I'm in the playroom. The playroom that hosts our laundry and toys; the playroom where he broke brother's rib. Our escape. Where I found my tumor. The tumor that would turn me in on myself, the tumor that would confirm my nightmare. Fearful of makeup, shaving, and men. Rejecting anything avowing who I was. I'm looking in the bathroom mirror; the one he used. The bathroom that's closed in; the one we hid in for storms. I cover parts of my face piece by piece, attempting to reveal the boy who wasn't there. Awkward, but no boy. My fantasies. Little girls dream of castles and knights, I dreamt of transparency.
I wasn't ready for NYC heat. Toxic. My sweat glands were unemployed in Atlanta. This heat scared them into overdrive, they were eager to get paid. Their first day on the job; proving sufficient. Zero movement on the subway platform to keep them at bay, preventing a back soaking and unprompted peek-a-boo with the pedestrian behind me. 120 degrees. I chanted a rhythmic prayer to the wind gods for a breeze from a passing train. The trains were late, my glands were excited. The heat was visible. Rare heat--heat with many levels. Worse near a manhole or bus, a slight reprieve passing an open door. It gave me its definition when I walked down the subway stairs, each step provided a new adjective. Beads rolled down my back, beads rolled into my pants, beads soaked through my clothing. I never felt them overtake my underwear--I hadn't worn them that day. Naive and ill-equipped. The train arrived too late. Sitting would bind the sweat with my pants as if resting on damp cloth. I hovered under a vent to cool--the beads stood resilient; trickling down my leg to host a party in my crotch. Swamp Ass made a room for itself in my genital area as I prayed for a water into wine moment for my privates. My body temperature continued its incline and Swamp Ass expanded its border. My crotch dark brown, my pants Khaki; wearing a quintessential diaper of sweat. I formed an ill thought out plan like I did when I wet my pants in first grade. I shuffled back to my office with a volunteer in front, and a volunteer behind, blocking both areas of saturation. The hour-long subway ride had made me late. He called me in his office for a closed-door meeting where I sat praying that some of my sweat would wear off in his visitor’s chair. My prayer was answered for the first time that day. Resilience.
You put on your best face, I'll put on mine. Let's meet where we know no one and order the food we can't pronounce and the drinks that increase our carbon footprint. Let's talk of issues we don't understand and loudly correct grammar. Let's name drop and casually bring up Europe last summer. Let's mention following their music before anyone and their drummer's first name. Let's laugh when things are only surface funny and grimace when something alludes mainstream. Let's hide ourselves and play roles. Roles that dominate our lives and fill our days. Let's.
I began running at 10. My consistency. Escaping pills, broken promises, and resemblances of a father I grew up loving but am grateful is dead, averting explanation to a family that honors secrets above truth. I stapled a letter on the heart that killed him the day he was buried to guarantee our story would rest with him forever the way it would me. Deceits, deceptions, poached purity. Starting at five and ending when his guilt disclosed him. I wiped away his touch in vain. She never questioned the unbearable burn; reality would cause a relapse. I wiped until I bled to erase his pollution that still haunts me; wiped to undo his chilled touch; wiped to rid myself of his grimy hands; wiped to mask his ever-present night-shift smell. The toilet paper carried our secret. Working at night seemingly for more money; placing items into boxes on an assembly line to limit himself from putting things in me. I ran from dark. My dolls as my ally, a fortress two deep; hiding my feet--the ones he loved. The ones I kept buried until he was. A fortification of counterfeit protection; my hope. Itsy bitsy spider, full moons, night lights. I return to the Ford to hold her in the backseat as she unwittingly traced the red upholstery while she spoke, praying to move a mountain like Jesus did. The sun's glare protecting her from the disbelieve in her mom's eyes--for once not vacant--when she rejects truth to entertain her utopia. I hug the boy in the front seat to lift the responsibilities he was burdened with and the memories that still track him. I hug her on the couch while the fan slices the tainted memories that even it can't handle. Brother's playing, she's wasting, he's betraying. We kept the secret. I can't bring her shame with me; her memories too concrete. Mustaches, unions, baseball bats. She ran to survive. I write to know her.
This was our delight. We were limited in our town and desperate for pastimes. We found pleasure in a warehouse each Wednesday where for two dollars we were given a lesson on Christ, some laughs with our friends, two slices of pizza, and if lucky, a chance to make eyes at Nat McClain. Some came on skateboards to awe us, most were dropped off by parents, but all of us received groundless judgment. We settled Indian style on the floor post Jesus songs, specifically after asking Pharaoh—two times weekly—to let the Hebrews go. Our angst filled our semi-circle as the lights were softened to tear us down us more easily. We contested it, but the power of the Holy Spirit would move through Him to the microphone reclining on His belly, and someone would break. The ceremony had been perfected, prayer weekly was that, “The veil of guilt not be nebulous, let the film cover them so thickly we can see it.” Curtailed shoulders, recently heat broken, sub par report card, Principal’s Office, singled out by Coach Grovenstein for not reading through his instructions before you started, and anyone not perfect were prey. He addressed purity and shamefulness throughout His thesis on sexual immorality. At no time covering His two personal shortcomings—gluttony and deception. Gluttony so His mic could relax and deception as He’s sinless from the back—posing as a classically fit pregnant woman with a handlebar mustache in charge of evoking guilt in us for our innocence. Professional Outfielders were stationed as Awareness Volunteers on the peripheral of the warehouse, anxious to mime signs of weakness so He could gracefully sway toward you like a palm tree chanting “if you have anything heavy on your heart, let it out, let it out, and let Him in, anything heavy…” We fought our chin’s quiver, urged our tears back, and rejected His rhythmic tune, but yielded. After one accepted, all of us felt convicted. Innocence meant nothing. Tears surfaced like clockwork—condemned for not feeling guilty. We were under attack to sign a slip for God, promising to keep our innocence before marriage. Professional Outfielders like bouncers at our backs—their judging eyes burning a hole through us; Him swaying and chanting over us while the pen sweats in our hands and we decide our fate in either Heaven or Hell for eternity. Each nodding acceptance at those who picked up their pen up; each shaking their heads in disdain at those who were reluctant. I had no specific plans to give myself away as I kissed my first boy in 8th grade and had a social anxiety seizure as a result. I do neither and their expressions tell me I’ll go up in flames when I leave. I don’t mind and will return for more injustice because no matter how thick the film, He always washed it clean.
It paralyzes me, but It’s indefinable. Worse than disgust or dread, It shrouds me in a timeless instant that no Psychologist can describe. In my dreams I run from It, with my legs sometimes forgetting their purpose. Triggers are sudden and sporadic. The blue I hate because this is the color I came home to. The worn beige carpet I abhor because the memories it keeps. Large boxed TVs with plywood siding propped on floors because he lived here on the recliner I detested, with his legs crossed just so. Shirtless and barefoot, watching Tombstone with analytical determination, as if watching just once more would confirm him as Wyatt Earp, a man with purpose, instead of a night-shift worker in a factory. I’m immobilized around upholstery with flowers and stark white furniture. Ducks, geese crossing signs, and bonus rooms make me wince. The death of her stagnant bedroom dominates my dreams. I’m trapped there with the ghastly pink walls and wrought iron bed. Knowing if I don’t escape, I’ll become her. Forever tortured by the pills in my bottle, my only actions being driven by the amount left. I hate true crime and paperback books with pictures. He’s at the bathroom door in my dreams, tapping his knuckle lightly to make sure I’m in the bath, where I stay until my skin becomes pruned beyond recognition and the touch of my towel makes me cringe. I escape by climbing through the bathroom window leading to the unfinished porch. The bathroom window, once painted shut, now used as a smoking station after every recovery—a silent tell-all to our neighbors that she was once again sober. I’m on the porch, the porch he threw my dog from. I can see our kitchen table, where we never had a meal. I pass the dining room with the peel on tile that I used only as a walk-through--the long way to my room but a way I took to avoid him, his continuous presence being given away by the Brave’s announcer. Listening to sports games, wooden picture frames, curios, country chotchkies, and my brothers blue bedspread with no backing—like houses bricked only for the one side that matters. I pass the kitchen with the appliances that mama spray painted blue because we couldn't afford new ones. I see the fridge, always empty except for Cokes, and the cabinets always bare except for medicine. Saying farewell to my only childhood consistency, the sound of pills rattling in their bottles, being counted and recounted—having no concept of the hope and devastation they bring. I escape in my dreams. I won’t claim a home; the one I know I hate.
Obama speaks to a national group of CEO's at a Business Roundtable today to describe where he stands on the fiscal cliff. Recently telling Bloomberg TV that taxes must increase for the rich not to punish success, but because he wants to give someone who's not filthy rich a chance at joy this holiday season. Republicans remain steadfast to raise revenue only by closing loopholes and deductions, which forces either creative solutions or the bankruptcy of the middle class. GOP will host a Roundtable today as well to toss ideas, with topics to including: denying medication to the elderly and children with cancer whose parents make less than 250K, decreasing funding for disabled individuals and their programs, and putting more blacks in jail. The White House will host the 4th Tribal Nation Summit today. Obama will drink whiskey and play slots with Native Americans. A Trading Post, sponsored by www.beertent.com, will be set up to improv his position on the budget and deficit problems. Starring John Boehner as White Man and Obama as Native American.
Chinese officials boost their economic growth predictions, resulting in the rise of European stock prices. Officials to predict lower growth tomorrow just to f with Europe.
The New Jersey evacuation zone expanded following train derailment and the elevated levels of vinyl chloride, a toxic chemical used in the production of plastics that is often transported as a liquid. Evacuation period is extended for one more day until the fumes can safely escape to a less desired area of the State. When asked for comment, the coast guard said they would only truly become concerned when the fumes reached Philadelphia, as who really cares about NJ.
Oklahoma Supreme Court tossed out two of our nations strictest abortions laws, stating these violate the State Constitution. Oklahoma Attorney General says he'll take it to the Supreme Court since his 5 pregnancies were delivered successfully through his penis and although quite painful, he wouldn't have it any other way. They grow up so fast.
Jack Brooks is dead at 89. Our last link to LBJ. Boo. You didn't hear about this because sadly, no one cares.
The Chairman of the Nobel Peace Prize awarded this year's Prize to the European Union for advancing peace, democracy, and human rights. According to the CCTV (Chinese Central Television) this has resulted in a backlash within China from both Urban and Forced Labor Slaves who have overwhelmed internal Facebook and Twitter sites promising violence unless the Chairman overturns this ruling and gives China something they don't deserve. Covering foreign policy, medicare, and other agenda items, Paul Ryan and Joe Mona Lisa Biden spent 90 minutes in fight or flight during the first and only Vice Presidential debate. Romney watched the debate from Ashville, NC where he wept in open disbelief that as a Mormon he could make it this far. The latest Cartoon Poll has Joe Biden winning the debate hands down due to unprecedented facial configurations. Paul and Mitt are back on the campaign trail adding to their Book of Lies until next week when Mitt meets Obama in New York for Round Two.
Space Shuttle Endeavor is moving from LAX to a museum in LA at a snail's pace, killing trees and downing power lines along her way. Obama included reinstallation plans for these very power lines in his stimulus act, pushing the state to stay predominately democratic even after Endeavor's destruction.
Mailing a letter will cost one cent more next year; American's must now choose between food and Thank You notes.
In response to the NHL lock-out, players have most recently been quoted as saying "I am a douche." You'll find more information by visiting their website at NHLDouche.com; or by calling 800.ImDouche.
The Club exists, mostly isolated to the southern states. I portrayed Help and a Donkey at a meeting recently. Betty asked me to bring some current issues for the Club's brunch. A self-starter would have mailed them, saving both a dry cleaning bill and a reputation. I packed two oversized bags, each with 50 issues, totaling 50 lbs of weight. The weather teased me that day as I dressed in preparation for sleet, it was really muggy with the humidity just high enough to call for pit stains. I was breathless looking at the driveway, both for myself and the help who got their mail, mentally noting that Optimist Brunch really equals Moving Day.
My arrival coincided with some Elderly members, limiting my next movements to "looking for the phantom time sensitive item" in my car, or acting out my Donkey role, sans rehearsal, with an audience. In hindsight, I should have rolled down my window and given them a gentle reminder about their 4pm supper date to get them going, as the time I used searching for my phantom item only alloted them time enough to stretch their legs to prep for the walk uphill.
I pushed through, knowing as Clarkson had recently taught me that "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." My Donkey role was not young and hip, I resembled an aged Donkey instead, abandoned in the field to graze when the real work began. I was panting by step two and at the halfway point, I almost fainted. Stopping to catch my breath was not an option, this wasn't a home workout video, this was a driveway. I reached the peak wheezing, feeling much like Rocky without the flag, but unlike him, could still not celebrate. Elderly members were trailing me and my mission wasn't complete. At this point, their being Elderly was my only defense, so I silently prayed for a hip fracture, but only for one of them, knowing just one fracture would stop them all from trying.
Owner had upholstered the house from floor to ceiling, and not with the material I used in my home, this fabric looked like it wasn't made in China. Two young, vulnerable bartenders were on duty as I cussed the humidity, knowing it would be nearly impossible to Cougar Coral them while panting. I dropped the bags and purse, and began layout duty.
I placed the issues strategically, moved a few times for good measure, and tabbed the stories the Club members would wallow in. This took just enough time for the water bottle in my purse to empty on the Owner's floor, directly in the midst of her party, laughing at her prep and flower arrangements, mocking her carbonated water and designer cupcakes. I made the bad decision of a 4-star leaker that day, minimal time to drain equals greatest damage. My runner's high had left me negligent in placing the 4-star leaker horizontally in my bag. I saw the puddle before I knew it was mine, thinking possibly Owner's Expensive Untrained Dog had an accident? The spill was directly in route of the bar, a sure bet someone, possibly an Elderly, was going to slip. With my runner's high still making decisions, I ran to the kitchen to fetch a towel, changing my role to Help, only noticing my wake upon my return, following me around whispering to be cleaned. It would have been better to wake up from a Highschool Naked Dream to find out it was not only real, but graduation day and they were calling my name to accept my diploma in the buff. The sweat was pooling on the back of my legs as I kneeled, clandestinely to play my role of Help, but really praying the Owner would be too consumed with her crown molding to notice that it was, in fact, my bag peeing on her floor. Betty stood over me, questioning the water's origin. I knew at this point, what I neglected to say it aloud, thinking if I withheld from saying so, I would wake up and the water would be gone. As Owner's presence became more dominant, I hurried, begging the paper towels to work just as the commercial says. I glanced back and forth to Betty, mentally telling her not to reveal the source of the leak if she uncovered the mystery. Instead, Betty said aloud what I was silently erasing, "it's coming from your purse, do you have water in your purse?" As if I were Expensive Untrained Dog, who had just pooed on the new rug, I peaked at Owner, head lowered shamefully, with the room was still, while I was on the floor sweating with dry women standing around me. Red-face, drenched, with my purse tinkling, I stood with as much dignity as I could muster and said, "I always carry water in my purse....I make bad decisions when I don't have it." I backed out of the room to the kitchen where the two Cougar escapees were stationed. Their compassion was overwhelming, clearly one of them had leaked water from their purse in a previous life.
On my descent, I passed several Club members walking up the mountain. As odd as it may seem, I swear although they were walking to the meeting, I saw their spirits running for the booze.
[adsenseyu5] A Yale scientist finds a cure for autism by changing criteria to diagnose it. Claiming criteria for autism is vague and vowing to use this name change to put an end to the autism epidemic. Parents around the country rejoice at no longer having to worry about the effects of mystery vaccines, while healthcare companies give out-of-pocket bonuses from people who no longer meet the criteria to get health services.
Sadly, Perry has left us and gone back to his gay lover in the great state of Texas, but not before he endorses Newt and Newt's head.
The endorsement came after Marianne came clean about Newt's wish for an open marriage. Newt whined, "I do what I want, whah whah." Both Newt and his head attacked John King for asking about their open marriage.
Mittens continues to give us butterfly kisses throughout his debate, while adding a bullet point to his résumé--Multitasking. Mittens will "show his taxes all at once so we can have one discussion". Genius. He plans to kill not only two, but multiple birds with one stone--typical republican--by holding a town hall meeting after the unveiling so that he can dodge questions, while answering them with more questions. Mittens also puts Addition's Major under education, revamping math as we know it entirely.
I Build Enterprises + Nothing Wrong With Profit = 120,000 Jobs
Santorum crashes Dictionary Online by using "home personal computer" when asked to reveal his taxes.
During Ron Paul's 2 seconds on the CNN debate, he gets more applause than all the other candidates combined.
The Last Four tell John King and viewers what they would have done differently if they had it to do over:
Mittens: I would part my hair on the left, not right.
Newt: My pompousness would continue, but I would sprinkle this with cocky.
Santorum: I would have altered sweater vest days on Tue/Thu instead of Mon/Wed.
Paul: I would have requested a wider camera for debates.
[adsenseyu5] Naturally I can go by the FedEx store as early as you want. My only hindrance being my screaming two-year old with a dual ear infection. I had five boxes to deliver. One was small, heavy, and clearly breakable. Two were medium-sized yet accommodating, two were just plain evil, and the last one was as small and as awkward as a first date bugger.
Fitting the terrorist profile prohibited my ill planned parking scheme, which involved running into the building and dropping off my five boxes within record time. Blond and driving a White Kia proved suspicious for Lewis, the security guard on duty. Lewis wasnt going to make it easy for me--I could however, park complimentary for 10 minutes in the parking garage. The packages were stacked in order of weight. Heaviest on bottom, lightest on top. This meant that the Small, Heavy, and Clearly Breakable was placed in the middle. I did the math while walking my tight rope to Lewis--a bullet point I mentally noted to add to my résumé--and calculated I had just enough cash to pay for $2 worth of overage time. I became eerily aware of each complementary tic passing by. Was I too much of a terrorist look-alike for Lewis to open the door for me? As I stumbling down the up-ramp, dodging angry drivers--apologizing only to the ones who weren't deaf, as the ones who were couldn't read my hidden mouth's apology-- while carrying boxes that were level with my face at the point where my nose began making its decent, Lewis ran to open the door for me--his shame becoming more pronounced with the disappearance of his shoulders--"Thanks Lew (new pet name), can you direct me to the FedEx drop off?"
"Sure, just walk through the lobby to the other end of the building, more or less a city block and a half and then take the service elevator--which is both sketch and hot as hell--down to the loading dock. Try to not get raped on your descent, and you can then drop off your many packages in our kindly provided, yet excessively small FedEx drop box."
I was sweating before I spotted the service elevator. Damn you global warming, and all your lies. As I impatiently waited for the Service Elevator I was reminded of the reasons I failed as a waitress. 1. Social Anxiety--you can't succeed as a waitress when you stop midway through delivery, smile, and meekly tell your table "I cant do this"-- more as if you were on stage at Carnegie, instead of retelling daily specials to a table of two--one being too young to understand English. 2. Mobility--we couldn't afford Montessori, even though God bless you Maria, you started in the slums, your legacy didn't stay there. I am, and always will be a clutz. 3. Facial Expression Tone Down--always being told to smile, smile, smile, never took away from my Permascowl--my customers, even the ones who didn't understand English, saw through my acts of happiness. The culmination of these failures propelled a tunnelled light from heaven, which zeroed in solely on me and whispered--as only a tunnel of light could--that my deliver would be a success.
The FedEx drop box smiled when I saw him, and I proudly returned his greeting. The first box went in with only a small struggle. The next one was easier. It was Box #4 that really pushed me to madness. Since I was already perspiring, the fight with the Box #4 forced the perspiration from my pores and down my face. Each drop slid my makeup from its strategic placement to the crevice of my neck. I would be admitting defeat if I pulled my hair back, so I left my hair down to clump around the nape of neck in tiny pools of victory sweat.
Box #4 was journeyed down the shoot of death even if I had to break it. With each push, pull, and four letter word, the sweat married the back of my neck to my hair in the most intimate of ceremonies. Box #4 was insubordinate--chosing decapitation before siding with my effort to win my bosses approval. Each push and pull used more of my complementary time, pushing me into my $2 lunch money territory. Finally, Box #4 chose delivery over death and I pushed it into temporary housing.
With Box #5 left, I ran to the service elevator, drenched in last nights booze. A 'hired for the wrong reasons' Office Assistant was vocal about "Eddie at the front desk", who would be more than happy to help me, he's very accommodating, he'll understand.
Box #5 stood on Eddie's counter submissive, but polite. I told Eddie of my spat with the FedEx drop-off center. It had won, could Eddie hold the package until FedEx delivery man came to pick it up? I realize I now resemble a sauna-lifting my arms in a 'Y' to show Eddie I was not a liar--but a few moments ago I wasn't pruned, but ready to look important at my desk job. Evidently, I remained a terrorist even without my White Kia because Eddie wasnt accommodating or understanding. Was there another FedEx drop off nearby? Eddie remained clueless so lack of options sent me to building number 2. I entered with the determination of a terrorist, but my façade was invisible here. With the look that told me my grenade was useless here, Security directed me toward the elevator for the drop-off. My elevator mantra was, 'please be bigger than your counterpart across the street, please be bigger than your counterpart across the street.'
FedEx drop off #2 was equally small and cunning. Unlike its cousin, it did, however, play nice--accepting Box #5 into temporary housing easily, leaving me so victorious that I really didn't care if my hair was matted to my skull, or my pits were permastained. I had delivered five packages to the FedEx drop off in one morning--before the boss had opened her eyes.
I knew I would have to give up my $2, and I had made peace with its departure. A silent Rosary prayer my Service Elevator Accent left me happy to give on a day when the universe had given me so much already. For the first time, I backed up the White Kia with pride. I put my crinkled dollar into Automated Teller, hoping that this she was more mature than the Automates I knew growing up, maybe she would accept any bill without judgment. My hoping proved fruitful, living in a recession left her without the luxury of choosiness. My four quarters slid into her cubbies--held like gnats that could flee between my thumb and pointer finger--I couldn't risk an escapee. Sadly, automated teller wasnt having my quarters today. She also refused any dimes and nickels, which I found floating around the White Kia.
I resorted to pennies, but she rejected these too. I was under the impression that by killing her with kindness, her stupid, limp arm would lift so I fed more and more coins into Automated so she would free me and let me go to work. She had nixed recognition of coins, silver or copper, she only recognized print now. I looked around for Lew, the nice security man, who assured me that my first ten minutes were free. I found Homeless Man instead. It's freezing, Homeless Man is trying his best to help me with Automated--but can do nothing to appease her. Each pressed button receives an Insert Coin reply. An Insert Coin reply that neither of us can respond to because he's homeless and I'm sweating. Then, Santa comes to town and Homeless Man pulls out a dollar bill from his shirt. A dollar bill that I will never be able to repay, a dollar bill I couldn't say 'no' to, and one that I will be thankful for daily until I die. Was I really accepting a dollar bill from a Homeless Man? Yes. Would I repay him? I will repay every Homeless Man I see, with the hopes that my dollar will one day make it back to the Homeless Man, who made my day, the one who let me continue my legacy of waitress failure, and most importantly, the one who let me kick Box #4 and #5 in the ass, and prove to my boss that yes, I could deliver FedEx packages.
1. Kay, "Every Kiss Begins With Kay." Sadly, every kiss doesn't begin with Kay, tagline should be "Every Kiss Begins With Booze."
2. Jared, "It could only be Jared!" Actually, it could be a plethora of others, including but not limited to Overstock.com or JTV.com (Jewelry Television). New tagline should read, "It Could Have Been Tiffany If I Wasn't So Cheap."
3. Heather B. Moore, "Cherish Who You Are." How can I cherish who I am when I'm wearing your jewelry? Tagline should be, "Cherish Your Woman."
4. Zales, "Since 1924, we've helped more couples say "I love you" than any other jewelry store." I don't know how they can prove this. Tagline should be, "Since 1924, we've helped bring about more uncomfortable present opening experiences, thus forcing loved ones to say 'I love you' without meaning, than any other jewelry store."
5. Shane Company, "Your Friend in the Diamond Business." Clearly this should read, "Your Friend in the Diamond Business, Above the Equator." Also, you've had the same ad since 1982--we all know you're located on on Windy Hill Road and open Monday through Friday until 8, and Saturday and Sunday until 5. We'd appreciate a change up.
6. Helzberg Diamonds, Since 1915, Helzberg Diamonds has been committed to providing our customers with unparalleled customer service, industry expertise and custom jewelry that makes that special someone say, "I Am Loved." A possible alternate tagline could be, "I Am Materialistic."
7. Littman Jewelers, "For All Those Special Times." Tagline should be, "For All Those Special Times When All You Really Wanted Was the Little Blue Box With a White Ribbon, and I Gave You Grey Instead."
8. Tommy's Jewelers, "Were Here For You, As Ever Nice Price." Unclear about this one. They should probably just do an entire marketing revamp.
9. Cartersville Jewelry Exchange, "Where North Georgia Gets Engaged." Clearly this should read, "Don't Bother Coming In if You're From South Georgia." How can our own state be against the south? We get enough of this above the Mason Dixon.
10. Rogers and Hollands, "Jewelry Created Now and Forever." Tagline should be, "Jewelry Created 'Til You Pawn It For Some Real Bling."
Twelve states are revising their social media policies this fall. In Statesboro, GA Lewis Holloway--the superintendent--imposed a new policy prohibiting private electronic communication after learning that Facebook and text messages helped fuel a relationship between an 8th grade teacher and a 14 year-old student.
This is foolish for the following reasons:
1. You're not changing the teacher's motive by limiting electronic communication--you're only making it more difficult for the student to reach the teacher.
2. Pretty sure Priests aren't texting altar boys, but according to Holloway, "our children are vulnerable through new means, and we've got to find new ways to protect them."
3. If we were more focused on school cheating scandals and not social media, maybe our children wouldn't have fallen from top of the class to average in world education rankings.
Social media isn't corrupt. Where are our morals when the people we look to as heroes--coaches, teachers, priests--are molesting our children? I'm blown away that we think limiting a means of access to information is going to change the motives of a pedophile. We need a change of focus. Instead of limiting social media because it may lead to an inappropriate relationship, we should start cutting off appendages. I say this in all honesty. If you were going to lose your penis because you molested someone, you would probably think twice. With this problem solved, we could then move on to getting our nation's children back into 'above average' rankings.
Second day going into the new job with one mission besides looking important. My ride to work was a recital—CODE, CODE, CODE. The day was raining, and besides disabling the ALARM, an urgent letter needed mailing--personal of course. Procrastination let me believe today was a better day to mail it than yesterday, only proving that procrastination is in fact, entirely evil.
The rain was the type whose mist aimed for your lashes, the type you couldn’t use an umbrella to shield without looking weak—just enough moisture to annoy the shit out of you. Letter mailed and mostly damp, I hunched away from the eye-lash perpetrators and into my office. The mist episode allowed CODE, CODE, CODE to become a secondary thought to the day’s ill-timed rain.
Within seconds, ALARM reminded me of my thoughtlessness, mocking my mistake. CODE was saved in my phone, my phone resting in one of two oversized bags, both filled with items I neither needed nor used. I dumped each bottomless sack out, convulsing them like a Moroccan dancer. Within four seconds, I spotted my phone and found the pin. ALARM's ringing ridicule stopped.
I let out a profound victory breath, squatted to put my unneeded items back into their mobile homes; relived for only a moment before Lovely Security Assistant rang.
Mother, She Wrote: “This is Mother, She Wrote. How may I help you?”
Lovely Security Assistant: “CODE please?”
Mother, She Wrote: “CODE”
Lovely Security Assistant: “It's a word Mame, not a number.”
Mother, She Wrote: “It's my second day, I don’t know a word! All I know is CODE!”
Lovely Security Assistant: Click.
Lovely Security Assistant knew it was my second day, pitied me and chose to go against all training policies and company Standard Operating Procedures to grant me a sympathy pass. She knew I needed this.
Coincidently, it was also the second day of my female cycle. With CODES and Daughter to juggle, I forgot to add supplies to any of my two oversized mobile homes. Thankfully, I found one Slim, almost de-robed but still functional. I went to the bathroom with Slim and my purse. Slim turned on me as soon as she was free. Un-wrapped, she jumped out of her cardboard cylinder case and back into her mobile home. I picked her up, abiding by the three-second rule--determined to make her little cotton string of rebellion go back down its cylinder. I pushed and begged gravity to work with me. Pushing, and tapping the cylinder end in a repetitive tap-tap combo, that was bound to make the cotton string emerge from the cylinder’s bottom in the exact replication of its manufacturer. With each tap-tap the string inched closer to the cylinder’s end, closer to the grasp of my pinky. If I could just reach high enough, pin the string against its cylinder wall and simultaneously slide it down, Slim would be mine.
In the midst of the commotion, my imagination got the best of me, “maybe the Lovely Security Agent isn’t really on my side and she’s actually following Standard Operating Procedures. What if Lovely Security Agent went as far as calling the PoPo!” Standing with my tights around my ankles, face flush white, begging gravity to work with me, and tap-tap taping on the end of the cardboard cylinder, I knew I had to move quickly. I couldn’t look important if they broke down the bathroom door, found me in the squat position, vulnerable and tampon less, and threw me down to handcuff me in a very unattractive and exposed way. At this point, my palms were sweating too much to force the string back into cylinder, sadly, Slim had won.
I came back to reality and stopped obsessing over my cycle. I put a mock pad in place and strolled up the stairs to find several missed calls. Slim’s rebellion had caused me to miss a call from the Boss, a call meant to avert a visit from the PoPo--Boss knew it was Mother, She Wrote who set off ALARM. I connected with her just past the nick of time--the PoPo were already in hot pursuit of the bugler. She revealed the SECRETWORD--maybe I was still important after all--with instructions to tell this to the PoPo when they arrived to prevent my arrest.
I heard them before I saw them. Loud and boundariless—they brought a dog for when I chose to run. Dressed in black façade and armed with multiple guns and possible a grenade, Officer Huff needed a culprit. I came out of hiding, creeping around the corner, at first peaking with only my right eye then my left, then my right foot, next my left. My right knee emerged followed slowly by its counterpart. Each body part exposed itself in a similar fashion. I walked with the determination of a turtle and squeaked out, eyes closed and my palms clinched--fingernails imprinting my hands-- “secretword?”
PoPo: “I’m not a security system, I am the police.”
Mother, She Wrote: “SECRETWORD?” (Said like a lioness.)
PoPo: “I’m not a security system, I am the police. What happened Mame?”
Mother, She Wrote: “IOBTONVEUB” (This is SECRETWORD, but in a foreign accent, so it’s difficult to understand.)
PoPo: “I don’t know the SECRETWORD Mame, I’m, again the police, not the security system. What happened here?”
Mother, She Wrote: “I set off the alarm, day two.” (Day two was flashed like a peace sign, using both the pointer and middle.)
PoPo: “You've set off the alarm two days in a row?”
Mother, She Wrote: “No, this is my second day on the job and I forgot about ALARM.” (Second day on the job was again shown as a peace sign—another subliminal message to Officer Huff, “let me remain important today”.)
PoPo: “I'm going to need your name and birth date please Mame.”
I didn’t get thrown in the slammer, but ALARM frequents my nightmares. No matter what I do, no CODE works and he mocks me continuously. I yell SECRETWORD at him and relentlessly punch CODE, over and over, but still, he won’t turn off. PTSD overcomes me each time I hear his sick beep, beep, beep. If I listen closely, I can hear him now.
[adsenseyu5] Words and phrases that drive Mother, She Wrote crazy, in no particular order of hate level.
1. Hunker Down, Take Cover's older, more established, college graduate brother.
2. Humdinger. Similar to 'really good' only lame.
[adsenseyu5] A recent explosion in Iran was just a set back on their long-range missile program. Thankfully, they'll have this up and running again soon, allowing Iran to move forward making weapons to destroy both Israel and the US. The AP was able to gather more information from a closed-door meeting late last week:
Pinky: Gee, Brain, what do you want to do tonight?
Brain: The same thing we do every night, Pinky - try to take over the world!
Newt is surging in polls but still facing big challenges independent of his noggin size. Supporters of Romney signed enough signatures allowing him to be on ballets in both Vermont and Alabama--Newt is just beginning the campaign in these states. In a closed captioning interview, Newt stated that "I'm hoping that the size of my head will reach over county lines to force ballet signatures."
You can now pay 60 thousand dollars for a two-week cruise to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean to see the Titanic. The descent is 2.5 hours and currently, 80 people who didn't see the 1997 *movie are scheduled to go. *Sadly, Rose doesn't move over on the cruise either.
China has 3.2 trilion dollars in bonds but sadly Beijing will not help the European crisis as this money represents national savings and is not easily distributed. This greed comes as a shock to most world leaders, as China is normally very giving with their censorship of free speech, donation of jail time to activists, and delivering biodiversity of unprecedented proportions since the 7 day creation.
Carbon Dioxide emissions has jumped more than ever recorded. This increase has confirmed a trend making it impossible to stop climate change in the future.
Barnes and Noble knows what you're up to when you walk around looking at unique book covers to decide which ones to buy online. Looking and not buying is called Show Rooming. Sadly, we will all feel like criminals when we Show Room from this point forward.
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[adsenseyu5] 1. 2nd Baptist Churches. Really? Just admit defeat guys, move on to a different denomination.
2. Darth Vader. My entire childhood I referred to him as Dark Vader, only realizing my 21 year mistake when I saw it spelled out.
3. Hatchbacks--you either are or you're not. Choose a side team, choose a side.
4. Training Bras: A way to market sports bras to adolescents.
5. Gold chains
6. Why t-rex had arms?
7. Rat Tails.
[adsenseyu5] Land owners have signed millions of leases allowing oil and gas companies to drill. Taking cues from banks, the companies will take no responsibility for the repercussions of their actions, vowing to earn income off land owner's water contamination, and paying Head Drillers bonuses of unprecedented magnitudes even if it causes astronomical financial backlash for the middle class. See my earlier post on Erin Brockovitch.
The Long Island SAT cheating scandal was common knowledge with cheaters picking up ideas from special interest groups. High schoolers knew if they had the funds they could buy a smart student to take their SAT's for them.
The first round of primaries will begin in a little more than a month and Republicans are still on the fence about Mitt's hair. Still no passion for his style, and indecisive about his color, some Republicans are going to the polls unsure about a Left or Right-Part vote.
Afghanistan pardoned a women after throwing her in prison for adultery after she was raped. Of course she is expected to marry the man who raped her as a thank you for being pardoned.
Secretary of State Clinton visits Myanmar and loosens restrictions on financial assistance and upgrades diplomatic relations with talk of trading ambassadors. After accessing his campaign, Herman Cain has volunteered "to travel to the land of milk and honey where I can have access to women all day without getting told on."
PTSD has become common in 5% of the dogs used to sniff out land mines in Iraq and Afghanistan. Dogs are showing troubling behavior leading researchers to question how canines have better cognitive reasoning about invasive democracy than our government.
Arizona's crackdown on illegal immigration coincided with a surge of Latinos who are old enough to vote, opening the gate for Obama offices in the area. Herman Cain is now devising a strategy to build the world's tallest and most deadly electrical fence around voter's homes.
The latest discovered Tijuana drug tunnel is half a mile long with a motorized sled and energy-saving lightbulbs. Environmental Groups are recruiting Drug Lords to speak at their holiday fundraisers later this month.
Lack of insurance prompts rise of self-abortions in Latino community. A fetus was found in a dumpster in Washington Heights on Tuesday.
Finally agreeing on something, the House votes to end financing for Presidential Campaigns. Voters will no longer have the option to check to give on income taxes.
Friday's Irony : The Senate becomes divided with Democrats in the 99% corner and Republicans fighting for the week 1%. Republicans are favoring the wealthy over the middle class because they oppose middle class tax cuts.
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[adsenseyu5] I was pressed for time. My interview was in two hours but naturally I had gotten up four hours ahead of time knowing Daughter would prove impossible on such an important morning. I thought of some of the things I've mastered, but can't put on the resume.
1. Perfected Bladder Holding capabilities. Able to hold bladder until infection, stemming from the desire to embrace Mother, She Wrote respite over pp interruption.
2. Authored Eating Avoidance: A How to Guide to Prevent Faintness Resulting from a Sudden Drop in Blood Sugar. Please see the write-up below featured in Times Book Review.
According to her new book Eating Avoidance by Mother, She Wrote, "simply surviving on fear, which results when one project doesn't get completed, will nix your bodies natural desire to faint." She goes on to encourage you to press through feelings of faintness by really honing in on the emotions that will surface when Daughter wakes from night-night land and the to-do list's last project mocks you.
3. Adopted the Sleep When Dead Mentality.
4. Mastered Ambidextrous Best Practices. More times than not, Mother, She Wrote is a Left Handed Keyboard Pecker as her right is being used as a security blankie.
5. Strengthened Reaction Time. Once opened cabinet and caught a can of soup with her left elbow, imprisoning it to the cabinet door as she continued making soup.
6. Invented Patience. Now owning traffic, Mother, She Wrote catches up on talk radio in preparation for her next adult conversation, allowing multiple cut-offs and even using caution at yellow lights.
7. Translated Gibberish on a daily basis from the same Daughter with multiple languages.
8. Revitalized Creative Concepts. Dominating all art projects within the home. Please see insert in portfolio for Mother, She Wrote vs. Daughter comparison.
9. Executed Rapid Response each morning. Sadly, Daughter can't be snoozed.
10. Motivated and supervised Potty Time resulting in Poopoo Potty Award of Excellence 2011.