thorvalson.net : babble ether

"With the lights out/We're less dangerous/Here we are now/Entertain us..."

"JERK."

So, would it, like, totally be considered slander if I posted a picture entitled, "ScoJo's Lament: So Much Tail, So Little Excuse," of Scott dancing to Salt 'n Pepa's, "Shoop," and posted it on the internet?
Probably not. But it may put my employment in jeopardy. So I'll refrain. :)

Birthday Girl

I'm totally gonna go watch "Northern Exposure" reruns now.

My favorite part of this survey was when they asked who is the best rock band of all time, and one of the choices (dude, I SO picked it, no hesitation) was G'n'F'n'R.

And I'm sorry. "Degrassi: The Next Generation"? Fuck the next generation. Where are the original Degrassi reruns? Hm? WHERE ARE THEY? WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO SPIKE? Maybe I'm just too OLD to remember.

Changes

"They say goldfish have no memory
I guess their lives are much like mine
and the little plastic castle is a surprise every time
And it's hard to say if they're happy
but they don't seem much to mind."
- ani

I don't really have the time to post anything too extravagant or well-written right now; have to leave for Rockford for Maddie's birthday party in a half hour. But I've had some things running through my mind and wanted to get them down. I'll know what they are as soon as my fingers type them. :)
I'm in a really strange juxtaposition right now in terms of my relationship, not in regards to how I feel about him or vice versa, but.... well, we don't know what's going on right now. Are we together? Are we not? What needs to happen in order for this to move forward? The truth is, I don't need any definitive answers to those questions right this moment. If there's anything I know right now, it's that this relationship is a process, one I'm willing to continue, and that the answers will come along in due time.
I had a talk with a close friend the other night after work, and I have to say she pissed me off to some extent. There's a fine line between supporting your friend in times of distress and attacking something or someone she loves. And I'm sure there are others who feel the same way she did to some extent: that maybe I'm not doing what's best for me, that I'm going about it all wrong. So I guess I just wanted to put this sentiment out there...
I know when I'm being mistreated. I know where my limits are, and so far in this relationship, we haven't reached those limits. Maybe it doesn't always seem like I know what I'm doing. In fact, sometimes, I don't. But it's not about fortune telling, and it's not about always being in the right. It's about stopping at little oases along the way, asking myself if this is what I want. And the answer is and always has been, "yes."
I don't know where all of this is going to lead. I do know there is a certain cycle of negativity that needs to be unhinged, and it will be.
The only thing I am in control of is how I react to what happens next, and what happens after that. I cannot control whether or not I am in love.
And I am. And as long as I feel that it's worth it, I will continue to live according to what I feel is right not only for myself and my daughter, but for the person I love.
He is my Love, and he is my best friend, and as far as I can tell (and from what he has said and done), I am his. Like it or lump it. Even with the struggles and the bullshit, I still like it. And it's my relationship.
So there.

Happy 4th Birthday, my little beanie burrito baby girl.

Still crazy after all these years... ;)

Love,
Mom

Ahem.

I was just re-thinking the new title, "thorvalson.net: pictures of manic-depressive people," because I don't want to offend anyone pictured on this site. But then I thought, it's just like the "nigga" thing: it's okay to call someone "nigga" if you, yourself, are a "nigga".

High Fashion

Okay. I like to think of myself as a fair, balanced, and non-judgmental person in general, not only toward those in my immediate surroundings, but to celebrities as well. I'm not that big into fashion, and nothing makes me want to gag all over my groceries more than the sight of tabloid covers. I could care less who wore what when and where, and maybe it's the bleeding heart liberal in me, but I can't help but feel a pang of sorrow for the people who cannot simply stop in a coffee shop without some asshole taking their picture and writing mean things about what they were wearing at SEVEN IN THE MORNING while they were OUT JOGGING....
But this site is fuggin' hilarious.

In light of my disturbing entertainment by this site, I proffer the following idea: All persons benefiting from schoolyard judgment calls on others' wardrobes, handbags, accessories, and the like, must, for each and every scathing remark about another's wardrobe, SUBMIT A PHOTO OF THEMSELVES BEDECKED IN EQUALLY HORRIFIC ATTIRE, thereby subjecting themselves to their own medicine and restoring karmic balance.

I'll go first.

\

Yes, those are my pajamas and what I am actually wearing this very moment (note: the t-shirt says, "I've got the LOOK - You ought to know BETTER.").
And yes, those are legwarmers. It's cold in here! My pajama pants are dirty! Screw you!

File Under: If I Keep Talking Shit, He'll Eventually Respond

Multiple Choice:

The man seen in this photograph used to drink Budweiser in his pickup truck and throw the empty cans into the back of the same truck, while driving, thereby collecting further physical evidence of:

a) his own guilt in the event of getting pulled over, i.e.,
"Not a drop, Officer."
"Mr. Thorvalson, you have six empty Budweiser cans in the back of your truck..." ,
b) his apparent disbelief in drinking laws - yet strict adherence to environmental laws - , or,
c) the common disorder known as redneckism being more atrributed to the afflicted's nurturing rather than nature, i.e.,

You don't have to be born in the south to be a redneck.

Feel free to post your answers in the Comments section. Papers will be graded and returned in a timely fashion.

:)

Shit happens

I'll just leave it at this.
1. For the last two days, I have walked around feeling much like I did in the days following Maddie's birth: wanting, even needing, to go to the bathroom, and TERRIFIED to do so.
Better now! Thanks for asking.

2. If ever there was a doubt, I am now positively convinced that Greg and I would SO TOTALLY KICK EVERYONE'S ASS on "Fear Factor: Couples." Sheep eyes? Shmeep eyes. Testicles? Hey - not too far from my hometown, there's an annual TESTICLE FESTIVAL. WE EAT BALLS FOR FUN, ASSHOLE. WE CELEBRATE THE FUCKERS. Bring it on, bitches. And the assholes, too.

The funny thing is, I already had this picture.

Don't say I never warned you.

I am a sick, sick person. Go look at this thing.

If, "every detail of this design has been thought through", I can guarantee that there was not a single woman in the group of designers, because I took one look at the smooth, ergonomical contours of this device, lying on what looks like bathroom tile, and thought....

Ladies? Am I right, or am I right.

You leave the room, just for a minute to change the laundry, and MY GOD, THE HORROR.

(Let it be known that we were playing with a shoelace. Let it also be known that "Sit and Be Fit" is an exercise program intended for the elderly.)

"Mommy, do a calf stretch."
"A WHAT?"
"Put the shoelace under your - wait. Sit down. Now put the shoelace under your foot and pull UP. Like THIS. See? Calf stretch."
"Where did you learn that?"
"'Sit and Be Fit.'"

I didn't know she knew where her calves are. Or that she knew what a calf is, for that matter. When will I accept that I am no longer the sole source of information for my daughter? When?

Attention all shoppers...

From now on, the phrase "thorvalson.net:..." as it appears at the top of the page will be followed by a search phrase that has been used that month to locate my site. Confused? Read this. I will be changing it periodically, whenever I'm bored, feeling goofy, or geeked up on way too much coffee. And occasionally, if the search phrase list is filled with too many references to suppositories and "milf sex", I'll use the "...for your drinking pleasure" title you've grown accustomed to, or something entirely different.
(I just wanted to explain, because inevitably, my mother will stumble in to read her innocent young daughter's blog one day, only to be greeted with the phrase, "thorvalson.net: pictures of vaginas," and will be worried that I've taken up a second stay-at-home job.)
Consider this a trial period, and if too many of you don't like it, I may change it back permanently. Or maybe I won't. :)

We interrupt this weblog for an important announcement from your local English major...

My mom just forwarded me one of those funny emails meant to lighten up your day, and while most people roll their eyes at that kind of thing, I actually like it. DORK. What can I say?
I couldn't help but share the following highlights (Brian, you're gonna love this):

"Twenty Eight Reasons Why English Teachers Die Young:
Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays.

"5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.

"6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

"13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry
them in hot grease."

I hate it when that happens!

"14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19
p.m. at a speed of 35 mph."

Uh, yeah. Stick to the math, Ralphie. (By the way, I did actually work on that problem. See: Obsessive-Compulsive. So sad).

"24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with
power tools."

And my personal favorite, the pick-up line I'll be using on Greg for the next month:

"17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East
River."

"...AND SHE WAS THE EAST RIVER"! THAT'S HILARIOUS! ARE YOU LAUGHING? LAUGH! IT'S FUNNY! HA! HAHA! HA! ...haha.... ...ha... Oh my. I need help.

Note -
Reason You Will Not Sue Me, You Who Wrote the Original List:
See weblog author for source of quoted material.
HA! Take THAT!
Humph.

Keep 'em comin'....

Maddie, on the phone with Carmen yesterday:

"Will you come to my birthday party?"
"Sure! Will you come to my baby shower?"
"I didn't know babies take showers..."

My little grrrl

"Greg always has a beard, huh."
"Sometimes. His facial hair just grows fast, so he gets all prickly if he doesn't shave every day."
"Yeah. 'Cause he's got lots and lots of hair, huh."
"Yes. He has thick hair."
"Sometimes when he - Sometimes it tickles me when he gives me kisses. 'Cause of (giggle) - 'cause o' alla his hair on his CHINNY-CHIN-CHIN."
"It tickles my face, too."
"When he kisses you?"
"Yes."
"When I grow up, someday when I'm an o-dull, I wanna - I'm gonna have a beard like Greg."
"Really?"
"No. (giggle) I'm KIDDing. KIDS don't have BEARDS."
"Oooh, okay."
"Kids can't have a beard, can they, Mom?"
"No, hon. Only adults. Well, only -"
"'Cause they're too fancy."
"Yeah. That's it. Because beards are 'too fancy'."
"Well, when I'm a WOMAN. When I'm a WOMAN I'm gonna. I'm gonna have a beard like Greg."
"You might change your mind about that when you're older."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind."

Reunion

I talked to my brother, Mike, on the phone last night for the first time in several months. The only reason for the gap in communication is (and always has been) our opposite working schedules, general busy-ness, and the time difference between here and South Carolina. It's only an hour, but I usually don't think of calling him until 8 at night, at which time I would be risking waking up his kids at what is probably their bedtime. And I just don't want to be that person in my brother's household, the one who causes the phone to ring JUST as Kelsey's about to finally doze off to the land of Nod. Not to mention the simpler and more truthful fact that we both just plain suck at maintaining regular communication.
Last night, the thought of waking up the kids didn't occur to me, or if it did, I let it go. Although I've talked to Kelly, Mike's wife, over the holidays, it's been a while now since I heard my brother's voice. What always strikes me when we talk is that He Is My Brother. It may sound weird to some people, but it's kind of a revolutionary idea to me that I have brothers, and I should probably clarify that statement before my Actual Brothers read this and get offended.
For those of you who don't know, I have three siblings (technically, half-siblings) who live on opposite sides of the country: a sister in NJ, one brother in Maui, and one brother in SC. My youngest (and only full-blooded) sibling, Jenny, lives in IL, not too far from here. With me being in Wisconsin, the five of us form a pentagon of Thorvalsons spread pretty thinly over the country. With the exception of the northwest and northeast, there's nowhere in this country I could go without being within a day's drive to one of my siblings. Putting it that way really makes me kick myself for not making them a bigger priority to visit when I travel.
Getting back to the earlier statement... My older siblings moved from Illinois to Charleston, SC, when I was only 5 years old. The oldest one, Mike, stuck around for another year and lived with us until I was six, his intention being to finish high school with his friends. It didn't last long, and one of my earliest childhood memories is of me sitting at the top of the stairs that lead down to my mom's office, crying and screaming at her that I didn't want Mike to leave. I remember feeling that I would never see my siblings again. The west side of Rockford was, to my six-year-old mind, "a long way's away." South Carolina seemed like Mars. I didn't know where it was. Mike was the last connection I had to any of my older siblings, and he was leaving. I don't remember the day he left. I probably blocked it out.
Over the years to come, my dad would pay airfare for my siblings to come back for holidays and summer visits, however, most of these visits included just one or two of them. Dave and Kirstin, or just Mike. My memories of most of these visits are pretty vague, punctuated by Kirstin's developing love life and my brothers' haircuts: Dave's mohawk, created on a trip to my grandparents' temporary home in Fort Wayne, IN; and Mike's dreadlocks, not-so-gracefully adorning the head of this person, this stranger, whom I hadn't seen in six years. All I knew of my older siblings could be summed up pretty briefly: I thought they were all So. Incredibly. Cool. Especially Mike.
As a teenager and young adult, I made it a huge priority to go down to Charleston as often as possible to visit. Dave was in Maui by then, and Kirstin and I were sort of doing this little sisterly dance around each other, trying to figure each other out and each thinking the other one was certifiably insane (we were both right). So I latched on to Mike, the one whom I had the clearest memories of, and the one I most related to. He was into skateboarding, drank a lot, had tattoos, and knew all the words to my favorite punk rock songs. All of my friends were punks, most of them much older than myself, and having this sort of Punk Rock Certificate in the form of my big brother gained me acceptance, even though none of them had ever actually met my brother. I could have made him up. I felt as though it didn't matter if I never learned how to skate, if I never saw Black Flag perform, because My Brother Did, and somehow his inherent coolness had dribbled down to me somewhere in our shared genetics, as though having him as a big brother was documented proof that I had an Inalienable Right, if not Responsiblity, to Be Punk Rock. I pushed our unintentional and natural state of siblinghood to its outermost limits, desperately pretending that we knew each other far better than we did and that the fact that I called him Brother meant I had some sort of inside scoop not only on the punk/skater scene, but more importantly on him as a person. Now, of course, I realize this was simply me trying to feel closer to someone of whom I had next to no knowledge whatsoever, trying to justify a huge amount of sisterly adoration for someone who was, in essence, a stranger to my life.
So I drove down there a few times, flew most times, but I did go. And I got to know my brother. I learned he was an alcoholic. I learned he was TRULY my brother, and that manifested itself in his starkly apparent protectiveness whenever one of his friends would hit on me. I learned he loved his son. I learned he was intensely spiritual, questioned the Christian schools of thought, and loved more than anything to just be alive, sensing everything at once. I learned he backed up his friends, even when they had let him down, and that his friends consisted of a wide range and variety of human beings - black, white, skater, rastafarian, Christian, atheist, lost, and found - and I realized for the first time what a prolific and special thing it was (and is) to have such an open, loving heart in what can be such a staunchly conservative and racist environment. I saw him kiss a black man in the middle of a downtown bar one night, and it was the most heroic and beautiful moment, watching this drunk 12-year-old boy locked in a thirty-something white man's body, expressing this pure, naive love to his friend, who was black, in the middle of a bar on a street in Charleston, where it is decidedly unusual to see white and black hanging out together, much less displaying affections that could be construed as homosexual. Having black friends in the north means you're acting politically correctly; they've become a commodity among liberals: "I'm open minded! See? That black guy over there - I know him! Hey, James! Come over here!" Unfortunately, there's a lot of that up here: See White Bob. See Black James. See White Bob and Black James drink beer. It's a very showy sort of comeraderie, and more than a little insincere. In Charleston, I learned that at least in that moment, what my brother was doing couldn't afford to be insincere. To act that way in public, particularly in a bar where people are getting drunk, and where racism is still relatively prevalent, is to risk getting your face kicked in. You'd better really, truthfully, be friends with that black guy over there, 'cause you're gonna need his help when Redneck Joe comes a-swingin' for that kiss you just planted on black male lips. It's a double offense: open racial mingling with homosexual undertones. I learned that Downtown Charleston By Day is 180 degrees from Downtown Charleston At Night, and that, thankfully (and I'm sure intentionally, on Mike's part), we were in one of the few bars downtown where the mingling was sincere. Punks sat with hippies, rastas played pool with punks, and my brother kissed his friend in true appreciation of friendship. To my northern eyes, it wasn't politically correct. It was a True Political Statement in that it wasn't intended to be political. It was an innocent gesture of love. My brother, the instigator for social change (scarier yet: My brother, the Hippie!).
I learned that despite his faults and weaknesses, which I was only beginning to be shown, I was proud of him. He was doing his duty as a human being: being himself, growing, falling down, and getting back up again. I've known a lot of drunks, junkies, and crackheads in my time, although because they were close friends and/or relatives of mine, it never occurred to me to label them as such. Regardless, suffice it to say that while I'm aware that others have experienced far worse degrees of addiction and afflictions in their lives, it does my friends and relatives no respect or justice at all to diminish thier experiences by saying "it could have been worse," or, "he wasn't as bad as so-and-so." Yes, it could have been worse. That doesn't mean that what they have experienced thus far hasn't been horrific. To compare calamities of such a complicated nature is downright sinful. Some of those people died.
My point is this: my brother wasn't one of them. And every time I hear his voice, every time he scolds his son or kisses his baby daughter or marvels at his wife, every time he confesses - and it truly is a confession - his wonder and respect of a man he questioned so much for so long that when he calls Him Lord you'd better believe he fucking means it, I am thankful for his continued existence. I firmly believe that love - any kind of love - is never completely solid, you can't be sure that it's real, until and unless it's been tested. You never know how much you love someone until they piss you off. That's a real test. And my brother has spent a lifetime testing and re-evaluating his opinion of Jesus and his faith in general. Therefore I respect him more than any other Christian I know. Never have I seen a human being go to such a dark place for so many years and come out of it not just alive, not just breathing, but thriving. Through all of these years, through everything I've seen him go through, one thing about my brother has never changed: his strength and utter refusal either to die or to live dispassionately. And that energy in him has been there from Day One, long before he could give credit to a deity for his strength. It has nothing to do with Jesus; it's simply who Mike is. It is the reason he's still on this earth, and the reason I could never look away. He has kept, and when it diminishes, continues to restore my faith in humanity. Make that whole sentence a Capital-Lettered One, because I say that with absolute honesty, without a single grain of salt.

This spring, my brother Dave, his wife Aleka, and their two sons - Aidan and Alika - will be moving back to the mainland, back to Charleston, in the hopes of eventually buying a house and of Dave going to work with Mike as a carpenter. Mike just got his contractor's license, and Dave may be going into the business with him. It is the stuff a father's - our father's - dreams are made of.
Kirstin is in New Jersey with her husband, Vaughan, and their daughter, Ayla. Kirstin is doing better than she ever has, living the life she's always hoped for: she's finally a mother. I'm tempted to insert here, "....so now we can all stop hearing about it!", but I'll refrain. ;) The last time Kirstin came home was four years ago, when our dad died. She came alone, and I never got to meet my new brother-in-law.
Mike is busy working, getting flooded with customers whom I'm sure he's brought with him from his previous job. He goes to church every Sunday, and what I love about his life as... well, as a born-again Christian, is that he doesn't fit the stereotype. I know that on his journey, as he learns about the life of Christ, about the history of the church, about the true meaning of Christianity, he is looking at all of it with eyes that have seen a lot of darkness. It takes guts for him to look at himself honestly, through the filter of his life, as a person, as a father, as a husband, and as a man. And he never makes me feel inferior or somehow "wrong" simply because we haven't come to the same conclusions. Because we haven't drawn conclusions yet. I think we're both still in progress. I respect his journey, and he respects mine. I haven't forgotten this is the same person who, seven years ago, sat with a friend and with me in a field on John's Island, next to a skate bowl, amidst a garbage heap of empty beer cans and cigarette butts, taking delight in the mere existence of a tree, that that tree had been there longer than he'd been alive, that all of his experiences combined as a human being couldn't come close to the life of that single tree; the same person who, in the same conversation, in the same sentence , labelled himself an agnostic and confessed an admiration of Mohammad, of the Buddha, and of Christ. If nothing else, if not a deity, Jesus was after all a carpenter.
Jenny is the only one who stayed in Rockford, and it's no mistake that she is the only one who could have stayed there. Our mother might be living in a one-bedroom apartment with no lawn whatsoever if it weren't for Jen and her husband, Paul, helping out with all the yardwork and pool maintenance my father left behind. I called Jen a few days ago to schedule a Sisters' Night Out, a phenomenon I don't think we've ever explored, so that I may come to better know the one sibling I did grow up with, the one I sometimes feel I know the least.
This summer, we will all be on the same continent again for the first time in several years. Mom is getting anxious for a reunion, with all five siblings, all six grandchildren, and all our old family friends and neighbors. I cannot wait to lose another pool game against my brothers, against Kirstin, who - despite being a mom, a Southern Belle, a GW supporter, and a military wife - can still, I'm sure, kick my ASS; to gather together, not for someone who's passed away, but for all of us who are still alive; to witness the awkward attempts at communication between my sisters, the delicate bond between two people who have finally agreed to disagree and have even begun to grow beyond that; to share in my mother's tears as she wells up for all the love in that house, for how much we wish Dad was there to embarrass us all with his dirty jokes and constant teasing, at the same time knowing that somehow, from somewhere we have never been, he sees us and is laughing; to bear witness to my brother Dave, the quiet one who is always listening, reminding us and surprising us with a one-liner that says it all: He Who Doth Not Speak Hears Everything, and Wilt Use It Against Thee With Love If Thou Forgetteth in His Silence That He Is There; to meet my brother-in-law; to see all of our children scoping each other out, recognizing themselves in each other, scrutinizing each other's demeanors and accents and clothing before playing together, screaming and running in circles, fighting over who gets the blue noodle floaty toy in the pool, or sharing a slice of watermelon, like kids, like the cousins they are. And best of all, to look in the faces of my siblings, mirrors to each other, and to hear again the sounds of late-night laughter echoing in the remodeled walls of what was - and in many ways still is - Our Father's House.

I have no way to end this entry except to say that it always will be an unfinished story, and, like my brother, like all of us, In Progress.

Sure! No problem! He's totally on my speed dial.

"Me and Madison are gonna start a rock band, Mom, and we're gonna sing like this: 'OOOOOH, IT'S MADDIE AND MADISON, YEAH YEAH.' "
"Really? Who's going to play guitar?"
"Me. But I like the microphone, though."
"So you're going to sing."
"Yeah. And Madison can play the guitar. And me."
"Who's going to play drums?"
"Ringo Starr."

It's Just Not a Work Party Without a Drunk Guy in a Red Suit Singing Billy Joel

"I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time"

His name is Tab Man. Ladies, take a number.

Side note

I just wanted to say how excited I am about the upcoming show at Mad Planet, the benefit we're putting on for the Hunger Task Force. So many bands have volunteered their entertainment, so many artists have expressed interest, and the more feedback we get, the more excited I am. It's really amazing to see so many people from such a wide cross-section of musical styles and artistic abilities coming together for the purpose of charity. It's going to be such a fun day, and helping Greg put this whole thing together has really given me a renewed faith in humanity. I am truly in awe of all the good things he's inspiring in people right now.

Here I go again...

I wanted to write a big entry for you today, reiterating the story of how we met exactly one year ago, how you showed up at the Palomino and from the moment I saw you sitting next to that crazy horse head lamp, I knew this was the Start of Something Really Big, how I had met you before and wanted to talk to you but was dating someone at the time, how I loved your big blue moon eyes and your scruffy face and your tweed jacket and your cocked eyebrow and the fact that you were sketching on a napkin at the bar, how I loved the sound of your voice and the way it scratched and resonated within my ears and the way you said "cheers" instead of "thank you," how much more I've grown to love you over this last year, how much more I know I'm going to love you in another year or two or six, how much I adore you and respect you and appreciate your presence in my life, and how excited and grateful I am for everything you do in your life and the bits of it you share with me, and how peaceful and strong I feel in my life and in this relationship, but it's 6:57 now and you're going to be here in a half an hour to take me out for dinner and I need to get ready. So I'm sorry I don't have more time to sit down and write all of those things more eloquently, but it's only because I'd much rather tell you in person and enjoy our night together, breathing your scent and listening to that voice and looking in those eyes and thanking you over and over again for everything you do for me, for Maddie, for yourself in this life and in this relationship, for just being you and allowing me to be here to watch you uncurl. And I know you hate it when I post pictures of you on the site, but it's our anniversary. So there.

xoxox
me

Deck the Motherfucking Halls

Dear Solomon,

I am writing you this letter because I am too furious to speak to you right now, and if I attempt to do so, I will only end up bringing you serious bodily harm.
You are a fucking jerk. Last night, you spent your last hour of wakefulness running back and forth from my room to the dining room. You'd pounce on my bed (on my FEET, as I was trying to SLEEP), and then you'd tear into the living room and attack the Santa Claus that's been on my dresser for OVER A MONTH NOW, yet somehow you just noticed it yesterday and decided Santa needed to die. Maybe this is just your way of reminding me that it's the New Year already and we have no need for Christmas decorations any longer. If so, point taken.

This morning I woke up to you attacking Santa again. SO HE DIDN'T COME FOR YOU THIS YEAR. GET OVER IT. Don't you get spoiled enough as it is with a three-year-old constantly seeking your affections? I rescued you from that little crack house of a pet store, from that horrible, horrible woman with the bad perm that was still trying to work itself out of her hair after fifteen years of neglect, and this is the thanks I get?
So I got you off of Old Man Winter, and what do you do? HMM? YOU GO STRAIGHT TO THE KITCHEN AND KNOCK OVER THE RECYCLING BIN, WHICH CONTAINS THE EMPTY CAN OF TUNA REMAINING FROM MADDIE'S DINNER LAST NIGHT, AND PROCEED TO SHRED APART THE PLASTIC BAG I HAD WRAPPED AROUND THE CAN AS A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE, THEREBY SUCCESSFULLY THWARTING MY NOT-SO BRILLIANT PLAN AND STARTING MY DAY OF WITH SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, YOU FUCK.
On my kitchen there is a plaque, given to me by my best friend. You can't read it because you're a cat, but if you could, you would find that underneath the little picture of the woman in the straightjacket of leather buckles it says, "Some mornings it just doesn't pay to gnaw through the leather straps."
So I put you on the porch for a little time out, which lasted only about three seconds, because we live in Wisconsin, and as is known to happen sometimes in Wisconsin, God unleashed his wrath on our stockpiles of cheese and gave us a snow storm last night. How do you like snow, Solomon? It's wet, like water, only colder.
Here, I am reminded of the title of a Catherine Wheel song, "Eat My Dust You Insensitive Fuck," however, it has been proven in the past that the only thing worse than being a pansy British emo boy is quoting one.
You are damn lucky to be alive right now, seeing as all of this happened before I had my coffee, you conniving son of a bitch, and yes I realize that makes me the bitch. Remember that next time you fuck with my freshly scrubbed garbage can, you fuck.

Love,
Mom

Open to Interpretation

I had a dream last night that I was sleeping on the floor of a movie theatre (after heroically attempting but failing to stop the fraudulent inheritance claims of an evil woman who was trying to steal $1.8 million from a little old couple, the male half of which was terminally ill from cancer but still enjoying mowing his lawn with a convenient new riding lawn mower, but that's another story), and I awoke to find that my left nipple ring had come out and when I examined the nipple closely to determine if the piercing was still open enough to re-insert a new piece of jewelry, this clear, sweet-smelling fluid came gushing out and wouldn't stop, and my left breast became completely deflated. When the gushing finally ended, the left half of my chest resembled that of a six year old, and I thought to myself, "Well, there wasn't much to lose to begin with," and so I wasn't really upset about it except for the fact that my right breast hadn't done the same thing, leaving my chest in an (if only slightly) uneven condition. And then I thought maybe I'd get a boob job to correct it, but was afraid that the thousands of dollars for surgery would get literally flushed away, and I made a mental note to ask Greg if he thought my piercings had caused and/or would cause future leakage, and if so, what the hell did it matter, anyway; they're only boobs.

DAMMIT!

I would have sold my kid for a plane ticket if I'd have known about this show in London.

Dude, It's a New Year 'n Shit.