About that beeping sound.

Okay, okay, that beeping sound is me backin' up. Don't worry, I'm doin' it more carefully than that drunk on that fork lift.

A faithful reader... No, wait, the most faithful reader I have, the only one who gets to see me naked, has informed me that there's a little more information out there than I suspected on this whole wax thing from my last post. I considered just deleting the post, but I figured this was a better way to go.

Clay did the homework, and found that "in a pinch," a candle apparently will work in order to "wax a rail to grind on."

So, I'm backin' off a little bit.

But not completely. I still maintain that the tiny little sloped patch of parking lot just Northwest of where I park my car is not "a rail to grind on" -- it's about a three inch rise over about an eighteen inch run, it is not a rail or a curb.

I also still maintain that the oxy/acetylene torch is a fairly specialized industrial tool, and not something for some tool to be using to melt candles into a hubcap with.

While I'm on that topic, I also maintain that a sand blasting cabinet is also a fairly specialized industrial tool, and probably not something for some tool to be letting a kid sand blast the paint off of that toy car that came with the Sonic "Wacky Pack."

The fork lift is back in park, now I'm goin' to bed.

More later... _\,,/

Same vs. Different vs. Same.

Friday night while channel-surfing, Clay landed on MTV, a channel I really haven't watched in a long, long time -- so long I'm not even sure what number it is. Lately if I have the remote, I'm usually either on 249 (Comedy Central) or 810 (XM's X-Country), or flipping through the "guide" looking for something that doesn't involve screaming brides or mysterious illnesses. I also love "The Travel Channel," but I don't know where it is either, I just have to flip 'til I stumble onto it. Maybe I should take notes...

MTV, through the magic of re-runs, was showing the exact same episode of "Jackass" that first caught my eye that afternoon in 2000 or 2001, the episode with the shopping carts. Or is there more than one with the shopping carts?? Anyhow... I vividly remember ploppin' in the living room of the little white house up on Yukon Avenue for a rare moment alone in front of the TV with the cable remote. My channel-surfing came to a stop when I saw those guys shoving each other's carts over curbs and into bushes. "I'm Johnny Knoxville, welcome to Jackass!" (Huh-oh, what it that was Gooogle-bait?)

I'm that chick who's been seen more than once ooh-ing-and-aaahh-ing over Matchbox cars -- I am not ashamed to tell ya that "my inner child" is a spoiled little eight-year-old boy, or, well, a mini-van load of spoiled little eight-year-olds, there might be a girl or two in there, but they're so tomboy they fit right in playin' with the boys. I ain't afraid to tell ya there's a kid in me who thinks it might be huge fun to go sailin' down and enormous hill in (or on) whatever I can find that has wheels on it -- but there's also junior-high kid who crashed a couple bikes, the highschooler with the boogered-up knee, and the nineteen-year-old me who took a pretty good hit to the head and knows that pain is not cool...

I guess I'm just over that edge of knowing that "Hey, there's no way to steer or control a shopping cart, so I ain't doin' that!" but I can certainly get a kick out of watching other people do it!

It's stupid, it's pointless, it's semi-dangerous, but let's face it -- it's hilarious!

I can't say I'm a serious "fan" of the show, but if I'm flippin' through channels and that's what I land on, I'll usually stay. I saw the movie twice in the dollar theater and I bought the DVD out of a clearance bin. I have watched, I have laughed...

Some of the things I've seen on "Jackass" have brought me to the questions that are on my mind today.

Today is a HoMeSkOoL dAy, and the younger kid is, through the magic of re-runs, doin' some of the same nutty stuff his older brother did a while back. I still have some unanswered questions.

In all my viewings of the crazy stuff we see on "Jackass," I have seen lots of "famous" dudes playin' with skateboards, but I've yet to see any of 'em using any skateboard wax.

Wax comes in many, many different forms, produced for many, many different uses, and candles are only the beginning. The wax that melts off candles won't yank the hair off of your legs, the wax that makes a car shiny won't burn to smell like strawberries.

The strange phenomena in the air here lately is not only due to the workings of "kid logic," it's because their dad isn't interested in the difference either.

In all the times I've seen people riding skateboards, I have not ever seen anybody rubbing candles into concrete. Nobody but the HoMeSkOoLeRz, that is, who have made greazy spots on the concrete bumpers, curbs, and anywhere there's a bit of a slope in the parking lot. That big red pillar candle out of the bathroom is completely gone, turned into a brown gooey mess on the concrete.

Surely I'm not nuts... Surely the wax goes on the board, and not on the concrete, right? Surely it's not the same wax that's used for birthday candles, right?

Surely?

Well, then I guess your guess is as good as mine when it comes to figuring out why a ten-year-old was able to persuade his forty-some-year old dad to light up an oxy/acetylene torch in order to melt dozens of broken pieces of candles and Crayolas into a hubcap.

Say a little prayer that the folks at OSHA are busy catching drunks on forklifts, please.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got phones to answer...

Weekend Update, to the tune of "So This Is Christmas."

So this is Monday.

Opening Night at Mid-Am went fairly well, no major issues save for a mild trailer-brake adjustment as we were leaving town. The Twenty held it's own in a fairly decent manner and ended up with a top-ten finish for the evening. Nothin' broken, nothin' gettin' hot. The "New Management" is really working hard and I think they're off to a really good start. The track seemed to stay pretty nice most of the night. I missed Clay like crazy, and it's not just 'cause he takes lots more pictures than I do.

Speaking of pictures... I had my camera in the truck seat with me and forgot about it, so it ended up hitting the pavement when I got out to see if I could help with the trailer problem. It was in it's small case, and when it fell, I knew immediately what I'd done (so it didn't get mashed like my phone did a few months back), but still, the seat of the ambulance is about elbow-high, and that seems like quite a fall. I shot a couple pictures just ridin' down the highway, and I took three of the car once we were there -- it didn't seem like anything was wrong until Sunday afternoon when it started acting funny while I was trying to take pictures of the baby parakeets.

As I was trying to figure out what was going on, my batteries died.

So... Depending on what I find when those batteries are finished charging, I may be shoppin' for a new camera. I'm trying to be reasonable about that, I know that three years is a ripe ol' age in "Electronics Years," and there are probably several newer, more advanced, higher quality cameras out there for possibly less money, and some of 'em are very, very interesting -- but I really like this camera, so I hope it's not dead.

Sunday afternoon I had a very nice time at "Hen Fest." I'd say that the ribeye could've been better, but it was okay, and I was so happy to be with my girlies that I really didn't care if the food was perfect or not. That girl who sat by me in junior year English class, the one who wrote the most awesome thing ever in my yearbook that year, she's still awesome, and I'm so glad we found each other again and stayed in touch this time.

Also, this being Monday, the HoMeSkOoLeRz are back, amazingly enough. Their Mom took 'em home and then ended up calling back over here and promptly provoking an argument. Dad was a little irritated with me and kept saying "Just don't argue with her," but seriously, I know I'm right, I have to stand up for what's right.

We're waiting to see how that all turned out.

I'll fill y'all in when I get the details myself.

More later... _\,,/

Oh, hello there.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's been a while since I wrote. Sorry 'bout that. A lot of my writing (ranting) has been going into a text file that stays here on the MacBook instead of getting out into the blogosphere.

I know I shouldn't worry so much about being found, but I do.

As hilarious as it is to tell the world about a fourteen year old HoMeSkOoLeR who needed five or six tries to spell "Camel," I worry that some of the mis-spellings might be good Go0gle-Bait.

I'll spare ya the long-drawn-out rants and the sad jpg files, but since there's camel-toe-a-plenty out there on "the internets" that'll show up way ahead of this bit of Go0gle-Bait, I told HoMeSkOoL mOm what a Camel Toe is, because she really does need to know what her kid is searching for in the MySp@ce Videos.

I wish I was kidding, but honestly, she had no idea what it was, and she didn't seem to understand the English when I tried to explain it with words. Apparently she wasn't entirely thrilled with the Visual Representation either, but hey, communication is about getting the point across, right??

So, maybe it was because Mom and I teamed up to show her a printed e-mail and say "Your HoMeSkOoLiNg is putting your children at a tremendous disadvantage," or maybe it's because of me grabbin' my Levi's and showin' her a shockingly unexpected glimpse of Delicious Fat Girl; but one way or another, we ain't seen 'em since.

While I don't miss the screaming while I'm trying to answer phones, I'm still deeply concerned about Lit-Ruh-See...

More later.

_\,,/

"Fun With Weapons!"

It's a HoMeSkOoL dAy. They've discovered the fun of Archery; part of me thinks that's kinda cool, part of me is scared shitless.

My folks were in the salvage biz before I came along -- they bought this place when I was nine -- I grew up around here, I know the magic of findin' the dreck that gets left in wrecked cars, I'm tryin' to not be too hard on 'em, but they're wearin' me down today. I remember several attempts at making or building things, a lot of which never really worked out. I remember the ever-present voice of Mom, making sure there was no doubt this was a business and there wasn't gonna be any blatant stupidity put out there to let the whole world think we were a bunch of ignorant hillbillies; there was to be no fire-lighting, no blowin' shit up... I had a bicycle over here, but I knew that it was not something to be ridden indoors. I did some dumb shit on a small scale, but I never pedaled a bicycle at warp-speed into a stack of boxes and then whined about getting hurt. Apparently they've seen "Jack@ss, The Movie," but missed the most important line in the entire film: "If you're gonna be dumb, ya gotta be tough."

Somewhere, they've found a ratty ol' wooden bow. Mostly taking turns, sometimes fighting over it, they're shooting a single cammo arrow into a radiator box, usually up toward the North end of the building, but occasionally down here by the phones. They seem to like being as loud as possible whenever I'm trying to talk on the phone, but that's another rant.

I was standin' there by the fireplace, and the older one walked up to me, holding the arrow. The feathers are pretty much gone, but it's the basic standard-issue cammo-printed hunting arrow with a screw-in tip and thankfully, not a broadhead.

"Do they make steel arrows?" he asks.

"There's not much point in that; they're aluminum so they're light to fly through the air and hit the deer instead of falling on the ground." I tried to use small words, but...

"Well he just shot this through a box," he gestures toward his little brother, "and it went into the wall."

Fighting an urge to just say "So?" I brought on the best of logic and said, "Ya know, a Bow & Arrow isn't usually an indoor toy."

Then he looked me straight in the eyes and said "It is if it's plastic!"

He was gone before I could point out that there was no plastic involved in the making of the wooden bow and aluminum arrow.

I don't get it either.

And he doesn't even know he's Hilarious.

A couple weeks ago, we hauled in this Bronco that had made one too many passes down the dragstrip. I know, I know, a Bronco isn't exactly a first choice for drag racing, but, if ya knew this kid, you'd see what we're dealin' with.

For what it's worth, this kid's mom has, uhm, starred in a previous rant, if that tells ya anything...

So, once it was out on the yard and therefore "fair game," handfuls of "car junk" got carried in here out of it. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual crap that gets left in cars -- pens & pencils, a couple hair accessories (straight to the garbage can), and some other little stuff like that... There might've even been a couple bouncy balls in there that got played with; and y'all know how I giggle inside when I think about 'em pickin' up every germ off the floor and bouncing it right into each other's hands. Heh heh.

Amongst the fistful of pens & pencils that got tossed on the counter (let's face it, we can always use writin' sticks around here), there was one of these Almay Eyeliner Pencils, it's very, very Brown, and very, very touched by a stranger. I didn't have the heart to toss it straight in the trash can (because they're around eight bucks, aren't they?), but I also was not about to put it anywhere near my eyes.

I'll be honest, I screwed around with it just a little bit, my inner eight-year-old-boy got the best of me, but don't worry, I washed that little potted daisy off my hand within a couple minutes. I had to check it out, 'cause hey, I'm not gonna go hand over eight dollars for one if it's a POS that's not worth havin'.

The Almay Eyeliner Pencil is pretty nice, I was impressed, and I'd seriously buy one if I ever gave in to wearing eyeliner on a regular basis or if I ever had to patch a hole in my eyebrow again (don't laugh, it has happened).

So, after messin' with it a little bit, I kinda got busy and forgot about it. It got left on the counter amongst the other pens that get left on the counter. I should've been a more "responsible adult" and made sure it got in the garbage or at least "out of reach of children," but I didn't. Whups.

This morning I looked over to find HoMeSkOoL dAd staring at it and pulling the lid on and off a couple times. He made a couple marks on a piece of paper and looked puzzled, and totally serious, he says "What the hell kinda pencil is this?"

I still don't know how I managed a straight-faced answer of "Uhm, eye makeup." but I did.

The only thing funnier would be watchin' him shoot his mullet with Krylon and then ask "What the hell kinda hairspray is this?" or maybe oatmeal in a coffee pot.

It was a big smile almost as entertaining as an AOL CD in a car stereo.

I just wonder how long it'll be before the HoMeSkOoLeRz notice that I've been stabbing holes in all my empty plastic bottles just 'cause I'm sick of hearing them try to blow 'em open with the air compressor...

What is it?

What is it that makes Crazy Aunt Debbie so crazy???

I'll tell ya.

HoMeSkOoL mOm was just here, dropped off the kids to go work the evening shift or teach the evening class or whatever. I pray that she's working because the thought of her teaching and passing her logic along to strangers scares me more and more every day, every semester, every year. God help us all, at least those kids get a little bit of exposure to common sense from my folks -- those Vo-Tech students are on their own with her; alone with that chick who managed to get a Bachelor's Degree in Nursing but has to go find a book to figure out where "the subcutaneous" is. Not that I'm passing judgement on anyone who doesn't know where "the subcutaneous" is; I know that most people who work in professions other than healthcare don't really need to know what that word means -- but someone who signs her name with "RN, BSN" on the end really should know that Subcutaneous means under the skin, I'd think it would seem like pretty basic knowledge, especially considering the fact that I know without lookin' it up, and I just work cheap sellin' car parts. I flunked out of PTA School, she got a BSN. Yeah, go figure that one out.

Anyway... Back to what irritates me, what gets under my skin, what pokes me subcutaneously... (heaa-haa, sorry, couldn't resist)

These kids are nine and thirteen. This Mom says that she "had to take their lighters away" because apparently they were "playing with them outside" where it's December, it's Dry, and it's Windy, and they "didn't tell an adult first."

She had to take their lighters away? What the fuck? Am I old now or something??

When we were young we got our TV taken away, or the Atari, or the Nintendo, or the Computer. When we were a little older, we might've had our car keys taken away. We'd say things like "I'm gonna go outside and ride my bike," or "I'm gonna go upstairs and play Mario Brothers." No parent in their right mind would stand for a kid of any age saying "I'm gonna go out in the back yard and light things on fire over there by the propane tank!" No-no-no, fuck no.

We never had our lighters taken away. We didn't have any fucking lighters when we were nine or thirteen because our moms would have beat our asses to bloody death when she found 'em, and she'd damn sure find 'em, 'cause Mom always found out about whatever...

What the hell are they doing with lighters in the first place? Why the hell didn't she "take their lighters away" before they had a chance to try to light anything with or without "adult supervision?"

Did we not just hear several news reports about how that huge fire in California was caused by a kid playin' around with matches or a lighter? Did nobody else notice that? Will Oklahoma be next??

Is there a junior division of The D@rwin Awards or something along those lines?

An-gry-and-Dis-joint-o.

As Grandpa Simpson says, "Oh, bitch, bitch, bitch!"

--

Okay, so I didn't get in on NaBloPoMo this year. Whups. Surely you'll forgive me for that... And surely, being forgiving, you'll also forgive me if a lot of this post is angry ranting...

--

I can't believe I forgot to share this one, but the other night while Clay and I were lounging about (fully clothed) on my favorite king-size pillowtop, My Mom called with a HoMeSkOoLiNg [tm] question. It seems as though HoMeSkOoL mOm had left the kids home with their dad to do their "HoMeWoRk," believe it or not, and they were covering the topic of one syllable words, along with how to divide words between the syllables. Mom's phone call was apparently to settle the argument between the HoMeSkOoLeRz [tm] and their ol' man, who had tried to tell them a syllable is three letters. I'll leave y'all on your own to decide if that's funny or sad or both. I'd say it's a good bit of both, but that may be just because I had a big fluffy place to roll around laughing my ass off. We entertained one another for quite a while by coming up with as many one syllable words as we could, most of them words folks probably shouldn't say around kids, especially not HoMeSkOoL kIdZ. Heh heh.

--

Also, today, I got to hear HoMeSkOoL mOm [tm] use the word "funnest" in a sentence, not once, but twice.

--

I'm thinkin' we're going to Thanksgiving for the express purpose of getting a front-row seat for this year's Turkey Carcass Arts & Crafts Extravaganza. Words cannot express how happy it makes me to know that I have a driver's license and car keys so that I can just leave if somebody pisses me off.

--

We finally have our computers back up and running, finally, and it's great to have 'em back on where we don't have to struggle with the book and the file cabinet then still can't look up anything after 1999. They're back on, and now they're all running through the same router and on the same network so now they all have internet, which worries me. The one we had to designate as the inventory server is the one that used to be the major p@%n-portal, which is, I'm sure, notably risky. Getting the whole thing set up was a bit of a hassle as well -- with tech guys on the phone managing to irritate our "computer mechanic" on day one, and me on day two. I kinda got the impression that what he was trying to say was "I don't know, I'm not sure, but I'm sure I know more than you, even though you're standing there with your hands on it." Oh well, I'm just glad it's over with...

--

This morning, while the computer mechanic was here swappin' out a couple CD drives, we were chattin' about different things, and I answered a phone. The female voice on the other end asked for the boss, and when I told her he wasn't in, she said "Well, who else is there?" I kinda chuckled, and then feelin' like a smartass, I said "'scuse me?" just to see if she'd say it again and she did. "Well, right now, it's me and the guy who came here to work on the computer." As if all the other chicks who work at other yards haven't noticed, it really pisses me off to hear another woman do that whole wanting-to-talk-to-a-man thing. After a sigh that was somewhat like an audible eye-roll, she asked about a head for a Sable. When I asked what year, she asked what year and a male voice answered in the background. When I asked if it was OHV or DOHC, she had to ask him. When I said "hang on, I'm checkin'," she repeated that as well. I really wish I'd been "quick" enough to say "Hey, who else is there?"

--

"Price and avaliability subject to change in relation to customer attitude."

--

Yes, it was a bit of a long day, today I even got to answer such fun HoMeSkOoLeR [tm] questions as "What does E-T-C mean?" I hope I've made a memorable difference... I was wearin' thin by the time that guy got here to pick up that Sable head, and he got on my freakin' nerves too. I knew he'd stand a chance of tryin' to make me mad, just by the nature of the phone call, and since I was alone on the counter when he got here, I passed the card (to HoMeSkOoL dAd) so that I wouldn't have to be irritated by it all. While they were trying to find the head, my phone rang, and since I'd been waiting to hear from my mom, I didn't hesitate to answer and take it to the back office. I'd only been away about half a minute when he came back there and got me, he was trying to print an invoice (when we were hand-writing all of the invoices, I had to do all those for him too, okay, I'll shut up about that). Being oh-so-brilliant and all, he wasn't able to read the screen and make a logical decision (well, if I'm trying to print an invoice, I guess I should click this little cartoon printer that says "invoice" on it...), so I came back out front to make the two mouse-clicks. The guy writing the check said something to the effect of "well, if you can get any work outta her..." He looked me straight in the eyes a split-second later, and I wasn't hiding a thing.

After I'd hung up the phone I was on and was trying to explain the printer selection window, he said something about "you're just like me..." and something about computers. I still wasn't hiding my feelings when I said "No, I'm not. I am certainly not like you."

--

While I'm ranting and bitching, if you pull out into traffic with a trailer load of brush and shit that's not tied down to a trailer that doesn't have lights on it, then drive halfway between the two lanes for a couple blocks, then finally pick the left lane, and then make a right turn from that left lane, you're a dick. You're a dick, and you have no place to be mad or do any yelling out the window at someone who honked at you because when they tried to come around your unlit trailer (to be sure they didn't hit anything that might fly off of it) they had to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting you as you made a right turn out of the left lane with no signal and no brake lights. You're the dick there, not the person who honked and avoided hitting you. Got it?

--

Now, aren't you glad there's not a gun in my car?

--

Maybe it's something in the air lately... Or maybe it's that vivid nightmare I had about armed robbery last night... I'll just quit for now.


More later. _\,,/

How Many Topics?

There are sooooooo many things I could tear to pieces here today. There's soooooo many fascinating topics flyin' about today, it would be noooooo problem for me to grab one and rip it to a million wordy pieces.

Fundamentalism. Who's teaching which kids what. Appropriate knowledge for an eleven-year-old. Cousin-fu#king. Self-esteem. Looks vs. Brains. Moral character & values. Lying about your age on MySp@ce. HoMeSkOoLiNg. Sanctity of marriage. Respect for one another.

What constitutes "Psycho" and how does that relate to quality parenting?

What's the nicest way to say "Oh My Gawd, You're A Psycho And You Married A Psycho From A Family Of Psycho's Who Shouldn't Be Responsible For Children In Any Form Or Fashion!!!"?

Alas, I do know the story behind the term "Dooce," and I know that bloggin' about it can cause some crazy shit amongst families too...

For now, I ain't touchin' it.

Just be ready, 'cause if the shit gets any deeper, I'll type 'til I'm tired.

In the meantime, if it seems like I'm giggling for no reason, it's probably related to that scene in "Coal Miner's Daughter" where Sissy Spacek says "I caint read this book, it ain't got no pichers in it!" It could also possibly be a scene involving "Cletus The Slack-Jawed Yokel" (from The Simpsons) taking certain liberties with her skull, which is disturbing and sad, but still kinda funny in a sick, disturbed, sad way.

More later... _\,,/

It Must've Been The Underpants Gnomes.

As if I, completely sober, might not remember what had happened an inch from my eyes.

A while back, I got a crack in the frame of my sunglasses; since I liked 'em, I went back and got another pair of the same brand only just a little different shape of frame. For under five bucks, they were a sweet deal and quite nice for cheap sunglasses. I'm still habitually careful with 'em -- I'm careful 'cause they're glasses and the careful is a longtime habit (since fourth grade or so), but I usually try to buy cheap ones 'cause there's always a chance they could get dropped or squished or crunched under a car seat. I like this newest pair too; I think I'm going to stay with the "Strike King" brand when I replace 'em.



Sunday afternoon, I sprayed myself with sunscreen and played in the pool. It was nice, we had a great time. I vividly remember the water dripping out of my hair and into my sunglasses as I bent over to put my sandals back on. I've no doubt there was a mix of hair products and sunscreen and generalized pool-water-crud dripping into 'em. When I went inside to change back into my regular clothes, I rinsed 'em off in the bathroom sink and stuck 'em on top of my already-wet hair without drying or wiping the glasses with anything.

Driving home Sunday evening, my sunglasses were grubby but tolerable, so I took 'em in the house with me and when I got ready to go to work Monday morning, I washed 'em with Dial Soap and soapy wet hands; because I've found that to be the easiest way to get 'em clean and smudge-free. After rinsing 'em under running water and shaking 'em almost-dry, I got a clean towel out of the cabinet; a clean towel straight from the laundry that hadn't had hands dried with it or anything and dried 'em off with it.

When I drove to work that morning, those sunglasses were so clean and so nice I made a point not to touch 'em or take a chance of gettin' 'em smudgy. I drove to lunch, I drove home, I drove into Tulsa and back home again, and I enjoyed the magic of clean, streak-free, like-new sunglasses. Same thing comin' in to work Tuesday morning, they were nice and clean when I came in, I laid 'em on my desk a bit, and when I had to go outside and check a VIN, I put 'em on and they were fine. It was a simple trip out the back door, just open a car door, read the numbers and write 'em on a piece of paper. There was no trauma involved, no strange contact with foreign objects; not to my head, or hands, or legs, or anything. Just out the door and back inside, easy as ya please.

I came back inside and went to the back office to hand over the number I'd just written down, and since it's relatively dark in the back office (compared to outdoors, anyway), I left 'em on the table on top of the daily newspaper. When I came back out of the office, I figured I'd better pick 'em up and take 'em back to my desk so I wouldn't forget where I left 'em before I needed 'em again.

An hour or so later when I was about to leave to go to the Post Office, I picked 'em up and put 'em on and my right eye went dim. Seriously, I wondered if I had something wrong with me because I had such a sudden hard time seeing out of my right eye.

I took 'em off immediately, and along with a healthy amount of dirt and crud and possibly someone else's sebaceous secretions, this is what I found:



Now, call me crazy, call me overly suspicious, but I think it looks deliberate. I really think it looks like someone picked 'em up and rubbed 'em with something scratch-inducing -- like maybe one of those shop towels that's got a little gob of machine-shop-metal-twistie stuck in it.

In my years as a full-time glasses-wearer (from fourth grade 'til I got my contacts in ninth grade) and a naturally sebaceous person (I'm genetically oily, just in case that might save y'all a trip to the dictionary), I've come to the conclusion that rubbing glasses dryly around-and-around with something like a t-shirt hem is only goonna spread the smudges around and make things worse -- hence my earlier mention of Dial Soap and running water. If I really have to use the t-shirt hem, I only swipe across once; so I do know without a doubt that I did not rub that pattern into that lens. I know this for certain because I know my habits and I know that those glasses were not dirty when I laid 'em down on top of that newspaper because I'd just been out in the sunshine enjoying the view through nice, clean, non-smudgy sunglasses.

Now, why might I be suspicious enough to think that someone had done it deliberately? Well, that's because someone's been a little irritated with me for turning the "Parental Controls" back on on the PC. Apparently he'd discovered that I forgot to turn 'em back on on one of the computers, so he'd been using that one to p0rn-hunt through Y0uTube and wherever else. I showed the history to the boss, and was told to turn the Parental Controls back on; shortly after I did, I ended up with fucked-up sunglasses.

In the shock of finding the huge round-patterned scratch-o-rama, and in the presence of the suspect, I showed 'em to My Mom with a hearty "What-the hell?" Would you believe the asshole had the nerve to ask me if I "had anything stuck in my shirt tail" and then tell me that I "must've walked into something while I was outside." Fucker. Yeah, I walked into something and kept rubbing my face into it around and around until it completely fucked up my favorite sunglasses. If it had been some kind of "accident" that scratched 'em up that bad, I probably would have lost some forehead flesh as well. Sure, I "walked into something" alright -- I walked right into trusting my own family enough to think I didn't have to worry about shit like that.

So, just because I still think he did it, and just because I'm all about sharing the humor with y'all, Dear Readers, I proudly present a first installment of SCREENSHOTS! Yes, friends and neighbors, these are the Print-Screen files of the stuff that My Brother (the HoMeSkOoL dAd), along with his HoMeSkOoL kIdS, are searching for and looking at on the PC at work, which is sittin' on this counter via a lease from a service provider who can see everything that goes on with it...

For your entertainment, here's a few bits of search history:



(Yes, Go0gle it is, even to find Eb@y or anything else that ends with ".com")

And here's a shot of what Mr. Fundamentalist HoMeSkOoL dAd searches for on Y0uTube:



And when it comes to still pictures, ya can't beat this hottie, not even with a stick!



Check back soon, there's a lot more where that came from!

More later... _\,,/

Me And My Anger Problem...

As if the HoMeSkOoL thing didn't worry me enough.

I was sooooooo close to titling this post "If you're Googling for ____ ____ ____ Church, I'd love it if you'd read this," but y'all know how I worry about my own little Googlers finding me.

I know, I know, I shouldn't go into Religion here, but stay with me -- I'm headed toward personal safety, and we'll get there if you'll just bear with me.

Now, I have no idea what led my brother and his wife to the ____ ____ ____ Church, especially seeing as how both brothers and I pretty much grew up in (or nearly in, however you'd like to say it) a little Baptist Church. I, personally, as an individual, have come to several conclusions on how I, personally, believe; I've learned a bit about what makes other organizations different as Methodists, Catholics, Baptists, Jehova's Witnesses, whichever. I don't have much of a clue about the Mennonites though, and I don't have a clue as to why my sis-in-law takes the kids there every time the door is open unless it's just to get 'em outta her hair for a while. That worries me too; after hearing about 'em all loadin' up in some highschool kid's car to go to Sonic while the folks think all the kids are "at church," but that's a whole different rant. I support every family's freedom of choice when it comes to churches, I just wonder how they made this choice since it's been at least two generations since anybody in this family owned a horse, buggy, or bonnet; but that's probably just a bad joke that's really beside the point.

I got away from said little Baptist Church shortly after I started college; partly because I got busy with things like camping in the woods on weekends, partly because I didn't feel all that guilty staying away since things didn't feel right to me there anymore. When I decided I might go back, I found out why things didn't feel right; my Sunday School Teacher had herself a little thang goin' on with The Pastor. After their little thang brought about two divorces and ruined the home life of several kids, I wasn't interested in being a part of that church anymore. I am sooooo happy & comfortable with my non-conformist little Baptist Church, because God wants our Honesty, not our Conformity. We're a small group, where most everybody knows most everybody's name; which is nice because who wants to be a nameless face in a massive throng? It's good to be with people who share my views, especially the one about how Religion is generally a bad idea because it's usually run by people, who tend to feck things up and that it's not about religion, it's about our Relationship With God and that's what's most important.

Going to Wednesday Night Church because you get to bring your damn skateboard seems about like going to the races because somebody might let you ride their four-wheeler. (Uh, guess who'd better not be touchin' mine, whole 'nuther rant there too though). Leaving Wednesday Night Church in the car with some highschool kid after mom drops ya off? Out of the question. I'da never even been ballsy enough to try it when I was that age, but apperntly, it works for their bunch.

One more thing that apparently works out okay for the Mennonites is letting an elementary school kid bring a knife to "church" with him.

Yeah, ain't that nice? The younger of the two HoMeSkOoLeRz, the one who's nine years old, apparently got cornered by a kid at "church" yesterday who pulled a knife on him and threatened to "cut his throat."

Wasn't physical violence one of the scary things about public school that made 'em choose HoMeSkOoLiNg???

I am also irritated by the fact that that sis-in-law seems to think it's not a big deal and that my brother "shouldn't get so mad" about it.

Shouldn't get so mad about it? Now, I'm not anybody's mom, but if some little bastard pulled out a knife and offered to cut my nine-year-old's throat, I would most definitely be mad about it. Shouldn't get so mad about it? As a crazy ol' aunt, I'm pretty fucking pissed off about it, and the first thing I said was "Are you sure about the quality of your church?"

There's a part of me that wants to tell her that because she's the mom of the only little MyLastName kids there's ever going to be, I want her to think about how she builds their future and what they learn from the choices she makes for them.

There's also a part of me that wants to corner her, pull out my pretty-butch-for-a-straight-chick pocket knife, grab her arm, jab her a couple times, and then ask her how mad she is about that.