First of all, the Mayor replied to my Snow-Plow letter.  I'm cutting and pasting the entire reply, unedited.  I know you alert readers will catch what I caught and therefore also understand the futility of replying back to him.  (If I were going to reply, I would probably say something along the lines of: I wasn't accusing your snow-plow people of not working hard enough, I was accusing them of not working smart enough, but as you might ascertain, that point is almost certainly moot.)

Thank you for your letter.  I did read the entire letter and will discuss it with our public works director next week.  Thank you for taking the time to put down your thoughts.  I will admit that we do not have the personal or the appropriate equipment to handle a once in 40 year snow storm.  I know our people worked 15 hours a day doing the best they could in very difficult conditions.

Mayor Cary Bozeman

As much as it pains me, I believe the next letter I am obliged to write will be to my 9^th grade English teacher, a man named Mr. Lutz.  He was affectionately called "The Birdman" because of his unfortunate jaw line and ill fitting hairpiece, and gained fame within my graduating class for not only teaching us the difference between "personnel and personal" but for also picking up and then slamming down our high school football all-time rushing record-holder Rashid Sayle's head on his desk while Rashid decided to take a sleep-apnea, and therefore, snore-riddled nap.  Ah, those were good times.  Anyhoodle, my letter will thank Mr. Lutz for teaching me the basic grammatical lessons that Mayor Bozeman's teacher didn't include in his curriculum, and I believe I will also note the surprising coincidence of Mayor Bozeman using the EXACT same hairpiece as Mr. Lutz.  Irony really IS evident all through life, isn't it?  Lacking a picture of Mr. Lutz (yet), this is the publicity shot of our local mayor, Cary Bozeman:

Which brings me to birds.

Our neighbor, secure enough in his own physique and obvious excessive appetite to barbeque outside all summer long without his shirt, has a little bird feeder on his deck.  When I go outside to smoke, I watch the little birdies wait in line to eat at the feeder.  While I wouldn't go so far as to say it calms me (perish the thought), I will say it's fun to watch the hierarchy of the birds in  their line and watch the senior birds beat the shit out of the less senior birds if they try to cut in line.  I like that type of reaffirmation of my own beliefs evidenced in the animal world.  

During the snow-plow-letter-snow-storm, I saw that our neighbor hadn't cleared the snow from the bird feeder, and the birdies were waiting in line, and trying to access the bird feeder, but it was iced over.  I watched the birds wait and wait, and try and try, but they could not get to the seeds in the little feeder.

Even in my evil, shriveled, Grinch soul, a kernel of sympathy somehow took meager root and began to shove its way into my twisted brain.  So, even though I had to risk my life because of the stupid Public Works Department and their Circus Plowers, I went to Wal-Mart and shucked out eight bucks and got the fucking birds a feeder and some seeds.  Whatever, lets not make a big deal out of it, all right?  

The first day after we hung the bird feeder, I felt like Mother Freaking Theresa.  Tiny little finches and sparrows and other adorable birdies came and gobbled up the seeds, and they looked grateful.  They were neat and tiny and sweet.  I sat and watched them and guzzled my wine and congratulated myself on being a Good Person.

The second day, I decided I liked being Nature Woman and Feeder of All the Little Wee Birds, so we went BACK to Wal-Mart and I got some suet and a suet cage.  I got some suet because of some long-buried memory of my mother putting out suet in Pennsylvania when I was a kid.  (I also remember my Dad out there putting Vaseline on the bird feeder pole to keep the squirrels out of the bird seed, but that's another – way more disturbing – memory.)  I even called my mother and asked her what kind of birds I could hope to attract with the suet.  She replied that she couldn't remember, but she did remember getting the suet and wished me luck. (We all had a little PTSD from my Dad greasing the pole every winter while screaming at the squirrels, I can't blame her) 

The third day, I got a hummingbird feeder and put IT out.  I read on some dumb fucking site that hummingbirds are vulnerable in the winter because people with hummingbird feeders don't keep filling them and they don't migrate in time and they can't find food.  Or a blurry article that says something like that.  I was also looking at crazyshit.com at the same time I was reading it, so, there's that.

Fourth day.  I come upstairs and pee my pants.  This thing is hanging off the suet:

It's a "Northern Flicker," a type of woodpecker, and it is NOT SCARED OF PEOPLE.  The website says it is "shy," which is complete bullshit, because it looked at me through my window and told me to fuck off and leave it alone.  It has a knife on the end of its face.  Upon questioning, my mother suddenly remembers that yes, WOODPECKERS like suet!  This would have been useful information, since after 13 years on the West Coast, I know now that everything here is about 9x what it is THERE.

Fifth day/night.  Paul's gay dog Woody (OCD Jack Russell Terrier) is in and out of the doggie door ALL NIGHT LONG.  Click clack.  Click clack. Click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack click clack….ARGH!  We go to check and see WTF his problem is and he's pacing back and forth from the house to stare under the hot tub.  From the house to stare under the hot tub.  We beat him, and tried to go back to sleep, but he will NOT give up.  

Sixth day.  Woody is exhausted.  He can barely move from his beddy, but he keeps an eye on the sliding glass door that looks out to the hot tub.  I look out there, and Sweet Buttery Jesus.

There are seeds everywhere.  I mean e v e r y w h e r e.

In addition to the seeds, I see evidence of small mammal poop around the hot tub.

Playing my own wine-induced version of Clue, I surmise the following:

1.        The little birds attracted the big, scary Flicker Woodpecker Assassin Bird.

2.      When the FWAB isn't there, the little birds bring the seeds under the deck, so they don't have to deal with the scary fucking thing when he does come back.

3.      Mice come to eat the seeds.

4.     Mice attract cats, which come and hide in the bushes outside our fence.

5.      The Jack Russell smells both the mice and the cats and loses his fucking mind.

6.      No good deed goes unpunished.

Right now, it is snowing like a BITCH outside, and I'm thinking that not only will I not clear off our new dumb-ass food chain starter – I have to go get my snow-shovel out, since the United Clown-Snow-Plowers Association is almost certainly going to dump any snow they DO manage to plow onto our front steps as a result of my letter. Or they will if the Mayor can figure out how to spell my street name.  

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,right?  This is a shot from my deck this morning:

This is a shot about three hours ago,then another one about  twenty minutes ago, and there is now what the news people are calling an "unexpected accumulation" on the ground.  Assheads.

Anyone else have any inadvertent fighting the man/birdman/Grinch/Mother Theresa/food-chain stories?  Happy Freaking New Year!

 Okay -- show of hands -- who thought I was dead??  Anyone have a large sum of money in the "kidnapped in an amazing display of lack of judgement pool?"

Not dead, not kidnapped (not that anyone would pay ransom for me) and doing quite well, as you're about to read, ad nausea.

I'll post with a complete update later.  I hope you're all well!  I do miss you all.  There's a perfectly good explanation as to why I've been missing.  It involves intrigue, sex, denial and mystery.  Stay tuned.

I thought I'd post this letter I sent, unedited, to the mayor of my town, since no one else is likely respond to it.

Mayor Cary Bozeman

Norm Dicks Government Center
345 6th Street, Suite 600
Bremerton, WA 98337

December 27, 2008

 Dear Mayor Bozeman,

I am writing to inform you of my decision to merrily jump, caterwauling, onto the "Bandwagon of  Disgust and Unhappiness" that many of the citizens of Bremerton find themselves riding, due to the actions of the Bremerton Public Works Department during this last "snow event," occurring from December 19, 2008 until December 25, 2008. 

Having lived in this quasi-delightful hamlet these past thirteen years, landing here from the east coast due to a series of unfortunate encounters with men who can only be termed "blockheads," and who are probably now employed as snow-plow drivers, I have resigned myself to several facts of life here in the Pacific Northwest:  1. I will never eat a well-made bagel or pizza slice again, 2. Wearing  socks and sandals together will not immediately bring down the wrath of God on my head and, 3.  When it does snow significantly here, at the approximate rate of once every twelve years, The Entire World Will Stop.

When the initial snowfall of Thursday, December 18, 2008 occurred, our road was not plowed, nor was any roads in our immediate vicinity, as far as I could tell.  I have no problem with this; I agree that the main arteries and critical areas such as hospitals and fire-station areas should be cleared first.  We were unable to leave our street, but again, I'm reconciled to the fact that the Entire World Will Stop for a snowfall that the people in my native Pennsylvania would call "cute," so my ire had not been directed any anything other than the moronic, intoxicated individuals riding their ATV's on our snowy road.

On Friday, December 19, our road was not plowed or sanded, but, due to the pioneering and obstinate nature of my neighbors, numerous cars had either gone back and forth on the road, or slid off into the ditch, dragging lots of snow with them.  We were therefore able to leave our house and conduct some business.  I was amused to note that on Kitsap Way, the snow plows had pushed quite a lot of the snow onto sidewalks or into the center turn lanes in an effort to move the snow from the main lanes of travel, thus creating a sort of "no-exit-express-lane" that could be a useful model if Kitsap Way ever turns into a freeway.  It is doubtful that Bremerton will ever turn into any type of metropolis that would warrant a freeway where Kitsap Way is located, since that would require effective city management and planning, which includes proper snow removal. 

On December 20, 2008, Saturday morning, I shoveled the remaining snow from our driveway in anticipation of the "Major Disruptive Storm" scheduled to arrive in the afternoon.  I did this because one member of our family is a Kitsap County Sheriff's Deputy and would need to leave our driveway at 0600 in the morning.  This information might be useful to you later in this letter, as the Deputy in question drives a MARKED patrol car, complete with decals, lights and sirens on top of it.  It says "police" clearly on both sides of the car.  Most people over the age of three are able to identify it as a police car.

On Monday, December 22, 2008, I spent the majority of the morning shoveling snow from our driveway again.  Our road was not plowed on this day; however, there was evidence of city vehicles having been in the area leading up to our road.  The evidence was huge piles of black sand scattered about the hill leading up to our road, as if the city vehicle spreading the sand had stopped whilst the sander was still in full operational spreading mode, thus creating large, childlike piles of soot that DO NOT dissipate if you drive through them. (I attempted to drive through them at the silent behest of the numerous abandoned vehicles resting in the ditch on our hill at the end of tire tracks going around the piles of sand.)

Tuesday and Wednesday, we came and went from our home as we pleased, since, through no effort on the City of Bremerton's part, our road was just slushy.  Returning home on Wednesday evening, we noticed that on top of the slush, sand had been laid down by, presumably, the City of Bremerton.  The sand offered no traction or any sort of assistance in traversing our road; it mainly just turned the slush into an oatmeal-like substance; but we did comment that it was nice that someone cared after seven days.   

I now arrive, laboriously, to the point of this letter.  Since I couldn't care less if you are still reading, I will note that even if I hadn't used the only appendages on my entire body that don't hurt from shoveling snow to type out the events leading up to my main complaint, I would still be "seriously pissed off," for lack of a better term, at the following incident:

Christmas morning, 2008.  Upon walking outside, we discovered that the City of Bremerton had decided to plow our street.  As of 0100 that morning when we went to bed, they hadn't done so, so they must have completed the task sometime between 0100 and 0800 on Christmas Day.  Normally, such extraordinary dedication should be rewarded, should it not?  Unfortunately, the slipshod nature of the job, the obvious lack of knowledge about snow removal, and the complete disregard for the City of Bremerton Public Works Department's mission statement prevent me from writing any sort of happy remarks about the incident.

The snow plow had been down the road exactly twice.  Once, on the way UP the street, northbound toward the dead end, they plowed all the snow into the all the driveways on the east side of the road.  On the way back, southbound, they plowed all the snow into the driveways on the west side of the road.  Yes, one of the driveways did contain the aforementioned marked police vehicle, sitting there, unencumbered by any sort of snow – ready to go to priority calls immediately, as is required by the Kitsap County Sheriff's Department.  Or, that is, it was unencumbered by snow and ready to go until the snow plow pushed approximately seven days worth of melting slush and useless sand into the driveway in front of the marked patrol car. 

We stared at the results of the snow plow's work for a while, flummoxed.  Then, in what could only be described as a "hissy fit," I called Kitsap County Central Communications and asked for someone from the City of Bremerton Public Works Department to either: call me and explain why the snow plows had pushed all the snow into the driveways on our street, or come and fix it.  After several hours of continued requests for calls or explanations, I finally got a phone call from a person who explained that his supervisor was "out of phone range," but if the problem wasn't able to be fixed, someone would call me. 

The day after Christmas, the piles of snow remained in our driveway, effectively blocking the patrol car and our personal vehicles.  We were obligated to remove the snow ourselves, again, in order to get the car out of the driveway at 0600, even though we had not received any phone calls informing us that our request wouldn't be handled.  Numerous neighbors commented (as they tried to dig their personal cars and driveways so they could receive Christmas visitors or attend Christmas functions) that it would have been nice if we had been continued to be ignored, since that would have caused less work and disruption to our holiday.  Some neighbors described the actions of the snow plows with less than appropriate adjectives, and also made suggestions as to how the snow-plow drivers could conduct themselves in the future.  I've toyed with including those suggestions in this letter, but as they are: 1. anatomically impossible, 2.  cruel to barnyard animals, and 3. not productive for future snow removal, I've decided to omit them.  You're welcome.

Also on the day after Christmas, I received a phone call from a supervisor at the City of Bremerton Public Works Department, Bob Tulp.  He was inquiring what exactly he could do to resolve the problem I had reported the day before.  Since the answer at this point was exactly nothing, we had a chat about the inherent problems of snow removal. 

During this conversation, he inquired what I thought the snow plows should DO with the snow, if not push it into all the driveways.  Since the first answer that sprung into my head about what he could do with all the snow in MY driveway would not be conducive to a pleasant phone call, I instead replied that I believed it was possible for the snow to be pushed somewhere else than in citizens' driveways.  He chuckled and asked where that might be.  I replied that since this is a dead end street, and at the end of the street there is a hill that houses only vegetation, the plows could have moved the snow to that area, thereby rendering BOTH the road AND our driveways clear. 

We disagreed here, and this is why:  to accomplish this would have required the snow plow to go up and down the street several times, not just twice, and it would have required an attention to detail and effort to serve the customer that was, quite frankly, too time consuming.  To do a job correctly does indeed require work and forethought, and neither of those were applied in this case.  When I pointed this out to Mr. Tulp, he asked me if I was aware of how much snow we had gotten in this area (I am) and he also accused me of claiming to know more about snow removal than his "trained" staff.  I do agree with him on this last point.  I honestly believe that either I or the same three year old that is able to identify the police car sitting in the driveway would also be able to more effectively remove the snow from our street than the "trained" drivers that attempted it in this instance.

I also suggested to Mr. Tulp that in the future, he could serve his department's mission statement more effectively by simply directing his drivers to leave us alone, as they have done for the past eight days, during which time we had actually needed the plows to come through.  He told me that if I got a petition signed by the residents of our street asking that our street NOT be plowed, he would honor that.  I am considering this course of action; however, in order to access most of the front doors on our street, I will have to wait for the huge mounds of snow in front of all the houses to melt. 

Since I am aware that neither you nor Mr. Tulp can do anything about these incidents now, except be subjected to my ramblings, I will attempt to be at least slightly productive by offering the following suggestions/observations:

• In the future, during "snow events," when you have utilized the Kitsap Sun and other media outlets to advertise the fact that the City of Bremerton has more important things to do than plow the side streets until the main streets are haphazardly cleared, stick to that plan, since the residents are used to such poor planning on your part and we will act accordingly.  I truly believe that if the government is not in a position to be helpful to the citizens, they certainly should not ever WORSEN a situation such as this one, as you have done.

• In the event that the City of Bremerton has the money, sand, apparatus and staff to plow the side streets, but you only are able to galvanize these resources approximately 4 hours before the temperatures are forecast to reach around 40 degrees, consider diverting these resources instead to the sidewalks and turn lanes of our city streets in order to reduce the unprecedented amount of traffic accidents and miserable pedestrians caused by the ridiculous snow management when it was warranted.

• Change the City of Bremerton Public Works Department's mission statement.  When you claim to both "manage" more than 127 miles of city streets and serve your customers with effective and professional service, you are omitting the fact that the two seem to be mutually exclusive. 

• Other alternatives for snow depositing (besides driveways) include: little-used right of ways, corners, and parking lots.  This is what they do in other areas of the country that experience WINTER on a yearly basis.  If you Google "snow removal," this information is readily available on the internet.  Unfortunately, in order to utilize alternative snow-deposit areas, the snow-plow drivers will actually have to do their job correctly, and as Mr. Tulp pointed out, they have not been trained in this manner.

Please feel free to inquire as to my exact address, not that it matters, with a follow-up e-mail.  I have not one iota of hope of that, or of any follow up to this, due to the sarcastic nature of this missive, and I'm fine with that also. 

I will take measly satisfaction in simply copying this to numerous media chains, anyone whose e-mail I'm able to extract from the City of Bremerton public website, and everyone I've ever met.  

(I do so enjoy living here in the United States, rather than, say, Russia, where this type of healthy expression might not be allowed. Although, ironically, I bet Russian Public Work Departments and snow removal systems are probably top-notch, wouldn't you agree?)

Thank you,

Pepper (real name redacted due to probable pyscotic people)

Citizen of Bremerton, WA

cc:   City of Bremerton Public Works Administrative Office

       City Council's Office

         The Kitsap Sun

        The Seattle Times

bcc:  Everyone I've Ever Met

disjointed

adjective

1.  lacking orderly continuity; "a confused set of instructions"; "a confused dream about the end of the world"; "disconnected fragments of a story"; "scattered thoughts" [syn: confused] 

2.  taken apart at the joints; "a disjointed fowl" 

3.  separated at the joint; "a dislocated knee"; "a separated shoulder" 

Yeah, saying that I'm a "morning person" is similar to saying Hitler was a "people person."  Getting up from a warm bed and watching the sun coming up only serves to remind me what a long, shithead-filled day I have to endure before it's dark and cool and acceptable to drink wine again.  Paul is the exact same way, so we quibble each weekday about who has to drag themselves out of our blacked-out, deliciously dark bedroom to drive the three kids to their supposedly "necessary" places of education.

Paul's kids and my kid go to different schools, which is a pain in the ass.  These schools are located about a 15 minute drive across town from each other, further aggravating my already aggravated, stupidly awake ass.  AND, their schools' start time is approximately 9 minutes apart, meaning one driver getting the kids to both schools on time requires split second timing, a complete disregard for posted speed limits, and the absence of mouth-breathing mongoloids driving their spawn to school at the same time – and you can guess how often THAT happens.

Now, on Wednesday of last week, (which makes perfect sense if you're following this ridiculous blog at all, and let me assure you that if you are, your hallucinogens are MUCH better than mine, and you have too much time on your hands) I lost the argument with Paul AGAIN and had to take the little bandits to school.  After the kids played "I only know where one shoe is," and "Let's spit toothpaste at each other," I shoved them all into my car, manually opened my eyelids far enough to see the road and started the mad sprint to the schools.  Two red lights and one retarded moron on the highway later, I screwed my car haphazardly into the fire-zone in order to dump my five year old out into traffic.  As I waited the approximately nine million years it takes for him to undo his seatbelt and get his backpack on, a woman approached my car, and made the universal "roll your window down" sign.  I glanced at my middle finger resting on the steering wheel and contemplated the one universal sign I have down pat.

Uh oh.  What the hell is this?  Where is my pepper spray?  Is that a rayon dress with APPLES all over it?  Hey, Lady, 1985 called, they want their shoulder pads back.  Oh, shit…that is a LOT of blue eyeliner, who the hell gets up early enough to put on that much makeup?  I wonder if I can run her over before anyone writes down my license plate…

"Hi!" she yaps at me, smiling brightly enough to have me glancing around for a tire iron.  "Did you get our Halloween Family Fun Night Flyer?"  She starts to slide one through the ½ inch of window opening that I had reluctantly allowed.  "Uhhhh," I say, through fuzzy teeth and blurry vision…

Hmmm…let's see, I think it's "hold pepper spray firmly, push button to ON, spray in attacker's face and then get yourself to safety…" 

I snatch the flyer away from her and ball it up as I gun the car out of the driveway while Wyatt trots into the school -- picking his nose, I might add – sigh, and the woman rapidly removes her foot from my tire's path and crinkles her clown makeup into a frown at me through my rearview mirror. 

Whatever, Crazy, I got eight minutes left to get these other two across town, and my idea of Family Fun Night probably isn't the same as yours.  Unless you guys are going to feature a blood sacrifice and voodoo dance?  No?  Yeah, that's what I thought.  Have a blast without me, it means more unpasteurized cider for you, right? Right.   Fuck off.

My job likes to "train" us.  I suppose most of the training is necessary, since we have to stay up on a lot of skills, like pushing buttons and listening to people yell in our ears; but some of the training is required by our county's risk management team; a bunch of folks that I picture sitting in a barricaded room doing shots of Mezcal while waiting for the next lawsuit from disgruntled employees who barely restrained themselves from shooting their workplace to smithereens upon resigning.  

Yesterday's portion of risk-management's fantasy of a litigious-free workplace was titled "Workplace Discrimination and Sexual Harassment, What You Need to Know."  I wasn't looking forward to it, since I already naturally discriminate against almost every class of people imaginable, and I'm a whiz at sexual harassment.  Just ask the Pseudo-Tribal guy in filthy hemp-jeans operating the INCREDIBLY LOUD sewer truck outside my house at 07 stupid 35 this morning, or Paul, if you'd like examples of either my discrimination skills or sexual deviancy.  

So, you can imagine how delighted I was to note that the senior-level person they sent from the Civil Attorney's office to deliver the training was already wearing her Halloween costume.  She was dressed as "Lemon-Faced Lawyer with Bad Shoes and NO Sense of Humor, Who May or May Not Enjoy S&M After Work, While Using a Secret Male Identity."  Clever costume, I had to admit.   And, you have to give her props for being able to speak in front of our group of ADHD, obsessive compulsive, irreverent, caffeine-addled 911 dispatchers, who had already sat through 7 hours of DAYTIME training.  Needless to say, our brand of black humor didn't exactly jive with her dry recitation of previous discrimination blunders, most of which we commit in some form  before we even walk onto the dispatch floor on any given day.  Thank God it's a secure building. 

Happily, I did learn one important aspect of my job that I didn't know before.  It is ILLEGAL (that's right –against the LAW) to discriminate against crazy people (and other protected classes that I don't care about,) unless your employer has proof from a psychiatric-type person who identifies lunatics for a living that you are officially unhinged.  Since I wisely stay away from those people, as do almost all of my co-workers, I now see a long career ahead of me, with promotions and raises and everything!  It's pretty comforting in these troubled times.  By the end of the training, I resolve to be nicer to crazy people, which should please just about everyone I know.

So, today.  Yet again, I have to take the offspring to school, since Paul took them the day before and I couldn't come up with a good enough argument that I should be able to sleep late.  I think the training fried my brain.  I get up, get enough coffee so as to allow me to complete basic motor skills and then I procrastinate until I'm late leaving and have to scream at the kids to hurry up and get in the car.  Then I realize they ARE in the car, and now the dogs are scared.  Whatever.  They shouldn't be up either, and why can't dogs drive, anyhow?

We get to the school, Wyatt starts the process, again slowed down by the finger in the nose, and lo and behold, the blurry shape of a woman is coming up to my car.  

Seriously, why can't you people give it a REST?  I don't want to sponsor a bible verse, I can't afford to buy any more books about the Glory of Jesus – for Kindergarteners, and I'm not fucking going to Family Fun Night!  I have a date with a wine bottle and a designated driver, and I'm going around begging for candy with my heathen children and peeping in houses that I can't afford.  This time, you're getting a piece of my mind, honey, and maybe a fractured nose…it is WAY too early for this bullshit…

And then I realize it's a different woman.  This woman's name tag says "Rosario," and she has really thick glasses on that make her eyes appear the same size as her ears.  She is walking with a cane and her right leg is encased in a brace.  She lugs her leg along, in sync with the cane; the other hand is grasping a sheaf of Family Fun Night Flyers.  Lemon-Face looms menacingly in my mind.  I immediately roll the window down and smile at her, which, and rightly so, makes her step back a little bit.  I extend my hand in what I hope is a friendly manner for the Family Fun Night Flyer and say that we are certainly going to try and make it!  Of course we'll call for reservations if we can!  Nope, I understand, first come – first served. Giggle giggle, smile smile, yep, God Bless, and a cautious crawl out of the driveway.    

I'm half a mile away before what I've done actually hits me.  I have discriminated against a protected class of people!  No, it's not in the workplace, so I doubt I'll be sued (for this, anyway) but nonetheless, how DARE I?  Crazy, apple-dress throwbacks to the eighties have no more entitlement to my rage than a genuinely gimpy, half-blind, Hispanic school marm!!!  What kind of bitch am I if I can't hate everyone equally, especially at 0800?  

I barely restrain myself from slamming on the brakes and turning around to go pop her in the head, just for equality's sake, but I come to my senses and realize that the girls' school probably won't accept that as a valid excuse for tardiness.  

I fumed the whole way home.  I was SO disgusted with myself for letting that insidious brainwashing I got yesterday infuse my normal rage proclivities with such nonsense.  The ironic part is that Lemon-Face was right! (Although I'm pretty sure this isn't the outcome she was striving for.)  No one person is better than all of us, right?  Everyone deserves the right to a good dose of pepper spray for disturbing an obviously hermetic woman with a bunch of nose picking kids driving a Pontiac Bonneville.  As I pull into my driveway, I had to dodge the huge, loud, sewer truck and I narrowly miss clipping the guy standing at the controls.  I notice his coveralls say "McNamara" in cursive on his chest, but he has an Asian character tattooed on his neck, and there's a Native American-type pony tail holder in his greasy, dirty blond hair.  Perfect.

I give him the finger and shake my fist at him as I walk inside.  Too bad it's so early.  I'd love to see what would happen if I came out brandishing a can of gasoline and a lighter.  I bet the news would publish this blog as a sort of manifesto to my disturbed mind.  That would be cool.  Sure, disturbed, maybe.  Prejudiced, never again!  I have totally learned my lesson!

(the following video is not recommended for the politically correct.  if watching the following video offends you, please stop watching it.  Duh.)

I'm FINALLY starting to get around to my tags!  I know about 40 billion people have tagged me (okay, five) but I can't remember who tagged me for what now, so I'm sorry for not having the links like good blogging friends have.  I'm just a shithead, I guess.  Anyhoodle, this is at least two of them combined to start:

Ten Things I Wish I Could Say to Ten Different People:

1. Yes, I know you like hot dogs.  And football.   And sex.  No matter how long we are together, I promise I won't forget these things.  I love you to pieces.  Sometimes literally.  Thanks for not murdering me over the last blog.

2. This isn't high school any more and it's not about "taking sides."  It's about a decades-old friendship that you're throwing away for idiotic reasons that have nothing to do with the reality of the situation.  I'll be damned if I will chase your ass down again and listen to you tell me that I'm not trustworthy because I won't support deceit and lack of accountability.   I care about YOU, not your choices; and when you realize that, feel free to give me a phone call.  I'd like to think that a fucking conversation isn't too much to ask, but hey, I've apparently been wrong about a lot of things, so I won't hold my breath.

3. I changed my mind, you ARE a lunatic.  Your level of crazy is almost incomprehensible to me, and that's sayin' something.

4. You do not have to tell me when you need to go poop anymore, just GO.  And I love you!

5. When you call 911 and say that you don't have an emergency, you make me want to jump through the phone and demonstrate to you what a real emergency is.

6. I miss you every single day, and you were always my hero.

7. Of course I trust you!  As long as I can see what you're doing. J

8. Even though you know my name, I am still just a customer in your store.  Please stop asking weird details about my life every time I come in.  Also, it's only funny to card me about 400 times.  After that, it's just annoying.

9.  If I could pick anyone on the planet to be more similar to, I'd pick you.

10.  If you can't take responsibility for your own actions, don't expect me to do it for you.  I have way better things to do with my time.

11. You deserve to have eleven!

Nine Things About Myself:

1. Rubbing two pieces of cotton together makes me gag.  I have no idea why.
2. I am addicted to NPR News and Information.    
3. I hate cake.
4. I frequently have conversations with people that I know, but who aren't actually in my presence, then expect them to remember the imaginary conversations later.
5. I'm so claustrophobic that I've actually skipped stuff I want to do because I think people will end up crowding me once I get there.
6. My family tree has been traced back to 1050, or something close to that.
7. I don't change light bulbs.  Ever.
8. My favorite hours to be awake are from 2am till 5am.
9. I'm related to a high profile politician that was ousted from office due to a scandal that made every newspaper in the free world.  Wheeeee!

Eight Ways to Win My Heart

1. Bring me someone else's heart in a box. 
2. Don't ever lie to me.
3. Keep your fingernails clean.
4. Be intimate with and respectful of insanity.
5. Know the difference between "playful aggression" and "murderous intent" and conduct yourself accordingly.
6. Pay attention.  I despise repeating shit over and over and am likely to change what I say just to keep myself amused.
7. If you ask me what I think, don't be pissed if I tell you.
8. Embrace your inner demon and allow me to play with it. 

Seven Things that Cross My Mind A lot

1. Statutes of limitations on certain crimes. 
2. My supremely fucked up schedule.

3.   The fact that my pepper spray is in the outside pocket of my purse.

4. I hope that sound isn't my neighbor pissing off his deck again.
5. I wonder if that's flammable.
6. I should just pit this asshole right off the road for going 30 in a 60.
7. Please don't come any closer. 

Six Things To Do Before I Fall Asleep

1. Set up my coffee for the next day/finish glass (!) of wine
2. Get my (his, but it's so mine now) favorite comfy sleep sweatshirt on
3. Kiss goodnight
4. Set alarm for ungodly hour
5. Punch and kick until I have 5 square inches of blanket on me
6. Plot.

Five People Who Mean A lot

1. Friends/Family/Usual Suspects – you know who you are!
2. John Cusak
3. The Wine Lady at Fred Meyer
4. Whoever thought up TiVo
5. My future defense attorney

Four Things I'm Wearing

1. Well, I started out with a sweatshirt & fat pants, plus two socks.
2. but now I am wearing a wine-stained sweatshirt & fat pants plus two socks
3. because SOMEONE closed both the screen door AND the sliding glass door
4. and I didn't see the screen door and sloshed a bit.  Dammit.

Three Bands/Songs I Listen To Often

1. The cue music to All Things Considered
2. The damn ESPN music, cause that's what Paul's ringtone is
3. Bruce Springsteen when we play Scrabble. J

Two Things I Want to do Before I Die

1. Win a bar fight (again)
2. Visit Italy

One Confession

1. It's not a confession until I actually do it, so until I'm tagged with a "fantasy" blog, I ain't telling.  (My future defense attorney told me not to.)

The Good:

Paul's parents are visiting from West Virginia.  Despite all the religious stuff that Paul has told me about them to scare the shit out of me, they're delightful.  They're in excellent shape, have a good sense of humor, and are truly just nice people.  They've been married for 48 years, and they're the tightest couple I've ever seen in my life.  Just meeting them makes me hopeful for my own future with their son, because they really have it going ON.  And they're fucking funny as hell.  I have actually never used the word "holler" as a location before, but now I believe I could.  His Mom is a hoot, and has nicely decided not to mention how much wine I drink, although she did raise her eyebrows at the last case I lugged into the house.  

The Bad:

Paul's parents are visiting from West Virginia.  Paul bought his Dad the six-DVD collection of the 70's miniseries of James Mitchner's "Centennial." (I wish I were kidding.) They are bound and determined to finish watching it during the visit.  I shit you not, if they leave it here, I'm TOTALLY setting it on fire.  Also, even though it's patently obvious his mother doesn't give a shit, I can't stop obsessing about dog hair and laundry.  I secretly rush through the house before they're up/come home to fix the house as if neither exists.  I'm so tired. 

The Ugly:

Paul's parents are visiting from West Virginia.  Whenever I have no control over a situation, I typically start to clean.  Like a freaking INSANE PERSON.  I admit, it's a problem.  So, when I found out they were due to be here ELEVEN DAYS EARLY, I decided to abandon all reason and clean the house, in a manic fashion, from top to bottom.  The one thing I couldn't get to before they got here was the girl's bedroom window – on the OUTSIDE.  There was a windstorm that day, and I couldn't get the ladder up there to clean the window.  Now that they're here, and I've decided to obsess about it, so every time one of them walks into the girls' room, I want to rush in there and draw the curtains so they can't see that that one window is dirty.   I've had dreams about my confrontation with them about that window.  I doubt psychiatric assistance would even help at this point, I'm just hoping that I don't get too buzzed off my case of wine to attempt cleaning it in the dark.  Argh. 

Okay, I'm working on the dirty (sexy-dirty, not really DIRTY, and certainly not dirty windows)  tags next!  NO promises yet, but I AM actually working on them!

I hope everyone is doing well!  I miss you guys! J

What would you die for?  Seriously.  Most of us would willingly throw ourselves in front of a speeding train in order to save our children's lives, right?  What about other members of your family?  Would you take a bullet for any of them? There are rescue workers and emergency personnel that put their lives on the line every day so that others can continue living.  Our soldiers die for us in the name of freedom and the USA. There are folks dying of diseases that refuse traditional medication so that doctors may try new medication in order to provide people lifesaving information, right?  So, what would YOU die for?

Me?  Well, I'm about to die for a blog.  For real.  This will probably be my last blog EVER.  It's a sacrifice that I make willingly because of how strongly I believe in this particular blog, and how much YOU need to see it.  Basically, I'm giving up MY life so that you may read THIS BLOG.  I'm going to miss all of you, and yes, I'm a little scared of dying – considering my affinity for deadly sins and the fact that I joke about my front row seat in hell all the time-- but this has to be done, and I'm the only one that can do it.  I consider myself "chosen" for this mission, chosen by a Higher Blog Power.  The word 'martyrdom' comes to mind, doesn't it?

The manner of my death?  Murder, of course.  Most people, after having met me, automatically assume that Paul will eventually dispose of my remains in a shallow grave after finally snapping and gruesomely shutting me up once and for all. I fear the odds of this are about to increase dramatically.  'Cause he's going to kill me.  Kill me dead.

Now, I have to give you a bit of background here before I take the ultimate leap.

Everyone does airheaded, dumbass stuff now and then.  I am no exception.  There was the time that I spilled red wine on my white shirt in a drunken stupor, bought special cleaner to get rid of the stain, congratulated myself when it came out of the washer white as snow…only to realize hours after putting in on and wearing it to work that I had it on backwards and my back looked like I'd been stabbed.  Oh, and we can't leave out the eyebrow waxing incident that I also attempted while inebriated – that particular snafu resulted in some serious burns, half an eyebrow, and the significant loss of paw hair on a poor old dog that happened to be sleeping under the bathroom sink.  I won't even go into my one and only experience with a motorized housepaint applicator, except to note that one should never look directly down those nozzles while the damn thing is plugged in.  The list goes on and on.  I bring these up now to show WHAT A GOOD SPORT I AM about MY dumbass actions, and to highlight my humorous, self-deprecating nature.  You'll see why in a minute.

If you don't already know, I am a 911 dispatcher. 

Most people are aware that everything at 911 is recorded.  I mean everything.  Our 911 lines are recorded and archived for years and years.  We are also one of the centers that records our auxiliary and business lines, so the result is that every single word we utter on the radio and the phone is accessible after the fact, and is also a matter of public record; which means that anyone who cares to simply fill out a request form can get their hands on a tape of anything that happens at my job.  

Of course, being aware that everything is recorded and actually taking that into account every second of every day are two totally different things. 

 Dispatchers, because we are so cognizant of being recorded, rarely take the chance of purposely saying something wacky on a taped line.  We know how easy it is for a mischievous supervisor (or the media) to get hold of the call and play it for a new academy class, or maybe just the entire dispatch floor for entertainment during slow graveyard hours.  Cops, on the other hand, know the line is recorded, but sometimes lose sight of how ridiculously simple it is to make a tape of what they said.  Paul falls into the "cop" category, and also the "Wow, I can't believe that is a CD of what I said to you on the phone" category.  

Thus the reason for my impending death.

Before you listen to this, you should know that the morning this happened, I had worked the dreaded "Night Relief" shift.  The hours for this shift are from 0100 till 1100.  Yep, one o'clock in the morning until eleven o'clock in the morning.  It sucks ass real bad.  Usually only people with no seniority or really weird family schedules bid to work this shift.  I am neither, BUT, I did a trade with a coworker who works this shift because she has worked for me about a million times with no advance notice, so I felt like I owed her.  Now, after having worked the shift, I know that she owes ME a million dollars and a pony because THAT SHIFT BLOWS – never again, Emily, NEVER – do you hear me???

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that at the time of this phone call, I had been awake for almost 24 hours and I wasn't at my sharpest.  I think that if I HAD been thinking clearly, I could have done a lot more with it, and my self-sacrifice to the Blog Gods would be even more impressive.  That being said, I think that it is still suicide-worthy.  You be the judge:

This is what I found when I got home.  He had used the bunk bed ladder to get up there, which is why it fell down so easily J

In closing, before I say good bye forever, I have to ask: Wouldn't you have starved to death, or broken your leg trying to get down rather than call ME?  I would have done just about anything to make sure that my boyfriend or co-workers didn't see/hear this, and that includes just living in the ceiling for the rest of my life.  Of course, I immediately re-played it on the dispatch floor for the amusement of my friends, and we briefly toyed with the idea of sending the fire department to "rescue" him, however I couldn't bring myself to a) waste resources like that, and b) die that very morning.  I figured I'd wait until I could die from blogging.  If you have to die, you should die doing something you like, right?  

I hope that you all get together and commission a nice bronze statue of me on my laptop in honor of the ultimate sacrifice that I made in order to bring you this blog.  Seriously, I think I deserve it. 

I'm off to have my last meal and take a little nap and maybe hide the knives and garbage bags before Paul gets home.  

Goodbye forever,

Pepper

Oh, I don't know, what the hell.  One more quick blog this week.  Why not?

Tomorrow, we're off to the soccer tournament/drinking fest, and Paul got a hotel room, so we won't have to go back and forth all week.  It's only an hour ferry ride to Seattle, but I think it will be more fun to stay there and walk around rather than try to lug our asses home each night.  I'm sure they have internet access at the hotel, but I'm also sure that after a night at Kell's, a billion soccer games (which seem to start in the fucking MORNING…WTF?) and a booze cruise, I'm not going to be in my "good blogging place," so I probably will just try to check in and keep up with reading blogs until next week.  

Anyhoodle, here I sit, after working 10 hours today, enjoying a very nice glass of red wine that My Baby's Daddy (MBD) brought me back from Greece.  Now, you may or may not know that I am quite fond of red wine.  If by "quite fond" you ascertain, "she drinks buckets of the stuff and isn't that picky," well, then you would be correct.  HOWEVER, I am still goofy enough to think that wine from Greece must be really, really good.  I mean, it's like from across the oceans, for crying out loud!

So I saved it for a special occasion.  "Tuesday" happens to be that special occasion.  

It's quite good.  It doesn't make me want to yak, and I have had no trouble killing the entire bottle between last night and tonight.  But, sitting here at the computer, unwinding…reading random blogs, my eyes are continually drawn to the bottle, which is still sitting in my line of vision, and will be until I finish this glass and haul my ass up to open another bottle.  Luckily, my cell phone is also in reach and I can share this with you, dear reader:

Right? You feel me?  Greece is light years ahead of us in getting guys to drink wine, aren't they?  Paul prefers his gay drinks (no, really, that's what we call Mike's Hard Pomegranate Lemonade around here) and I respect that. (Barely) However, I've had him try some of the best wine I've ever had in my life and he STILL makes a face like someone fed him ass juice in a pretty glass cup.  

And, in a completely inappropriate change of subject, I wanted to show you what I forgot to show you in the School Days blog. Here's what happened.

Paul's daughter, Kylie:

Kylie is a total "girlie girl." She likes pretty pink rainbows and stardust on kittens.  She is all about her outfits, her hair, and what she looks like.  By contrast, Paul's other daughter, Alexa, would be quite content if we just gave her two sets of black clothes with skulls on them, and she'd switch every other day.  Seriously.  Kylie eats her breakfast like Michael Phelps in order to get to the mirror with enough time to screw around with her hair before it's time for school.  Alexa shoves a hip-hop cap on her head and argues about brushing her teeth.  Paul is totally SCREWED when these two turn into teenage mutant hormone devils, I swear.

The night before the first day of school, the kids were getting ready for bed and Paul had his girls pick out what they would wear on the big day.  Kylie didn't even have to think about it.  She had her outfit ready to GO, and it was a pink striped skirt and cardigan, with cute little Mary Jane slippers, and she loved it...a lot.  But then, tragedy struck.  She had forgotten her matching tights at her mother's house. 

The initial caterwauling that I heard coming from the girls' room when Kylie discovered this caused me to rush in there to try to defend them from whatever serial killer was slashing their throats.  I slammed open their door, and saw Alexa calmly reading a book and Kylie standing in the middle of the room bawling.   Holy Pink Dragonflies, Batman, WTF? 

I admit to not being exactly the soul of empathy, but they were TIGHTS for crying out crazy!   Completely out of my league, I called for Paul, who came up and correctly surmised the situation.  This is a girl that will freak out for the rest of my time with her and I am not going to deal with that, so we better figure out how to fix it – QUICK.   So, Paul called their mother, arranged to pick up the tights in the morning, problem solved – yes?  Yes.

Except Kylie leaves nothing to chance.  She decided to write a note to remind her Dad to go to her mother's the next morning.  She left the note on the coffee table so that Paul would see it right away when he came upstairs.

J    You should have seen his face when he picked it up – priceless, seriously priceless.  I can't WAIT for the birth control discussion. 

I hope everyone has a fantastic week – I'll check in with you soon, and hope to be back by Monday at the latest!  Ciao, or whatever people who live near Greece say!

I love my boyfriend, but some days I'd like to love him posthumously.  Does that make me a bad person?

Yesterday, I got pissed off at Paul and went to the mall.  The two are not related, or at least they weren't, but then I set aside some time and came up with a logical conclusion: 

 Everything that is wrong in the whole world is Paul's fault. 

You might think this is hard to justify, but with just a few mental gymnastics, it actually makes perfect sense:

Paul has a soccer tournament this week.  It involves him going over to Seattle almost every night from Tuesday till Saturday, and it also involves drinking, bar crawls and booze cruises.  Since he doesn't drink like I do, (i.e., professionally) I made the HUGE sacrifice of telling him I would accompany him to the bars and on the booze cruise.  I know.  I'm a fucking saint of a girlfriend. 

My being able to accompany him means that I had to adjust my schedule this week to daytime on Monday and Tuesday, which I despise – but I did it for Paul, because I'm super cool like that.  Since I'm working during the day, SOMEONE needs to go get Wyatt from school…I asked Paul to do it today, and I made arrangements with other people for the rest of the week.  When I reminded him of that yesterday, he made an Ick Face because he didn't remember that he was supposed to go get him today, which pissed me off since me and my kid are about 19^th on his memory list.

Paul's memory is quite complex.  As far as I can tell, his memory prioritizes things in his life in the following order, from most important to least important: hot dogs, sex, West Virginia Football, all other football, golf, soccer, UFC fighting, homemade salsa, his children, random TV shows, sandwiches, online poker, barbeque food, me and my kid (tied with) his gay dog Woody, his car, my cool dog Snap, jelly belly jellybeans, anyone without leprosy rubbing his feet, hot tubs, laundry, his work, politics, reading, and world peace. 

After he made his Ick Face, I stormed out of the house, to go to the mall, because I have to get something to wear for two of the Soccer tournament events.  One is the booze cruise and the other is the banquet at the end of the week.  These are both his fault, therefore having to go to the mall is also his fault. 

On the way to the mall, I looked at my hair in the rearview mirror and decided it was really ugly.  This is Paul's fault because I wouldn't even be IN the car if I hadn't had to get something to wear for his dumb tournament that I have to go to in order to drink for him, which I am mainly doing because of what an awesome girlfriend I am.

Parking next to J.C. Pennys was Paul's fault.  When Paul goes to the mall, he parks next to Sears, which is at one end of the mall.  That means that we have to walk up and down the entire length of the mall twice to get anywhere and it doesn't make sense because what they mainly sell in Sears are tools and Paul's entire tool collection consists of a buck knife, and he's happy with that.  So, as a matter of logic, I always purposely park near Pennys when I drive because it makes more fucking sense than traipsing through Sears twice.  So, walking into J.C. Pennys and noticing the salon sign saying "open" when I have really ugly hair is Paul's fault.  

Since I wouldn't have even been in the mall, and I wouldn't have thought my hair was ugly, and I wouldn't have gone into J.C. Pennys near the salon, and I wouldn't have walked INTO the salon except I did and it was all Paul's fault… it only follows that asking for a last minute appointment from a woman who looked exactly like Beaker from the Muppet Show is ALSO Paul's fault.

The Beaker Bitch, (as I now like to call her, since it might be...er, "damaging to the testimony" if I called her  "The Dead Beaker Bitch,") should NOT be employed as a hairdresser.  She shouldn't be employed as anything other than maybe a rock watcher.  THAT'S how dumb she is.  The fact that she is employed as a hairdresser without knowing what "shoulder length" means, or for that matter, what "shoulders" are; is Paul's fault, and I'll tell you why.  J 

Paul and other vile members of his sex watch billions of hours of sports every weekend.  If it weren't for him and his ilk glomming the TV every damn Sunday, then women like me would stay home instead of going out to the mall to get our damn hair cut on a Sunday, when NORMAL salons aren't open.  So, the reason the Beaker Bitch even HAS a job is because Paul watches too much sports, and the resulting bullshit of a hair cut that I am now sporting is also his fault, since neither she or the salon would be there if it weren't for him….AND let's not forget it is still his fault that I was there with what I thought was ugly hair to begin with.

Little did I know that Beaker Bitch would turn me into an Evil Dorothy Hamil.  I told her I would like a "blunt, straight cut" across the back, to get rid of the longer layers.  I told her I would like it to not be any shorter than shoulder length.  Upon feeling her cut the layer next to the top bone of my neck, I turned around and asked her WTF?  She said she needed to take it "up a little higher to make it healthy."  She began getting a tad nervous at me muttering "Redrum and Die," and if I had had the presence of mind, I would have told her to blame it on Paul, but by that time, I was edging into "irate," and was afraid of what I'd say next.

So, it's now too late to, say, tape the hair back on….and I'm

quite obviously pissed off beyond all reason, so I ask her if she can just continue and try not to freaking bob it all off.  FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER…I'm losing my mind, cause she just keeps cutting and cutting, and I keep telling her and telling her to stop it, till finally I just get up and take the cape off.  The ensuing "discussion" with the receptionist went pretty much the way you'd expect…she said it's cute, I said she should just explode, she said um…security please, I said never mind and left the building...blah blah blah.  AND, since Beaker Bitch hadn't put the cape on tight enough, I had teeny tiny little hairs all over me which itched so bad, I almost went home naked since I couldn't stand my shirt anymore.  So, I wasn't even able to stay and get clothes for the soccer events.  

As you can easily see, all of this is most certainly Paul's fault.  

But for now, until I come up with a good retaliation…he'll just have to deal with Evil Dorothy Hamil for his girlfriend.  I'd say that's punishment enough until I can plot some more.  Or does anyone have good ideas for revenge?  Arrrggghhh.

I mean look at this!!!

Does this look like shoulder length to YOU?

Three freaking weeks of crazy.  That's what I've had.  I'd blog about it all, since I'm already sitting here procrastinating on the one day that I have to myself, but I only have about 23 hours before I have to be back at work, and that's not enough time to go through all of it.  Suffice it to say that it's been nucking futz and I'm really hoping that I'm in for a few weeks of calm.  A laughable wish, I know, but I can't imagine that the drama could get any worse, so it's got to get better, right? RIGHT????? TELL ME I'M RIGHT,  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!  Sigh.

Okay, fluffy cute stuff is in order, I think.  Here's a snippet of what's been going on. 

Wyatt started Kindergarten this week!  I totally can NOT believe it.  It seems like only yesterday I was calling My Baby's Daddy (MBD) in a crying hormonal rage, begging him to bring me an infant neck brace so I wouldn't snap the baby's head off if I held him wrong.  I had no idea what was in store for me after that.  And, after this past week, I really believe in that "ignorance is bliss" crap they've been saying all this time.

The Thursday before Labor Day, the Christian school we're sending him to had a Parents Orientation, and for some dumbass reason, I went.  I thought that MBD would go as well, but he signed up for some bullshit "overtime" (read: I Don't Want To Go To The Orientation) so I ended up going myself.  Well, not really by myself, since MBD's girlfriend, Sophie, is also sending her son there, so we sat together.  Sophie is very cool, a drastic departure from MBD's past girlfriends, but we still don't know each other very well, and I've tried to act semi normal around her (stop laughing,) which means I can't spew out every sarcastic thing I think, which is harder than you might imagine. 

After the Welcome New Parents Prayer, and the Bless Our School Prayer, and the Look After Our Children Prayer, and the Thanks for the Stupid Amount of Money You're Paying Us to Teach Your Kids Their Shapes Prayer, and the God Look After the Lunch Lady Prayer...we finally got to meet Wyatt's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Mattheson. 

Imagine if Mr. Rogers and Tammy Faye Baker had a child that needed braces who talked really slow and wore a pink blouse with tiny little crosses all over it -- that's Mrs. Mattheson. 

Mrs. Mattheson stood up in front of 25 sets of parents who were all sitting in teeny tiny little chairs in front of teeny tiny little desks and smiled, her braces gleaming in the fluorescent light.  We waited expectantly for the next prayer, in fact, I even bowed my head in anticipation of a little nap.  After a few minutes of complete silence, I looked up, and to my surprise, Mrs. Mattheson was standing in front of us all with a CLIFFORD PUPPET on her hand and grinning like a lunatic.  Clifford looked at each one of us in the room and clapped his little paws at us.  I looked around and the other parents were actually waving back at Clifford, who was apparently undisturbed by Mrs. Mattheson's hand up his ass.  Uh-oh, I thought.  What was the matter with public school again?

After Clifford waved and clapped at us all, (I barely restrained myself from giving Clifford the finger...however I couldn't resist saluting him, earning me a giggle from Sophie) Mrs. Mattheson started talking in a sllloooowwww sing-song voice about how Jesus has commanded her to love and cherish our little joyful children.  She told us that she knew God had put her on this earth so that she could lead our babies into the arms of the Lord with a wonderful learning environment and a peaceful attitude.  She relayed conversations she had had with Jesus as she slept about what an important job it is to walk among our offspring with joy in her heart.   Clifford hung at the end of her arm, deep in prayer.  This went on for about 25 minutes, and the whole time I'm thinking, "Well, how damaging is it for a kid to get expelled because his mother assaulted a puppet?"

At the end of this...oh, and this is the good part...she said that she just knew what all us parents were thinking.  I was pretty damn sure she hadn't guessed what I was thinking, since it involved lighting Clifford on fire, but I waited to see if she'd guess something similar to that.  Nope.  What Mrs. Mattheson surmised to be the top concern on all us parents' minds was "Will Our Child Learn To Read This Year?"  Huh.  Not even close, was she?  In order to illustrate her point, she and Clifford then picked up a book and held it up to all of us.  It was titled "Leo The Late Bloomer."  (I shit you not)  She then proceeded to READ IT ALOUD to all the parents in her Clifford voice, with Clifford turning the pages. 

Shortly after that, I reached into my purse and made my cell phone buzz a few times, snatched it out, made an "I have an emergency" face, then fled to the parking lot.  To my surprise, Sophie was hot on my heels.  We discussed how the hell we were going to get through the rest of the year dealing with a wingnut like Mrs. Mattheson, although I'm not sure Sophie really got behind my "lets not go sober EVER again" idea.   

I guess what's important is that Wyatt seems to like Kindergarten, and from now on, MBD will be relegated to dealing with Mrs. Mattheson, since if I'm in jail, there will be no one to take Wyatt to school. The actual first day of school was hilarious...all the parents crying and all the kids ignoring us...Wyatt was all "BYE, Mom," and turned away without a second glance.  MBD was there for the first day, and I think he would have gotten choked up too, if he hadn't been so distracted by Clifford shaking his hand when he met Mrs. Mattheson. 

Anyway...here's some first day of school pics:

Wyatt, Kylie and Alexa before the first Day

3 Posers

It's not like I am making this shit up.  Lord.

I'm still catching up on all the blogs and comments and stuff....hopefully I'll get back to my routine this week!  Or maybe next week.  Or maybe when I get to the looney bin, I'll have more time.

Hey..also, I am toying with a blog that I probably won't make public.  If you'd like to be on the preferred list, send me a note with your myspace e-mail, and I'll add you!

Cheers!

I have absolutely NO business at the computer right now.  None at all.  If I don't start laundry soon, I will have to wear the top part of a Halloween costume and ski pants today because that is all that is clean.  The house is a wreck, since I've been working for eight days in a row, and if I wanted to, I could build a new dog with the all the dog hair on the floor.  I am supposed to be filling out four trees worth of forms for Wyatt's school, one page consisting of really nosy-assed questions about my "emergency contacts." (Why on earth would the school need the marital status of my best friend in order to call her if I can't be reached if something happens to Wyatt?  It's a Christian private school, so I think I will put "Lesbian.")   I need to get my skanky ass in the shower soon, because I have to take Wyatt to get his vaccinations in two hours, so I can fill THAT form out, and I'm also busy freaking out about said doctor appointment.  Ack. 

Of course, just like a pack of coyotes, the children must sense that something is amiss, so they're acting like someone fed them crack cocaine for breakfast.  We've already had a talk about screaming, which consisted of me screaming at them for screaming.  I am about to have another "talk" with them about whatever thing they're throwing against the side of the house over and over and over and over again.  I'm pretty sure it's a baby doll, and they are "pretending" that its mom died and it can see ghosts, but it can also fly.  Unfortunately, it's blind, so it keeps slamming into the side of the fucking house.  This is what happens when you let them watch "The Ghost Whisperer," then read "Little House on the Prarie" as a bedtime story.  I have no idea where the flying came from. 

Oh, and I have to feed the children pickles and granola bars for lunch because no one else in this house is capable of locating a grocery store, picking out stuff to eat, paying for it, and bringing it home.  We are out of everything, literally. When I bring this up to the other adult in the house, a grown man who carries a gun for a living and is supposed to make life and death decisions without even breaking a sweat, I get a blank look.  "Did you do a list?" he asks.  Here's a LIST:  1.  Food.   Thefuckingend.  Christ on a pancacke, how hard can it be?

What I would like to do today:

1.  Wake up.  Say good morning to John Cusak and graciously accept the cup of coffee he brings me.

2.  Write a letter to the kids telling them how much I miss them and why I had to sell them to the circus for their own good. 

3.  Have the pool boy let the massage guy in so that I don't have to get up.

4.  Have the butler load the case of wine delivered by Greg Norman in the back of the Lear so that I have something to sip while on the way to my villa in Italy.

5.  Take a long nap in the shade at the villa while waiting for the hot gourmet chef to bring me dinner.

6.  Say goodnight to John as he tucks me in.

Sigh. 

I better go kill the children now.  I hope everyone is having a good day...I'll check back in later.  Much later.  After wine. 

I will eventually get to comments, I hope, for Loser Tuesday 1; however I figured I'd just do an update in the form of a new blog, since it's easier and I only have one bottle of wine to drink tonight.  Plus, I'll never get to comments, because Paul wants us to watch a movie, and he's probably going to sit here and wait for me to finish this.  He will probably look something like this while he does so: (Feel free to make bestiality comments about his gay-ass dog, even though he IS awfully cute, isn't he?  Paul, you dorks, NOT the dog)

After I wasted time blogging Loser Tuesday 1, I beat all the children and then got ready to take Wyatt to his Kindergarten doctor's appointment.  He was scheduled for a full check-up and all of his five year-old vaccines.  For those of you who are aware of my dental issues, let me say that I handle the doctor only marginally better.  I can usually restrain myself from crying hysterically or passing out, but the downside is that I'm more hostile than normal.  (I know, right?)  So, on the way to the doctor, I'm all worried about how he's going to deal with the shots, what if he freaks, what is the mandatory sentencing for second degree assault on a doctor, I can't remember if I wanted to know the shots were coming as a kid or if it was better to be surprised, I'm totally buying him a pony if he gets through this okay, hey…where IS the doctor's office?  So, I call My Baby's Daddy, (MBD) who is meeting us there and we arrive on time.  All my worries were for naught, the kid could totally give a shit about the doctor, shots, exam…any of it.  He just smiled and laughed and dealt with it.  Then he helped his mother to the car so she could vomit in her purse.  Jeez.  I need to seek help.  This is him waiting for the doc:

One of my worst fears is that I will pass these assheaded phobias that I have about anything medical onto my kid, but after today, I guess I'll just have to settle for giving him sociopathic people skills.

On the way home from the doctor, we stopped by the grocery store.  This is usually not a big deal, but Holy Wing Nut, Batman…

Here in the Pacific Northwest, we are blessed with a store called "Fred Meyer."  It's like a Super-Wal-Mart, but without all the trailer-park denizens roaming about, AND it has a kick ASS wine section.  This is where I loyally shop for my groceries.  We probably drop about $600 a month in that place, and I know where everything is, what day is best to get steak, what day is best for bread, and I work my rewards card like a pro.  I have favorite butchers; favorite stockers and I have actually offered to sexually please the wine purveyor if she will just order me some Razor's Edge Syrah, which she now stocks faithfully. (Yeah, I'm just that good, baby.)   I know the good cashiers most of all.  I know the ones that know their produce codes, I know the ones that know not to put my tampons in with the ice cream, I know the ones that bag my wine correctly, and I know the ones that are fast. 

Today, as I pushed my seven-metric-ton cart toward the checkout line (since we were out of everything and I'm the only one who can go to the fucking store for anything besides HOT DOGS) I scanned for familiar cashiers.  My very favorite one had a six person line, dammit all to hell.  My second favorite cashier (second because she calls Wyatt "little champ," which I find odd) was dealing with some sort of price-check fiasco, and I had only two options left.  First is a guy whom I have dubbed "Rico Suave."  He's about 4 foot 9, uses Brill Crème (I recognize the scent from my Dad,) and he is some sort of assistant manager person or manager in training, I'm not sure which, but he always wears a big shiny gold sticker on his name tag that says "CSM/Concierge."  (I told you this place is classier than Wal-Mart!)   He's not a good option because he likes to chat about what I'm buying.  He'll scan the pepperchinis and then hold them up and ask, "Are these any good?"  I'll say, "No, I just buy them to fight off the vampire bats," and then the conversation after that usually disintegrates.  My other option is an Unknown Cashier.  Ooooohhhh.  Do I risk it?  I don't know.  I survey the situation.

She's about 45-50 years old.  She is attractive and nicely groomed.  She is wearing appropriate jewelry and make-up (hoochie mamas NEVER bag wine right) and she looks, at first glance, reasonably intelligent.  She is smiling as she thanks the ONLY person in her line for shopping at Fred Meyer, and I cruise right up to her, nobody in my way!  I figure, hey, even if she's slow, I won't have to wait in line. This is what I like to call Mistake Numero Uno.  

As I start to place my groceries on the belt, I can see, from a closer-up view, that she actually looks a little stressed-out.  There is some sort of involuntary ticking going on under her right eye and she is visibly shaking.  I thought, damn.  This really IS too many groceries to buy at one time.  But, whaddaya do?  We're out of MAYO, for crying out loud.  So there I am; putting the stuff on the belt, putting the stuff on the belt, putting the stuff on the belt…but the belt ain't moving.  WTF?  I look over at her, and she is hunched over her register, trying to get the damn thing to "open" or whatever.  So, I pause and wait.  No sense stacking stuff on top of each other, right?  And I wait.  And wait.  She glances at me and says, (I shit you not) "I can't remember my number again."  Umm.  Okay.  Seriously, at this point, I'm still mostly congratulating myself on getting up to the cashier as fast as I did.  Half the groceries are on the belt, half of them are in the basket, but I didn't have to wait in line, and hey, so what if this is my cashier's very first day back from her lobotomy?  I'm a patient soul, right?  Riiiigggght.

Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop.  She's scanning, and she's scanning, and she's scanning….uh oh.  My eye makeup remover doesn't "boop."  She scans it again.  Nothing.  She grabs the scan gun.  Nothing.  She tries the window scanner again. Nada.  I'm waiting for the inevitable "price check" public announcement and thank my lucky stars I'm not buying some sort of lube or ribbed condoms.  No worries, she CHUCKS it behind her, where it knocks the service phone off the hook.  She takes NO notice of that, just huffs for a minute, then Beep  Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop.  NY Strip steak…no beep, no boop.  Uh oh.  Wyatt glances up at me worriedly.  I look at her, she glares at me.  "Is THIS on sale?"  

"Uhhhh.  I don't think so.  It's the same price as the other one."  I'm actually intimidated by this chick, she's about to blow a gasket.  

The steak is relegated to the area behind her, next to the eye make-up remover and the off the hook phone.  She gets to my wine.  Just two bottles, I swear!  One for tonight, one for tomorrow night.  She looks me dead in the eye, her eyes narrowed as if I might pull a fast one.  I look back at her.  Her eyes go to slits.  I waggle my eyebrows at her.  

Honestly, sweetie, just card me or don't.  You are scaring me.

"You got I.D.?" she snaps, still glaring.

Oh, shucks, you doll, of course I do.

I hold it up for her.  She motions for me to take it out of my wallet.  I roll my eyes, but I do it.  She inspects it like it's encoded with the logarithm for eternal happiness.  9 minutes later, she commences typing it into the computer.  She FLICKS it back at me and I dive for it before it slides under the candy thing.  Okay, now she's starting to irritate me a little.   But then IT happens.

Beep. Boop. Beep Beep Beep.  Boop. Beep Boop  Then the coffee.  The first of my seven coffee bags fails to register. It doesn't beep and it doesn't boop.  I know immediately that this is more than this woman is able to handle.  I was right.

She throws the coffee down SO hard that it bounces off the scanner thing, and then it bounces to the floor.  She KICKS it under the register and then grabs for the phone…but can't get it, because it's dangling next to the floor because she threw my eye makeup remover at it earlier.  She slams my grocery cart out of the way as she's bending down, then grabs the phone, presses a few buttons and yells into the phone, and she broadcast throughout the store, "Backup! Backup!"

Hand to GOD.  Backup?  I grab Wyatt and put him behind me.  I think about my cell phone and wonder if I can get a close up of the carnage, fully expecting her to yank out an automatic weapon.   She is literally panting in her stress, and she hasn't hung up the phone yet, so you can hear her breathing over the loudspeakers.  I figure this is a good time for me to exit, stage right, but just as I am about to abandon my groceries, Rico Suave shows up.  She burst into tears and cried "this scanner doesn't SCANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"

I have to admit.  I stared a little.  I have never seen someone break down in public like that.  I felt guilty that it was MY groceries that caused her descent into crazy, and I didn't know what to do.  I said, "I can skip the coffee?"  That might have been not right…since…
it didn't help.  At All.

She wailed something and ran away.  Everyone surrounding her watched in silence.  Rico didn't say A WORD.  He put the phone back on the hook.  He scanned the rest of the stuff without incident and I paid, not saying a word.  It was completely bizarre.  I have no idea what the problem was, I have no idea what happened to her, I have no idea if she's okay.  I just don't know.

As we left, Wyatt reached up and grabbed my hand.  He said, "Did she get shots today?"

This is not a rant about grocery store clerks.  This is not a rant about people who work in grocery stores.  I have utmost respect for anyone who would work in these places and I believe that this in an isolated incident of a crazy person allowed to run free prematurely.

What's the craziest YOU'VE ever been in public?