my blog, cutting my Twitter dealer out of the loop. Yippee, now I can fire my pimp....
Here's the first one:
Something to say to make yourself look stupid as hell on world television: "He's a Socialist cuz he's a Socialist. That's why". SIGH.
I bet you counted the characters........

Next Post

For my next post, I will discuss my Twitter relapse (12 steps, my arse), and how 30 REALLY is the new 12.

He Arose, Therefore I Brunch

I totally get that Ive been away for far too long. From Good Friday to Easter, I was in various stages of preparing for Easter Sunday. Plastic eggs to fill and hide, eggs to buy and color, matching shirts to Tye dye, brunch, pictures, you know the drill. Usually, we go to brunch at the Waverly, but the hubby was supposed to work (economic crisis, you know). Then, he surprised us with the day off, and the choices of the places we could get a reservation with left much to be desired in the heart of a true foodie. How can you have Easter Brunch without crab cakes and ham? SIGH. I went to culinary school for the food, remember???
So, here is the menu for Easter Brunch at home with the Nudity Family (us):

Brunch in Our Underwear

Smoked Salmon Platter (with everything bagels)

Fruit Display

Ices Shrimp and Crab Claws

Caramelized Sugar Bacon (yum)

Vegetarian Sausage (Carlton Banks)

Cinnamon Raisin French Toast

Buttermilk Biscuits

Cream Cheese Danish

Fried Cod

Peasant Potatoes

Buttered Asparagus

Caesar Salad (with burned croutons- totally my fault, too)

Assorted Pretty Desserts from Dekalb Farmers Market

I didn't get crab cakes OR ham, but the trade off was worth it, as I was able to knock back a stellar amount of Bellini's and stumble right into the living room, where I crashed and slept till dark. YAY, "Itis"! See, I AM black. Or, do we all get tired after marathon eating??? You be the judge.

Anyhow, thanks, Jesus, for that stuff you did.

Talk Like...... What????

Recently, the hubby had the Bromancers (his entourage. If you don't get the reference, SIGH) over to watch a totally uninteresting sports event. It is my job to cook, smile, and act like the super perfect wife that I am in my head, and I take great pride and pleasure in doing just that.
Another part of said job is entertaining the female companions of the Bromancers. I use the generic term "female companion", because 99 percent of Hubby's friends are not married, just in various stages of shacking up and self delusional compromise. Therefore, I feel that if these gals are going to be putting up with all the shyt that they do without the leverage of divorce court, custody battles and alimony payments on their side, they are just cheap enough to warrant a generic label (oops, there she is again!).
I can feel myself veering off the road to stand on the old "Self Worth / Crisis in the American Family" soapbox, so let me get to the point of this post.
On this night, there was only one companion to tend to. I like this gal just fine, but she gets a bad rap from the Bromancers. They say she doesn't know when to shut up.....
Anyway.....!
So my sons are all over the place, and Buzz Lightyear (the three year old) is chatting about whatever it is that he talks about to anyone who will listen. So then, Female Companion turns to me and says, "Wow, your boys are so cute! Tell me, how do you make them talk like that???"
Aw... Hell..... Nah....
Verbal abuse and throat punches are sure to follow.
SOMEHOW, I resist the urge to curse her out. I smile and say, "What do you mean? In English?"
Then she goes, "You know, like you. All white and stuff. Your mom was my lawyer when I had my accident, and she don't sound nothing like you."

Yes, she does. Its called switching, if you didn't know. But still.....

The guys are quiet now, and I really want to stab this chick with a plastic fork, but I take the high (HA!) road and say, "I guess its because my mom sent me to a good school where they make you speak the language. You know, this way of speaking has its benefits. When I call customer service, I'm never put on hold. Plus, when I have interviews, I always do very well. Plus, the fact that my children and I have normal names means our resumes wont get thrown in the trash so we can get into said interview. What about you?"
No response.
SO THERE.
I guess I should have called this post The Inner Bitch, Part 2. She had it coming, though.

The Inner Bitch- Part One

So yesterday, I somehow come to my own conclusion that I am a little bit bitchy sometimes. Never mind that people tell me that all the time, 'cause who the heck do they think they are, anyway??? Honesty IS the best policy, and if it burns, its workin'! Also never mind that I have been intervened upon once or twice( more flies with honey, my arse), and that my bff recently told me in a super sarcastic voice that she "couldn't imagine WHY my mother in law wouldn't like me, and WHERE on EARTH did I get the idea that I may be stuck up?" Humph.
BTW, that hurt for a split second.... What does it mean to not be "THAT opinionated"???
Anyhow.
So, I started thinking of all the people my bitchiness may have affected.
I could only think of one person. He knows who he is, and in my defense, he admitted to being a mess when we met, and that his baggage was past carry-on before our little relationship sham thingy ever began.
Seriously now..... Why would anyone give me that much power in their life? To say that I, commentator of the world, am the sole ruiner of all things "you" is a huge responsibility that I just don't think I'm ready to accept.
Carlton Banks is a tween, you know, and I am quite busy scarring him for life, thank you very much.
So, as I make the first moves to quell the bitch within, I balk. Why should I? She serves no purpose to anyone but me. I love her and so do others, and if you don't know that she's for entertainment purposes only, then you deserve her scathing, curse word laden, self esteem withering wrath.
So there (arms folded in indignation).
And another thing? I'm sorry (again). Also, get a freakin' life. There's NO WAY I should still have this much power in your life for you to feel so passionately about the past.
Sheeeeee's baaaaack! Ive missed her so.....

Okay, Im Back. This Time for Good

This blogging thing is harder than it seems. Exspecially when you have a problem with awesome beginnings and rather awkward, incomplete endings (see ALL of my relationships thus far).
I have come to realize that I also have a blog in my head. That, and lead in my ass, because I can never seem to make it down the stairs to put all of my random rants to pen. Or keyboard.
I have another excuse- that Twitter is the new crack. I have been Twittering so frequently that I have segments of life that I can only remember in increments of 140 characters. Ive gotta get off that shyt......
Anyways...
For my next post, I will discuss.......... My self intervention with my inner bitch.
Yep, the voices rage on......

The Best of Intentions

I generally start things with the best of intentions in mind. Case in point- My effort to save the world. Ahem, through recycling. Anything else would require far too much of me, as I would not want to go all Super Saiyan Warrior with my entourage (Carlton Banks, Buzz Lightyear, $5 Footlong) in tow.

So, I go all "green" (only in my head), and forbid the family from throwing away much of anything so we can reduce our carbon footprint. I set up the Team Jo Recycling Center in the garage, and I sit back and smile, with that warm aroma of accomplishment fresh in my nostrils.

Oh wait... That's not accomplishment, that's GARBAGE!!! Why did no one tell me that recycling stinks like a dead hippie??? Holy Shitballs!! It also attracts ants!!! Did I mention it stinks like a dead prostitute? Where did all these FLIES come from????? SERIOUSLY DUDE!
Don't even get me on the composting. It seemed like a FINE idea to simply pile up all my eggshells, vegetable scraps, and coffee grounds with leaves in the back yard to replenish the earth;s nutrient fortified goodness. I'm saving the earth! After all, I have a friend who told me that vegetarians' farts don't stink, so how bad could it be? BTW- That is total bullshit. Carlton Banks is a vegetarian, and his poots (spell check tried to change this word into poets, haha!) stink like all hell. I'm just saying.......
So, here I am with eight garbage bags of recyclable shit that I keep forgetting to take to the center (because its so damn inconvenient; why cant they do pickups?) in my garage like I'm some crazy hoarder lady with 27 cats, and the earth is no better off than when I started digging through my own trash, and not for profit to boot.
How do I know? That over fished Chilean sea bass I ate for lunch was great. And when the server brought out my leftovers in FOUR Styrofoam containers..... SIGH.

Next Post

Is it just me, or is CSI getting a little weird?

A Few Good Forrest Klumps

As usual, I am watching CNN. Or Fox. Or SOMETHING of the sort...

The army has put out stats that say that they no longer have a few good men. Not that recruiting isn't up, it totally is because the worse off we are in society, the more our youth goes running in the direction of health care and training opportunities- Tadaah! The Armed Forces.

Please don't get me all wrong here. I think its super cool the sacrifices that are made for my freedom to sit on my corpulent keester and type my lil' old opinion at all times of day and night. Not only do I love a man in uniform (I've had my share), I also love a man who can keep me safe, 'cause as God as my witness, I'll never be hungry again! hee hee

Okay, let me back off the Gone With the Wind antics and get to the freakin' point: It has become all the more obvious to the armed forces that they are the choice just before Job Corps and cooking meth. Why? Because statistics show that 75% of all youth ages 17-24 are either too fat, on drugs, drunk as hell, or too stupid to go into ANY branch of the military. Read that again for super dramatic effect.

I couldn't even laugh at this. Okay, I'm lying- I laughed until I puked a little sweet tea. But seriously? What is this world coming to if you can't ship your kid off to the army to learn some discipline- because he or she is too stupid?

Looking at my younger brother, I can see what they are sizing up, and I, too, am afraid. OJ and my mom are almost on first name basis- she makes "suggestions" for his behavior, then he does whatever he thinks is best. Usually this involves the phone, video games, weed, chicks, or snacks. Or some combination of two or more.

I don't really know where to go with this. It is far more a tragedy than a joke. Who can save them? Who can save us? How can we have a better future if everyone is stupid, strung out, or checking their blood sugar because of juvenile onset diabetes?

One more thing? ADHD is so NOT the new multitasking.

The wild rebels from the 60's and 70's have really dropped the ball on this. I am only 30, and when I was a kid we prayed at school, said the damn pledge, went outside to play, and feared ALL adults, because a good, hard spank could come from anywhere.
Pumas? Cougars?? MILF's??? What the hell happened?

Next Post

In my next post, I will most likely discuss why liking restaurant food was simply an awful reason to go to culinary school- and what I should do now that I have figured that out. My mom is going to be TOTALLY pissed. And, I don't care! She'll be okay once I pull out the crab cakes..... with a lovely beurre blanc.

The Silver Lining of Poverty

I have been unemployed now for a lot longer than I am comfortable worth admitting. I like to mask those feelings of inadequacy by telling people that I was SO smart over the years. So responsible. That when I lost my job I had money saved, and that I had been SO good with my investments, like my 401k and money market account, and that I had enough saved for almost a year. That was partially true. I did have a pretty good thing going with the savings. That money had been tucked away for a college fund for my oldest son, Carlton Banks.
The thing that screwed me was how uninformed I was about the shyt that was about to hit the proverbial fan. I thought I would get a new job pretty much right away, with the same pay and benefits, maybe better. So, I spent money like I would get another job, possibly a better one, very soon. I did not, and now I have poor Carlton and his straight A's looking forward to life with a scholarship (hopefully). I don't even know what to tell The Space Ranger and the $5 Footlong. They may have to drink Mountain Dew and go work in the mines.
That said, I am pretty impoverished, although not by global, or neighborhood standards (our cars are paid for, and the house is not under an ARM). I spend my days like most Americans, in front of the TV, watching the stock market pretend to be the Olympic Diving Team from China( or somewhere who likes to dive. A LOT.). Today, the big thing to bang on the heads of the panic stricken is that if you have a 401k, it is now back to the level of 1997.
Upon hearing this, I immediately fall onto the floor and laugh until I cry. Hard. Real tears.
Considering my issues with unemployment and whatnot, you'd be pretty smart to think I am crying because I am watching my savings be pissed away on live TV. I am laughing because my 401k IS where it was in 1997- at ZERO! I had a baby and graduated high school that year (yes, in that order- and SO WHAT?).
ANYHOW- the silver lining is this: I cashed in my and my husband's 401k's LAST YEAR, when everyone (my mom, aunts, my husband's job, Ali Velshi, you get my drift) told me I was a fool to do so. Back to zero that!
WHATEVER, SUZIE ORMAN! TAKE YOUR CUTE JACKETS AND SHOVE THEM!!!!!
If I had waited until now, when we are actually hanging on to our last 400 dollars (338, actually) to try and get some emergency cash, we would be TOTALLY screwed. Like well done sirloin. Or well done anything, for that matter.
It is no comfort to me to think about all the people out there who look at their Fidelity statements and want to cry without the laughter- their money crisis is scarier than my own. In fact, when I do think of them, my silver lining is more like dull stainless steel, and I cry without laughing as I apply online for a Waffle House job.

Its Already Been Brought!

I was all set to write about how the Republican Party is the New Bring It On movie, then Michael Steele went all wimpy and apologized. Now I guess they are the new Mean Girls??? Damn. Now I have to rethink this whole thing...

A Nation of Cowards, or a Nation Divided?

Yesterday, I decided to be "informed" and tune in to CSPAN.
All. Day. I watched "The State of the Black Nation" and the CPAC Convention. Both were interesting. I couldn't help but notice that Michael Steele was at the State of the Black Nation, and not the CPAC convention. That makes me wonder, but that's not why I'm here. Heck, I have quite a few conservative views, too, but you couldn't have PAID me to be in a place where I would have felt so... awkward.
Anyhow, the speeches were shown out of order from the way they went live at the CPAC convention, so I watched Rush Limbaugh first. He was supposed to speak for 20 minutes. Dude spoke for an hour and 37 minutes. I have no real problem with this man because I know where he stands. All of his rage and opinions are right out there in the atmosphere, so when he does his business on the air, I am not all shocked and amazed or anything like that. I respect that- let me know who you are, so I can either totally love you or avoid you like the plague.
Next, I watched Newt Gingrich.
Here. Is. My. Issue. It is my opinion that Newt Gingrich is a douche bag. A dumb, word twisting, manipulative, inciting douche bag. He spoke for the majority of his time discussing how Eric Holder "described everyone in here the crowd as cowards". EVERYONE knows that is not true. However, he stated it over and over again, and even went so far as to say that if Eric Holder thought he was a coward, that he would "take him on, any time, any place". Sigh. TKO.
Although it was not the greatest choice of words, Mr. Holder said when it comes to HAVING A DISCUSSION ABOUT RACE, we are a nation of cowards. I think that's the truth. Its getting better, but its still the truth for now. Everywhere in our great nation, children are being harshly judged by their peers and their parents for being too dark, too light, having the "wrong" hair, or even the wrong interests. To be smart means you want to be white. To listen to R&B or Hip Hop means you want to be black. To be eloquent means you want to be white. To have rhythm or wear loose clothes means you want to be black. I could go on forever, but here is my point: We DO need to have a discussion about race and diversity. It needs to start at home, and branch out into all areas of our lives. We can start by telling our children that its okay, really okay to be who we are and look how we look. Then, we need to tell them that its okay to like what we like, and that its okay to try something or be something different.
I like Linkin Park. I also like JayZ. I liked them even more together. And so what?
We are the world's greatest nation, and free because of that. And that DOES mean we can be with who we want, for the better or for the detriment. We are, though, TOO DIVIDED. Not only are we divided racially, in our respective races we are divided by age, class, income, neighborhood, interest, and God only knows what else. Because of this, we all fear and mistrust each other, over the slightest difference. This makes us loathe and mistreat each other. This sucks, because we have more in common than we know. If we wake up tomorrow and CNN says that terrorists have compromised our safety, we are all screwed. All of us together. That's what we need to be a better nation, too. All of us. Together. And so what if I feel that way?

Yay! My First Post!

I suppose I am starting this blog for the same reasons as anyone else:

1. I have a lot to say.
2. I have exponentially more time to say it.
3. No health care= No therapy= no outlet for my angst.
4. I think the world should hear me.
5. Blogging is the new "Dear diary,".

The main reason, I suppose, is narcissism (making the above things subreasons???), and since that has pretty much become epidemic, no one will judge me. Hooray!

Please bear with me, as I am sure of two things, that this will be a process, and that I will piss some people off. I am okay with each of those.