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So I just finished watching Season 3 of Veronica Mars. Two words:
SUCKITUDE. DEFINED.
Honestly? My heart hurts. You hear that awful RRRRIIIIP followed by the squish! squish! squish!–? That is my heart being torn out and stomped on by Veronica Mars.
You suck, Veronica Mars. I will never love another TV show again.
On the plus side, I will get a lot more sleep.
Several years ago my father had tickets to see Man of La Mancha starring Robert Goulet. As his wife (my step-mother) was out of town, he invited me to go with him, and of course I was PSYCHED because come on–Robert Goulet, Man of La Mancha? Does it get better than that?
Answer: Maybe. I’ll never know because the show ended up being cancelled because Mr. Goulet was ill. Since my father was in the mood to go out, we went to a movie instead. I don’t want to tell you which one. Okay, it was Bowfinger.
Goulet would have been better. Le sigh.
So I have a fashion dilemma, which is not unusual for me, given the paucity of my wardrobe, which I’ve already explained is the result of my impossibly high standards–or is it just my aversion to shopping? Let history judge me. For now, I am puzzling over a couple things:
1. Halloween
As you longtime readers know, I dislike Halloween. I don’t pretend to have religious objections to it, although I wish I could claim such high principles. Alas, it is nothing more complicated than me being an old fuddy-duddy who wouldn’t know a good time if it sat on her. I am what I am, kids. If only my husband could accept me this way, but no, he’s always trying to change me. He never doth learn.
Last year I made his holiday by dressing up for the first time in, I don’t know, eight years? Nine? If you missed that blogging event, I was Hester Prynne. It was a really good costume. Nobody got it, but that was okay. I was only trying to please my man, as they say. Anyway, I’m trying to decide this year if I want to dress up again, or if I’m going to go back to my old fuddy-duddy ways. The Hester Prynne costume is in storage at our Real House, and as I’ve said repeatedly, I don’t like going back there, and also, it’s highly probable that it is not in the garage anyway, but with all the other clothing they took out of our closet to be professionally cleaned. (Which is too bad, because if I’d just retained the smoke-enveloped thing, I could have gone as Goody Proctor being burned at the stake. Except I think they hanged Goody Proctor. Well, whatever. Like anyone would have gotten that either.) So I don’t know what I would dress up as anyway.
We pause for tangentially related marriage anecdote.
My husband bought himself a new Slipknot mask this year. It’s creepier than last year’s. He’s already abused the privilege of owning it. A few weeks ago we were retiring for the evening, and after brushing my teeth and/or powdering my nose or whatever it is we ladies do in our master bathrooms, I entered the master bedroom and started turning down the bed, when I happened to glance up and see this face peeking out from the bedroom curtains:
*
*Only without the fake eyeballs.
Naturally, I screamed like a horror movie bimbo, and just as naturally he laughed his freaking head off.
“Why did you do that?!?” I asked (with great forcefulness, as evidenced by the multiple punctuation marks). I may have thrown something at him, but I probably missed, as I was still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
“Because it was funny,” he said, still chuckling.
“No, it wasn’t. It was mean.”
“I thought you’d notice right away, but you just came out and went about your business, and I wanted to see what your reaction would be…” Blah blah blah, he just kept laughing.
Then, as we always pray together before going to bed, whether we feel like it or not, I said, “I’m going to pray that you stop being a jerk.”
“Then you’ll be praying for a long time,” he said.
No doubt.
Fuddy-duddy it is.
2. Thursday’s Nightwish concert
Not content with the surreality of his fuddy-duddy housewife appearing at a symphonic heavy metal concert, my husband would like me to dress the part of a “metal chick.” The problem is that I’m not sure I know what a “metal chick” would dress like. I’m not sure the husband does either. In my day “metal chicks” wore mullets and poorly applied eye makeup. I’d do a number of unsavory things for my husband–dressing up for Halloween being one of them–but I absolutely refuse to get a mullet. He says he’d be satisfied with fishnets and black lipstick. (But then what would I wear, honey? Ba-dum-bum!) That’s more goth than metal, but then, I suppose there’s probably such a thing as goth metal–I mean, why not?–but I have not been hip to most of these cultural trends, so what would I know? I may decide to go the ironic route and show up in a cardigan sweater and chinos. And a baseball cap. Soccer mom metal!
It’s hard to embarrass my husband, but I think that might actually do the trick.
Any suggestions? You know how seriously I take all of this, I hope.
So last Friday’s Featured Question on the Xanga was “Should religion be taught in public schools?”–which is an interesting question, because if I read it one way, my answer is “Of course not,” but if I read it another way, my answer is “Good heavens, no!” but for entirely different reasons.
In my opinion, it’s clearly unconstitutional to “teach religion in public school” in the sense of indoctrinating students with religious doctrines. As in, Teacher stands up in class and informs students that Jesus died for their sins and they have to accept him as their personal savior in order to avoid eternal damnation.* (Or, alternatively, Teacher gets up and informs students that, I dunno, if they do bad stuff they’ll get bad karma and be reincarnated with a crappy life. My Hinduism is, um, sketchy. My apologies.) Unconstitutional, inappropriate and rather a waste of time on top of that. Whether particular expressions of a religious nature, e.g. student-led prayer, extra-curricular Bible clubs, etc., are unconstitutional is not something I wish to explore here (because I’m on a schedule, okay?).
*When I was in the sixth grade, a substitute teacher performed an impromptu passion play during a language arts lesson. Everyone was really uncomfortable. Which, if I recall correctly, was the gist of his message: Crucifixion ≠ Comfortable.
On the other hand, it’s not unconstitutional to teach about religion in public school, and Stephen Prothero of Boston University thinks our society would be better off if our citizens were more religiously literate. He says that it would improve public discourse. He wrote a book about all this. (You can take his religious literacy quiz, if this blog starts to bore you and you need something else to do.) His is a compelling argument. I can tell you that I thought many times, whilst in college, that various works of literature and many historical events-slash-trends were easier to understand in light of the religious cultural context. (At this time I also went to church with a woman who taught English in the public schools, and she said she found it very difficult to teach Paradise Lost without bringing up religion. And I thought, “You people teach Paradise Lost in high school?” Aside from Shakespeare and Beowulf, my high school teachers didn’t show us anything that was written in English prior to the The Scarlet Letter. But that may have been a California thing.)
However, as noble and constitutional as Professor Prothero’s (try saying that three times fast–on second thought, try saying it once, at all) proposed religious literacy curriculum is, when I think of how such classes would “work” in real life, with real public school teachers and real public school students, I can only say, “Good luck with that.”
Number one: There’s no unringing that no-religion-in-public-school bell that was sounded back in the twentieth century. My generation, at least, has been successfully trained to faint at the mere mention of God in a non-private setting. Even persons of faith have been known to squirm at the sight of the Ten Commandments on display, just out there for anyone, regardless of their religious beliefs, to see. (Shocking!)* It would probably take neurosurgery to cure us of this response.
(*Note: Not that I contend that posting the Ten Commandments is a politically neutral issue, but I do think people tend to get hysterical when protesting such displays. Seriously, is this what most offends you about your environment? If so, you’re either extremely lucky or extremely unobservant. I wish I had such indignation to spare.)
Number two: Can you imagine trying to teach a course in the Bible to teenagers, who think they know everything? Everyone, regardless of his or her religious upbringing or background, will have a chip on his or her shoulder. And if you’re unlucky enough to have both evangelical Christian and Mormon students in your class, just run for the flipping hills. That is not a dynamic you want to engage. I haven’t even gotten to the part where every kid feels persecuted and put-upon, and their parents threaten to sue you in case you haven’t already rotted in hell. Seriously, just hand them a bunch of sticks and let them start beating each other. It would be just as educational.
I’m in kind of a cynical mood today. Maybe not the best time to ask me about religion in public life. Hm.
As long as I’m on the subject, though, Richard Land of the Southern Baptist Convention’s Ethics & Religious Liberty Commission has said that Mormonism is the “fourth Abrahamic religion,” the first three being Judaism, Christianity and Islam. This strikes some as being less offensive than the usual characterization of Mormonism as a dangerous cult, but it tends to rub Mormons the wrong way because we just can’t seem to let go of this idea that everyone should accept us as “real” Christians. I used to feel that way. It’s a recipe for perpetual disappointment. My husband gave up calling himself a Christian years ago. These days I’m mostly agnostic on the subject, but I’m not sure I prefer the dignity of “fourth Abrahamic religion” to the kitschy flash of “cult.” Actually, I like to think of Mormonism as the “bastard child of Christianity,” but I don’t think that one’s going to catch on, with Mormons, Baptists or the press.
This reminds me of when I was growing up in the church and use of the word “Mormon” (to describe ourselves) was somewhat discouraged. Someone got the idea that if we never referred to ourselves as Mormons but always said that we belonged to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, people might start to believe that we were Christians. Which was nothing more than wishful thinking, but that’s beside the point. I’ve never liked using the church’s official name, mostly because it’s way too long. Seriously, maybe they had time to carry around that cumbersome moniker in the nineteenth century, but no one has time to listen to a name like that anymore, let alone speak it. If someone asks you what religion you are and you respond with “I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” the reaction you’re most likely to get is either, “Mormons, eh?” or alternatively, “Huh-wha?”–in which case you’ll eventually end up telling them you’re Mormon anyway, because that religion people have heard of.
And I’ve never thought that “the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” sounded any less culty than “Mormon.” Actually, it sounds more culty, because if you need that many words to describe your organization, it’s got to mean that you’re hiding something. Maybe that’s why self-referring as “Mormon” came back into vogue in the church a few years ago.*
*COJCOLDS President Gordon B. Hinckley said that “Mormon” should mean “more good.” I say “Mormon” should mean “Mo Betta,” but again, no one’s asking me to write the AP Stylebook.
As long as I’m being totally random, I read a news article the other day about the use of tribal names for sports teams. Dennis Prager was discussing this once on his radio show, and a caller who found the practice offensive asked Dennis how he would feel if a team wanted to call itself the Fighting Jews. I think Dennis’s reply was something like, after the last 3,000 years he’d be overjoyed to learn that the Jews had fans. Which is funny, ha ha, but it got me to thinking, what if there were a team called the Mormons? (No qualifier necessary, as the mere specter of those clean-cut boys in white shirts and ties is enough to strike fear in the heart of any opponent, except maybe those Fighting Amish.) I’ve never understood why BYU’s team was called the “Cougars.” What is that, a “mountain” thing, I guess? Seems kind of lame to me.
Which reminds me:
I couldn’t think of anything to blog about, so I thought I might answer the Xanga Featured Question.
Do you think technology breeds isolation?
submitted by The_First_Snow
Answer: Yes.
Um…that’s all I got.
Then I thought I’d try current events, but all that’s going on is the fires in Southern California. That’s just sad. I have nothing to say about it except that I hate fire. And I’m very grateful that my experience with it has been limited.
I was glad to receive an e-mail from my stepmother informing us that she and my Dad and my grandparents are all okay and not ablaze down there. I always assume that they’re not on fire, unless I hear otherwise, which doesn’t really make sense because if they were in the middle of a big crisis, they wouldn’t really be able to drop me an e-mail or give me a ringy-ding, now would they? And yet my default position is to assume everyone in my family is safe. I was glad to get the e-mail confirming it, though, because usually my mother-in-law calls wanting to know if some member of my family who lives in an area currently plagued by a natural disaster or a serial killer is safe, and I have to say, “Uh…I think so. I guess.” That’s kind of embarrassing.
Speaking of e-mail, though, my sister e-mailed me a recipe a couple days ago and as an aside asked me what I thought of J.K. Rowling’s Outing of Dumbledore stunt. I remember last week seeing some headline on a news web site, “Harry Potter Character Is Gay” or something similar, and me thinking, “So the freak what?” I didn’t even click on the link because a) who cares? and b) big deal. I mean, the books have all been written and the series is over, so…whatever. So I didn’t even know it was Dumbledore until I read some random comment on someone else’s Xanga, and my reaction to it was something like, “Huh. Well, that makes sense.” I mean, it’s not crazy. Not like if she’d tried to tell us that Minerva McGonagle was a lesbian. I mean, just because we still have that childlike innocence that allows us to enjoy her books doesn’t mean we were born yesterday, you know what I’m saying?
Speaking of books, though, I just finished reading Uglies by Scott Westerfeld. Initially I was pleased to learn that it was first in a trilogy, because I was enjoying reading it, but when I got to the end and it was a major cliffhanger, I was somewhat annoyed. Now I have to lay my hands on a copy of Pretties and hope that it comes to a more satisfying conclusion, although that isn’t particularly likely, since there’s that business of a trilogy needing a third book to be complete. What is he going to call the third one, anyway? Great Personalities?
Speaking of Uglies, though, I did enjoy the story, but I have to say that the opening line did not inspire confidence. “The sky was the color of cat vomit.” Sure, the narrator goes on to explain, you would have to feed your cat a lot of salmon or tuna or something to get all the pinks just so, but still, if you did feed your cat all that fish and the cat got sick, its vomit would look a lot like the sunset over New Pretty Town. Nice try, but where I come from that’s called A Dark and Stormy Night contest entry that was disqualified for not being a run-on sentence. But Westerfeld is a successful author and I’m housewife with a free blog, so who am I to judge? (I did really enjoy the book, overall, and look forward to more puke metaphors in the next installment.)
It’s cold and overcast outside, the kids are watching Barney inside, and all I have is the internet to amuse me. I’m feeling very isolated, all of a sudden.
My husband collects hotel key cards. I just found another one, honey. In the back pocket of the jeans you wore in San Jose (I’m assuming)–in case you were wondering where that pesky thing went.
As the Supreme Director for the Disposition of Dirty Clothes in the Madhousehold, I am responsible for going through everyone’s pockets to make sure that I am not accidentally laundering money, important receipts or phone numbers, candy wrappers, gum, facial tissues, ball point pens, crayons, or any other non-launderable and possibly destructive thing along with the items that have legitimate laundering needs. When I say “everyone’s” pockets, I really mean my husband’s pockets because no one else in the house utilizes pockets to the same extent he does. Most of my children’s pants don’t even have pockets, and those children whose pants do have pockets are wont to put in them things unlikely to escape my notice during a casual search–things like rocks and their parents’ cell phones and such. (For about a week Girlfriend was carrying in her jacket pocket a sales tag that had a picture of a baby on it, and she’d take it out and look at it fondly every so often, but that is not a usual occurrence.) I put things in my pockets now and then–stuff like change or ponytail bands or keys–but really only in my right front pocket, because I am right-handed and apt to pick up or handle things primarily with my right hand, and it would be awkward to put it in any left pocket, and it just never occurs to me to put it in a back pocket. Why would I do that, when I’ve got a front pocket? That is the question.
I think that men use their pockets more than women do. Maybe because women have purses. But I don’t know. It isn’t necessarily as convenient to stuff something in a purse instead of a pocket, but then, what is the justification for carrying around a purse if you’re not going to stuff things in it? And too many things at that. But I digress. My husband sticks all kinds of things in his pockets, and not just in one particular pocket, but every single pocket he has. While I was growing up, my dad often extolled the virtues of pockets, and specifically the virtues of clothing articles which contained more pockets than the average. My dad definitely didn’t carry a purse. But it wasn’t because he was too macho for one. He would have carried one, if he thought it would be more convenient and practical than using pockets, but obviously he didn’t think that, because who would? Besides a woman, I mean. Because to us it’s less about the utility than the accessorizing. A cute handbag is a good accessory. Pants full of pockets which are in turn full of keys and rubbish do not qualify.
Back to my husband’s pockets, which I’ve just finished emptying, and here is what was in them (every single one, mind you, not just one or two):
money
receipts
hotel key
multiple candy wrappers
paper napkin
assorted hardware
This is about par for the course–the most dangerous (in the laundry sense of the word) item being the paper napkin, which is really not so much “dangerous” as “filled with potential to be highly annoying though not as annoying as a paper tissue”–but there have been times when I conducted less-than-adequate searches of the pockets and missed things like a tube of Carmex (not pretty) and a USB flash drive (takes a licking and keeps on ticking!) and a black Sharpie marker (fine point, not that it matters–I mean, how do you miss an entire pen?). Sometimes if I find items such as these after the laundering cycle but before the drying cycle, I can still divert disaster, but that’s neither here nor there.
I used to resent Sugar Daddy for not going through his own *#$*&* pockets before putting them in the laundry (particularly when the pockets contain valuables–though I admit I’ve never been upset about finding the money), but that was just so much wasted energy and bad karma. This is not meant to be a rant against my own honeybunch or men in general. For one thing, I can totally understand why SD would be putting lip balm and USB drives and marking pens in his pockets. Sans purse, what else should he be doing? I can’t blame him for forgetting about these things when they’re out of sight, either. As often as I’ve turned around and forgotten what on earth I turned around for, I can hardly judge anyone else harshly in this department. No, what I don’t understand is a) the vast amount of trash that accumulates (is he never near a garbage can?) and b) all the usage of back and left pockets. Lots of usage of the left pockets for a right-handed person. I guess if he’s not carrying a purse or a child on one arm, he has more occasion to feel ambidextrous. I don’t know.
As I type this, I am wearing jeans with pockets, and in my right front pocket is a nail clipper and a quarter. I picked them up off the floor and haven’t put them away yet. You see, I don’t carry my purse around the house. Anyway, the other pockets are all empty. If I were to take my best guess, I would say that right now my husband’s pockets (all of them) contain some combination of money, keys, wallet, cell phone, iPod, receipts, business cards, candy wrappers (always with the candy wrappers, this one) and possibly a small piece of machinery. If he were out of town, I’d guess that he was also carrying a hotel key card–in his back pocket, where he’d never remember putting it, as many times as he’d be sitting on it.
What’s in my purse, on the other hand? Besides my keys, wallet, cell phone and check book, there is the following:
lip balm
hand lotion (2 tubes–no, make that 3)
pens
pencils
pictures of children
daily planner
unsent invitations to Mister Bubby’s birthday party
subscription cards to Newsweek (I’m quite certain I didn’t put those there, as I have no reason not to recycle them)
receipts galore
diaper wipes
3 stage 3 diapers
subscription card to Discover Kids magazine (that I did put there…about two months ago)
notes on the tap routine I’m learning this term
2 pipe cleaners (long story)
hair scrunchy
deposit slips
expired auto insurance card with the claim number for the fire written on the back
2 tampons
chewy granola bar (still wrapped–it’s for the baby, should I need it)
Spiderman fruit snacks wrapper (empty)
snack-size Ziploc bag with Goldfish crumbs inside
half-full box of Tic Tacs, most of which have been dumped on the ground and put back in, courtesy of Elvis
Neutrogena On-the-Spot acne treatment (I take this on-the-spot stuff literally and figuratively, obviously)
hand sanitizer
generic stain pen (doesn’t work–seriously doesn’t work, as in “performs no function”–never has)
small Tonka car
postage stamps
emery board
bacon-flavored toothpicks (another long story)
2 packets of moist towelettes
small comb
Tide-to-Go stick (does work)
1 roll undeveloped film
1 bandage
hair barette
And for some reason, it is all wet, despite the fact that I haven’t accidentally laundered my purse. Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
And now the science part (social science, that is–not the real thing, of course):
What’s in your pockets? What’s in your purse (if you own one)? Be ye male or female?
And just for curiosity’s sake:
What’s the worst thing you’ve accidentally laundered, and who did you blame for it?
My husband collects hotel key cards. I just found another one, honey. In the back pocket of the jeans you wore in San Jose (I’m assuming)–in case you were wondering where that pesky thing went.
As the Supreme Director for the Disposition of Dirty Clothes in the Madhousehold, I am responsible for going through everyone’s pockets to make sure that I am not accidentally laundering money, important receipts or phone numbers, candy wrappers, gum, facial tissues, ball point pens, crayons, or any other non-launderable and possibly destructive thing along with the items that have legitimate laundering needs. When I say “everyone’s” pockets, I really mean my husband’s pockets because no one else in the house utilizes pockets to the same extent he does. Most of my children’s pants don’t even have pockets, and those children whose pants do have pockets are wont to put in them things unlikely to escape my notice during a casual search–things like rocks and their parents’ cell phones and such. (For about a week Girlfriend was carrying in her jacket pocket a sales tag that had a picture of a baby on it, and she’d take it out and look at it fondly every so often, but that is not a usual occurrence.) I put things in my pockets now and then–stuff like change or ponytail bands or keys–but really only in my right front pocket, because I am right-handed and apt to pick up or handle things primarily with my right hand, and it would be awkward to put it in any left pocket, and it just never occurs to me to put it in a back pocket. Why would I do that, when I’ve got a front pocket? That is the question.
I think that men use their pockets more than women do. Maybe because women have purses. But I don’t know. It isn’t necessarily as convenient to stuff something in a purse instead of a pocket, but then, what is the justification for carrying around a purse if you’re not going to stuff things in it? And too many things at that. But I digress. My husband sticks all kinds of things in his pockets, and not just in one particular pocket, but every single pocket he has. While I was growing up, my dad often extolled the virtues of pockets, and specifically the virtues of clothing articles which contained more pockets than the average. My dad definitely didn’t carry a purse. But it wasn’t because he was too macho for one. He would have carried one, if he thought it would be more convenient and practical than using pockets, but obviously he didn’t think that, because who would? Besides a woman, I mean. Because to us it’s less about the utility than the accessorizing. A cute handbag is a good accessory. Pants full of pockets which are in turn full of keys and rubbish do not qualify.
Back to my husband’s pockets, which I’ve just finished emptying, and here is what was in them (every single one, mind you, not just one or two):
money
receipts
hotel key
multiple candy wrappers
paper napkin
assorted hardware
This is about par for the course–the most dangerous (in the laundry sense of the word) item being the paper napkin, which is really not so much “dangerous” as “filled with potential to be highly annoying though not as annoying as a paper tissue”–but there have been times when I conducted less-than-adequate searches of the pockets and missed things like a tube of Carmex (not pretty) and a USB flash drive (takes a licking and keeps on ticking!) and a black Sharpie marker (fine point, not that it matters–I mean, how do you miss an entire pen?). Sometimes if I find items such as these after the laundering cycle but before the drying cycle, I can still divert disaster, but that’s neither here nor there.
I used to resent Sugar Daddy for not going through his own *#$*&* pockets before putting them in the laundry (particularly when the pockets contain valuables–though I admit I’ve never been upset about finding the money), but that was just so much wasted energy and bad karma. This is not meant to be a rant against my own honeybunch or men in general. For one thing, I can totally understand why SD would be putting lip balm and USB drives and marking pens in his pockets. Sans purse, what else should he be doing? I can’t blame him for forgetting about these things when they’re out of sight, either. As often as I’ve turned around and forgotten what on earth I turned around for, I can hardly judge anyone else harshly in this department. No, what I don’t understand is a) the vast amount of trash that accumulates (is he never near a garbage can?) and b) all the usage of back and left pockets. Lots of usage of the left pockets for a right-handed person. I guess if he’s not carrying a purse or a child on one arm, he has more occasion to feel ambidextrous. I don’t know.
As I type this, I am wearing jeans with pockets, and in my right front pocket is a nail clipper and a quarter. I picked them up off the floor and haven’t put them away yet. You see, I don’t carry my purse around the house. Anyway, the other pockets are all empty. If I were to take my best guess, I would say that right now my husband’s pockets (all of them) contain some combination of money, keys, wallet, cell phone, iPod, receipts, business cards, candy wrappers (always with the candy wrappers, this one) and possibly a small piece of machinery. If he were out of town, I’d guess that he was also carrying a hotel key card–in his back pocket, where he’d never remember putting it, as many times as he’d be sitting on it.
What’s in my purse, on the other hand? Besides my keys, wallet, cell phone and check book, there is the following:
lip balm
hand lotion (2 tubes–no, make that 3)
pens
pencils
pictures of children
daily planner
unsent invitations to Mister Bubby’s birthday party
subscription cards to Newsweek (I’m quite certain I didn’t put those there, as I have no reason not to recycle them)
receipts galore
diaper wipes
3 stage 3 diapers
subscription card to Discover Kids magazine (that I did put there…about two months ago)
notes on the tap routine I’m learning this term
2 pipe cleaners (long story)
hair scrunchy
deposit slips
expired auto insurance card with the claim number for the fire written on the back
2 tampons
chewy granola bar (still wrapped–it’s for the baby, should I need it)
Spiderman fruit snacks wrapper (empty)
snack-size Ziploc bag with Goldfish crumbs inside
half-full box of Tic Tacs, most of which have been dumped on the ground and put back in, courtesy of Elvis
Neutrogena On-the-Spot acne treatment (I take this on-the-spot stuff literally and figuratively, obviously)
hand sanitizer
generic stain pen (doesn’t work–seriously doesn’t work, as in “performs no function”–never has)
small Tonka car
postage stamps
emery board
bacon-flavored toothpicks (another long story)
2 packets of moist towelettes
small comb
Tide-to-Go stick (does work)
1 roll undeveloped film
1 bandage
hair barette
And for some reason, it is all wet, despite the fact that I haven’t accidentally laundered my purse. Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
And now the science part (social science, that is–not the real thing, of course):
What’s in your pockets? What’s in your purse (if you own one)? Be ye male or female?
And just for curiosity’s sake:
What’s the worst thing you’ve accidentally laundered, and who did you blame for it?
You were the most helpless of infants. You wouldn’t sleep unless you were held. You wanted to nurse every hour and a half. For six months. I know I bring this little factoid up a lot, but let’s face it, pal–I thought you were going to kill me. I felt the life being sucked out of me on a daily basis. (Make that an hour-and-a-halfly basis.) It’s not like you were my first baby. I thought I knew sleep deprivation. I thought I’d heard frantic, inconsolable crying. I thought I knew motherguilt. But you managed, Ezra Pound-like, to make it new.
I tried so hard to get you to sleep in your own bed. You were having none of it. One morning I woke up and realized I’d rolled on top of you. I said, “That’s it, you’re not sleeping with us anymore, and I don’t care how much you cry or how long I have to walk the floor with you–you simply will not go back in our bed again, ever.” My resolve was strong, until about three in the morning when I still hadn’t gotten any sleep and you were showing no signs of giving in either. Guess what–you won.
One night, though, you actually slept several hours in your crib. I kept waking up and being startled by your absence. It felt weird. I realized that I missed you. Then I remembered that this was a good thing. And eventually I was able to sleep without you. (Quite well, in fact–no offense.)
Over the years I’ve had similar frustrations with your neediness, your reluctance to venture out on your own, especially in the presence of strangers. You were smack dab in the middle of two special-needs siblings, and I suppose you were entitled to a little co-dependence. (It’s true, you were the child who first taught me that all kids, regardless of their neurological makeup, have special needs.) To an extent it was sweet the way you’d cling to my legs and try to hide yourself under my coat (or worse, my dress), but mostly I just wanted you to have the confidence to go out there and make friends and have fun and not miss out on any opportunities because you were afraid. I’ve always been afraid myself–and I’ve missed a lot. I didn’t want that to happen to you.
Then one day–not too many days ago, actually–you announced that you wanted to walk to and from the bus stop by yourself. What a relief that was. How much more convenient to let you walk out the door and not have to worry about getting your two younger siblings dressed and shod and carried out there, too. I was also very proud of you. I was happy to tell you that you were allowed to do that, if that was what you wanted.
The next morning you got ready for school, found your own coat and backpack, and it was 7:46 before I realized that you had left the house before I could tell you goodbye, and the bus was already taking you to school. I felt sad. Then I remembered that this was a good thing.
But the next day I remembered to say goodbye.
At about three-thirty this morning you did something you haven’t done in quite some time. You woke up scared and upset and crawled into our bed. I put my arms around you and thought, “He is still so little.” And then I thought about how this wouldn’t last for too much longer. You’re already seven. I’m going to miss you a lot. But that’s a good thing.
Happy birthday, Mister Bubby.
In my tap class we are working on three things this term: speed, turns and “pull-backs.” Of the three I seem to be best at speed. Which is not to say that I am such a fast tapper. Just that I’m really bad at turns and pull-backs.
With turns, there are three things to keep in mind: head, arms and feet. The head is supposed to be “spotting,” i.e. keeping your eyes focused on a non-moving target, preferably in the direction in which you are turning. The arms are supposed to open and close with the turn. The feet are supposed to be, well, dancing. I am pretty good at controlling two out of three much of the time; it’s getting all three to do what I want at once that’s my personal downfall. It doesn’t help that I have trouble keeping my balance in the first place. Walking and chewing gum simultaneously would no doubt be a challenge for me, if I were the gum-chewing type. Anyway, it’s very easy to forget what I’m supposed to be looking at when I’m so busy thinking about where to put my feet. I really shouldn’t have to think about such things. In fact, it would probably help if I thought less about them. But that’s like asking me to stop worrying about my kids. I simply must know where my feet are at all times.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a “pull-back” is when you brush the floor with your toes as you jump up in the air and then land again on your toes. It’s harder than it sounds, and right now we’re only doing pull-backs off the heels. Eventually we are supposed to do them off our toes as well. Jump off your toes while striking your toes against the floor and then landing again on your toes. Yeah. Right. Anyway, this is another thing that is apparently easier to do when you’re not thinking about it. It is an up-and-back motion, and while I can go up just fine and back just fine, I am having difficulty with the up-and-back-at-the-same-time action. At least I do not have to chew gum, too. I would most likely choke. Anyway, I tend to do a pull-back correctly once in every session, but once is my limit. Wednesday night I happened to accidentally do it right just as the instructor happened to be watching me. If I could just accidentally do things right all the time, I would be in business. But that does not appear to be my lot in life. You need a lot of strength in your quadraceps to execute this move with ease, and strength is not my strong suit, quadracep- or otherwise. So I have to spend some more time jumping up in the air at home. Fortunately, I do that a lot anyway. I just have to remember to put my quads into it more, that’s all.
Speaking of fitness, I have been intending for quite some time to work on “strengthening my core.” I read in Newsweek two years ago that middle-aged women with strong core muscles are indestructible–can walk through fire and bend spoons with their minds and whatnot, in addition to not getting osteoporosis and humpbacks, or whatever. So the closer I get to middle age, the more I sense the urgency to strengthen my core–muscles which, after thirty-plus years of neglect, are more or less impotent. After having the baby, I decided I would try Pilates. Why Pilates? Because the accessories were cheaper than the yoga stuff. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter because after one session it became clear that the frontals or obliques or whatevers that spread apart when you’re pregnant had apparently packed up and taken an extended vacation and not left a forwarding address. Very bad situation.
So I, ah, lost my enthusiasm for Pilates rather quickly. But the urgency is still there, two years later. I decided that I would try working with a fitness ball. It just seems like it would be easier than just lying there on the floor and expecting my non-existent stomach muscles to get me up again. First I bought a Gaiam ball, but I had to take it back because it was the wrong size for me. They didn’t have a Gaiam ball in my size, so I decided to go with the Reebok core strengthening kit. It comes with a ball and hand weights and a DVD and a hand pump for pumping up the ball. Actualy, the exact words on the ball are “Ball Pump–Inflate the 65 cm ball quickly and easily.” Translation: “It beats hell out of using your lungs, doesn’t it? So quitcherbitchin’, you wuss!” Strength in the arms is also not my strong suit. Fortunately I am not supposed to pump up the ball to its full size initially. I’m supposed to do it over 48 hours. I will probably take 72, just to be on the safe side.
And when all is said and done, I will be bending spoons with my mind and doing pull-backs like a pro. Just wait. (Bring a book, though.)
In the apropos of nothing category, an acquaintance from church told me she had been given some dresses that “weren’t going to work for her,” but she thought they’d be my size, so would I like to have them. She might have noticed that I have been wearing the same two outfits to church for the last four years (when I wasn’t wearing one of my two maternity dresses). That is because I need clothes I can conveniently nurse in, and I am very picky about my clothes, which is why I haven’t managed to buy more of them over the years. Once I wean the baby, I will have plenty of clothes to wear, and since the fashion industry apparently operates on a twenty-year cycle, everything I have should be in style again by then. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. It’s hard to say no to this kind of thing–not that I don’t appreciate free clothes, but what if I don’t like them? Will I hurt her feelings if I never wear them?
So I asked what size they were, and she said one dress was a size 4 and the other was a size 2. Oooookay. I think I wore a size 4 once, when I was nine. I told her I didn’t think they would possibly fit me, but she insisted that they did look as though they would, and who am I to argue with this nice person who thinks I’m that thin? So she gave me the dresses to try on, and said that if I didn’t want them, it was no big deal, she would just give them to DI–or I could give them to someone else. “They’re just not going to work for me, so I thought you might like to have them.”
Well, I don’t think they’re going to work for me either, and not because they don’t fit–I don’t know if they don’t fit or not because I haven’t tried them on, and the reason I haven’t tried them on is because I know I would never wear them because they are simply not at all flattering. They’re not ugly, exactly. I’m not sure how to describe them, really. The only word that really springs to mind is “sexless.” Not that your Giraffe is in the market for hot&sexy ensembles as a rule–but these dresses make my own wardrobe look like J. Lo’s. I can actually feel my self-esteem dropping just looking at them, and they’re not even on my body yet.
So I will probably return these clothes to my friend so she can give them to DI, as I cannot think of anyone who is both smaller and less inclined to dress provocatively than me. Perhaps if the next First Lady wants to go for that off-the-rack look. Would I get a tax break? Who knows?
Technically, Banned Books Week was last month, but I’m still catching up here. My house was on fire last month, for Pete’s sake.
This is the ALA’s list of the 100 Most Challenged Books of 1990-2000. Click on the linkies to see the most challenged books of 2006 and the most challenged books of the twenty-first century (so far). (Hat tip: Ziff of Zelophehad’s Daughters.) I decided to see how many of these infamous books I had read. At the bottom I’ll paste the lists and bold the titles of those tomes I have graced with my reading pleasure (or something like that).
BUT FIRST!!! Some random notes because otherwise this is a pretty weak entry:
- The most challenged book of 2006 was And Tango Makes Three, which is apparently a children’s book about a couple of gay penguins who adopt a chick. I don’t mean to be offensive, but doesn’t this sound like a joke? If I wanted to make a joke about an offensive kids’ book, I’d definitely use penguins. Penguins are just inherently funny.
- Some regulars on the Challenged Books List are missing this year. Apparently there is enough gay penguin sex flying around out there that there is less time and energy left to get upset about the N-word in Huckleberry Finn. Maybe that’s a good thing.
- The top three reasons for challenging material are 1) sexual explicitness, 2) offensive language and 3) unsuitability for age group. You can see (below) that I haven’t read any of the books with the word “sex” in the title. I have, however, read a lot of stuff that was unsuitable for my age group.
- The book that jumps out at me is Bridge to Terabithia. I imagine that gets challenged for age-unsuitability, in the event that it is part of a grade-school curriculum. I can’t imagine anyone would object to having it on a shelf in a grade school. But then, I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that it would be unsuitable for a grade-school curriculum. If they’re old enough to read the words, they can probably handle what the words say. But what do I know, my entire sex education consisted of about thirty pages in The Thorn Birds (totally unsuitable for a twelve-year-old, in case you were wondering).
- I read The Catcher in the Rye my senior year of high school. It wasn’t part of the curriculum at my high school, but the ninth-graders at a neighboring high school had to read it, and parents were upset aplenty. So, feeling left out of the controversy, I decided to pick up a copy. I remember getting to the end and thinking, “Is that it?” I mean, it’s a good book, but I was expecting something a lot more scandalous. (Reminds me of that old Simpsons episode when Bart, Milhouse and Nelson walk out of the movie house where Naked Lunch is playing and Nelson says, “There were two things wrong with that title!”)
- My mother thought Judy Blume was a scandal. So did I, in the third grade, which is why I read her. I actually read part of Forever in, like, seventh grade–but it was too gross. (The Thorn Birds was better.)
- A taste of irony: I was actually going to have Princess Zurg read Anastasia Krupnik because I remembered enjoying it so much at her age. Then I glanced through it again and saw that it had the s*** word in it, and I changed my mind. Mainly because PZ is such a prude. Part of me is hoping she’ll outgrow that, but part of me isn’t.
- My mother told me that she tried to read Slaughterhouse 5 once, but she was so disgusted by it that she actually threw it in the garbage. Not only did she throw it in the garbage, but she wrapped it in a plain brown wrapper before putting it in the garbage so that the garbage man wouldn’t know she was reading such a disgusting book. This from a woman who regularly came home from the library with psycho-killer paperbacks, the kind with blood dripping off the titles. Well, whatever. When I finally read it, in my mother’s home no less, I had a similar reaction as with The Catcher in the Rye. I didn’t get what all the fuss was over.
- Flannery O’Connor said that if you took out the rape, To Kill a Mockingbird would be a very fine children’s book. Apparently she didn’t see what all the fuss was over, either.
- Brave New World was the only scandalous book I had to read at school. A lot of the kids I went to seminary with objected to reading that book. They thought it was really immoral. In other words, they totally missed the point of the book (gee, Madhousewife, book snob much? snort)–which I guess is usually the case with books that are prone to being challenged. With the possible exception of Where’s Waldo.
- I would never have guessed that Ordinary People would be causing such a stir so many years after its initial publication. Where is this book being challenged? Idaho? (Not that Idaho is behind the times or anything…just wondering. Yeah, I’m one to talk about “behind the times,” Miss Three Weeks Late for Banned Books Week. Just get off my back, okay?)
- Scary Stories (Series) by Alvin Schwartz
- Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
- I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
- The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
- The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
- Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
- Harry Potter (Series) by J.K. Rowling
- Forever by Judy Blume
- Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
- Alice (Series) by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
- Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
- My Brother Sam is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
- The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
- The Giver by Lois Lowry
- It’s Perfectly Normal by Robie Harris
- Goosebumps (Series) by R.L. Stine
- A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck
- The Color Purple by Alice Walker
- Sex by Madonna (What the hell???)
- Earth’s Children (Series) by Jean M. Auel
- The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
- A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
- Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
- Fallen Angels by Walter Dean Myers
- In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
- The Stupids (Series) by Harry Allard
- The Witches by Roald Dahl
- The New Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein
- Anastasia Krupnik (Series) by Lois Lowry
- The Goats by Brock Cole
- Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane
- Blubber by Judy Blume
- Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois Duncan
- Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
- We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier
- Final Exit by Derek Humphry
- The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
- Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
- The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
- What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madaras
- To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
- Beloved by Toni Morrison
- The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
- The Pigman by Paul Zindel
- Bumps in the Night by Harry Allard
- Deenie by Judy Blume
- Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
- Annie on my Mind by Nancy Garden
- The Boy Who Lost His Face by Louis Sachar
- Cross Your Fingers, Spit in Your Hat by Alvin Schwartz
- A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein
- Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
- Sleeping Beauty Trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure (Anne Rice)
- Asking About Sex and Growing Up by Joanna Cole
- Cujo by Stephen King
- James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
- The Anarchist Cookbook by William Powell
- Boys and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
- Ordinary People by Judith Guest
- American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
- What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Boys: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Sons by Lynda Madaras
- Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
- Crazy Lady by Jane Conly
- Athletic Shorts by Chris Crutcher
- Fade by Robert Cormier
- Guess What? by Mem Fox
- The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende
- The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline Cooney
- Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
- Lord of the Flies by William Golding
- Native Son by Richard Wright
- Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women’s Fantasies by Nancy Friday
- Curses, Hexes and Spells by Daniel Cohen
- Jack by A.M. Homes
- Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo A. Anaya
- Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle
- Carrie by Stephen King
- Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume
- On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
- Arizona Kid by Ron Koertge
- Family Secrets by Norma Klein
- Mommy Laid An Egg by Babette Cole
- The Dead Zone by Stephen King
- The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
- Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
- Always Running by Luis Rodriguez
- Private Parts by Howard Stern
- Where’s Waldo? by Martin Hanford (I’m glad someone’s trying to purge our school libraries of this book. It’s a scourge on our educational system.)
- Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene
- Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman
- Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
- Running Loose by Chris Crutcher
- Sex Education by Jenny Davis
- The Drowning of Stephen Jones by Bette Greene
- Girls and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
- How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
- View from the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts
- The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Keatley Snyder
- The Terrorist by Caroline Cooney
- Jump Ship to Freedom by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
So–31 out of 100. I have indeed led a sheltered life. What’s your purity score?
P.S. Feel free to recommend a scandalous book of your own choosing. No literary merit required!
For some reason only the ones column will show up on those numbers above. WordPress is funny about the cutting and pasting. Trust me, I do know how to count.
So I got my voter pamphlet in the mail yesterday, as Oregon is having a special election on November 6–why? Well, why not? Do we need a special reason to have a special election? Can’t we just have a special election just because? Which reminds me, I need to figure out how to lay my hands on a ballot, since I don’t think they’re forwarded (at least I hope they aren’t, but maybe I’m hopelessly naive). Anyway, the burning issues on the table this time are property rights (or if you prefer, property privileges) and a tobacco tax. Oh, so this is why we’re having a special election. Wow. When’s Arbor Day again?
I won’t bore you with any commentary on the property rights measure because a) it’s complicated, b) it really is boring, and c) it even bores me. Instead I’ll bore you with commentary on the tobacco tax. (Why? Well, why not? It’s still a free country. So far.) Then maybe I’ll bore you with some random factoids that have nothing to do with anything. I’m just going to play it by ear.
It should come as no surprise to most of you that I am not a smoker–never have been a smoker, never wanted to smoke, never had any relatives who smoked. Well, I had one relative who smoked, but he’s been dead for twenty-five years and I didn’t know him all that well anyway. That’s not the point. The point is that I don’t buy tobacco products, as I have no use for them and they don’t make suitable gifts for anyone I know. I also don’t own any RJ Reynolds stock that I know of. I don’t know. I think RJ Reynolds owns just about everything that isn’t owned by Proctor & Gamble, or do they own Proctor & Gamble, too? All these mega corporations, I can’t keep up with them. Anyway, those are my disclaimers. I don’t smoke. I don’t hang out in smoke-filled bars. Even the one relative I had who smoked died of non-smoking-related causes. I belong to a religion that says tobacco is a big no-no, and for that I’m kind of grateful because if I was ever tempted to think that smoking would make me look cool, I had my faith to remind me that I could never be cool, so why bother with the death sticks?
Despite the fact that smoking is pretty scandalous in the Mormon community, I’ve never been a big anti-smoking crusader. I mean, I’m not in favor of smoking. I think not smoking is healthier. I’d be concerned if my kids took up smoking, mostly because I don’t think I could ever get the smell out of the laundry. Just kidding! I totally want their lungs to stay nice and pink. Lungs are just better that way. Then there’s that whole cancer/emphysema thing. I’ve never been a risk-taker. NutraSweet and driving is about as dangerous as I get. But I’ve never thought of smoking as a sin. It would be a sin for me because as a Mormon I am required to abstain from tobacco. But even if I should decide to take up another sin and randomly chose smoking, I wouldn’t consider it a major sin. But even if it were a major sin, it’s sort of irrelevant as far as public policy goes. The way I see it, adultery is a big sin, but it’s not illegal, so why should I get het up about smoking? I don’t.
What I do get het up over is this asinine idea of amending our state’s constitution to increase the tobacco tax in the name of funding children’s healthcare. That bugs me, for the following reasons:
1. Why do we have to amend the constitution every time someone gets a bright or not-so-bright idea?
2. There’s no way a single tax on a single type of product is going to provide adequate funding for a program this big.
3. It’s just not fair.
Yes, smoking is bad for your health. It’s annoying to non-smokers. It can affect the health of children and other vulnerable non-smokers. Which is why it makes sense to practice common courtesy–as in “mind if I smoke?” and “I suppose I can wait until I’m finished grocery shopping before I light up.” (Incidentally, if you can’t wait until you’re finished grocery shopping, you should seek help.) At the same time, I think non-smokers need to lighten up a little. I admit, I personally am not sensitive to cigarette smoke. (Although fresh cigarette smoke smells about twenty times better than stale cigarette smoke, that’s neither here nor there.) I’ve known people who were, and I appreciate the extent of their irritation and discomfort. It’s not unreasonable to want to breathe fresh air. Smokers should understand that. But non-smokers should understand that a) smoking is legal and therefore totally permissable in the comfort of one’s own home and other designated smoking areas, and b) it isn’t the fault of smokers that some children don’t have health insurance.
I’m not even going to touch the fact that most of the revenue from this tax isn’t even earmarked for kids’ healthcare. (That’s sort of a no-brainer, isn’t it? Since when is most of the revenue supposedly earmarked for something actually intended for that thing?) I won’t even address the issue of whether or not health insurance is an appropriate pie for governmental fingers to be in. Let’s say that all the revenue goes to pay for kids’ healthcare. Let’s say that kids’ healthcare is a noble cause that taxpayers should support. Shouldn’t all taxpayers be expected to shoulder this burden? Why must the onus be on smokers particularly?
Because smokers are a minority–and for what it’s worth, they tend to skew lower-income and non-white–and since most people do not smoke, a tax on smokers doesn’t negatively affect most people. A win-win situation, unless you happen to be a smoker, and if you are, well, you deserve to have higher taxes because you’re doing something socially unacceptable.
Ever notice the lack of extra taxes on things like alcoholic beverages? Say what you will about the health risks of smoking, but they don’t begin to approach the damage that alcohol can do. To be sure, most people drink responsibly. But that doesn’t change the fact that alcohol impairs judgment, and tobacco does not. A driver can be distracted while smoking, but he or she can also be distracted while talking on a cell phone or looking for something in the glove box or threatening to put the hurt on some kids if they don’t stop fighting and whining about when they’re going to get there. Your ability to drive is not impaired by smoking a cigarette before you get into the car. Generally speaking, tobacco abuse does not contribute to automobile accidents, nor to sexual assaults, nor to domestic violence, nor to violent crime, nor to drowning, for that matter. Alcohol abuse contributes to all of those things, in addition to health problems like cirrhosis and cancer of the liver, as well as heart disease and circulatory problems.
And yet you don’t see much support for taxes on alcoholic beverages. Why not? Because most people drink alcohol at least occasionally, and it’s an activity that occurs with more or less equal frequency among different socio-economic (and racial) groups. You would have more success trying to pass a tax on Big Macs. Speaking of which, why not tax Big Macs? And Fritos and pork rinds and Oreos and Mountain Dew? Non-organic baby food? Maybe you do favor a tax on these items, but good luck getting it passed. Wait, I’m having a psychic moment: It Will Never Happen.
There’s another, practical problem with a tax like this: the revenues inevitably dry up. I know smokers who say they don’t mind the tax because they know they shouldn’t smoke in the first place. I know people who have quit smoking because they just couldn’t justify the expenditure anymore. I don’t know anyone who keeps smoking because they know the state really needs the money. Funny how that works. Or doesn’t work, depending on your point of view.
Boring you with my commentary has become tiresome. On to the irrelevant factoids:
- My children could eat a two-pound brick of cheese in one sitting if I let them. Each.
- Mister Bubby wants to have a Rampage party for his birthday. If only his birthday had been last month, we could have had the party guests destroy our burnt-up bathroom. 500 points to the monster who takes out the shower!
- I am currently stealing wireless internet access from my neighbors, and I feel guilty about it. I keep meaning to call to get our internet turned on here, but I know that when I do, they’re going to try to sell me a billion other things that I don’t want, and I’m going to get frustrated and want to scream at them. I could tell them about the fire, but they will probably only want to sell me fire insurance. Because if you bundle your fire insurance with your internet and your telephone and your wireless, you can save twenty percent for the first three months.
- Nearly a year after Newsweek last told me my subscription was about to expire and I would receive no further issues unless I took immediate action, I think it has finally stopped coming.
And now, lunch.
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