Hey, I Voted for Kerry

Bush = Crazy, lazy, selfish, stupid, out-of-touch nutbag with a God complex. That's all I have to say.

From the files of "Haven't We Gotten a Bit Big for Our Britches?":

Oprah Winfrey is having a hissy because a Paris shop wouldn't open it's doors for her. She claims it's because she's black. They claim it was because they were setting up for a special exhibit the next day. Here's the situation: Oprah has turned into a self-centered, narcissistic Diva. Have you watched any of her shows? The audience screams, claps, and cries for minutes just because she walked onto the stage. Where ever Oprah goes in America, screaming fans shit themselves just to catch a glimpse of her. She can go to New York City or Topeka and be treated like a Queen. She's on every quest list from rock concerts to charity functions and she just loves, looooves to toot her own horn with extravagant balls and parties for all her wealthy, famous friends. In America, she is as close to royalty as anyone can get.

But she wasn't in America. All I can say is, Welcome To France, Bitch. This isn't a racist issue, this is an issue of Oprah not getting her way. She's stamping her diamond encrusted Farigamo covered foot and throwing a little temper tantrum. Somewhere, somehow, she's gotten the idea that she owns the world. She can do anything she wants. She can go anywhere she wants. This Paris shop had the audacity to give her a big, fat slap of reality and guess what, she didn't like it.

Welcome to the real world, Oprah, it's good to have you back. But of'course, it won't last long. She'll do show after show about racism and black women in the world. She'll play the wounded victim on every interview she gives. She'll call for a boycott and convince all her celebrity fashion-enslaved friends to shop elsewhere. The Paris store will likely fire all it's current employees and hire new ones, inviting Oprah to come back to a special shopping day just for her and her friends. All because little Miss. Winfrey didn't get her way. It's a damn shame.

We're Movin' On Up

WE HAVE AN AIR CONDITIONER!! I'm so happy. The job isn't completely done yet, but the air works. Last night we sat in our living room with a light on. I could have fixed dinner and not blasted us out of the first floor.

Then bedtime came. My husband set the temp control at 83. 83? What the hell did we get an air conditioner for? We could have saved ourselves $$ and just dealt with the piece of crap we had before. Eighty-freaking-three! So we compromised at 76. I can take being a bit warm during the day, but when night comes, I want to sleep in a meat locker.

I watched a show on TLC about a female body builder. One word: gross! I can admire and respect the dedication and training a body builder must go through in order to enter, and win, a competition. Not everyone can do it. However, I myself find women with bodies like that disgusting. Look what happens to their faces...it's a man, baby! They lose their tits, and they all have voices that rival Wolfman Jack's. (For those youngin's out there, Google him). I don't find any male or female that pops with muscles and engorged blood vessels attractive.

There is no money to be made in body building unless you 1) own a gym, or 2) are the best of the sport. To support herself, this woman had to pimp herself out on a website. The thing that really surprised me is that these muscles are useless. For a competition, a competitor must fast and dehydrate for days in order to meet the 3-4% body fat requirement. They work out on a constant basis to enlarge their muscles, using what energy they have left. On the day of a competition, a weakling like me could go in there and kick every one of their asses. They're all for show, like a horse or a bull at the State Fair.

This poor lady didn't even make it. All that pain, fasting, and working out for nothing. If she let herself lose a few pounds and get back to a feminine body shape, she could model easily. I just don't get it.

I rode 7 miles this morning. I'm a little disappointed, but I didn't get much sleep last night due to the chainsaw snoring my husband was doing. I went to sleep on the couch and then had to fight with the cat. I was feeling really good until we turned this one corner. If you've ever wanted to know what a zombie riding a bike looks like, this was it. Seeing that zombie trying to get off the bike was even more entertaining. It was like I suddenly sprouted another set of arms and legs, each with a mind of their own. Uuuunng... Gatoraide.

Call No Man Happy Least He Be Dead

I can feel myself falling into a depression. I sit here on a Sunday afternoon having no desire to do anything. Our air conditioner is still not fixed and the bastard who is supposed to fix it hasn’t called. Our house is 80 degrees. My husband slept terribly last night, so he’s in a foul mood.

I’m beyond anger. Not that I’m so angry that I’ve gone beyond, but anger does no good, so I’m beyond feeling it. I’m sick with disgust. My stomach is actually in knots, the sandwich I just ate is threatening to come back up. I only have four beers left so I can’t even drink the blues away. I’m so angry with this asshole that, if he ever shows up,I’ll have to lock myself in the bedroom least I rip his arms off and stuff them up his ass. I have a lethal tongue and am, I’m very ashamed to say, a tendency for violence. It would be very easy for me to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze. I’m not going to end up in jail.

It’s not just the air conditioner saga that has me down. Next weekend is the 4th of July weekend. It’s a cause for celebration for everyone else, but July 4th is the birthday of a dear friend of mine who died two years ago. She loved this holiday. She loved life itself. Her death created a huge hole in my heart that hasn’t even begun to scab over. The fact that her husband remarried last weekend doesn’t make things any better. I feel as if everyone has forgotten her.

I met her when I started dating her son. We’ll call him D. D and I broke up in the most painful of ways, our relationship was unsalvageable and it’s better that we don’t talk. He fire, and I’m gasoline. Because of this, when his mother died I wasn’t allowed to say good-bye. I wasn’t allowed to come to her hospital bed. I wasn’t there when they put her ashes in fireworks and shot her into the sky last July 4th. I told you, she loved this holiday. D cut me out like a cancer. Because of him, I wasn’t invited to his father's wedding. I wouldn't have gone, I mean, D is his son and I wouldn't have made him that uncomfortable, but it would have been nice to be invited.

I'm beginning to hate summer.

Smoke THAT, Bitches!

I am a non-smoker and hater of cigarettes. That's just the way it is. What I'm about to say may piss off some people, but you know what? I don't care. The same way a smoker doesn't care where their smoke goes once they blow it out of their mouths.

Missouri has finally figured out that smokers trample the rights of non-smokers a hell of a lot more than non-smokers trample the rights of smokers. Public smoking has been banned! At least, it's going to be. It's a bit too early for me to go to the bars again as the law hasn't taken effect. But it's coming.

I couldn't be happier. Oh, those poor, under-privileged smokers are having conniption fits all over the place, but I think it's about time they felt what it was like to be a prisoner of society. They won't be able to smoke in bars or restaurants. Bowling alleys, airports, and casinos will have limited space for them to move around in (if they want to smoke). They won't be able to go outside and smoke anymore. They'll have to wait until they get into their car or home before they can light up. Why does that sound familiar? Let me think...oh yeah, it sounds like ME! I couldn't get any fresh air until I got in my car or home. I couldn't go outside least I be enveloped in a cloud of stench. I couldn't go to bars, casinos, or restaurants without having some pimply-faced Marlboro man wanna-be blowing smoke in my face.

Table have turned, bitches, how do you like it? Huh? How do you like it? How do you like knowing that every day, every damn day, you'll have to face this situation of picking and choosing where you eat, play, and drink?

I will finally have freedom. I will finally be able to go anywhere I want and not have to think about taking a shower afterwards. Or sucking on some pure oxygen to clear out my lungs. I will finally be able to enjoy myself without having to continuously move around avoiding the assholes who think smoking cigars makes them look cool.

I know, you're whining "We won't have anywhere to go-oo." Yes, you will. Cigar bars, smoking emporiums, and a few other tobacco related places will still be free zones for smokers. Go there. Have a ball. Stay the fuck away from me.

Cigarettes should be treated the same as joints. Lot's of people smoke them, they just don't do it in public.

The Saga Continues

Yesterday we were supposed to have our new air conditioner installed at the house. You may remember it got pushed back from last Saturday because the douche bag putting it in chipped his tooth. Well, now a friend has died and he has to go to Indiana for the funeral. I hate to be skeptical, but having a friend die is the oldest excuse in the book*.

I hate to begrudge a dead friend, if that's what really happened, but it's supposed to be 92 today. As the week progresses it will only get hotter. It's very hard for me to be sympathetic when I have to strip naked the moment I get home. I told myself I would do my aerobics on the days we don't ride. Yeah, right! Why don't I just cram myself into the oven and get it over with.

I feel sorry for my husband. I've put him in a bad spot. I was so angry last Friday when we got blown off the first time that I may have gone a bit overboard. Now my poor husband is walking on eggshells and that's not where I want him to be. I mean, I did get a nice dinner last night, but I don't want hubby to be afraid of me. I think Honey would have rather faced an army of angry skunks than call me with the bad news.

We've decided it would be best if I didn't have any contact with this guy. He may walk out of our house and never come back. See, my anger is guaranteed to be two things: quick and irrational.
The only thing faster is my tongue.

* Some of the best lame excuses I've heard:

"I thought it was Thursday."
"The bakery didn't have any fresh bagels."
"I couldn't get the gas cap off my car for two hours."
"We were cleaning the bathroom and mixed bleach with ammonia. The fumes made us pass out."



THEY SHOULD HAVE LEFT HIM OUT THERE

I saw some pictures today of the little Boy Scout that got lost. Y'know, the one who was found completely by accident by a single person looking around for him. He didn't look scared or happy at all. In fact, he looks like a spoiled brat who had his outdoor adventure cut short. He says he saw men on horseback looking for him, but he ran away from them because he was scared.

Uh-huh.

If he was lost in the woods for days, why would he be scared of men on horseback? Especially since he's 11? Because he knew he was doing something wrong. Experts on the case say it was very unusual for him to go up the mountain he got lost on. Most kids will go down, especially if there is a river nearby, which there was. No, this brat went up because he wanted to. He got lost because he wanted to. Until that complete stranger showed on the ATV and called 911, I'm sure he was having the time of his life.

Now, he has to explain himself to his mother and answer a lot of questions for authorities. He knows he'll never be more than 20 feet away from his mother again until he goes to college. I'm sure she's one of those overbearing wenches to begin with. Maybe that's why he was in such a hurry to get lost.

If my son were lost for four days and became such a sour puss after his rescue, I'd beat the living hell out of him.

Speaking of beating people...

The Runaway Bride needs to be institutionalized. In about ten years she'll become another Andrea Yates. If someone is craving that much attention, become an actor. I didn't waste my time watching her little interview last night, but all the ladies in my office did. Just hearing about her makes me want to puke.

A few famous movie quotes that I think sum up the Runaway Bride fiasco perfectly.
"Bitch, I have no sympathy for you."
"Bitch, you don't have a future."
"She's a vicious life-sucking bitch from which there is no escape."
"Yo! She-bitch! Let's go!!!"
"The bitch is toast."
"I found my inner bitch and ran with her."

Today is Monday

I am glad to be at work. Yeah, I know, who in their right mind says that, and on a Monday, too? Me. I'm glad to be back at work because my job has air conditioning. The guy we gave a nice, fat check to was supposed to put our new air conditioning in Saturday, but he called to cancel because he chipped his tooth. No shit, that was his excuse. Now we're supposed to get it Tuesday, but I'm not holding my breath.

So last night I ate dinner in my bra. My husband snidely comments that it's wasn't that hot. I had just folded a basket of hot-ass laundry, after I had fried some hot-ass bacon next to a hot-ass stove. I was hot. Just because he wasn't didn't mean shit.

Since we had our Saturday free, we went on the Route 66 ride in Edwardsville, IL. It was a nice day and the path was good. I had thought that the worst thing a biker could face was headwind. Wrong. Headwind and gravel make a much worse predicament. I did 25 miles while hubby did 38. I felt pretty good afterwards, but hubby was done for the day. Next time I hope to do over 30. I have to get up to 75 by September. While I was riding I came upon a ranch. Two of the most beautiful horses I have ever seen were running back and forth, kicking their heels, and playing with each other. One was light brown and one was dark brown. The sun made their shiny coats sparkle. Their manes waved back and forth like water. They were perfect.

Back to work...

Woo-hoo!

Just when I thought no one in Washington knew what the hell they were doing, along comes the great, fantastic, long overdue news that the democrats are putting heat on the Bush brat to explain his action over Iraq. The word "Impeachment" seems to be running rampid in Congress.

It's about damn time! What do you think us moronic, everyday little people have been saying since before the last election? Oh, but we don't know anything.

But I'm not going to be bitter, better late than never. What does the White House have to say about the accusations that the Bush brat misled us into war? Nothing. Not one damn thing. What can they say? Do you think any of those prisoners in France had words to describe the feeling of knowing a razor sharp piece of metal was poised right over their necks? Any minute now....chop!

Bush being impeached would be the greatest instance of justice my generation would ever see. The pompous, snobby, egotistical, narcissistic bastard would be a social and political pariah. Not only would he have to slink off into the swamps where he belongs, but his brother Jeb's political aspirations would go down in flames as well. A two-for-one family screwing. I love it. Of'course, nothing can touch Papa Bush. He got out while the getting was good. And I just love Barbara. She was the only First Lady who didn't have two faces. Hmmm, make that 18 faces (can you say Hillary?)

I hope this Downing Street Memo is giving Bush "Land of Confusion" type nightmares. I'm sure those Have and Have-More's are jumping ship like wet rats. Loyalty is one thing rich, political people do not keep in ready supply. You're only as good as yesterday's news. And baby, it's bad.

I love it! All I can say to Bush is suck my ass. Suck it! Suck it! Suck iiiiiiiiiiiiiit!

They Just Don't Know When to Quit

More news from the Shivao Camp: Even though experts have stated that there was no way in hell Terri could ever have been rehabilitated, that she was blind, and that her brain had shrunk to half the size of a normal persons, her idiot parents still insist that she could have been rehabilitated and should not have died. Sorry, when did either one of those bitches get a medical degree?

They state they will "confer with other medical experts," i.e. hunt for a doctor who will finally agree with them, in order to pursue the matter further. WHat's to pursue? The autopsy of Terri also proved that she wasn't abused into a coma like her parents insisted. So not only are they liars, they are ignorant, pig-headed liars. Is it a wonder Terri had an eating disorder in the first place? If these morons were my parents, I'd want to be in a coma, too.

Why don't they just dig her up and take her home. Oh, that's right, Michael had her cremated. Good idea. Those loving parents would do anything to keep their ugly mugs in the news. She's dead, you losers, dead. You lost. Get over it. The President has enough on his mind now that you won't be able to sucker him into any more legislation on your part. Of'course, there is still Jeb. But his eye is on the White House these days, I'm sure he doesn't have any more time to waste with you.

And waste it is. I wish someone would beat these two people into a coma, then keep them alive for the next 15 years as prisoners of the medical profession. New doctors could use their bodies for medical experiments, preferably open-heart surgery or brain surgery without anesthetic. A webcam could be set up to record each agonizing second. Oh, better yet, they could be forced to donate their organs and live off machines for the rest of their lives. Let's see what they have to say about prolonged life then.

Two words: DVD Player

My husband and I have a very nice DVD player. We used to use the Xbox until we finally spent the money to get a real one. It did a lot of things. I loved it. I enjoyed it. Now, if I want to watch a DVD, I have to put it in this crappy little portable DVD player we got last Christmas. If the thing is hooked up to the TV, it's no problem to operate. However, if my husband has unplugged it for some reason (which he does often), I can't get the damn thing to work. It sounds like a motorcycle while it's loading up, and the picture on the TV is elongated and distorted. We watched Lemony Snickett a few days ago and everyone had coneheads.

Why, do you ask, don't I use the DVD player? GOOD QUESTION!

I'll tell you. Because the DVD player at my husband's company broke down. That's right, so instead of this company going out and replacing it (which is the logical, professional thing to do), oh no, it was so much easier for him to take ours from home.

I mean, his company has a hell of a lot more money than we do. It only makes sense that they would spend theirs and leave ours alone. If they can buy a big-ass flat screen digital TV, they can fork over a couple of hundred dollars for a fucking DVD player, right? If they needed one that quickly, then one of the bosses/owners should have coughed up theirs. Yet, hubby gave them ours. That's makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?

And do you think we got reimbursed? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

It wouldn't be so bad if this was a temporary thing, but I can pretty much kiss that DVD player, and the money that came out of OUR POCKET, goodbye.

I wonder how my husband would feel if he came home and found his office chair missing. Mine is pretty crappy at work. I could have my company replace it, but why - when I have a perfectly good chair at home? We have other chairs at home that he could use.

Yeah, and maybe I'll just give away that extra DirectTV receiver we have in the bedroom. We hardly ever use it. You know, the floor pillows my husband always uses would be really handy here at the office. We'd still have those crappy twelve-inch sofa pillows that don't cushion shit. Those are just as good, right?

I love my company and my job, but there is no way in hell I would give them, just GIVE them, something of mine that cost a nice chunk of money. My company isn't that down in the dumps and neither is my husbands. If his bosses can still go skiing, then they can cough up two hundred bucks for a DVD player.

But my husband doesn't understand this. "They needed it, an' we had one, so I just gaves it up, yuk-yuk."

Home and Work are separate for a reason. A company is paying you to spend time in their presence doing work for them. They should not require you to bring your items from home into their office in order to get your job done. If they need a DVD player, it is their responsibility to get one.

I may have well taken that money and wiped my ass with it.

It had to Happen...

Well, well, well, Michael Jackson was found not guilty. Notice I don't say innocent, just not guilty. His lawyer was quick to release a statement that his client would no longer be sleeping in the same bed as young boys. All I have to say to that is...DUH! Someone should have told him that after the first time. Oh no, we have to wait until the fourth time and then make a big circus out of it. Dumbasses. I'm just waiting for Jesus Juice to be sold in supermarkets across the country.

We went riding today. Every bicycle enthusiast told me this would happen. They said it was just a matter of time before it happened to me. Well, today that time came. I wiped out. I was riding in an unfamiliar part of Forest Park when I came around a curve too fast. I hit the wet grass and tried to stop, but that stop sign (with the big wooden post, not that skinny metal post) loomed up pretty fast. I could hit the pole with my bike, or jump from the bike and hope for the best.

I kind of hit the ground like a sideways snake: hip, shoulder, head. Thank god for that helmet. Ew, ick, wet grass. I popped up like a groundhog to see if anyone had witnessed my spectacular face-plant. Then I did a maintenance check to see if everything was in the right place. The chain came off my bike, so I spent the next three minutes trying to wrestle it back in place and cursing my husband for getting me into this is the first place. I don't like to get my hands dirty, and now they were covered in oil, so I used that anger to fuel the next five miles before I completely pooped out and went to the car. Luckily, my husband took me to breakfast afterwards, so all's well that ends well.

I'm not that sore, really. I guess I can thank Carmen Electra for that. I got her Strip Arobic's DVD the other day and have been thrusting my hips like a pro. I'm sure I don't look as graceful doing it as she does, things tend to jiggle when I wiggle. But hey, I'll be pole worthy before you know it and driving my husband out of his mind!

Weekend Ramblings

I got to thinking about families with all boys or all girls. Usually, people I meet who are from a family of same sex siblings always wish for a brother or sister. I only have a sister, and I really wanted a brother. My husband has two brothers and two sisters. But, their age gap is pretty big.
I think one of the reasons we get along so well is the fact that he satisfies that need I have for a brother. I by NO MEANS am saying I have brotherly feelings toward my husband. There are things I do to him that, if we were related, I would get arrested for. No, I am saying that it adds a bit of bonding to our relationship that members of mixed families have already formed. I feel close to my husband because I can joke around and fart in front of him. I can tell him dirty jokes and talk about hot chicks with him. He makes fun of me when I cry at movies. I couch him on proper English. Sometimes, we revel in the victory of being “right” with petty gestures and childhood taunts.
I am never more comfortable than when I am alone with my husband. I am comfortable surrounded by a thousand people if my husband is with me, but being alone with him is the fuzzy-sock, fat pants, hair in the scrunchy kind of comfortable that’s hard to find.

My sister came over Sunday and helped me bake bread. Now, my sister and I aren’t close. Not in that see each other every day, talk on the phone constantly, can’t make a decision without her opinion kind of way. We talk often, but with her busy child filled lifestyle and my busy don’t have a child lifestyle, we don’t get together often.
I couldn’t tell you the last time we baked together. There is something you need to know about me. I am a bit anal when it comes to the preparation of my food. When I put butter or jelly on toast, I have to make sure there is an even coat spread all over the bread, corners and all. Every piece of surface needs to be covered. If I have a waffle, each hole needs to be filled with an equal amount of butter and syrup. Meat on sandwiches must be evenly dispersed over the whole piece of bread. Every ingredient needs to be present in a bite, no matter which side of the sandwich you bite into.
It goes further. I like stews and casseroles, anything where the ingredients are mixed up. This way I can pick through and get an even amount of ingredients for each bite. When I bake, each ingredient must be measured carefully and precisely. I have two sets of measuring cups and three sets of measuring spoons. I have three mixing bowls. I love to bake. But it has to be precise.
So when my sister came over yesterday I watched in amazement as she carefully cut the access flower off the top of the measuring cup with a knife. Each tablespoon of powder was immaculately measured. I thought it was just me! This leads me to ponder whether my analness is something of my making, or my unconscious obedience to genetic disposition. Can I even help it?
Interesting.

I was watching a reality show called "Populairty Contest." People were competing for a $50,000 prize by getting more votes from the people of this small town. It was the final episode, so there were only two left. The guy, Alex, went to the local school to give the kids a baseball lesson. During his interview afterwards he said, "I really enjoyed touching those little kids." He followed it up with, "I've touched a lot of people in this town, and have been touched by many in return." Ah ha-ha, wait, am I the only one who finds this funny?

Is Today Monday?

I slept like crap last night. My throat was on fire. You know, the dry, itchy, swallow a hundred times kind of throat. I woke up all night to spray Cloriceptic (sp) in my mouth and try to get back to sleep. My alarm clock nearly got hurled across the room this morning. So I'm trying to iron my skirt for work when the plug for the iron gets stuck in a spare stereo that mysteriously manifested on top of it. I think to myself, "It's going to be one of those days."

Boy, did I screw myself.

On the way to work, one of those crazy bitches who can't stay in her own lane hit me this morning. The only damage incurred was to her side-view mirror. She was pretty pissed that I didn't stop right away, but the road we were on had no shoulder and was right next to a big, deep trench. That, and in the morning rush hour we would have been dead the minute we got out of our cars. So I finally pull over and the first thing out of her mouth is, "You have insurance, right?"

No, really, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

So she looks at her crooked mirror and says, "I don't think it will be too expensive to fix." I reach over and snap it back into place. It was a break away mirror. What do I get for my troubles?

The infamous "Oh." No cops were called, no vital information was exchanged, no fists smacked into flesh. Now I'm about 10 minutes late getting to work.

I'm suffering from hellatious allergies, so I go to our local chain of grocery stores and peruse the drug aisle. I want something for watery eyes, itchy, dry throat, running nose, headache, sneezing, irritation, impatience, boredom, and bitchyness, got something for that? I finally find the right drugs and am checking myself out when the computer goes beserk and erases everything. I have to wait for it to be re-set by the slowest creature in existence. I finally get done and go out to my car. Now I'm twenty minutes late for work.

Since I'm already late, why don't I just stop by and get some bagels for work. You know, get on the good side of my supervisor for being late to begin with. Nothing went wrong in the bagel store and I'm back on the road...only to find that it's closed because a water line has broken and the street is flooded. I have to go the long way.

I am now forty minutes late for work. I get on campus and wind my way through the construction only to find that a small blue car is having a conversation with a big red truck, right in the middle of the street. I would have thrown my bagels at him, but I needed the bribe. I squeeze into a parking space in the boon-docks, between two people who can't park between the lines and finally, FINALLY get to work. An hour late.

So far, the day's only gotten better. One of my bosses is taking me out for sushi. We're walking just to be on the safe side.

On a good note, a friend of mine here at work (girl) is dating a friend of mine not from work (guy). He sent me the cutest necklace with a skull on it. He's into ceramics and does great work. I collect skulls, and this is just the cutest thing. Now I just need to remember to send him a thank you.

Being a Wife

I like being a wife. There are a bunch of raging feminists out there who would probably disagree with that statement, but I don't care. Get this straight, I am not a domestic Goddess. My house would give Martha Stewart nightmares. It's not dirty, although there are a few spiders we can't seem to get rid of. It's not that cluttered, but there are a few things laying around that probably belong somewhere else. I do laundry on a regular basis. I clean up spills and small disasters when they occur. I hated doing this stuff when I was single. House work was the bane of my existence. I usually had to drink large quantities of alcohol in order to get in the cleaning mood. But now, now I don't mind, because I'm doing it for my husband.

I like knowing that he has a closet full of clean clothes because I put them there. I like having him come home to a clean house. I like doing all the little minute things that wives do to keep their husbands happy. I like calling him just to see how he's doing, or to tell him I'm thinking about him. I like going grocery shopping and making sure I get his favorite soda. I let him play his video games all night without complaint. I like to ask him about his day and actually listen to what he says. I like leaving him little notes around the house telling him silly things. Hubby doesn't ask for it, I do it just because I love him.

Except last night.

There was a party at the St. Louis Science Center for the opening of their new exhibit, the Circus. It was a great time. They had the Flying Walenda's there to walk a tightrope (I was on the news, Hubby taped it. You can see the side of my face for one whole second). They had an open bar, carnival games set up in the corner, clowns doing magic tricks and on stilts walking around the crowd, and a pretty good band. The food was great, P & J sandwiches, little corndogs, popcorn, peanuts, chicken on a stick, and these little cheeseburgers. The desert bar had rice crispy squares, chocolate chip cookies, ice cream, and caramel apples. Clowns handed out baloons and red noses. The exhibit was fantastic. There was a section where you could dress up in all these clothes and have your picture taken. There was a tightrope you could walk (strapped in a harness, mind you, or I would have been concrete food) one of those thingies where you get strapped in and can jump around, doing flips and such, all kinds of stuff. It was so much fun.

But I was alone. Why? Because my husband just didn't want to go. He doesn't like crowds, any crowds, and even though we've had a conversation about him leaving me alone, AGAIN AND AGAIN, he refused to come with me. I had all this fun and no one to share it with. Oh, I was with a few of his co-workers and I did have a good time, but you ladies out there know what I'm talking about. There are things in life that should be experienced with the one you love, and I got denied. Why am I married if I have to experience everything alone? I don't think my husband realizes how it feels to see all these other couples having a great time together and there I am with just a glass of wine.

I was fit to be tied when I got pulled over by the coolest cop on the way home. I was doing about 80 in a 60 and he caught me fair and square. He asked me if I knew I was speeding and I said yes. He asked me why and I said I was pissed off at my husband. We talked for about 15 - 20 minutes about being married, not having kids, our jobs, getting tasered, all sorts of stuff. He was the nicest cop I have ever met. I didn't even get a warning. He handed back my license and said to have a good night and take it easy on my husband.

So I did. This time.

Marijuana, anyone?

I had an appointment with the Gyno today. This is what I don’t get. He sees things only my husband is privy to, but he’ll get embarrassed if he comes into the exam room while I’m still getting undressed. Hello? The little paper dress you give me doesn’t hide very much. I know what you’re getting ready to do, why does the sight of my naked ass surprise you?

Let’s talk about pot.

Marijuana. Mary Jane. Weed. Dope. Wacky tobaccy. Little Buddha. Herb. Smoke. Medicine.

Medicine?

YES, medicine.

Let me tell you a little story. I have ulcerative colitis. When the symptoms first showed up, it took a while for my doctor to figure outwhat was going on. Until he did, there would be days and nights I’d be in excruciating pain praying for death. I’d swear my internal organs were hardening and coming out sideways. If you had told me sticking a sea cucumber up my ass eased the pain, I’d have done it. I was afraid to eat because everything seemed to burn coming out. I lost weight, I lost sleep, and I started thinking about death in a very serious way.

How I would never be able to function as a normal person again? My entertainment would hinge on the closest toilet. Dating? How would I do that? I could fart in my apartment in the morning and it would make my eyes water when I got home that afternoon. I looked at other women my age laughing and behaving normally and I hated them. I cried.

Three months later I was finally diagnosed and put on medication. It took a few weeks for those to kick in, but from then on I’ve had a pretty normal life. That was three months, and I got better. If my doctor said I could, I would have smoked a pound of weed a day and wouldn’t have felt a damn bit bad about it.

People on medical marijuana are dying. Their pain will end when their life does. There is no more hope.

When someone suffers from a disease, the pain becomes everything. People lose appetites, they lose sleep, and they become slaves. Not only to the pain, but to anything that takes the pain away. If nothing works, and they have no hope, thoughts of suicide creep in. Life isn’t worth living. Imagine suffering from a terminal illness and being given a miracle drug that not only takes away the pain, but also increases the appetite and makes one feel normal again. This drug is cheap, plentiful, and easy to get. You know you’re going to die, but at least now the process won’t be so agonizing.

Now imagine that drug being taken away because some old, narcissistic dinosaurs from the 1950’s can’t get over their upbringing that drugs are baaaaad.

Despite all of the scientific data, despite the medical proof, despite the many examples of good that marijuana has done as a medicine, this bunch of back-pocket fucks can’t see past their own out-dated beliefs. They still think Reefer Madness was a documentary. They think that once you smoke pot you turn into a raving lunatic that murders, rapes, and destroys without prejudice.

C’mon, assholes, that’s meth.

Ten states have legalized medicinal marijuana. What does that mean? That the lower legislators know what their doing. People who live in the real world and not some pampered political utopia are paying attention to the facts. It means people actually care about ending other's suffering, not looking good in front of the current administration. They are making laws that make sense.

Dear God, we can’t have any of THAT.

Ten years from now (I would hope 3 1/2, but if a republican gets in the White House again in 2008, we’re screwed), I would hope that we can look back at this dark time and say “What a bunch of dumbasses.” Alcohol is a lot more dangerous than pot, but you don’t see it being banned, do ya? I think they tried to do that once before, didn’t they, and that only helped the Mob. Outlawing medicinal marijuana is only helping the drug dealers.

In this world, in this NATION, medical marijuana is the least of our problems. It’s too damn bad that those in power are too fucking stupid to understand it.

**I just read that those who have medical pot don't have to fear prosecution. So, the federal govornment instated a law that they don't intend to enforce...yep, that sounds about right. This country is so messed up.**

Superpowers/ Anti-Powers

(Thanks, Torren, for bringing up this subject).

My husband has a theory and so far it has proven to be true. Everyone has a superpower. As the universe is made up of balances, everyone also has an anti-power. Now, these powers aren't as terrific as being able to fly, per say, but they can make one's life easier.

My superpower is making left turns. I can make a left turn anywhere, at any time, with virtually no waiting. It's amazing. Traffic seems to disappear like smoke when I turn on my left blinker. There have been times when those riding with me have gotten spooked. It's great. Then there's my anti-power. When I go out to eat, I will always be seated next to the screaming, braty child. In some cases, more than one. It never fails. Example: last night at Red Lobster a squealing little kid escaped his high-chair and made a bee-line straight for me. Three times. With dirty little hands.

My husband's superpower is being able to read people like a book within the first two minutes of meeting them. It's weird. He can sum up a person in seconds and completely be on the mark. Bad person, good person, honest person, liar, cheat - he pegs everyone correctly every time. He can gage their likes, dislikes, reactions, movements, and intelligence correctly for years to come. His anti-power is annoying as hell. No matter where he is, or what he's doing, whenever he has to get in a line it will be the slowest one. At the grocery store, in traffic, at the movies, you name it. Machinery will break down, someone has to write a check, an accident will occur, or any number of problems.

If we are together, we'll be in the slow line with screaming children surrounding us.

So there you have it. We all have these powers. I'd love to hear other's if you'd care to share.

Mmmmm, Crab

I got sucked into the "Deadliest Catch" marathon last Monday. It's a documentary about the Alaskan crab hunters and their many different escapades. Since then, I have been craving crab like a mo-fo. Crab legs, crab cakes, crab claws - I want it all. My husband, that lovable hunk, is taking me to Red Lobster this evening just to cool my cravings. We rode 10 miles this morning, I hope I can stay awake long enough to enjoy the feast.

Now for some selfish whining...

My 33rd birthday is coming up this year. I'm a Libra, I like things to be balanced. 3 is a good number all around. Being 33 is something I actually am looking forward to. So much, in fact, that I'd love to throw a party. However, the thought of throwing a birthday party for myself fills me with a sense of dread and depresses me to the point of suicide.

I'll explain. I don't think I've had a birthday party since I was five. My mom got mad at me, screamed and yelled, and sent everyone home early. Yep, I think that was the last one. Growing up, I never really had any friends. I watched my sister have a huge bash year after year, but me, nothing. Once I finally left home I thought, great, now I can throw any party I want. And I did. But no one ever showed up. Oh, excuse me, at one party everyone showed up (everyone being my then boyfriend's loser friends) took the beer, the food, and then left. For years the thought of having people over both excited and terrified me. Rejection is a hard thing to take over and over again.

Parties are supposed to be part of a normal life, right? Dinner parties, garden parties, bar-b-ques, graduations, birthdays, weddings, it seems we as humans are always partying. It shouldn't be that hard. But for some reason I am cursed. Every party I touch turns to crap. Maybe it's because I don't have any girlfriends. I have Alissa, and that's all I need. I don't do the fru-fru, giggly, let's all talk about our diets thing. I'm not your typical girl. The last time I painted my nails was when I got married, and I haven't had my hair professionally cut in years. I want to argue about politics and religion, not compare purses.

Anyway, I met my husband and threw a series of successful parties. His graduation, his birthday, plus a few baby showers for my sister and Alissa. I thought, great, curse ended. I've changed. Let's throw some parties. Boy, I set myself up royally. I threw a huge slumber party for 8 friends last Christmas. 2 showed up. 1 didn't even stay the whole night. All that food and drink, wasted. All those decorations I fretted over, wasted. All those plans - poof. Two of the invited guests were my own damn sister-in-laws. Bitches.

So I vowed right then and there to never throw another party for myself, ever. Then one of my favorite professors got pregnant and I threw her a baby shower. Sixteen invited. Six showed up. Skunked again. Now I've vowed to never throw another party, PERIOD.

So there's my quagmire. I want to celebrate my 33rd, but I'm incapable of doing so. I can't deal with the pain. Acid builds up in my stomach just thinking about it. All those fantasies of fun and friends and happy times - not for me. My birthday is on a Friday night. If I can have my husband on one side and Alissa on the other, drink in hand, possibly a burger in the other, sitting in front of a big bon-fire, I'll be happy.

Okay, self-pity party is over. Tune in next time for more straight-out bitching.