It's all pink...

Disclaimer: I am not intending to, in any way, diminish the seriousness of breast cancer or suggest that we shouldn't be aware of it.  Read on...

I've had it with all things Pink.  I refused to participate in those stupid little "let's make the men wonder what the hell we're talking about" games on Facebook that have very little to do with preventing or treating cancer (at least this year's... last year's was at least about bras.  but this year... seriously... purses?  my favorite was "I don't carry a purse, but I like to fuck in the shower") but aside from random childishness, what really pisses me off is that breast cancer awareness gets SOOOOOO much attention, and other very real causes get practically nothing.

Did you know that October is also Domestic Violence Awareness month?  I don't see everything being covered in bruise-covered ribbons (oooooh I'm going to hell for that one) Why is it everyone's so worried about the boobies but nobody seems to care about the fact that 1 in 4 people will be a victim of domestic violence at some point in their life? 

A couple years ago, I heard a rumor that some St Louians were trying to get the powers-that-be to light up the Arch with pink lights in October.  Why stop there, why not put a nipple on it?!

I would say they should build a second St Louis Boob, but it is cancer awareness after all...

Nobody ever suggested lighting up landmarks in recognition of the rampant drug problem in Missouri, the meth capital of the country.  

What finally put me over the edge though, was last Sunday when I flipped to an NFL game briefly.  I do not follow the NFL at all, which comes as a huge surprise to people who know how obsessed I am with college football.  Imagine my surprise when I saw all these big burly testosterone-overloaded men prancing around the gridiron with pink shoes and pink arm bands and whatnot.  Seriously.  Why is the NFL so into breast cancer awareness, but you never see them getting all excited about prostate cancer awareness?  (would that be a brown ribbon?!)  1. the NFL is watched by way more men than women, and 2. I'm pretty sure there are a hell of a lot more women feeling their chests for errant lumps than there are men shoving fingers up their asses to see if their prostate is still normal.

*image deleted  

Shouldn't we be promoting men's health on an event where men are the captive audience?  Like men need any more excuses to be grabbing our chests.  *sigh*  

Oooooh I know, maybe they should do Testicular Cancer Awareness... 

hee hee... balls... blue ribbon...

Like I said, I am not against the prevention and treatment of breast cancer.  I just think it sucks that some marketing genius has managed to take the Pink movement to pop-star status, while so many other serious concerns are completely ignored.   

Oh, giant squirrel balls reminded me: In case anyone is keeping score, the final tally of dead squirrels in the pool for 2010 was 8.   Five fished out of the skimmer basket, two free-floating on the surface of the water, and one had sunk to the bottom.  They've all been removed and chucked into the woods, and the pool has now been winterized..... thank goodness!

Wow. Just Wow.

A couple weeks ago I was back home, just for the weekend.  Friday night I went out to dinner with the parental unit.  They go out to dinner every Friday to the same place with the same group of friends (well, however many of them are available on the Friday in question)

This place is a local restaurant and has had a lot of issues and changes over the years.  It hit another massive low about a month ago, and was starting the upswing when I was there.  This story isn't about anything massive or disastrous.  It's about ranch dressing.

The ranch dressing they've served for years now was pretty awful.  We're talking the flavor of generic dressing 3 weeks past it's expiration date.  But if you dump a bunch of black pepper into it, it's at least edible.  Well, as we're sitting there eating, Bran Flake's friend sitting next to her had ordered a salad with ranch dressing... and Flake stopped mid-story and spun around and goes "wow, that dressing actually smells good!"  So she gets to talking to the lady that has taken over kitchen managerial duties, and asks if it's a new ranch dressing.  Manager lady goes "yep, I started making it myself" and Flake goes "I didn't know you could make ranch dressing"

W.
T.
F.

Where the hell does she think ranch dressing comes from?  Does she think it grows wild?  And they built a ranch in the Hidden Valley, where migrant workers harvest it for 4 cents a month?

not shown: migrant workers, reality

Seriously.  I really want to know where she thought it comes from.  

And to top it off, I was telling her about a friend's dad who had Alzheimer's really bad.  Really really bad.  And Flake's all "I need to figure out how to ward off Alzheimer's" and I said "use your brain.  No, seriously, exercise the gray matter.  Think, reason, learn, keep those synapses firing.  Best way to ward off Alzheimer's" and Flake, in all seriousness, goes "oh well then I'll be good because I'm learning all the time!"  Somehow that wasn't what I meant.  I should have emphasized the "reason" part.  And added "logic".  Flake has zero capabilities for logic.  And even if she does "learn" something (i.e., that you can make ranch dressing) she doesn't retain it.  I bet if I emailed her a recipe right now for making your own ranch dressing, she wouldn't have a clue why I was doing it because she's already forgotten the above event ever happened.  

P.S. I don't want anyone to be insulted by this post, if you hadn't previously considered the making of ranch dressing, don't take it personally.  Unless of course you would have, when presented with a recipe for ranch dressing, still not believed that it could be made.  Because it grows on trees in the Hidden Valley.   

Men Are Stupid

Scene: Out by my pool.

Act One: May 20, 2010.  A dead squirrel laying balls-up in the skimmer basket of my pool.

Act Two: yesterday.  Yet another dead squirrel in my skimmer basket.  Also with giant balls. 

Logically:

1. Two squirrels get sucked into the skimmer basket of my pool and die
2. Both squirrels are male.
3. Ergo, all men are stupid. 

I'm not quite sure why I made a play and then did a scientific analysis of it.  Weird.  You should expect that out of me by now. 

Let's go Trap Shooting

That's me, as a mime, in a box.  I feel trapped.

I'm trapped in a somewhat miserable marriage.  Although right now I'm feeling a little less trapped because I've decided that Designated Hitter is less annoying than my idiot family, and he was really sweet to me last night.  History tells me that the sweetness won't last though, much like the sugary crystals on the outside of a sour gummy worm.  He keeps telling me he's turning over a new leaf.  I'm not holding my breath.

I'm trapped by my idiot family too.  But what can I do?  I can't just quit seeing them, and I definitely can't tell them they're all a bunch of fucktards.  So I'm trapped.

Everyone I know puts me down, and tells me they love me.  They insult me, and tell me they love me.  They humiliate me in public, and tell me they love me.

That was a lie, only the people that tell me they love me treat me like that.  My friends (who might say "love ya" but not in the husband or family kind of way) do not put me down or insult me or humiliate me or ridicule me or make me feel ashamed of myself.

I don't know what love is anymore.  And I am trapped by people who guilt me into saying that I love them.

I wish I could go into the Witness Protection Program.  When I say I want to disappear, I don't mean I just want to move away.  I mean I want to leave no trace.  There was a time, just a couple years ago, when I literally had over $600 in cash hiding in my closet, just in case I ever got to the point where I really had to get out and didn't want anyone to be able to find me for a while.  No paper trail, yanno.  Then Hitter got all nice, and I didn't see my family for a while, and I blew all $600 on myself.  I wish I had the money back.

I can't just move away but still have people know where I am.  Mostly I can't let my idiot family know where I am.  They'll hunt me down, and make life even worse for me if I try to get away.  And even though I'm currently feeling a little more friendly towards Hitter, I'm still trapped with the family because of him.  As long as I'm married to this man, I have to continue to see my family.  Dammit. 

I'm trapped.  And I wish I could start shooting people.  Don't worry, I won't really.  I just kinda wish I could.

Sam & Ella, who are they?

It's time for Salmonella Chicken, round two.  Designated Hitter thought he'd try putting another chicken on his fancy dancy smoker grill thingiemahooper.  (technical term)

He managed to not let the thing run out of hampester-shit-pellets this time.  And he didn't go away and forget about it.  However, we did get an answer to the "did he use the meat thermometer correctly" question.  Short answer: no.  Long answer: he never does.  I swear to god he stuck the probe of the thermometer into the chicken's BACK.  And like maybe a quarter inch in.

It's done!

Fuck.

I'm gonna die.

On a Wing and a Prayer

I usually like to listen to The Bob and Tom Show in the mornings.  Usually.  Somewhere around the 500th replay of the Camel Toe song (this week) it gets a bit monotonous, but for the most part I like it.  Okay so the overplay of that song was like 8 years ago, but bear with me.  (wait, I should clarify.  "I like it" meant the show, not the Camel Toe song.  fuck that)

Sometimes I get a bit huffy when they get on their high-horses about shit.  For instance, today they were talking about a story where someone (a person?  group?  I don't know) is suggesting "family sections" on airplanes.  I love this idea.  Kristi started in with the whole "NO!  You can't do that!  They can't do that.  Kids are wonderful!"  blah blah blah.  I'm in my car driving back from the grocery store and all I was getting so pissed off.  She may think that her kids are perfect and there are rainbows and unicorns and tra la la, but most kids are assholes.  (no offense if you have kids and they aren't assholes.  I'm making a sweeping generalization here)  (and for some reason I'm guessing her kids are assholes)

Front view, side view.  Two views.  Check!  No check, cash only (sorry, M*A*S*H quote there) 

Complete with Flying Cheerios in various degrees of mastication

And yes that's Designated Hitter in the first pic, reading a paper, ignoring me, with his elbow in my ribs

I hate flying

 The more I think about this, the more I like the family section idea.  And I have a way to put it into place.  Stick all the parents and kids at the back of the plane.  No wait, hear me out.  First of all, parents traveling with small children are allowed to board the plane first, right?  And when the rest of us uninteresting people board, we start at the back of the plane, right?  Well then we can kill two birds with one stone, and have the parents with the kids board the plane first and send their asses to the back.  Secondly, they'll be close to the bathroom.  There's a good plan.  Third, they're always such a pain in the ass when getting off the plane cuz they stand around forever packing up all the toys and games and crap and organizing their little anklebiters and slowing the rest of us down so if they're at the back of the plane, the rest of us can get off first while they're doing the repacking and whatnot.  And finally, the kids can just kick other kids' seats.  Or other parents (who would be completely oblivious to what their children were doing if they were sitting next to me)  

Now I realize it wouldn't block sound, so when they got to screaming we would all still hear it, but at least it would be from a bit of a distance instead of directly into my ear from point-blank range.  And maybe if bad parents were surrounded by other people's asshole children, they'd start to realize that their children are assholes too.  I doubt it, but it's worth a shot.  

I am totally in favor of family sections on airplanes.  Or maybe just don't ever make me fly anywhere again.  At least not commercial flights, my one experience on a private jet was freaking awesome.  Except that the private jet was owned by an asshole, but I tolerated him for the private flight to Cabo.  Totally worth it.  I should get my pilot's license and get a plane.  Oh if only I was independently wealthy.  *sigh* 

And I ran, I ran so far away

Dear god I just quoted A Flock of Seagulls.  *hangs head in shame*

Yep I ran away from home last night.  I am thirty... almost-damned three... years old, and I ran away from home.

As for the reason, well, it's even dumber.  I was trying to clean up the house some, because we're having company today.  I was also trying to do laundry, because I didn't want to have wet clothes hanging all over the house to dry when company was here so I had to do it yesterday.  I guess I should explain.  Designated Hitter doesn't let me dry anything except socks and underwear.  Pants, shorts, shirts, even grubby working-in-the-yard t-shirts have to be hung to dry.  Seriously.  He has this one shirt he got from a small seed company.  If I had a nickel for every time he has bitched about what a bunch of assholes this seed company was, I could move out and support myself just on the interest alone.  He wears this shirt when he gets all sweaty and muddy and grassy... and then he throws it in the washer, and then that shirt is too valuable to throw in the dryer.  It must be carefully hung up to dry.  Yanno so it doesn't shrink.  That shirt could be the cause of our divorce.

Well, since we moved to the country and got ourselves a septic system, I can't use liquid fabric softener in the washer anymore cuz it fucks up the decomposition of the shit in the septic tank (seriously, did anyone want to know that?!  I didn't) so in order to make our clothes not all stiff and wrinkly and scratchy, I've been tossing them into the dryer for about 12 minutes with a dryer sheet and then taking them out and hanging them to finish drying.  They aren't in the dryer long enough to shrink, but they do soften up and de-wrinkle in that time.

So, I'm doing laundry yesterday.  And I'm cleaning house.  First load of laundry comes out of the washer and goes into the dryer.  Kitchen timer set for 12 minutes.  I go to vacuum.  I'm off in the bedroom vacuuming when the timer goes off, I don't hear it.  Apparently timer shuts itself off after a bit, because when I turn vacuum off the house is silent.  I didn't think a think of it, went on to do some other things, and like 45 minutes later went "oh shit!"  I ran into the laundry room and yep, there was the dryer still tumbling away with a load of dark clothes inside, fully dry.  I take everything out and hang it all up and mostly I'm not too terribly worried cuz Hitter was outside and I've dried a few shirts all the way before and he's never noticed, but then I pull out a pair of blue dress pants.  *sigh*  I flipped 'em upside down and hung them up like I'm supposed to, and then compared them to two pair of khaki colored pants that were already hanging there... and they were somewhat shorter.

I panicked.

I didn't have the courage to tell Hitter what I did.  I couldn't handle the coming lecture and/or look of disappointment.  Just didn't have it in me.  He was outside mowing lawn at the time and I saw him get in the truck and drive off (I suspect he was fulfilling Gas Fairy duties) so I wrote a note that explained the vacuuming and the timer and the short pants and I apologized like 5 times and twice swore it was an accident, and I loaded Muppy up in Marvin (ooooh I haven't explained Marvin yet... that's my car) and took off.  Didn't know where I was going, just left.  Unfortunately I met Hitter in the driveway, he pulled over (one-lane-driveway) and unrolled his window to talk to me, and I didn't even look him in the eyes, just raced past and took off.

He texted me and said he wasn't mad, please come back.  I drove for a while, and then eventually texted him back and said I couldn't handle the disappointment either.  He wrote me back and said something about accidents happen, just come back.  I drove for a while longer.  Then I realized I was lost.  Okay our roads around here do NOT go straight.  I'm not originally from this state, but my parents did go to college here and their best friends are from here too (not here as in this town, here as in this state) so Designated Drinker has a lot of first-hand knowledge of what goes on around here.  And he's always said the way our DOT makes new roads is to just find the nearest hillbilly and put him in a blacktopper machine with a case of beer and tell him to drive around for a while.  If there's a tree, go around it.

I was seriously lost.  Thank goodness the sun was still up because I knew I'd left home heading west so as long as I kept the sun behind me, I should eventually end up somewhere near home.  Or in a river.  Either way, I'd know where I was then.

I'm still a little twitchy, I cried over supper last night.  Hitter gets all "but I'm trying to get better and not fly off the handle" and I tell him that I've been hurt so bad so many times that I don't trust him anymore.  The whole episode with the root beer on vacation kind of put me over the edge.  Oh crap I didn't tell that story either.  Well, short version, I accidentally sprayed root beer on one cabinet and a bit on the floor of the kitchen in the cabin his sister rents for the week.  RENTS, not owns.  B.F.D.  I wiped it up, Sis was all "no big deal", Hitter comes unglued on me like I'd burned the place down and killed half his family in the process.  Over a little root beer on the floor.  Good lord.  Everything's a catastrophe with that man.  And I'm at the end of my rope.  *sigh*

Sorry this wasn't funny and didn't have any cute pictures.  I'm not feeling very funny or cute right now but I needed to vent this shit.