We watched The King’s Speech a few nights ago. A fantastic movie. I’m stuck on a fact of history. The Anglican Church is headed by the king, which was created by Henry VIII in part because the Catholic Church would not grant him a divorce. Still, the king cannot marry a divorced woman. Very interesting.
Flash Fiction Friday is hosted by g-man.
Yesterday was one of those days I really wish I had my camera with me. The girl’s high school basketball team of the town I was driving though was doing a car wash fundraiser. There were of course about four teenage girls bouncing up and down with signs that read, “Car Wash”, and “Girls Basketball” with the name of their school or team. Then there was the overly bouncy and giggly girl with the sign that read, “Give a baller a dollar”. Oh, her father must be proud.
I know that “baller” has become slang for someone who plays ball as in basketball or other nonsexual sport involving balls. However, I read the sign with the 60’s context of the slang “balling”, to have coitus, but as a noun. As in one who participates in balling. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to roll down the window and tell her, “Oh honey don’t sell yourself short. Even a bad baller is at least worth the cost of a dinner and a movie.”
I can’t be the only one who read her sign with that interpretation. Do you think she got any indecent proposals?
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. Protecting all, the majority feign repression when advised that prayer shall not be led in public, government-funded schools. No one is restricting private prayer in schools. The restriction is from imposing beliefs. What if a Muslim led your prayer?
Flash Fiction Friday is hosted by g-man.
It took quite a while for the news to show Obama addressing the nation about Osama bin Laden being killed by US troops. They kept saying that, “in two minutes” or “in just a moment” Obama will be addressing the nation. It took so long I was hoping that they would show him on an aircraft carrier with a sign over him saying Mission Really Accomplished.
I find small talk to be irritating. I can see and interpret the weather just fine thank you, no need to discuss it. I only tolerate such mind numbing chatter if a Mocha Scooby Snack is dangled before me. Yes, I did notice the rain is wet. How amusing you’ve come to the same conclusion.
Flash Fiction Friday is hosted by g-man.
Family planning isn’t a euphemism for abortion. (If they cared so much for the unborn passing healthcare reform wouldn’t be so difficult.) That’s not all that Planned Parenthood does. If Republican’s are concerned with “welfare mothers” mooching off the government teat, why not fund the one organization helping to plan families when they’re financially secure.
Flash Fiction Friday is hosted by g-man.
Kurt left the TV on last night when he went upstairs to give Sophia a bath. I don’t know what lame excuse for a news show was on at the time but I didn’t get to the remote fast enough to not hear that Donald Trump questions Barack Obama’s birth place. They talked about some scuff The Donald had with Whoopi over this made up ‘birther’ issue where she then pulled the race card, which also really irritates me. I really hate when the race card is the only form of debate a person has. Yes, there is still racism and I’m sure despite her means Whoopi probably still sees very real instances of it, but if all she knows how to do is lay around screaming “help, help I’m being repressed” then she’s always going to be a victim no matter what. That, along with the other gossiping ninnies, is why I don’t watch The View. But I digress.
Some woman unknown to me was then shown handing Trump a copy of Obama’s birth certificate. All I could see of the paper was the minimalist format of it, which looks remarkably like the birth certificates I have for Sophia and Lukas. Trump’s argument for the legitimacy of the document that there are no signatures and that it was issued years after Obama’s birth. Wow, he’s good. We need The Donald, because we apparently can’t trust whomever the person is whose job is to check that a presidential candidate was in fact born in the United States. I understand where Donald is coming from. If hadn’t ever seen the new standard of a certified birth certificate I would think it looks fake also, but honestly, do you really think the country is so fucked up that the people in charge of ensuring a candidate is valid tripped up? And the all the security screenings a person has to go through before being sworn in to the highest office simply overlooked one giant glaring requirement? Really?
My original birth certificate was clearly typed up on a typewriter. The document lists my father’s occupation, the birthplace of both my parents, and at the bottom, there are signatures. For reasons I will never understand my mother would not give me my own birth certificate for years, so years ago when it became necessary to have a birth certificate to get back home from trips to Canada I wrote to Alaska for a new copy of my birth certificate. It looks nothing like my original and the issue date is the date at which I made the request for my own certified copy. So Donald, unless New York is different from Alaska, Washington, and apparently Hawaii I’m guessing if you made a request for a certified copy of your own birth certificate you’ll get similar results. And dude, you have shitgobs of cash…If you’re going to wear a hair piece why the hell don’t you splurge and get one that looks more realistic? Just don’t think that good hair will win you the position of President of the United States. You and the hypocrite, Gingrich don’t have a flying chance in hell so save your money or you may go to the brink of personal bankruptcy…again.
We recently celebrated our twelfth anniversary. A couple of friends volunteered to watch our munchkins, but even with childcare arraignments, we weren’t sure if it would be much of an outing. We haven’t been able to get Lukas to drink from a bottle. When Kurt tries to offer the bottle Lukas does nothing. When I attempt to offer it to him he looks at me as if to say, “Don’t give me that silicone crap! I know you have the real deal under that sweater.” Actually, that was more of a Sophia attitude. Lukas is much more laidback. He’ll accept the silicone boob-replacement, but he requires that the formula be squirted into his mouth. He’ll suck on silicone pacifier all day long, but he won’t suck on a bottle nipple. That’s just asking too much.
Before leaving I tried to nurse the boy as much as he would take so that we could have at least two to three hours of adult conversation without Sophia, hands held up on either side of her chin with her palms up, yelling at the top of her three-year-old lungs, “I don’t say! I don’t say! I don’t say!” Anytime she speaks gibberish Kurt will just look at her and say, “Ya don’t say?” So she turned it around and that is what she yells until one of us inevitably gives her attention by bursting into laughter.
Dinner began with a crab cake appetizer. My main course was some awesomely buttery tasting scallops and Kurt ordered steak and prawns. For dessert, we split a blackberry cobbler with ice cream. It looked sloppy with the berry juice spilling over the ramekin, but tasted fantastic. And that was the point when I realized I needed to change my TV watching preferences. When part of a meal critique is how it is plated…I watch way too much of the food network. As I cook, I also find myself paying attention to my knife cuts. Another thing to occupy my mind…No good can come of this.
After dinner, we called our sitters to see how Lukas was doing and decide if we wish to risk subjecting our babysitting victims volunteers to a fussy hungry infant by going to a movie. They informed us that he actually drank about an ounce of formula. Great success! It wasn’t enough to constitute a full infant meal, but it was enough to bide more time. We continued our date to include viewing the movie, “True Grit”. Great movie. The only thing that bothered me about it was that twice characters in the movie alluded to the main character being ugly and she was not. Either throw those lines out, cast an ugly girl, or use a little make-up to make her ugly. I have no visual imagination. I need some props over here! *smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other three times in rapid succession* I need the girl to look ugly! M’kay?
We arrived back home, yawning, at eleven. Yeah we really know how to paint the town red don’t we? It was perfect timing because Lukas was just beginning to get fussy. He smiled when he saw me. I realize that’s a great milestone, but the smiling boy sometimes weirds me out a little. His smiles are often huge when he knows it’s about time to eat that my mind sometimes run through Oedipus scenarios. You see, I have enough to occupy my mind. I don’t need to add knife cuts to that mix.
I was just now reaching up in to my cupboard to retrieve the juice pitcher for orange juice, when I read the little yellow splash add on a bottle of rice vinegar. “No Preservatives”, it read. Suddenly up became down and cats and dogs began living happily together.
Do we no longer know what the words in our own language mean? What keeps pickles from spoiling if vinegar itself isn’t a fuckin’ preservative. The whole goddamn bottle of rice vinegar is a preservative. I want to see that same claim prominently placed on bags of salt and sugar. No, really I do. I’ll carry those bags with me everywhere and then if I should ever come across someone who proudly claims to work as an ad writer for product packaging I’ll lob them in their general direction because those *twitching and waving my fingers in the air simulating Lewis Black in mid rant* are preservatives also. I’m sure those must be the people that utter sentances like, “If it weren’t for my horse I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.”
Next time I’m buying a different brand of rice vinegar. I don’t want to encourage stupidity.
My driver’s license expired last month, so on Tuesday after I dropped Sophia off at preschool, Lukas and I went to renew it. There is a list of questions that the person behind the counter is required to ask, and apparently must do so in monotone. “Is your height and weight about the same?” No, I’m three feet shorter. What the fuck? The first part of the question is just stupid, and I think it’s ridiculous to even ask a woman if her weight has changed especially when she has a six week old infant beside her. Sure, I’m still 130 pounds. I lost 50 pounds in just six weeks. That’s right, I was ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY POUNDS on the day I went into labor.
I’m not back down to 130, but I’m not about to tell the department of licensing that. For the record, I weighed in at 149 at my six-week postpartum appointment. Yes, I realize I just told the whole wide world my weight. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about it. I just don’t want it on my driver’s license because I’m hoping that it won’t be a lie four years before it expires again.
The other stupid question was, “Were you a twin or triplet at birth?” Is the “at birth” part necessary? At what other point would one be a twin or triplet? Certainly not after death, although that would explain why the line at the DOL is so stupidly slow. Is there sub class of humans that have starfish like reproductive abilities?