I am the giraffe

So now that I’ve weaned the baby, my shrink and I are ready to take the pharmaceutical support to a whole new level.  (Or as Eugene Struthers would say, the “HNL.”)  So the first thing we thought we’d try is augmenting the Zoloft with a stimulant, such as Aderall, or what I have ended up taking, which is Vyvanse.  Vyvanse is a newer drug, and it’s fancy, and it’s expensive, but you know, when it comes to my mental health, money is no object.  Or something like that.  So far I think it might be helping a little bit, only not so much that I feel like doing useful things, like cleaning the house.  (Nope, I checked.  Not feeling it.)  It’s also decreasing my appetite, which is impressive. 

Half the time I was in Texas, I forgot to take it, which is how I managed to eat so many pork ribs while I was there, I think, because now that I am taking it regularly again, I am not wanting to eat.  Which is just not like me.  Like, I feel my empty stomach and wooziness from not eating, but I don’t want to eat.  I don’t.  I cannot stress to you enough how UNlike me this is.  I always want to eat.  Except when I’ve just eaten half a rack of pork ribs. But that’s different. 

Today I ate a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, half a bagel, a cup of yogurt, two Cheetos, and a Zone bar.  That’s it.  I don’t think this can continue.  For one thing, I don’t need to lose weight, so that’s not a benefit.  For another thing, if I stop wanting to eat, I will stop being me, and I won’t know who I am and worse, whoever I am, I may not want to know her.  Who wants to be friends with a person who eats a Zone bar for dinner at 4 p.m.?  Not me. 

Maybe it’s not helping as much as I thought (hoped) it was.  I don’t really want to be on a Schedule II drug anyway, because it’s such a pain in the neck, and I don’t want the hassle of arguing with the insurance company over whether or not they’re going to pay for it.  I had a voucher for thirty free pills, but the pharmacy initially tried to bill my insurance and the insurance company said they wouldn’t cover it because of my age.  My age.  Apparently I am too old to take a drug that is marketed to children with ADHD.  Which seems ridiculous on its face, but logic’s never paid a medical claim, so far as I know, so whatever.  Anyway.  I’ve lost my will to eat, and the house isn’t getting any cleaner by itself, so maybe it’s back to the drawing board for me and the shrink. 

Or maybe I just need to get off my lazy keister and unload the dishwasher.  And put in a load of laundry.  And get some sleep.  Not necessarily in that order.

When my mother-in-law was up here (taking care of the kids while Sugar Daddy and I were on our vacation), she brought with her some People magazines.  I don’t often read People magazine because it is too stupid to pay money for and the doctors’ offices I frequent subscribe only to periodicals such as Parenting, Golf Digest and Sunset.  Seriously, who reads Golf Digest?  I can just barely get my head around someone wanting to play golf.  The entertainment value of watching golf thoroughly eludes me, and the allure of reading about golf–well, to be honest, it almost makes me angry to think about it.  It’s like they want me to commit suicide in their waiting room.  Whatever.

So I read People magazine only occasionally, but I do read it even though it’s stupid.  It’s a stupid magazine, and I’m stupid for reading it, and it’s especially stupid for me to read it these days, because I have no clue who most of these celebrities are anymore.  Do you realize that it was only a matter of weeks ago that I realized that Mylie Cyrus and Hannah Montana were the same person?  And I still don’t know why Jessica Simpson is famous.  It used to bother me that I couldn’t figure that out because she was just constantly staring at me from multiple angles in the checkout aisle, and who the freak was she? Anyway, it’s just funny because as a teenager, I was very wrapped up in popular culture, at least in the sense of being knowledgeable about it.  I’m sure it was a source of pride for me, though in retrospect I have no idea why, except that people are stupid, and I’m a person.  But I digress.

I think it’s largely because I don’t watch television anymore.  It’s not like I’m all high-minded and too good to watch television.  I’m not even too good to watch bad television.  And that’s the problem.  I realize there are quality programs on the television.  I enjoy the quality programs, but I prefer watching them on DVD because every time I watch television television, I’m reminded that television is the idiot box, and I am an idiot for watching it.  I don’t like commercials, but it isn’t the advertisements for merchandise and so forth that I mind so much; it’s the commercials for other television shows that just drive me up the wall.  I can’t explain it, but I am severely troubled by the knowledge that so many people tune in to watch Deal or No Deal.  Why does the existence of that show bother me so much, when I’ve never seen it?  I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t probably hundreds of programs that are ten times more offensive.  (Moment of Truth springs to mind.  Is that thing still on?  You know, everyone involved in that show is going to hell.  I don’t take pleasure in other people’s damnation, but facts are facts.)

Another thing is that I don’t really listen to contemporary music on the radio anymore–because I am old and don’t understand the stuff kids listen to these days.  My only exposure to contemporary pop music is what my husband finds himself singing in the shower (against his better judgment).  It’s funny, you know–Princess Zurg was complaining to me the other day that they had a karaoke activity at school and she was embarrassed because she didn’t know any of the songs.  PZ has always preferred classical music, but she still managed to shift the blame to poor parenting:  “I don’t know any popular music because all my Dad listens to is heavy metal.”  (She is unfamiliar with his shower routine, if that didn’t go without saying.)  I said she couldn’t really blame me because I’m not allowed to listen to the music I like except when no one else is around.  (”It’s not my fault your taste in music is crap.”–SD) Her classmates were particularly dumbfounded that she’d never heard of Madonna.  I told her she was lucky, that most people only dream of not knowing who Madonna is, but she didn’t see it that way.  She’s still wondering how she can bone up on popular music without actually having to listen to it.

I have really digressed from my original point.  Which was…?  I was reading People magazine, and I think it was that 100 Most Beautiful People issue, which I enjoy because I don’t have to know who the people are to see whether or not they are beautiful.  The one section that gave me pause this time around was the one that had beautiful celebrities not wearing any make-up.  On the one hand, I’m totally in favor of showing celebrities without their make-up.  People need to understand that no one looks that awesome just rolling out of bed.  Except, of course, for these totally gorgeous women profiled in People magazine without their make-up on!  Well, they still had professional photographers and, uh, good lighting, so whatever.  Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful without their make-up on.  But anyway, I was reading the People magazine, and they had a short article on Jennifer Aniston’s new romance with John Mayer, who I understand is a singer of some sort.  Well, I know exactly what sort of singer he is, actually.  He’s the cat who sang that “Your Body Is a Wonderland” song, which I hate.  I get him confused sometimes with James Blunt, who sang that “You’re Beautiful” song, which I only know about because Nicole Parker did a parody of that music video on the Mad TV, and that was too disturbing to be forgotten.  Why do I get these two singers confused?  Maybe because they both suck.  Who knows?

Anyway, John Mayer is dating Jennifer Aniston, and according to some nameless person representing one or both of them, it’s been going on for several weeks and “it’s very real.”  Did you get that?  “It’s very real.”  As opposed to all those other six-week-long relationships that are just made-up and phony.  I’m sorry.  “It’s very real”?  What the hell does that even mean, when you’re talking about a matter of weeks?  Sure, I was engaged to SD after a mere eight weeks of dating, but even at that stage I don’t think it would have occurred to me to describe our relationship as “very real.”  Because what does that even mean?  I know I already asked that, but seriously–what does it mean???  I guess it’s supposed to mean that they’re serious.  Probably they’ve been seen “canoodling” in public, which I hear is what you do when you’re famous and your love is “very real.”  Not that I begrudge Jennifer Aniston any happiness–or John Mayer, for that matter; you don’t have to be a decent songwriter to be a good person–but apparently I am deeply troubled by the idea of people actually giving a rat’s patootie whether Jennifer Aniston and John Mayer’s relationship is “very real,” or something different.

Speaking of “very real” and “not very real,” I was going to mention, yet again, that I don’t go to movies much, and that is another reason why I am clueless about popular culture.  I go to the movies so rarely anymore that I have hardly any awareness of what movies are even out there.  There again, it’s the television, or lack thereof.  I only know about movies that I read about in the “summer blockbuster preview” or “Oscar season preview” section of the newspaper.  I used to know about movies that got reviewed in Newsweek, but I don’t read Newsweek anymore, so whatever.  Anyway, I don’t get excited about movie openings, in general.  I like movies, and I like watching movies–I really do–but I don’t get all excited about seeing the big movies as soon as they come out.  My mother-in-law is very into the movie openings.  She dresses up in costume to see movie openings.  Which is fine, you know, I think people don’t get dressed up enough these days, so if she wants to put on a pirate outfit to go to the Pirates of the Caribbean show, that’s totally cool, as far as I’m concerned.  You know, if I went with her, I might put on an eye patch myself, just to be festive.  I’m not entirely devoid of whimsy.  I’m just saying, it’s not my usual thing.  I just don’t have that much emotional investment in box-office openings.  Ordinarily.

Which is why it’s so disconcerting to realize that I am just chomping at the bit (figuratively, as I don’t have a literal bit handy for chomping) to see the new X-Files movie that comes out July 25.  You can tell I’m excited because I actually know the date, and I am planning to get a babysitter so I can see it that very same freaking day because I cannot wait, no, I cannot wait any longer than that.  I’ve in the middle of (re)-watching Season 5 (courtesy Netflix), and I can’t believe I forgot how much I freaking love this show.  I missed so much of it after I moved out of my parents’ house and didn’t have a TV anymore.  I used to go over to my parents’ house just to watch it, but then my mother died, and my dad doesn’t like the X-Files (whatever, old man), and I got married and still didn’t have a TV, but fortunately my MIL was an X-Files fan and would tape the shows for us, but then we moved to Oregon and it wasn’t feasible to have her send us tapes in the mail–well, it may have been feasible, but I was a grown-up and it would have been ridiculous–and I didn’t see the last two seasons at all, which didn’t seem like a big deal at the time because David Duchovny was gone by then, and I thought it might suck, but now I’m rambling.  It’s just that I’m really, totally excited to see the new movie because I had given up hope that it was ever going to be made, but now it has been made, and I will be seeing it in just a matter of weeks!  It’s like Christmas!  Only better, because I don’t have to bake cookies or send any greeting cards!

I might bake cookies, though, just for the joy of it.

I’ve watched the trailer for X-Files:  I Want To Believe several times now.  You know what I want to believe?  I want to believe that it is not the stupidest title for a movie that Chris Carter could ever come up with.  I want to believe that it’s going to be awesome.  I want to believe that I’m not going to become so obsessed in my anticipation that I break protocol and start reading plot spoilers on the internet.  I want to believe that David Duchovny is as hot as he was ten years ago, but from the looks of the trailer, I’m wise not to put all my eggs in that basket.  (No offense to Mr. Duchovny, who, in all fairness, is pushing 50–still a good-looking man, but apparently going more the Robert Redford aging route than the Paul Newman.  That’s okay, Duke.  You enjoy your life.  We’re both happily married, anyway.)  Gillian Anderson is still smokin’, though.  Hot-cha! Maybe in honor of the premiere, I will dye my hair red.  Except that I’ve already dyed it red.  Maybe I’ll dye it redder.  And start carrying a revolver.

---

Seriously, dude, shave and a haircut–would it kill you?

I didn’t think so.

I’ve been scarce around these parts as of late, first because I had nothing to blog about (well, not really nothing, but my mind was fixated on the Texas FLDS compound raid and I seemed to want to blog about that but couldn’t produce anything beyond a long and rambling post that went nowhere, and the presidential race was really getting boring and even my family wasn’t saying or doing anything noteworthy, or at least not noteworthy enough to overcome my sudden blog inertia)–oh my goodness, where was I?  I was going to write a sentence, and I ended up channeling Faulkner.  You see what happens when you’re out of practice?  This is harder than I remembered.  So yeah, at first I had nothing to blog about, and then I had to go on vacation, and only now am I getting around to blogging again, and that only because I feel obligated to document said vacation before the memories fade away and all I’m left with is my souvenir refrigerator magnets. 

So Sugar Daddy and I decided last year that for our eleventh wedding anniversary, we should take a vacation together, alone.  Like a real one, lasting several days.  Originally, we thought we might go to Paris because SD fell in love with Paris when he went there for business a couple years ago, and he thought that I would enjoy it, too, despite my xenophobia, because it’s such a nice place, that Paris.  You know, it’s got the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and it’s the city of looooove and whatnot.  Plus, he wanted me to try real foie gras.  (The stuff in the can had not impressed me.)  Anyway, this was the plan until we considered the fact that Paris is in France, and it takes, like, 47 hours to travel there, and in order to make the trip worth the time and expense, we should probably stay there for about a couple weeks.  We didn’t think the younger two children were ready for us to be gone for two whole weeks, so we decided that Paris should probably wait for another year or two.  So, Paris being out, we decided to go to the second-most romantic place we could think of:  Texas!

What do you mean, you don’t get it?  What’s not to get?  You were expecting what, Hawaii?  Acapulco?  Some other tropical locale in close proximity to the ocean, the better to have moonlig ht walks on the beach with?  We saw the ocean on our first honeymoon.  We didn’t decide to spend eternity with each other only to live in the past, people!  Get with the program.

So yeah, we spent last week in Texas.  And no, we did not visit the Yearning for Zion ranch in El Dorado.  We went to Austin–the other city SD fell in love with while traveling for business, and which he knew I would love too, because of my great love of barbecue, live music and speaking English.  Frankly, it didn’t matter to me where we went on vacation, so long as I was able to sleep in and eat all my meals without holding someone on my lap.  Oh, and that we were together. 

I get bored with chronological treatments, so I will recount our visit thematically.

The Airplane

We had to get up at 3 a.m. Monday to get to the airport in time.  Madhousewife never wakes up at 3 a.m. on purpose.  Fortunately, I’m used to getting up at 3 a.m. against my will, so this wasn’t as big a deal as I was fearing it would be.  Not like I had to fly the airplane myself or anything. 

Two thoughts:  1) Economy class is so freaking uncomfortable.  Not that I’ve ever traveled anything but economy class, but still–it’s getting ridiculous, don’t you think, the way they keep cramming more seats together?  Mark my words, in a few years we will be packed in there like veal calves, drinking our own urine and wishing that we’d given money to PETA when we were still free.  2) They served us dry roasted peanuts for a snack.  I thought it was against the law to serve peanuts anywhere but your own home these days.  I mean, I was grateful for the sustenance–better than drinking my own urine, anyway (I assume)–but I couldn’t help but notice that dry roasted peanut dust was getting strewn about the cabin, and couldn’t that kill somebody?  Do they offer peanut-free flights?  Wouldn’t they have to maintain peanut-free airplanes?  I know most peanut-allergic people aren’t allergic to the air that peanut dust abides in, but what if your kid just starts randomly licking the seat in front of him?  Is flying still safer than driving?  I’m just asking.

Books read:  1)  Wicked by Greory Maguire.  Pretty good, I guess, but near the end I kept thinking, “I must not dwell too long on the larger themes this story suggests.  Either the whole thing will collapse like a house of cards, or I will get a severe headache.  Perhaps I should have just watched the musical.”  2)  Confessions of a Teen Sleuth by Chelsea Cain.  Chelsea Cain is a columnist for the Oregonian, and she is one of the funniest writers I have ever read.  At first I didn’t know whether I loved her or was insanely jealous of her because she basically has my dream job:  get paid for writing about the irrelevant.  Could this have eventually been my career if I’d stayed in journalism instead of pursuing my lifelong dream of bearing children and scraping dried fecal matter out of little boy underpants?  No, I am not jealous, I decide.  I love her.  Confessions is a work of fiction, a parody of the Nancy Drew series.  Not quite as good as it could have been, but still pretty darn funny.  Five bucks at the Urban Outfitters.  Not that I shop at Urban Outfitters, but the book and I just happened to run into each other there; it was like it was meant to be.

The Food

I can take or leave Tex Mex.  You know, I like Mexican food a lot, and you can’t get very good Mexican food in Oregon, except at the roach coaches in the Big Lots parking lot, or so SD tells me.  He took me to a taqueria in (freaking) Tigard once, which I understand was pretty close to roach coach goodness, but I haven’t actually tasted of the true roach coach myself because when I go out to eat, I like to sit down and have people wait on me.  Eating while standing is too much like being at home.  But I digress.  Where was I?  Oh.  So the Mexican food I’m used to is California Mexican food, and Tex Mex is different, because it’s got the gravy going on–and that’s fine, because I like the gravy.  It’s just not what I live and die for.  So I enjoyed me some Tex Mex because I was, after all, in Texas, but what I really want to tell you about is the barbecue because holy cow and other farm animals, that was some tasty crap. 

Our first meal in Texas was at the Salt Lick, which is about 30 miles (I think?) outside of Austin, in the middle of freaking nowhere.  Seriously, there are farm houses and stretches of land containing nothing, and then you have the Salt Lick, which doesn’t sound particularly appetizing, but trust me.  It was de-freaking-licious.  Maybe because I had nothing but dry roasted peanut dust in my stomach prior to dining there, but I suspect some culinary talent had a hand in things as well.  Our last meal in Texas was at the Iron Works, which is a freaking metal shack in downtown Austin.  We ordered two sampler plates and a whole rack of pork ribs.  That may have been overkill.  But we were in Texas, you see, so it wasn’t, technically.  We felt a little bit guilty afterwards, and I kept telling SD to stop talking about how much food we ate and how wrong it was–couldn’t what happened in Texas just stay in Texas?–but he wouldn’t listen to me. 

My husband is better suited to restaurant reviewing than I am–I went straight from covering the pet and senior citizen beat to the whole poop-scraping gig, and my foodie vocabulary is sorely lacking as a result, so I apologize for not evoking mouth-watering images and pontificating about smokiness and sweet-tangy something-or-other.  Maybe I’ll talk SD into writing an ode to Texas barbecue joints.  Myself, I will just tell you that if you go to Driftwood and don’t get the Salt Lick’s cobbler and the pecan pie, you are committing a major sin of food-omission.  I don’t care if you don’t like pecans.  Unless you are allergic to tree nuts, you will order the pie and you will like it.  After you have eaten the cobbler (peach and/or blackberry), warmed and a la mode.  Don’t argue.  I’m through with you.

Because we are snobs and wanted to sample the upscale Austin-dining experience, we also paid a visit to Jeffrey’s, which comes highly recommended by George W. Bush, also known as the current President of the United States, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention to current events.  I didn’t order the fried clams, which are supposed to be W’s favorite–I’m sure they’re delicious, but I was more in the mood for the leek-and-brie tart.  (SD had the smoked foie gras because he always gets foie gras whenever it’s on the menu.  I had some, too.  It was good.)  Yeah, I had some tart and a baby romaine salad–at least I think it was romaine, it was baby anyway–and a beef tenderloin with cauliflower manchego gratin and mustard-peppercorn sauce, and then we split a Chocolate Intemperance cake for dessert.  Plus ice cream. 

I also ate some fried pickles at Katz’s.

Also noteworthy:  I drank more diet Coke on this trip than perhaps I have ever drunk in my history of diet Coke-drinking.  I’m not crazy about carbonated beverages, but lately I really get a hankering for the diet Coke, preferably with lime, but not necessarily.  This is the way Mormon housewives let loose.  We binge on diet Coke and barbecue.  When the kids aren’t around, I am a regular hedonist.

The Music

On Monday we were fortunate enough to have tickets to see Guy Clark, Joe Ely, John Hiatt, and Lyle Lovett at the Paramount Theatre.  I had seen Lyle Lovett in concert many times, but not in about six years.  I don’t get out to see concerts much, since I got married.  We saw Lyle Lovett six years ago and Nightwish back in November, and that about covers it, I think.  Anyway, when we found out Lyle was going to be playing in Austin, of course we had to go because he is my favorite.  He wasn’t with his Large Band, but it was just him and the other aforementioned gentlemen and their respective guitars.  They had no set play list, and they each just took turns playing songs and telling stories, and it was just a very intimate and casual show.  They were all four very humorous and charming and enjoyable, and musically speaking, it was freaking awesome.  (My formal training is somewhat limited, but I believe “freaking awesome” is the technical term.)  Seriously, just four extremely talented men with their guitars.  John Hiatt was in especially rare form.  That cat was amazing.  But they were all wonderful. 

As I said to SD, while it was a much different experience than a heavy metal concert, the thing I enjoyed the most was the same thing I enjoyed most about seeing Nightwish–just watching these people who love music and enjoy playing together, there’s something quite touching about it.  

On Wednesday night (Tuesday night being our night to hang out with SD’s cousin’s family–proof positive that some things are just in the DNA, but that’s another blog) after dinner at Jeffrey’s, we went looking for some more live music, Austin being the Live Music Capital of the World and all (take that, Paris!), and eventually ended up at Nuno’s, watching a very talented blues musician whose name we never did get.  His band was interesting, as his bass player appeared to be twelve, and they were joined by a trumpet player who appeared to be out of his mind.  Oh, we were hep cats, sitting in the blues club and sipping our diet Cokes.  I noticed that one of the ladies dancing up front had apparently had a C-section at some point in her life.  For some reason that detail stuck in my memory and the name of the band escaped me.  What can I say? 

My life being what it is, I haven’t spent a lot of time in bars, be they blues clubs or otherwise, but whenever I’m in a bar, I always think how depressing it must be for people trying to meet other people in bars.  Do you ever see a happy couple and ask them how they met and they say, “Oh, we met in a bar”?  I’m sure such people exist, but if I were reduced to meeting potential romantic partners in bars, I think I would spend a significant percentage of my nights crying myself to sleep.  Maybe it would be different if I drank something stronger than diet Coke.  That’s neither here nor there.

The Sight-Seeing 

We saw the capital.  It’s big.  Nice-looking, too–made of Texas red granite.  Very pretty. 

We visited the Museum of the Weird, located in the Lucky Lizard shop on Sixth Street.  Free admission with purchase of a t-shirt, but we didn’t care for their t-shirts, so we paid the $3 per person to get in.  Freak of nature stuff–Fiji mermaid, shrunken heads, two-headed cows and two-bodied pigs–totally messed up.  I would have bought a post card, but it was just too gross. 

We went to three art galleries.  The first had an exhibit of art by local high school students.  That was better than one might expect.  I was impressed.  Then we saw some contemporary art by emerging Austin artists at the Austin Museum of Art.  Our favorite was the video by Jill Pangallo about her adventures with her custom-made twin doll.  That was surreal and wrong.  Just the way we like it.  And we went to the Mexic Arte Museum, where we saw contemporary art by Mexican-American artists and an exhibit of retablos.  Bonus.

We visited a myriad of shops that sold handmade kitsch and Dia de los Muertos stuff.  Also an antique shop, where we purchased an authentic stop sign for Elvis, despite the fact that it is somewhat heavy and could be used as a weapon.  We were in Texas, and everything seemed justifiable at the time.  We also spent about thirty seconds in a souvenir shop that smelled like my other son’s butt.  Not to be crass, but it was as if someone made soap out of my son’s butt and this store sold nothing but Eau de My Son’s Butt.  It permeated the entire facility.  It defied alternative explanations.

I am very careful about buying souvenirs, I think.  Or at least, if I’m careless, I feel guilty about it.  I already have so many possessions, and I don’t relish the thought of adding to my collection of useless crap.  But I am a sucker for the refrigerator magnets.  Why do I love refrigerator magnets?  Probably because they’re so easy to hang.  On this trip I bought three souvenir magnets–one with the Austin Museum of Art logo (to represent my art-viewing experience), one with a guitar (to represent the music-listening experience), and one that says, “You all may go to hell, and I will go to Texas” (because I’m just that way).

What Remained Unseen

So Austin is also famous for its Bats at Dusk.  Our hotel was right by the famous bat cave where all these bats live and at dusk they’re supposed to fly out and cover the sky with their bat-ness, but they never did show up.  I was somewhat disappointed.  I had really wanted to see some bats.  More particularly because I was not deprived of the experience of smelling the bats, and I just think that if you’re going to smell the bats, you should be able to see them, too.  Oh, well.  Maybe next time.

We didn’t take many pictures on this vacation, mostly because we kept forgetting to bring the camera with us, and also because we’re just really bad about taking pictures.  I’m especially bad at taking pictures of places, as opposed to people.  I just don’t know how to do it right.  Which is how I managed to visit New York ten years ago and not bring home a single photograph, no, not one.  But that’s another story.  Desparate for a material souvenir whereby to remember the concert at the Paramount–given that no merchandise was sold there and not even our tickets had all the performers’ names on them–we took some pictures of the marquee before they changed it.  Perhaps I will make a refrigerator magnet out of it someday.

 

Princess Zurg:  There was a boy in my class whose mom let him watch Spiderman 3 but wouldn’t  let him watch Corpse Bride, even though Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 and Corpse Bride is rated PG.  She said Corpse Bride was too gross.

Giraffemom:  Well, Corpse Bride is a little too macabre for some people.  You know, it’s got all those dead people and…maggots.

PZ:  But those maggots aren’t even real.

GM:  Yeah, well…

PZ:  And Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 for violence.  Corpse Bride only has one little duel in it.  And it doesn’t have any naked people in it, or anything disgusting like that.

GM:  No.

PZ:  What’s grosser, maggots or naked people?

GM:  Uh…I guess it depends on who’s naked.

PZ:  You mean, if the maggots are naked, they’re grosser, and if the people are naked, they’re grosser?

GM:  Something like that.

 

---

 

So those of you who have been studying for the exam might recall that I’m an assistant librarian at church.  They called me to the position a couple of years ago, and I remarked at the time that Ward Librarian was a position of extreme power among Mormons because librarians are the only individuals aside from the bishopric who have keys to the church library.  Why is the church library such a well-guarded facility?  I guess because electronic equipment is stored there.  Like old TV’s and DVD players and ancient cassette players.  Oh, and erasers.  People are always “borrowing” our erasers and “forgetting” to return them. 

Totally irrelevant aside:  We keep our chalk and erasers in an old wine crate.  The head librarian was conscientious enough to black out the words “Red Wine” but not the word “Mondavi.”  Nor was she conscientious enough to remove the paper towel that resides at the bottom of the crate that says, “Get me wet and I’ll erase for you.”  For some reason that disturbs me more than anything else I’ve seen at church in recent years.  End totally irrelevant aside.

Anyway, as I was saying, any jerk can get keys to the church building itself, but the key to the library is most precious above all other keys.  So naturally I was rubbing my hands with glee, anticipating the moment they bestowed one of these babies upon me.  Well.  There’s a scientific term for this phenomenon; it’s “premature gleeful-hand-rubbing.”  For about a year and a half I did not have any keys, to the building or the library, and every time I had library duty, I had to hunt down keys from one of the other librarians, or from one of the bishopric, and while it wasn’t like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and losing my toes to frostbite, it was still a trial for me to bear.  Inconvenience is the scourge of our modern times. 

About a year into this business, I became reconciled (mostly) to the fact that I was never getting a key to the library, and I would just have to settle for the power trip that accompanies eraser disposition.  I kept telling myself, “You know, self, it’s not that they don’t trust you.  It’s that they’re too lazy to make copies.  I mean, they’re too busy.  They are so busy, and they can hardly expect to make your individual library key a top priority, no matter how many times you and the head librarian keep reminding them that you still do not have a key, and you do in fact need one.  It’s not like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and getting frostbite.  At worst, it’s like being in a covered wagon and having a cold.  So you can just suck it up, self, and stop trying to rise above your station.”

Then a wonderful thing happened.  The bishopric member from whom I most frequently borrowed keys (because he lives down the street from me) came in one Sunday and presented me with a key to the church building.  Which, as I told you, is the key that any jerk can get–but still, it was more than I had before.  I was now equal to any jerk in the church.  That was nothing to be ashamed of.  Of course, I still needed a library key in order to discharge my librarian duties to the best of my ability–which I ever-so-humbly reminded him, whilst expressing extreme gratitude for the gift already given.  At which point he said, “Oh.  I thought you already had one of those.”  I so humbly and graciously told him that I had not that precious key, but I would be ever so indebted if he could procure one for me.  No pressure.  I’d just been waiting a year and a half, which was not remotely how long it must have seemed to the pioneers crossing the plains in bitter winter, on foot or otherwise. 

In spite of the fact that I was clearly not under any imminent threat, he promised that he would get me a key the following week.  And you know what?  Eventually he did.  And I’m proud to say that since I’ve assumed ownership of that key, I have not once let my rowdy friends into the library to watch unauthorized videos or erase things with wet paper towels.  I have been the very picture of responsibility.

Until I let Elvis play with my keyring with the iffy clasp and the keys to the church building and the library fell off.  Actually, a lot of things fell off–the grocery store club cards, the Blockbuster Rewards card, the tiny and purely decorative rape whistle–but I found all of those things in pretty short order.  The church and library keys were nowhere to be seen.  Naturally.

I didn’t panic initially.  I reasoned that since Elvis had most recently taken my keys down to the mailbox to get the mail (that’s his new favorite chore, second only to taking out the trash), the keys must be somewhere between our front door and the mailbox.  Which is across the street.  Yes, I let him cross the street by himself.  “Street” is really an overstatement–it’s more like ”a stretch of asphalt separating my sidewalk from my neighbor’s sidewalk, that sometimes cars drive on.”  Okay, this is really a topic for another blog.  Forget I told you where the mailbox was.  Suffice it to say that I visually scoured every inch of the path that Elvis would have taken to get the mail–and I found a couple of decorative doohickeys from my keychain that had been missing for several days–but no church keys.  I’ve always been afraid that Elvis would accidentally drop my keys into one of the gutters and I’d never see them again, and if you think I didn’t check the gutters–twice–you are mistaken.  That’s when I realized they (the keys) could be anywhere.  Possibly even in my house–meaning that I might never find them!  Augh!  This was when the panic started.

Knowing that if I told the head mucky-mucks that I’d lost my keys–not just the key to the church building, which any jerk can get and which jerks lose all the time, which is why they have to keep re-coding it, but also the coveted, most-precious-above-all-other-keys library key–I had about as much chance of getting replacement keys as I did of getting my pre-pregnancy breasts replaced.  Short of a miracle, it was simply not going to happen.  And it’s not like they would have relieved me of my librarian duties, since I was obviously not to be trusted with church property.  No, they would keep me as assistant ward librarian, forcing me to keep borrowing keys year after year, mocking me with their power–power that I would never again hold, so long as I lived.  It would be a little mini-hell, not unlike what the pioneers went through when they got to Utah and there were no department stores yet. 

So in desperation, I told my kids that my Very Important Keys had been lost and that whoever found them, I would buy that person a Webkinz.  (Is Webkinz an acceptable singular, or should it be Webkin?  This is the question I always ask myself, unless I am too worried about my keys.)  To be perfectly frank, I didn’t expect I would have to deliver on that promise, as I am a pessimist and believe that once something is lost, it can never be found again, all historical evidence to the contrary.  At some level I probably believed that God was punishing me for my negligence.  Letting my five-year-old borrow the keys so he could get the mail, which is across the street–tsk tsk. 

Anyway, I knew I was being extreme, but on the other hand, I really wanted my keys back.  I wanted them at least $13.99 worth.  So I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations and decided that the worst thing that could possibly happen was that I never found my keys.  The second-worst thing would be that both of the older kids found the keys simultaneously and I’d have to buy two new Webkinz and Mister Bubby would say that was unfair because now Princess Zurg would have three and he’d only have two, which would remind Princess Zurg that some kids have seven Webkinz, and we’re really falling behind in the showering-children-with-gifts department, and they would both (continue to) grow up with this disgusting sense of entitlement and they’d never succeed in the real world.  So that’s why I did what I did.

The next 24 hours I just spent re-reconciling myself to the fact that I was never going to have keys to the library.  Then, on Tuesday, we were coming home from swimming lessons, and as Elvis was unlocking the door (with my utterly replaceable house key), Mister Bubby spied the church keys on the welcome mat.  Yes, the welcome mat.  The one that’s right in front of the freaking door.  Now, I assure you people that I had looked all around the door, including that area with the welcome mat, including the welcome mat itself, and the keys were not there.  So make of that what you will.  This was either a test of my faith–which I think I failed–or it was fate smiling on MB, who has been yearning for a Bengal Tiger Webkin(z) for about three months.  Maybe it was both. 

So yesterday, true to my word–and ever so happy to be in possession of all my keys again–I took MB down to the local Webkinz dealer and I bought him a Bengal Tiger.  You know, I still don’t really “get” what Webkinz is all about.  It’s not a fad I ever would have bought into, except that my (or should I say the kids’?) babysitter bought MB and PZ Webkinz for Christmas, and the two have been obsessed with their online pets ever since.  Like I said, I’m still not real clear about what the deal is with these things–they could be part of some weird cult or an international slave trade, for all I know.  For the first couple months the kids had their Webkinz, I didn’t take any interest because a) I’m a busy person and I have my own frivolity to see to, and b) I’m generally negligent.  Then one day MB called me over to see the new swimming pool he’d bought for his Panda, so I went over and looked, and there was this panda bear wearing swim trunks and taking a swim in a pool–and I just about died because it was just the cutest thing I had ever seen. 

Do you get it?  It’s a panda bear and he’s wearing clothes, swimming in a pool, brushing his teeth and sleeping in a hammock, just like he’s people.  It’s beyond adorable.  Maybe a small part of me wanted this Bengal Tiger just for my own enjoyment, and that’s why I lost my keys in the first place.  The Lord works in a mysterious way, that’s all I know. 

 

---

 

Giraffemom:  Mister Bubby, that Bengal Tiger is freaking adorable.

Mister Bubby:  I know.  What should I name him?

GM:  I don’t know.  What do you want to name him?

MB:  Well, one thing’s for sure.  I’m not naming him Jeffrey.

GM:  No, he doesn’t look like a Jeffrey.

MB:  Maybe “Teeny.”  No, that’s a girl’s name.

GM:  Yes, “Teeny” is a tad effeminate for a tiger.

MB:  I know.  How about “Tigey”?

GM:  That sounds…appropriate.

Recently my sister, bythelbs, had a “crazy search terms” contest (which I won, and not because of nepotism but because I rock the crazy-search-terms world). Ordinarily I don’t make a habit of looking at the search terms stats on my blog because it’s like those people who get the genealogy bug and just get obsessed with tracing their roots–I get caught up in the story of how people arrive at my web site, which is clearly inappropriate for most of these people’s needs.  I also discover that a lot of people show up here looking for child pornography–a scenario I do not like to think about, unless I make up some elaborate fairy-tale ending in which the sicko pervs are so charmed by my wit and shennanigans that they are inspired to pursue more wholesome forms of entertainment for the rest of their lives.  (Note to sicko pervs:  Get off the internet.  Save yourselves.)

However, I couldn’t resist this time.  There were way too many of these gems to post on my sister’s site, so I gave her the best ones and you’re getting the leftovers.  Just kidding.  (Well, no offense, kids, but there was a contest going on.)

“come with me little girl on a magic carp”:  Obviously, this is supposed to be a search for Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride,” but doesn’t a magic carp sound a lot more interesting? 

“toilet stomach gurgle puke or vomit”:  Only the story of my LIFE.

“gay life in oregon”:  Oregon is a great place for the gay life.  So is this blog.

“big boobs amateur”:  As opposed to the professional big boobs.  There’s a difference.  You might say there’s a big difference.

“i am confused and i do not know what to”:  Me either, my friend.  Me either.

“potty training donkeys”:  I don’t get it.  What’s with all the potty training searches? 

“how to pump a stomach at home”:  !!!

“mormon and ‘elimination communication’”:  I would love to know how these two things intersect in the searcher’s mind.  Is he or she looking for a Mormon approach to elimination communication?  The Mormon doctrinal position on elimination communication?  There is that widespread belief that Mormon women plan to spend eternity being pregnant and giving birth, so I guess it follows logically that we would also spend eternity toilet training.  In which case it looks like I really have made my home a heaven on earth.

“how to pronounce gefilte”:  Like it’s spelled, meshuggah goy!

“bottom costume midsummer”:  At first I thought this was another one of those sicko perv things, and then I realized it was just some naive Shakespeare lover.  I can’t remember the last time I Googled with such innocence.

“mormons doctrine of losing reproductive”:  What?  Losing reproductive what?  Reproductive rights?  Reproductive capabilities?  Reproductive organs?  Where do I sign up?

“duran’s ‘infested tone’”:  I’m sure this could only have led to one of my many posts on Duran Duran.  This has not heretofore been public knowledge, but it’s in my blog mission statement to bring culture to the masses.  I’m glad I could make a difference.

“can tuna ahi fish be eaten by sda member”:  It’s also in my mission statement to educate the masses on the dietary habits of Seventh-day Adventists, especially as it relates to foods rich in Omega-3 fatty acids.

“why cant mormons go out on sundays”:  Because Sunday is when we stay home and use our reproductive before we lose it.

“lisa jangles”:  Okay, this was the name of Sugar Daddy’s first character on Knights of the Old Republic.  He let Mister Bubby name her, and MB was actually planning to marry her when he grew up, but then he turned five and moved on to other ladies.  Or maybe he hasn’t.  Maybe he’s on the internet looking for his childhood sweetheart.  Maybe Lisa Jangles is the name of a famous porn star.  Maybe MB isn’t allowed to use the computer anymore.  I’m going to stop talking about this.

“how did odin lose his eye”:  This is where SD wipes away a tear and wonders how he got so lucky to have a wife who quotes Manowar songs on her blog.

“things mormans wont tell you about”:  Here’s something I will tell you about, dude–it’s MorMON.  MorMON, dammit!

“wacky mormon beliefs”:  You might try to narrow your search a little, buddy.

“yoplait lite ’seamstress’”:  I am racking my brain trying to think of how low-fat yogurt relates to needlework.  I’ve got nothing.  I’m throwing it out to you all now.

“mistress + toilet training”:  And I thought my life was hard.

“nymphomaniac blog mormon”:  I’m pretty sure every Mormon gal with a blog shows up on this search, but I’m probably the only one who actually gets visited as a result of such a search.  Why?  Because I’ve got the toileting posts and the cultural stuff to recommend me.  This is where it all intersects, baby. 

I’m calling Pennsylvania for Hillary. 

But I think Obama will beat the spread.  I don’t even know what that means; I just like the way it sounds. 

Once the Right decided to rally ’round McCain, circling the wagons and whatnot, they really went whole-hog–if I may use the expression “whole-hog.”  Is isn’t politically incorrect, is it?  Though I guess if it is, it’s still appropriate to use when you’re talking about Republicans, eh?  (Not because Republicans are pigs, but because they’re politically incorrect.  Or maybe because they are pigs.  Suit yourself.)  Anyway, as I mentioned in a recent post, I think they’ve been going a little overboard on their Obama-bashing–probably because they think he’s going to be the nominee. 

I myself am not so sure.  Random-jokes-I’ve-made-in-the-past aside, I really don’t favor one Democratic candidate over the other.  Policy-wise, they’re enough alike that I just can’t develop a real preference.  Yes, I know they’re not exactly the same.  I don’t think all Koreans look alike either, okay?  I’m just saying that when you don’t like peanut butter, you really can’t develop a hankering for Jif over Skippy or vice versa.  All I know is that I’ve never cared for Peter Pan, and I’m really glad John Edwards is out of the race, too.  Okay, the peanut butter analogy isn’t working for me because I love peanut butter and even though Peter Pan is not my favorite, it’s still way more appealing than John Edwards will ever be.  Unless John Edwards became mute.  Maybe if he were forced to eat a dozen Peter Pan peanut-butter sandwiches and he hadn’t got milk–no, wait, I’m just talking crazy now.  What was I saying?

Oh yeah.  I’m not sure who’s going to win this nomination.  I doubted Hillary once, before New Hampshire–but I won’t make that mistake again.  I knew she’d get Texas, but when she got Ohio, too, I thought, “Dude, I am totally never doubting the Hillster again.”  I call her the Hillster sometimes.  Like just now.  Anyway, it’s true that one of my reasons for never underestimating the Hillster is that I simply won’t put anything past her.  And by “won’t put anything past her,” I don’t mean like selling nuclear secrets to Iran.  I’m talking everything short of that.  (The Clintons may be sneaky, but they’re still patriots.)

On the other hand, Obama is still Obama.  He doesn’t have a name I can easily transform into something hip and ridiculous–unless I went with “the Obamanator” (hey, that’s not bad)–but he’s still very appealing.  For one thing, he seems nice.  Doesn’t he?  For another thing, he’s still the candidate of hope and change.  For yet another thing, he is not Hillary.  One should never underestimate the importance of not being Hillary.  But are hope and change and not being Hillary enough to propel him to the nomination?  I don’t know.  He doesn’t strike me as being ruthless enough to get those SuperDelegates.  But I don’t even understand what SuperDelegates are all about in the first place, so what do I know?

I have not read any of Obama’s books.  I haven’t read Hillary’s books, either, so they’re even.  I’m waiting for Hillary to write her real autobiography, at which time I will totally be reading it–unless Bill’s real biography comes out at the same time, in which case hers would have to take a back seat, no offense to her.  I’m not particularly interested in It Takes a Village.  Similarly, I’m not particularly interested in Barack’s The Audacity of Hope.  No offense to hope, I’m just not interested.  I have been meaning to read Dreams from My Father, but just haven’t gotten around to it yet. 

A couple weeks ago Hugh Hewitt started playing lengthy excerpts from the audio-book version of Dreams (read by Barack himself) on his radio program.  The first thing he played was an excerpt that had Barack using the F-word a lot.  (They bleeped it, of course, but it was still pretty obvious.)  Hugh Hewitt seemed to think that people wouldn’t like a presidential candidate who records his own book on tape and says the actual F-word actually himself–that being on audio record using such language is unbefitting the dignity of the office and Americans would be turned off.  Most of his callers (none of whom were Democrats and none of whom planned to vote for Obama) disagreed.

I disagreed, too (and I wasn’t even a caller).  While voters make decisions based on some pretty superficial criteria, I don’t think anybody makes a voting decision based on a candidate’s audio book.  Because you know, year after year politicians come out with these books, promising they’ll be interesting or educational, but they never are, and after years of hearing all these promises of interesting books and never seeing any evidence of it in their own libraries, folks get bitter and frustrated and cling to the stuff they know is constant, like guns and religion.  Obama understands this, which is why you can’t count him out. 

On the other hand, he does seem to be heading on a downward spiral as of late.  In my opinion, the Jeremiah Wright thing is on the back burner for now, but it would certainly resurface in the general election, whether it deserves to or not.  On the other hand, who really cares about Jeremiah Wright?  It’s impossible for me to gauge because I don’t care about Jeremiah Wright, but that’s because I don’t care about Obama.  However, Obama’s performance in the last debate was, by all accounts, lame.  I heard some clips on the radio and read the transcript on the internet, and I have to agree with all accounts:  he was lame.  Hillary was on her game–but when you consider the strength of her game when it’s on and the wind is blowing in the right direction, how much does that really mean?  She was less lame.  But what do I know?  I prefer Skippy.

I hope Democrats don’t mind that I’m poaching y’all’s primary–because there just ain’t nothing going on over at GOP headquarters.  Make that GOP-HQ, I like the sound of that, too.

Some commentators on the right seem to be laboring under the impression–or fantasy–that the Democrats are going to have a brokered convention and they could very well end up pulling a candidate out of their collective ass (pun intended–oh, like you wouldn’t have done the same in my position) and nominating some random guy like Al Gore.  The wonks over at National Review keep telling me it could happen, but I think they’re just trying to get attention.  Democrats seem to like the Al Gore, but I don’t think common folks would take too kindly to having all their primary votes ignored.  Also, I don’t think Al Gore wants to be president anymore.  I think he’s found his niche in life.  He seems happy.  Why would he run for President, when he’s already aging so poorly? 

In the interest of entertainment, though, I’ll throw this question out to the audience.  If the race were suddenly thrown wide open (short of a Constitutional change that would allow foreign-born citizens to become President–I mean, let’s not get too crazy), who would you want to run?  Nominate candidates for either party or both.  This is an open primary, so to speak.  An open primary in Chicago, where you can vote twice, even if you’re dead.  Maybe especially if you’re dead.  (But don’t tell me you’re dead just to creep me out.)  Mi comment box es su comment box.  (That’s a nod to you voters who are still hung up on the immigration issue.)  Go!

Sugar Daddy:  Are you trying to tell me something with all these romantic movies in your queue?

Madhousewife:  They’re not romantic movies.  They’re movies without stuff blowing up.  I can’t watch them when I’m with you because you always want the movies with stuff blowing up.

SD:  Why would you want to watch a movie without stuff blowing up?

Mad:  Exactly.

I’ve been out of the loop for a while, what with tap dancing and party planning and all manner of needless distraction, so I’m just now getting back into the news of the world.  Oh, okay, not the world, just my own country.  I’ll get back to the world tomorrow.  What’s the hurry?  The world’s problems will always be with us.  Sensationalized American news stories only stay relevant for so long. 

Tempest-in-a-teapot stories have the shortest shelf lives, so I’ll start there.  I’ve been reading about this remark that Barack Obama made at a fundraiser a little over a week ago:

But the truth is, is that, our challenge is to get people persuaded that we can make progress when there’s not evidence of that in their daily lives. You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.

Now, that’s offensive on a couple different levels, but not something I would have considered noteworthy, were it not for the fact that Hillary Clinton responded by calling Obama’s remarks “elitist.”  Excuse me for just a minute.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Okay, sorry about that, couldn’t be helped.  Seriously, Hil?  Seriously?  I mean, I expect this sort of commentary from right-wingers, who are quick to take umbrage at lefties calling folks racist gun-nut Jesus freaks just because they don’t always vote their pocketbooks the way they should.  But are you really trying to tell me that you yourself don’t personally subscribe to every word of Obama’s ill-considered characterization of Pennsylvanians who aren’t buying what he’s selling? 

Oh, sure, you’d be smart enough not to say anything until after you lost the primary.  True, true, there’s a lot to be said for timely elitism as opposed to premature elitism.  But still.  Seriously?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ah, that’s a good one.

 

---

 

Speaking of Hillary and her famous non-elitism, I wish she’d stop dropping the g’s from her -ing verbs whenever she gets in front of an audience she suspects is less educated than she is.  Her husband can get away with that that.  He’s from Arkansas.  George W. Bush can get away with it, too, because he talks like an uncultured rube in front of everyone.  Hillary, on the other hand, needs to just stop it. right. now. because it’s getting on my nerves.  Seriously–no, really, seriously serious this time, no laughing–it is not even remotely endearing because it is so obviously phony and condescending.  As Obama might say, you’re likeable enough, Hillary.  Just be yourself and don’t try so hard. 

I said, no laughing!

 

---

 

This one is a little musty, but in the interest of bipartisan sniping, I am also going to condemn my fellow right-wing nutjobs for commenting on Obama’s recent remarks about the importance of sex education.  Speaking of his own daughters, ages 9 and 6, he said, “I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don’t want them punished with a baby.”  He also said he wouldn’t want them punished with a sexually transmitted disease.  So naturally social conservatives jumped on this and said it demonstrates that Obama must think the following:

Baby = Punishment

Baby = STD

And then they said it was understandable, given that Obama has something like a 100 rating from NARAL.  If he favors abortion, of course he thinks babies are punishments!  They’re like STD’s! 

Okay, number one, that’s stupid.

Number two, just drop the “every child is a blessing no matter what circumstances he or she is born under” business because I don’t hear this kind of rhetoric when the subject is how much out-of-wedlock births hurt our society. 

Number three, Obama may be “articulate” and “clean,” but he’s still a mortal man.  Honest people should concede that this was just an imperfect way of saying, “Having a baby when you’re a teenager tends to screw up your life.”  Is it a death sentence?  Is it the end of the world?  No, but it’s still not every father’s dream for his little girl.  Nor is an STD, for that matter.  So let’s just drop this and focus on him being an elitist.  Hillary needs our help.

Well, that’s it for today.  I’ve got some lunch to make and some babies to be punished by.  Catch you crazy kids later.

Dear Princess Zurg,

Today you turned 10. That means you’ve been here with us for a full decade, and also that I feel old.

I was just thinking about how grown-up you’ve become. Today we hosted the biggest birthday party of your partying career. Fourteen of your friends came. (It rained, of course.) You got along well with everyone, even the annoying kids, and accepted all of your gifts graciously. I was especially impressed later in the day, when your brother made a comment in front of your friend that might have embarrassed her, but you quickly changed the subject. That was mature and thoughtful, and I was very pleased with you.

I was also pleased that you weren’t too mature for a rousing game of Pin the Fork on Lord Barkis. You’ll be in double digits a long time. There’s no need to grow up too fast.

Happy Birthday, my sweet girl,

Mommy

This might be the weirdest thing I have ever seen.

My initial response was, “I wanted to like that. But I think it just made me really uncomfortable.” Then I decided to watch it again. Why? I don’t know. Do you ever pass by a really bad traffic accident and then decide to go back and have another look? Me either. And yet I did here. I can’t explain myself.

On second viewing, I thought maybe I did like it. Because it is just that bad. It’s really bad. On the other hand, it is also awesome. How can I reconcile these two facts? I should watch it again. And yet, I should not. I should let the thing die. I should not post it on my blog. So why is it here?

I think that maybe, rather than being like watching a bad traffic accident, it is like pressing on a bruise to convince myself that it doesn’t hurt that much. See, I’m pressing on it and it doesn’t hurt that much. Except that it does. It hurts worse. But then I start to think I like to hurt. That’s what this video is like.

HT: Mormon Mommy Wars. Thanks for nothing, ladies.