Just What I Need, Another Frickin’ List

So I’m in the local card/gift store the other day picking up some Christmas ornaments when I spy the following book on display:

“Fifty Things to Do When You Turn Fifty”

It was just to the left of:

“Sixty Things to Do When You Turn Sixty”

I did not pick them up, because:

a)  I just turned 40 in May;

b)  I don’t need another list of things to do, even if I have 10-20 years in which to get started on them; and,

c)  Anyone I know that just turned 50 or 60 is looking for less shit to do, not more!

I mean, seriously, I have at least 50 things to do each day, why on Earth would I go looking for more?    If I gave you even a partial listing of what I’ve done over the past two weeks, it would make your head spin.   I wouldn’t even include holiday preparations in that list, because if I did, that would make your head pop right off.   Mine did.  I’m still feeling around for it while dictating this post to Cenzo.  (He’s a great typist, isn’t he?)

Now, I’m sure the books have an audience; otherwise the publishing house wouldn’t have taken a chance on them.  The descriptions on-line assure me that these tomes are full of wisdom about the pitfalls and privileges of turning 50 and/or 60 and have very helpful advice about finances, insurance, and social situations, including the gem that it’s ok to say no if you don’t want to do something.   Really?  That’s a revelation?   My three year-old tells me that all the time.   I don’t let him get away with it, but he tells me just the same.   Maybe the authors are trying to say that it’s ok to tell someone to piss off, mean it, and get away with it, but not until you’re 50.   Well, I’m here to tell you that I must be very advanced for my age, because I tell my husband to piss off on a regular basis.   

Think about it.  How much more stuff would be on your “to do” list if you had to wait until you reached 50 tell someone to take a hike?   Screw that. 

Here.  I’m giving you permission right now.  

Whatever age you are, you have my permission to tell someone to piss off if they ask you to do something you don’t want to do. (Unless you’re my child, husband, or are otherwise related to me in any way.  Then forget it.)    

See?  I just saved you many years of unwanted requests for manual labor, block parties, class reunions, and anything else you don’t want to do.   You’re welcome.

Get Your Orders In Now Before My Hands Fall Off

Remember these?

Fun *and* furry

These are just a sampling of what I knitted for the Jingle Bell Faire held at Cheeks’ school a couple of weeks ago.  All told, I knit sixteen scarves, and another volunteer knit an additional 10 (I think).    They all sold out within the first two hours.      Needless to say, I’m thrilled that they went over so well.   I was a little worried that the kids might not like them. 

I shouldn’t have worried.  

The Jingle Bell Faire chairperson told me that the committee would like as many as I can churn out over the coming months for next year’s event.

I told her I wouldn’t start until January.  (Holidays and all, you know.)

Get your orders in now because my hands will be falling off by mid-February. 

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Speaking of orders, we’re about to embark on cookie sales for Cheeks’  Brownie troop*.   I think this gets our message across, don’t you?

 

*It’s called artistic license, any GS USA reps who may be lurking out there.  We’re not really using it. Yeesh.

Milk and Bread! Milk and Bread!

First, I need to say thank you to all of you for your incredibly warm, wonderful support in response to my “humanity sucks” post.  I am so grateful to have friends like you.   I’d like to wrap you all up in a big hug, but that might be weird.  And my arms aren’t that long.  But, if I could, I would.

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I was so successful in my quest to avoid the news this past week that I had no clue we were going to get hit with a snowstorm last night until I heard about it from a neighbor that afternoon.   Thankfully, I had already planned on going to the store to get the ingredients for teacher gifts, so I just added milk and bread to the list.   Because heaven help me if I run out of milk and bread for even a few hours.   I can’t take the hairy eyeballs levelled at me because they can’t make a pb&j sandwich!   Ack!  The horror!

Now the kids are dancing around, begging to go outside and play in the snow.  Don’t they know that shit is cold?   They wanted to go out at 7:00 AM, but I managed to convince them that the neighbors would be really pissed to hear joyful kid noises at that hour on a Sunday morning.  It’s now 9:00 AM, and the little buggers are trying to convince me that the neighbors are all awake.   I only have half a cup of coffee in me, so there’s no way the neighbors are up yet, right?

In other news, we’ve decided to buy the kids a mini-trampoline for Christmas.  If I have to yell at them to stop jumping on the bed (couch, pillows, each other), all winter long, we’re not going to make it until spring.  

Oh, and one another question for the nurses at my gynecologist’s office.  Is it really a good idea to have your patients staring at this photo while you’re trying to get an accurate blood pressure reading?   I think not.

When All Else Fails, Find A Muppet

Since my last post was such a downer, I figured it was time to lift the collective spirit and have a good laugh.  

What’s better than watching Cookie Monster rap about cookies?

How about the cast of Sesame Street singing “The Internet is for Porn”?

Or my personal favorite, the Muppet Show’s homage to “Bohemian Rhapsody”.   Guess which character reminds me of my son…

Cruelty and Faith

****Warning: A portion of this post is a bit graphic. You may want to refrain from snacking while reading this one.****

****It’s also a long post.  You may want a nap afterwards.****

A long time ago, in a town far away, I sat in a classroom puzzling out algebraic equations.  As I sat there wondering why on earth I was using letters in math problems, grumbling how I’d never use these in real life, the two neurons that weren’t addled by raging teenage hormones actually paid attention and filed something away for future use.   That something was the transitive axiom, a nifty little theory that states  if  A equals B and B equals C, then A must also equal C.   As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to find that little nugget of information quite useful.   (Ok, Mr. Snyder, you may now say “I told you so.”)

Here’s an example:   If Mumma Boo is a control freak, and control freaks should not watch the news, then Mumma Boo should not watch the news.  

See how I justified my ignorance right there?  Brilliant, huh?

Here’s another one:   If it looks like an asshole, and it acts like an asshole, then it is an asshole.

Ok, so that one doesn’t really fit the mathematical formula, per se, but it’s true, isn’t it?

So what do control freaks and assholes have in common, besides being tightly puckered?   The news.  Control freaks shouldn’t watch the news because there are far too many assholes on the news.

I simply cannot watch the news anymore.  It’s not that I don’t care about what’s happening in our world – I do – that’s the problem.  I can’t do a  thing about those problems, which frustrates me to no end.  Each newscast is one horrible story after another about humankind’s unending penchant for cruelty.  Do I feel bad about what’s happened?  Hell, yes.   Can I help in some way?  Maybe, but most likely no.  And that’s frustrating.  When I get frustrated, I get cranky.   Why should I watch something that will only result in me getting upset and taking out my frustrations on things I can control?   Sure, my bathtub is a little shinier after I try to clean away my anger about the latest dumbass politician’s solution to the economic downturn, but really, is that helping anyone?   I learned a long time ago that politicians suck.  All of them.  I don’t need to hear about the latest political scandal or how much more money is going to be wasted this year.  It’s out of my hands, and pretty much a foregone conclusion.  Is this a fatalistic attitude?  Probably.  Is it a “head-in-the-sand” coping mechanism?  Definitely.   Does it work for me?  For right now, it does.   If I got my panties in a bunch about everything I see on the news, my underwear would be so far up my digestive tract that I’d be burping red satin.  

I think I’m tired, just so damn tired, of hearing  how awful the human race has become.  How everyone else is to blame.  How no one takes responsibility for themselves and their actions any more.  I’m just overwhelmed by the sheer number of assholes out there, and how I can’t do anything about them. So I cope the only way I know how – by turning off the news, affixing blinders to my head, and plowing through my days hoping that no one wants to talk about the Thankgiving quadruple murder or the troop surge in Afghanistan.  And yet, despite my best efforts, the assholes, they rip off my blinders, yelling ”look at me!” and wreak havoc with my faith in humanity.

****Warning:  The weak-stomached may want to skip ahead to the end.*****

My MIL and her husband live on a farm in the New Hampshire mountains.   They’re good, generous people;  they grow enough produce and raise enough livestock to sustain themselves and give some to those who aren’t as fortunate.  They pay their bills with their day jobs and the farm makes them self-sufficient; they don’t bother anybody.   Two weeks ago, a couple of assholes changed all that.  After spending a great deal of the day driving back and forth past the farm, they backed into the driveway far enough to see who was in the house and how far the outside lights illuminated the property.  Then the assholes drove away and waited for my MIL and her husband to go to bed.  Turning their engine off, the assholes let their truck coast down the hill to the barn, where they proceeded to steal Lulu, a lamb that had been born in the spring and one of my children’s favorites at the farm.  Only these fuckers didn’t just steal Lulu.  They slaughtered her. In the middle of the night, less than a yard away from her mother.  They lured her into the garden where she couldn’t escape, slit her throat, cut off her head and ripped out her spine.  They took whatever was edible and left the carnage there for my stepFIL to find in the morning.   I’m still stunned by the horror of it all - I’m sick to my stomach just thinking about it.   

For the first time in the 12 years I’ve known them, my MIL and stepFIL are talking about leaving the farm.  They no longer feel safe; what might have happened had my stepFIL heard Lulu’s cries and gone to investigate?  I shudder to think about it.  I thank God that I’ll only have to explain Lulu’s absence to my children the next time we visit and not their grandfather’s.

It seems I can’t escape the assholes no matter how hard I try.  I figure I have two choices at this point – give in and let the assholes win or stand up and prove to myself, and more importantly, to my kids, that there really is good in the world, despite what the news media would have us think. Even though my faith in the goodness of mankind has been shaken yet again, I can’t let my kids see that.  I have to seek whatever examples of goodness I can find and expound upon them so loudly that my kids understand that being responsible, respectful, and just plain decent towards one another is how we should all strive to live.   

I need to take back a little of the control that I feel I’ve lost, one kind act at a time.