This is Merica Dammit

A miracle has occurred, my George returned to sleeping like a log. I can resume bragging once again. The wheels fell off the cart a couple months back when my sister told me that if a kid is not moved from a crib by two years old there will be developmental ramifications. I hastily took her advice, disassembled his mammoth crib and tossed him into his "big boy bed," that he immediately fell in love with. His newfound freedom got him so excited he'd take 4 hours to fall asleep.
Even locking him in the room (I have a camera on him so I can see whats going on) did not make him feel comfortably confined enough to fall asleep. I'd set him in bed, read, sing, and kiss goodnight, then go to the living room. Twenty minutes later I'd hear an unusual creak, so I'd tiptoe around the corner to peek down the hallway.
George would be standing in the shadow of his door, barely visible. It was a spooky thing to see because it looked like a creepy baby ghost from a Guillermo Del Toro movie.
After I put him back in bed, and returned to the living room, ignoring the unusual creaking noises, he'd get ballsy and start tiptoeing down the hallway. George's empowerment from freedom eventually made him "overtired," and the only way to get him asleep, would be by holding him in a half nelson, laying in the big boy bed together. I'd read Twitter and Pinterest on my phone till he eventually drifted off. The chances of him waking up a couple hours later and running through this sequence of events again were very high.
I swallowed my pride (it was only raisin size, really) and put him back in a crib. Now that he is sleeping, I have my nights back, and do not feel like a zombie from being up all night. If he has to sleep in his crib till he is 4 years old, then I am cool with that, because whatever developmental challenges that brings on are probably much lighter than the developmental challenges from not sleeping.
I do miss being able to get my Twitter-Pinterest loop out of the way before I'd head to my room and read in bed. Now that I begin the loop in bed, I have the hardest time quitting the loop. I go on Pinterest, look at all this beautiful shit, create enormous feelings of want, then go on Twitter where I read news, very repetitive news. For example, today I read four articles on Misty Copeland. Today's repeat news was refreshing to the usual sad stuff about ISIS, guns, or American politics, which is basically a high school election where whoever has the most glitter on their signage wins.
I'm a feminist, so I follow Hillary Clinton on Twitter. Do I ever see tweets about Hillary Clinton's politics? No. I read about her love of pant suits, how she is a woman, mother and grandma, and see photos of her campaigners and supporters.
The lesson I should learn here is that Twitter is not a source for news, and I need to incorporate another site in my cyber loop so I am getting properly informed.
Today was a busy day. We are in Tahoe because Sacramento is melting, it was 108 degrees today. Tahoe is a nonstop party train for the kids, so they collapse from exhaustion at 7, and I get to... write a blog.
We started the day at the beach where George followed Kiki around, even when she'd venture off to appendage herself to neighboring beach families. They constructed a stone heart and George started stealing stones to throw in the lake. I jokingly said, "You're breaking my heart!" And Kiki followed up, "That's OK, we still love you." Then my stone heart softened a bit.

We came home for lunch. Then George took a nap and Kiki watched Peter Rabbit while I ate an entire Toblerone. After George woke up, we went back to the beach to wait in a massive line for ice cream. I didn't order myself a cone because of the Toblerone, but this only means I ate one ice cream instead of two because I always eat 90% of George's cone since he eats it like a cat, one tiny lick at a time. Before he get a teaspoon in his belly, it melts on the ground, so I am constantly coming in, saving the day, by inhaling the lopsided mess about to fall to it's demise.
After ice cream we went to the pool, and after that my sister's, where they had a small BBQ dinner. I was dying of heartburn from the moment I arrived at her house. My dad stopped by to say hello, and after greeting him I said, "This might be the last time you see me."
Now that I am recovered, I can't recall the magnitude of pain exactly, but I did think I might be dying at one point. If my brother in law wasn't there I would have taken off my bra and unbuttoned my too tight shorts.
That fucking Toblerone bar almost killed me. Tomorrow I am returning back to hell, oh wait, I mean Sacramento, where the temperature is predicted to hit 106. The kids will pout because we have to trade in mountain hikes, swimming at the pool and beach fun for air conditioning and coloring books. We don't have to stress much about the Sacramento loop because we'll be back to Tahoe for the fourth of July, where we'll do our Tahoe loop even harder, and throw in some fireworks to boot. This is 'Merica dammit, and were not going to celebrate in an armpit where the heat can kill a girl. Imagine if I ate that Toberlone in Sac? I'd be dead!
Fuck, I need to incorporate a serious news outlet into my loop.

here is your opportunity to pick up a book. Look behind you.

My Dream Statistical Studies

Will my job as Hausfrau continue?

I applied to a writing position at an analytics company and I feel unsure about my answer to the question, "What statistical studies would you find most interesting?"
I have hundreds of ideas. My top choice is studying lottery winners and comparing them to the rest of the population, trying to assess if they have some type of enlightenment, have felt they were lucky people, have been able to visualize things in their life, and if they spent hours thinking about winning. It seems like most of the pictures where people are holding giant Lotto checks are with old people. I am wondering if the stationary lifestyle of old people, allow them a lot of time to dedicate to meditating on winning, regardless if they were doing it intentionally. It would be a complicated study because it involves lengthy interviews, and much of the variables are not quantifiable.
Secondly, I want to study the effects of masturbation. I want to know if it extinguishes motivation or ambition. If someone is on an upswing and kicking ass, will masturbating make their engines decelerate? I once saw an interview with Chelsea Handler where she said, she had not masturbated in over 15 years. She was climbing the success ladder at a rapid pace during this interview. After I read Horizontal Life (fucking hilarious) she popped out 5 more books in no time at all, then started hosting a TV show, and now she has some shit on Netflix. Could she attribute her work ethic and laser focus determination on her decision to abstain from personally pleasuring herself. That goes for others on top, as well. It would be interesting to compare their masturbating habits with the working man (not the unemployed person, who is likely yanking away at it multiple times a day out of boredom.)
Even if the findings showed masturbating is like taking two steps back on the journey to success, I don't really think too many people would refrain.  Masturbating would become one of those things, like using plastic bags or frequently eating meat, where we all know it is bad for our overall global health, but it's easily overlooked. That moment of feeling bored and all alone will eventually come around, and then the lightbulb overhead turns on, and the idea is born in that moment, "I should probably masturbate, while I have the chance. It could be ages till I get the opportunity again."
Thirdly, I'd like to study astrological charts, and find if they're statistically significant characteristics attributed to signs. For example, someone told me there is an overwhelming proportion of Playboy centerfolds who are Cancers, I think he said 70%. So are Cancerians more sexual, or perhaps more likely to engage in acts because they are inclined to abuse drugs and alcohol, and have a poor sense of direction. I also read that Cancers have a longer lifespan, on average. Although it's all averages, it is still interesting.

I'm worried my answers came off a bit too "Cosmo girl," and they really wanted me to answer, "I am into studies on technology devices, and video games." I hoped to give the impression, "I'm Malcolm Gladwell with slightly tamer hair, and a vagina. I am a rouge researcher, getting to the issues that really fucking matter; figuring out how to win the lotto, deciding if masturbating is worth it, and if there is anything to astrology."
I'm not convinced I am taken out of the running for the position, even though I haven't heard from them in a month. Maybe I will lay here the rest of the night thinking about it. Who knows, they might call tomorrow? I doubt the lotto winners ever regretted the time they spent thinking about spending the millions they were about to win.

Blood Hound

I am invisible when the TV is on, unless I want to nap

I read on Twitter about a new hashtag #LiveTweetYourPeriod, and had a nice laugh-out-loud fest reading through them.

Aside from ruining my most expensive pair of prison panties with a stain that ends up looking more like a result of poop than blood, I'd say most of my period woes come in the days leading up to the start.
I go through three or four days of anguish, usually brought on by food consumption and feeling like I have no control over myself. I eat like it is my last meal, all day long and then I feel like I have the energy of a snail, which could be attributed as much to overeating as PMS. I tend to dress a bit sluttier, have weird dreams, and my sense of smell is heightened.
Yesterday, I could have live tweeted my pre-period. My morning run was a trip down memory lane triggered by my hound dog sense of smell. The flowers I smell at the start smell like flowers at zoo by the chimpanzee exhibit, so I pictured the chimps and all their sadness, including their exploding buttonholes. Then I went back to childhood after smelling the delicious aroma of Nurmberger sausages, which was actually a combination of Jimboys Tacos and Noah's Bagels. I rounded Hobo Hangout, and as I passed a vagrant who was joining his comrades after probably just waking up in a gutter around the corner, I smelled spilt beer and stale smoke. I thought of waking up the morning after partying hard, and smelling my puffy jacket which sponged up all my debauctery from the night before. I gave him a good morning nod, and was soon home.
My daughter has a cold, so we had good reason to stay in. Staying in only made me go back and forth from the fridge to the computer. I ate nonstop for a couple hours, and felt so lethargic that I needed a nap. I put the kids's German film on, and after not getting to sleep on the first play thru, I decided to give it another go, and pushed Play Again.
I now know a way to break my children's focus from TV, try to take a nap. My trying to nap is the only thing that has pulled them away from TV so far. All they wanted to do was sit on my head.
My period should start tomorrow, and I will be feeling much better. I will live tweet how I deflated, and my appetite shrank. It sounds so condescending, it should be greeted with loads of "How nice for you, batch!" comments, but whatchagonnado. I'm a hound dog, and for three to four days a month I am crying all the time. It just happens to be the three days before my period starts.

Youth In Asia

Two nights ago I read an article in the latest New Yorker about euthanasia called The Death Treatment. An alarming statistic, and couple other notable moments are resonating with me, nagging me.
The article states that in Flanders, the Northern part of Belgium, euthanasia accounted for 5% of all deaths last year! The article doesn't say how much of the 5% in Flanders are euthanized due to non-terminal illness. However, countrywide, 13% of euthanized deaths are non-terminal illnesses.
The levels of depression being discussed in the article seemed rather time sensitive. A breakup from a boyfriend allowed a woman who combated mental illness throughout her life grounds for assisted suicide. Killing oneself for an unrequited love seems much less romantic when the decision is approved by a panel, who will eventually fulfill the death sentence.
There are Nazi undertones to these deaths. They are unlike Nazi killings in the way that these people initially ask to die, but they are like Nazi killings because of the big picture. People viewed as weak are being killed off, through the gentle guidance of a widespread way of thinking, Self Determination.
The doctor who the article highlights as the figurehead for the euthanasia movement is called De Wachter, and he is quoted saying, "If Jesus were here, I think he would help these people."
In this comment De Wachter sounds as if the power has been shifted to him. He is now baring the load of Jesus Christ. His nihilistic groundwork has persuaded himself he is god to the godless; Because God is not here, I am going to help these people, acting as their god.
He does so by assisting non-terminally ill  to kill themselves. The need for assistance raises a question mark on if they could go through with it themselves. I understand the assistance needed for someone who wants to kill themselves due to terminal illness, they are in agony, and their physical suffering is too burdensome, so they have to have someone else take the fall. In their mind, it can be considered requested murder.
But for the mentally afflicted, when death is all about ending a sadness that one is unable to pinpoint or resolve, then why do they need to get confirmation that their suicide is OK. That their suicide falls under guidelines of acceptance. It soils the meaning of taking ones life from the desolate, isolated, cave of misery they exist in because they are not isolated when they are meeting with professionals to discuss their existence.
Another reason why suicidals seek assistance is an assurance the job gets done properly. The worst result of attempting to kill oneself would be to not die and end up severely disabled, living out the rest of life having a sobbing mother at the bedside, all the while thinking, "I guess it wasn't so bad after John Prick dumped my ass."
Another thing I found alarming is Eutinasia is introduced to a child's school curriculum at first grade, during their Non-confessional Ethics class, which sounds like it is straight from the pages of Brave New World. De Wachter is also a presence among the youth, people who are understandably going to go through times of mental illness.
I am Catholic, so my ideas about suicide are different than Godless cultures. I say, "Godless," not in a dimeaning way; the article demonstrates the popular abhorance toward Catholics and Jews who oppose nonterminal illness euthanasia. 

The article likely steered me to believe  the euthanasia system is flawed and getting out of hand. The New Yorker is an overtly liberal publication, which I'd assume would get on board with the current assisted suicide system in Belgium, however, The New Yorker is also very Jewish, and perhaps it is that belief in God which led the article to sway in the direction it went.
I think the non-terminally ill should kill themselves the old fashion way. There is too much grey area to allow for assisted suicide for non-terminally ill. Doctors get to say, "Your life is not worth living," and then go through with something the patient might loose the nerve to go through with on their own. Maybe in the solitude of attempting to take one's life there is a good chance of reckoning, and having a change of heart, and that moment won't come with the pressures of a suicide assistance team looking on.
I am booking a trip for my family to go to Japan in December. Japan is another country that has a flair for suicide dramatics. After reading Norwegian Wood, where half the characters kill themselves, I realized outlook on suicide is very much culturally dependent. In Norwegian Wood, though, the characters hang or stab themselves. The youth in Asia who kill themselves give more meaning to their death. Having a doctor kill you, thats not suicide. I don't know what it is. 

Runderpants and Kelly Clarkson

We can't always fly, unless listening to Kelly Clarkson

This morning my daughter asked, "Are we in the TV?"
After I assured her we are not, she followed up with, "How can we get in the TV?"
"We can't get in there. It's like a book... or an alternate universe."
She squished up her nose, and asked, "Are we in a fish bowl?"
I said, "no."
Then she said, "Yes, we are," and walked away.
After the kids ate breakfast we went on a jog. Kiki is out of school, which really adds intensity to my run because I use a double stroller, and push 70 pounds of kid instead of 30 pound George in the single stroller.
The heat also adds intensity. Sacramento turns into a sunspot during summer. It's surprising everything doesn't melt and puddle into a pool of ruins. If we don't go on our run before 8 am, then the risk of death increases by a lot. Running in the heat has given me a greater understanding of the lure for Runderpants.
What I lack in tits, I make up for in ass, so if I tried to run in a pair of Runderpants, my butt would bounce up and down in a primal rhythm that might make cars crash into each other.
It'd probably make some of the bums, who lounge under their staked out shady trees, get up and chase me down. A scene resembling hunters chasing down a rhinoceros in the safari, except the hunters are pushing grocery carts.
To keep my daughter happy on the ride, I play her music. My daughter's unintentional philosophical touts give the impression she would be into high art, however, her taste in music indicates otherwise. I try to play her Callas, but she prefers her, and America's first, idol, Kelly Clarkson. As we run down the street, Kelly Clarkson is playing at full volume, and my daughter sways to the music looking at birds flying, pit bulls lunging at us from behind chain link fences, and pancaked roadkill.
I felt the music as well, especially, Stronger, at which point I started sprinting, imagining myself running in chonies along side a rhino, dodging spears.
The innocuous nonsensical questions of children might sound philosophical, and philosophers might sound like inquisitive children, but rhino butts sound like a giant drum, bum bum bum bum.

All Boy and the Trans' Wives

At Kingsley's last field trip I stood talking with another lady, one of Kingsley's classmates' grandma. She is a really nice woman, and one of the few I consider outgoing. It turns out, the grandmas are the only outgoing people at Kingsley's school. It is a bit like high school all over again, where the cool moms act like hard nosed butt faces and the funny ones seem to be less J Crew and more LL Bean. While at Kingsley's school outings, I find myself only ever hanging out with the grandmas. They are a much more entertaining group. Were usually busting a gut from laughing hard, and the cool moms look like they are all holding in poops.
My friend told me about her grandson, who is "all boy," but at 2 years old he is his sister's pet, and emulates her in all ways. When it came to his birthday presents, he wanted cars, bats, and balls, but they had to be pink. I laughed, and told her how people asked me what to get George for his birthday, and I said, "He likes trucks, and clothes are always good. Oh, and he really loves Hello Kitty."
George is "all boy." I'm going to generalize the sexes based on the behavior of my children, which is bunk, but my experience has shown that boys are wild and reckless while girls seem to be much more aware of their surrounding. Kingsley is responsive to the word "No" while George, even though I think he is a smart little potato, doesn't register negative reinforcement quickly.
I remember when he was newly walking, George would crawl under a table or desk, and then stand up forgetting the hard slab of wood above his head, and he'd slam his head hard on it. He did this thousands of times. I would sooth him, amazed while thinking, "How the fuck are you not remembering about the table tops?"
Comparing them is not healthy, but if it is a difference of sexes, then I am comparing sexes which is fine; at 2 years old, Kingsley seemed like a Columbia professor sipping peppermint tea while reading the New Yorker while George is banging on his chest and pointing to his penis shouting, "poo poo!!" Yes, he calls his penis a "Poo Poo" and with incredible pride.
This is why I think buying a dog for a little boy is brilliant. George would be the dogs satellite, following it around everywhere, and the dog would keep him safe. I am researching pups which is hard because Kingsley and I are not too fond of dogs and George would live in a den with a pack of wolves like Mowgli.
I am staying with my parents, and this morning George sat on the floor eating bread, with my mom's dog sitting facing him. George stuck out his foot, and said, "Jack lick my toes." Then Jack, my moms dog, would lick his toes. This went on for fifteen minutes.
My mom noticed that George has purple toe nails. While I was painting Kingsley's nails, George stood next to me crying hysterically for me to paint his nails. I was having a moment of what-do-I-do, and figured it would probably be healthier to paint his nails rather than tell him, his longing for painted nails is wrong, and not what men do.

If he wants to paint his nails all his life, I am fine with that, but I don't want to do something that would effect his natural inclinations. I am very happy for Bruce Jenner, but it is very sad to think he lived the majority of his life hiding something very important about him. I also don't want to do something that would make my kid have urges which would make him then have a life of shame.
My Aunt's best friend was dumped by her husband after being married twenty years because he came out as gay. I think it is great for him to be liberated, but she was a wreck. It is not all smooth sailing, lets hug it out with my gay best friend, how it looks on TV shows. She lived with him for twenty years, feeling undesired and disconnected, and felt she was putting in the good fight for their marriage, but now she is going to end up dying alone.
I hope she does't die alone, and as a total back up plan, she could move in with one of her kids. While I was looking at her, I thought she should try and loose 30 pounds. Not because it will make her sexually desirable, but because she will feel so much better about herself.
I think people who suggest curbing a philanderer or curing a dried up relationship by trying to look better are assholes. To me that is suggesting that the problem exists due to the woman's inability to maintain a desirable look, which is a fuck ton load of bull shit.
I figure, if she dropped down to a healthy weight, she'd feel better about herself then she could exude more confidence. She would meet a new guy, who will fuck her like she always wanted to be fucked, and because she is a grown ass woman now she can do it on her terms. She won't have to give up her assets, worry about loosing half her retirement, or even have to leave the comforts of her own single dwelling if she choses not to.
Thats the other thing, I wouldn't want George living a lie because it is not only about him, there are the wives. I think Caitlyn Jenner is lucky that Kris Jenner comes across as a stone cold frigid bitch because a lot of people think, oh well, its no big deal, she already has a lot going for her, but in reality, the wife is a byproduct.
Like in all rough times, it's a personal choice to step up and overcome. So to all those wives, pull up your fucking chonies, even if your husband has been wearing them on Saturday nights, and be happy for a new beginning, because that really is something special as well. You can probably get the bang job you have been craving,which is just as exciting as your ex-husband's fresh start!

Buddies

Its punk rock

Toughen Up

He is doing much better

George has four molars poking through, and he is taking it badly. I give him Tylenol for the pain and low grade fever. I give him crushed ice and popsicles for temporary pain relief. However, sometimes he is inconsolable, and starts swinging his arms like a windmill, with the intention of hitting me. In my humble opinion, he does not cope well with pain.
A friend of mine told me about her daughter screaming in pain during a flight because her ears hurt so badly from the pressure. Her daughter is 13 years old. As she told me the story, I gave the necessary sympathetic nods, but in the back of my head I was thinking, "Wow, your daughter sounds like a pussy. You should probably try and toughen up, rather than let her publicly scream like a toddler from an ear ache."
My parents are not the type of people to feed into anyone's discomfort, physically or mentally. I remember in 6th grade I had a headache, so I took two aspirins. I still felt a head ache, so I took two more. I did this until I took 12 aspirins. I am not sure what I was thinking. Obviously, I didn't have the necessary knowledge on dosage to be given free reign on the medicine cabinet, and I made myself so incredibly sick. My Family and I went out to pizza at our usual Friday night spot, Grand Central Pizza, and I sat with my head resting on my hand throughout the entire meal. The next morning my ears were pounding. A loud whooshing noise was pulsing through my head. I was supposed to go to ski team, and was too sick. When I told my mom I couldn't go skiing, she was so pissed at me. I walked to my bed, unable to confess my aspirin intake because I was afraid my parents might kill me, and went to sleep.
My mom poked her head in every once in a while, and stood in the doorway glaring at me with contempt. Maybe because Saturdays were her day to enjoy reading and lounging on the couch, free of chauffeuring duties, aside from dropping her five kids off at the ski resort at 8 am and picking them up at 4 pm. I think she assumed I was faking my illness, and being eye-roll inducing over dramatic while at it.
Little kids get the luxury of expressing their anguish in over the top dramatics, but after two days of George acting like he is the only one on the planet, I am starting to have to give myself frequent pep talks on having patience. I eventually have a breaking point, and it usually happens in the middle of the night after being awake for hours.
When I tried to lay with him at 2 am because he was crying, "My teeth, my teeth," I was going to rub his back and gently shush him, but as I sat next to him he began wailing harder and thrashing. Then he tried to smack me across the face. I couldn't sit there because my presence was making his reaction worsen, so I told him, in a slightly more gentle way, "I was coming to help you, but now you're on your own, fucker." Then I shut the door and walked out of his room.

Stupid Tweet!

Why did I bring up "Lets Talk About Kevin"

I wrote a tweet in response to a movie critic's tweet. I misinterpreted what he said, and went on a semi rant. Afterwards I felt stupid, and gave the embarrassed, blushed cheek emoji. I have not been to the movies in three years, so I am not sure why follow movie critics on Twitter. I watch a movie, maybe once a month, and the less dramatic the better. Primarily I watch romantic comedies. I don't even care if the comedy is cheap laughs with a bunch of guys jerking each other off, or taking poops in the garden. I consider it a time void of thinking.
Last year I watched a movie called, Let's Talk About Kevin, and I nearly died sitting on my couch as the horrific story unfolded. In the end I felt like I needed to go take a shower, cry, take another shower, and then lay awake in bed, staring at my ceiling until the sun comes up. After that, I figured the comforts of my personal bubble don't need to be disrupted by deranged stories, and I should stick to lighthearted shows that make me feel warm and fuzzy, and unfortunately, slightly stupid. Poop jokes are really dumb, but for some reason the involuntary reaction to laugh feels good.
Mainly, I turn the TV on for background noise while I devote all my attention to my true love, my laptop. The only show I watch regularly is The Real Housewives of New York. Someone once asked me, "How can you watch these shows about women belittling and degrading each other, isn't it anti feminist?"
I do not consider RHONY anti-feminist one bit. They fight with each other, but its because of power, as they are constantly rearranging and playing for top dog. They shrug off their altercations, easily come to resolutions and have kumbaya sessions. I like how The Real Housewives are unapologetic, and don't give a shit what people think. Needless to say, the embarrassed face emoji is never in their frequently used emoji tab. They are all too busy playing biggest vagina in the room to apologize for misinterpretation and it is elating to watch high powered women act unfiltered, uninhibited and most importantly unembarrassed because it doesn't freaking matter. Its a moment in time, that is now gone, and deserves zero consideration.

Always On the Lookout For the Supernatural

I have not had a paranormal incident in my life. I feel like I possibly could, and this leads me to have heart racing, scare the shit out of myself, late nights, when I am alone. The closest I had to a paranormal event happened in high school when I was in the hospital. I have no recollection of this, but my sister told me I woke up from being unconscious, and told her, "Tell Bruce not to worry about his dad, he is going to be fine," and then I went back to sleep.
The freaky part of the story is that I had no idea my friend Bruce's dad was in the hospital, on death's doorstep because of an infection he got on a fishing trip in Mexico. I passed on this information to my sister, who then passed it on to our friend, and low and behold, our friend's dad recovered from his near death experience.
My Mom and brother both experienced an occurrence when a person close to them died. A loud banging on the front door interrupts them from sleep or late night television. After getting up to see who is at the door, they find no one there. Then, moments later, they get a phone call, informing them of a friend or relative's death. This happened to my brother once, and to my mom three times!
Last year I was awoken by the ringing home phone. I stumbled from my bed to the living room searching for the phone. By the time I found it, I missed the call, and the phone stopped ringing. I checked the caller ID, but there was no record of the call in the log. The next day I sat on the edge of my seat anticipating a phone call telling me someone I knew died. As the day came to a close I didn't get the call. I had the strangest feeling of sadness that I didn't get a phone call informing me of terribly bad news because it meant my experience the night before was a meaningless fluke.

I am always on the lookout though. I suspect there could be supernatural activity occurring with the light fixture over my kitchen sink. I have no idea how to turn it on, and assumed it was a forgotten fix by the house flippers who I bought the home from. I have tried every combination of the light switches around the kitchen, but can't ever turn it on. However, there are times in the evening, when I am working at the kitchen table, and the light is on.
It's easy to believe there are supernatural message lurking in nature. Aristotle said, "In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous." Today when I sat in the backyard and the kids played, there was a little bird on the telephone wires high above the fence. The bird sat there for a while, and my daughter kept asking me what kind of bird it is. I had not seen a bird like it before, but I thought of my grandfather. It would be so nice if he orchestrated this bird. While I was washing the dishes the bird was jumping on the stone path up to the front of my house.
I always notice bird shadows over my head when I am jogging. One time I watched a bird shadow follow me down a street for over a half mile. It would fly by me, wait on the telephone wire, then I'd pass it, and it would pass me, and perch itself on the wire till I passed it again. I easily thought there was meaning to this moment. I just couldn't figure out what the meaning could be.
I might not be able to handle blatant in-my-face supernatural occurrences. I don't think I would live through the moment if I woke up to see my grandfather's ghost at the foot of my bed. I would have a heart attack. Also, I don't know what he could tell me because anything I would ask him is probably stuff he needs to keep his lips sealed about.
I remember when I was seven years old, I watched an episode of Unsolved Mysteries about people who were pronounced dead and revived back to life. The terrifying aspect of the show was that the people were retelling how they died and went to hell. Coming back to life was a second chance, and they vouched to live better lives. I did not sleep for a fucking week. I remember cold sweat collecting on my skin as I laid stiff under my comforter, frightened to paralysis that I could die in my sleep, and go to hell.
It is nice to think I might get messages from the great beyond, but I doubt I am equipped with the steady nerves necessary to handle it. That's likely why I get birds and lights, while my mom and brother get premonition knocks on the front door. Maybe the spirits know that I don't answer my door anyways, and I sure as fuck wouldn't answer my door if someone knocked at it in the night. I'd find my phone and call 9-1-1, then hide under my bed. Not a warm welcome for a ghost trying to give me a message.

Hello Kitty Giving Us the Ol' In-N-Out

Hello Kitty will be the last one standing

After I picked Kingsley up from school today, I took the kids to lunch at a chicken fast food place with a play area. The kids immediately ran off to play, and I ordered our food. The place was swarming with kids because it is a mom hot spot during the day. We all sit at our own tables, playing on our phones, and our kids reenact Lord of The Flies in the play room.
The table next to me was a mom and her two little girls. The eldest was wearing a Hello Kitty shirt that said, "Save The Planet."
I thought the shirt must be ironic, because Hello Kitty is a prime example of excess and wasteful consumerism; she's a planet destroyer. Basically, anything Hello kitty is garbage. My daughter has gobs of that shit, and it is all going to be en route to Garbage Island as soon as she moves on from it. I don't buy her it anymore because she has so much. People give it to her all the time. It's cheap, and everywhere, so there is no hesitation to spend the couple dollars on such a cute little widget.
When I was a kid Hello Kitty was quite expensive, one's trove of Hello Kitty was an elementary school status symbol. I had none, and would eyeball other people's with admiration. My older sister, a natural cool kid, had a pencil eraser. I remember coveting it when she was not around to stand guard over it. Now though, Hello Kitty is a shameless whore whose face is on everything from tassels for your tatas to TV dinners.
Hello Kitty will be the most prominent artifact from our time. In a thousand years when our civilization is being dug up, the quickest conclusion people will come to is that our god was a cute cat who had no mouth. They might find her so adorable, she gets reinstated as a must have product. Then everyone goes crazy wanting more and more Hello Kitty, until they end up burying themselves in all her garbage and byproducts.
That is, if the face of Hello Kitty isn't on the bible by then.

Sadly, I admit that I take them to that fast food chain where there was a big flare up in the news three years back because the CEO said their restaurants do not support gay marriage. I was quite a passionate Facebook activist about it back then, but after I brought my daughter to one for a mom's club meeting, I see why it is the perfect place to bring kids.
First of all, the play area is pristine. I would eat off the floor in one of them, they glisten. I imagine each night a crew of ten people go in and begin disinfecting and scrubbing with the same care reserved for prepping an operating room.
Secondly, the food is really good. I can't eat any of the shit that is served at major fast food restaurants, and I certainly can't feed it to my kids. It is basically dog food with a slice of trans fat on top of it, sandwiched in a bun that has a lot of the same ingredients as cardboard.
I was able to justify being a patsy ass traitor to my Facebook activism, by acknowledging there is a much more prominent food chain in California, a burger chain, rooted in the same religious tenants as the chicken chain, that was likely bulldozing mountains of cash to fund Proposition 8. However, because the president of this company didn't put a megaphone to his ass lips and let the world know his point of view on gay marriage, everyone gladly consumes it, with pride, I might add.

Yeah, I'm talking about you.

Goiter or Pimple

After I got a pimple on my neck that looked more like a goiter, my primary physician gave me a referral to see a dermatologist. It took 3 months for them to see me, and by the time the appointment came around my pimple deflated.
The doctor gave me a couple medications but first she had to ask me two questions, which I needed to answer yes to both in order for my insurance to cover my prescription creams. First, she asked, "Does your adult acne make you feel depressed?" and secondly she asked, "Is your acne giving you anxiety?"
I said, "Yes and yes," then I got my prescription and came home to start the new regimen.
One of the creams is an antibiotic I apply to my face in the morning, and the other is Tretinoin that I apply every third night.
Tretinoin has turned out to give me more anxiety than my acne because it has harsh side effects. For example, if I were to become pregnant on this medication, I'd have to abort plan because the baby would definitely have birth defects.
After my skin clears up, I will stop using the Tretinoin because I don't want long term effects on my child productivity. I could have another one, one day, and I don't want to spend ten months worried sick the baby is growing an arm out of its forehead.
My daughter glues herself to me during our sleeping hours, and this had me stressed too because she is likely getting at least trace amount from laying her head on our shared pillow.
Also, the sun and this medication don't mix. My lifestyle is 50% in the sun. I wear sun block on my face so I don't prune up too early, but after a run last summer where I put on face sunscreen and it ran into my eyes from sweating, my eyes began to burn so bad I thought I was going blind.
I came home, and saw my eyes, blazing red, and decided a hat would suffice for runs. With the medicine though, I have to put sunscreen on. My hat is a woman's baseball cap, and fits on me more like a yamaka with a bill because my head is the size of a Costco watermelon. The hat barely stays on my head, resting an inch over my ears. A strong gust of wind sends it sailing through the air.
I am not getting good enough sun protection with this hat to prevent my medication from damaging my skin, so I decided to use the kids sunblock on my face during runs. Surely kids sunblock isn't going to burn my eyes out. There are probably heaps of dead bunnies to attest to the tear free formula.
The kid sun block is 50 spf, and cakes on like clay. I'm probably negating all progress of my acne medication with the pore clogging sunscreen I need to use to prevent sun damage that occurs from the acne medication. It's quite a quandary.

Deflated goiter, hickey or zit??

Dream Job

Im willing to clean other people's toilets for this girl

I might be moving back to Los Angeles, and if this happens I am going to do a magic hat trick to get my daughter into a preschool since most applications were needed back in February. I am looking into German school for my daughter, and eventually son.
It is very uncommon to find schools where German is offered, and the only two I found are very competitive, I will probably need to give sexual favors.
There is a very high profile school in Sacramento called Country Day. I figured I could get a job there, then my kids would be able to attend a school where the annual tuition is $30,000. I am not a teacher, so I could do administrative work, fundraising or marketing, although, I think the best job for me at Country Day would be janitor.
If I could be a janitor at Country Day my kids would get a top education, and I'd get to spend my day doing relatively low stress work. I could listen to books and podcasts on my phone while I clean.
There would be a lot of pee and poop to deal with, especially in the little kids bathrooms, but the last 4 years of dealing with babies, has desensitized me to the disgustingness of body excretions.

Even if the janitor salary at Country Day is low, factor in the $60k a year for both my kids' tuition, and it would be like I was making over 100k, a pretty good gig.
Another added bonus, no sexual favors required. I need to get back to researching schools now.

Versace Jeans

About ten years ago, I worked at a distribution center in Van Nuys. I hung out with Chris, the office equivalent of the class clown. He looked like Charles Barkley and spent most of the work day blatantly reading the newspaper with his legs outstretched and Facebook obviously on his computer screen.
Chris and I would go out to lunch frequently, and we'd make each other laugh endlessly talking about our coworkers.
Ragina was on my team, and was the point person for the depot workers. She had to spend much of her day out in the boiling heat making sure orders were being filled properly. The temperature was easily over a hundred, and the depot workers would try to beat the heat with drenched handkerchiefs and fans blowing.
Ragina and I had the same supervisor, he spent a lot of time in his minivan chain smoking and drinking regular coca cola. He was a HR nightmare, and had been in trouble a couple times for sexual harassment. I overlooked his pervy creep comments, and he overlooked my very long lunch breaks.
He was not a fan of Ragina, and Chris and I knew it was because she didn't give a fuck about her looks which is a great crime to a disgusting sexual harasser because he couldn't lust after her while pretending to work at his computer.
By the end of that summer Ragina's desk was moved out to the depot, banishing her from the comforts of the office, our supervisor's line of sight and the much needed air conditioning.
She was not ugly, she just looked like she rolled out of bed 5 minutes before work. Her hair was always a mess, her nose had the bulbous red tip giving a bit away about her late night drinking habits, and her clothes were way too small. She was a small person, but probably much tinier a couple years earlier. All the vices that come along with adult life, caught up with her and she never bought the next pant size up.
So she would storm around the office with a prominent camel toe. Chris told me that Ragina's husband didn't work, he was a student, getting his master's degree to become an eco-friendly travel agent. She was likely very frugal, and couldn't buy clothes because she was paying for her husband to get a degree in something that seems like he could learn from an online course while working.
We were really having a laugh about him living the carefree life of an unemployed student while his wife is sweating her ass off wearing pants that are about to explode out at the vagina. Chris said, "You know every day her husband wakes up as she is leaving for work, and says, 'Girl, you look good in those jeans. Are they Versace?"

I was thinking about Ragina the other day when my dad told me my grandfather left money for my cousins and me, and for tax purposes, we'll get it in ten years. I already knew about it because my mom told me the day before, I asked her to keep it a secret because I didn't want to start feeing like I was getting unusual affection as a result of this news, but we are on the slow sinking ship, and the news spread.
It's not like Real Housewives money. I won't be able to tell everyone I am working on my clothing line, but really sleep until noon every day, and spend my waking hours looking pretty awaiting 5 o'clock so I can swap ice tea for wine. It will likely pay for my kids to go to college.
I planned on my kids learning German, so they could attend university there, and it will not cost me anything. Now, I guess I can fund their Harvard education, so long as their major isn't eco-friendly travel agent or interpretive dance, in that case they can go to a state school.
I think I will get myself to money bags status before the next decade closes, so this will be an added bonus.
My natural reaction to be secretive probably means I will be a super paranoid rich person, worried everyone is trying to get a piece of my pie. I know one thing, if someone comes at me with, "Are those jeans Versace?" I will go lock up my check book.

Uh, yeah, that's a camel toe

I get what your saying, "Own the camel toe."

It still looks like a camel toe