tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39183843755425117342024-03-13T08:15:40.288-07:00The Party PonyJennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.comBlogger366125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-73664204949006913062021-02-10T23:09:00.012-08:002021-02-11T06:55:34.784-08:00Get Stuffed! Dreadful Valentine's Day Gifts for 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Fair lovers of Valentine's Day! This year, I have promised and delivered the usual panoply of hideous hounds, sloths, apes, and bears gleaned from the local markets.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My key question is: If you purchase one of these dreadful beasts for your love, have you considered the ramifications? Adoption is forever, even during COVID-19. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If the creature comes home to live with you, I want you to consider how it might play out. It could be quite unpleasant. Be forewarned, purchaser!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7Z9Ce9DanWSUeG17-WlgNKietauPx5Vno_iiA0-erBm6Oiyv71nx7OFNRzlcOkrQMtpK30vmiYCbeAqLYCBbVIRZtWytW9f6CD7cr6CEsNiKHMNfP46v-SkRm9UtcP-mgZddW4Dh-RMp/s2048/3.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7Z9Ce9DanWSUeG17-WlgNKietauPx5Vno_iiA0-erBm6Oiyv71nx7OFNRzlcOkrQMtpK30vmiYCbeAqLYCBbVIRZtWytW9f6CD7cr6CEsNiKHMNfP46v-SkRm9UtcP-mgZddW4Dh-RMp/s320/3.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />She will absolutely love this surprise! Because every woman LOVES a Valentine that hearkens to rotund farm animals. Every woman loves a Valentine that contains the word "hog." <br />But the lower body of the hog is very slim and slender, okay? It has been STUFFED INTO A CUP.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitq5uiZ1lNh8kbSN_03oG3BLXSUYLMOCG5UyGZw8xKj5B4ZnrPIgma8ey6HhwC9tlnppGFtN7cMHtoP9VhuI7a2jUROmODiKXWdbrrZavqoD2sH-7Nt33ME4wGE0wBn_IRACS2m6omYkLx/s2048/2.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitq5uiZ1lNh8kbSN_03oG3BLXSUYLMOCG5UyGZw8xKj5B4ZnrPIgma8ey6HhwC9tlnppGFtN7cMHtoP9VhuI7a2jUROmODiKXWdbrrZavqoD2sH-7Nt33ME4wGE0wBn_IRACS2m6omYkLx/s320/2.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />My sweet, while we snuggle, we will gaze upon the "dogpile" of love that I bought for you at Walmart. It is not creepy in the slightest, my sweet! THEY ARE LAUGHING at life itself, and not at your delectable toes. Why do you wish to take so much Xanax, my sweet? </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZaZStoKfX7vdjx5nlALoKFgA5sqMUu3lrNOprvynA8oYuYfXFDKU138IQ97u8Tj2NJPt72QmxRVUUtc0_F7m83x6E_VhKv2XCO2NkQTu4BWKFa5qI9qCBPQmqV82NOB14K152DnucjMZ/s2048/4.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZaZStoKfX7vdjx5nlALoKFgA5sqMUu3lrNOprvynA8oYuYfXFDKU138IQ97u8Tj2NJPt72QmxRVUUtc0_F7m83x6E_VhKv2XCO2NkQTu4BWKFa5qI9qCBPQmqV82NOB14K152DnucjMZ/s320/4.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Don't look now, honey, but I bought you a romantic toucan! <br />Its forlorn beak as is sad and flaccid as my penis! In fact, its beak has a good bit more strength and girth than my own penis. I think I might wish to exchange this gift. Too late!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwUQWKwtnbGzhBpVH4yJJ1HeBQP0sdk2O4aaYhrJUL90QZh0CzGag3ks8hyovWj9-NZ0LP4NC6LFUif4X6vKhTuDTDQsnFzmZ574t_4cNYeUS5MgkTsBOrvHEpVglrfS25MWMNU1N-bGz/s2048/5.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwUQWKwtnbGzhBpVH4yJJ1HeBQP0sdk2O4aaYhrJUL90QZh0CzGag3ks8hyovWj9-NZ0LP4NC6LFUif4X6vKhTuDTDQsnFzmZ574t_4cNYeUS5MgkTsBOrvHEpVglrfS25MWMNU1N-bGz/s320/5.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />While you try to make love I will watch you! Watch you with my glittering, glowing eyes! Just relax. Slide back into the pillows. There is nothing to worry about. I will watch you, and take notes. It shall be easy, for I have a tiny videocamera embedded in my skull.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2PQZNNrJ949f44BNmBwEa7U1bjZWO24uXPoAg-YIluW7sbJCm9InAOALKFXkVi4HzcsgoMWKqHLz4CzR5a3vzq6FN_FIoHmjPK5swMoh0B6m2RQdIVvNX9V7jRNEWqo61JKL8GzEE2rb/s2048/6.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2PQZNNrJ949f44BNmBwEa7U1bjZWO24uXPoAg-YIluW7sbJCm9InAOALKFXkVi4HzcsgoMWKqHLz4CzR5a3vzq6FN_FIoHmjPK5swMoh0B6m2RQdIVvNX9V7jRNEWqo61JKL8GzEE2rb/s320/6.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />My dear precious, to celebrate our union I ordered us a Cup O' Turd. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9sgOjO7Gw2ATFMyYqBbHgzNuvVehExUcTbk7wsLaVX4MvQ4QmR6_Wc52kh9aQJIhHLJM7VWo4WYRlBGqA1qoepV5j3Md6r1KvYmOmGsN7srpKQ3qnt0ck50Kfp2OzOAsXLoFrfjOiKr4/s2048/7.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9sgOjO7Gw2ATFMyYqBbHgzNuvVehExUcTbk7wsLaVX4MvQ4QmR6_Wc52kh9aQJIhHLJM7VWo4WYRlBGqA1qoepV5j3Md6r1KvYmOmGsN7srpKQ3qnt0ck50Kfp2OzOAsXLoFrfjOiKr4/s320/7.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Why do you seem so frightened, Patricia? The gorilla loves you as much as I do. Perhaps more. He will stay here when I leave the home and keep careful watch over you. Do not fret so, Patricia!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja74XC2oVHJyIEuzqbPDGT-U6DVptdklAAOraGAtiX_ZLyAjXob__5TWSIdhVI5qzMPRUx5sSEF_MhKxy0Vpl3QBHEGp-phE8029SRsQaxVVLq7XTCSi0HZdGK9bAcfhDVJlfr_QijXSUK/s2048/8.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja74XC2oVHJyIEuzqbPDGT-U6DVptdklAAOraGAtiX_ZLyAjXob__5TWSIdhVI5qzMPRUx5sSEF_MhKxy0Vpl3QBHEGp-phE8029SRsQaxVVLq7XTCSi0HZdGK9bAcfhDVJlfr_QijXSUK/s320/8.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I got you a three-legged fur thing. It is going to kill you in your sleep. Please drink the orange juice first, dear. It will make it less painful.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx_dq_8OKGYBM2JWo4YfYKuTp0vjGVVtG4hJ7AivGzC7Uah8KX3VxfuduHKcwpUsSyeHXAMZcI38qPAPnx9vWgj4w7II0tad-EFjQa3IsP8FCCSJQ_l-ei3RAZrY1LhZvKid2jvxZknTG/s2048/10.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyx_dq_8OKGYBM2JWo4YfYKuTp0vjGVVtG4hJ7AivGzC7Uah8KX3VxfuduHKcwpUsSyeHXAMZcI38qPAPnx9vWgj4w7II0tad-EFjQa3IsP8FCCSJQ_l-ei3RAZrY1LhZvKid2jvxZknTG/s320/10.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Get ready, Gertrude...to show my true devotion I airlifted a 50 DOLLAR STUFFED SLOTH FROM ABOVE TO DROP ON US! I love you, my sweet. I love you [unintelligible]. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBX6eS9vcgfiwJW70-LwlE9A9S5GRgfjdHLekFfmirNNh3qH2QWwkBlj30b5LHBQ8achqMpwM74xpfXjc4yWqLpF666HNQt-ZVQCNGXam7fUpmOI0_9aL2TP-0GRjIxhnoRpKP9RnYvW8d/s2048/11.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBX6eS9vcgfiwJW70-LwlE9A9S5GRgfjdHLekFfmirNNh3qH2QWwkBlj30b5LHBQ8achqMpwM74xpfXjc4yWqLpF666HNQt-ZVQCNGXam7fUpmOI0_9aL2TP-0GRjIxhnoRpKP9RnYvW8d/s320/11.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Ooh honey I can barely see it! It's so cleverly camouflaged! WHERE IS IT?! <br />Wait, what is that scent of algae and mold? </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC1NcL3I5u-LJa9wasL8ygKwTIUP6-24viG9jvuVG5WCiP8zmoIIIh5KCeHzn-eyCZeafZq4kdzPA-I4Ynw5HDOvmQtPEP5xIKxL5jr6tRnIVTc4mGJ0ohlz_gVvIo8ajutWJS6-clmcG/s2048/13.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGC1NcL3I5u-LJa9wasL8ygKwTIUP6-24viG9jvuVG5WCiP8zmoIIIh5KCeHzn-eyCZeafZq4kdzPA-I4Ynw5HDOvmQtPEP5xIKxL5jr6tRnIVTc4mGJ0ohlz_gVvIo8ajutWJS6-clmcG/s320/13.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />So this is our forever friend?<br />Yes honey, it will live with us FOREVER.<br />That's wonderful, Brad!<br />[Cut to horrifying bloodbath scene.]<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigsQVsGCVfaa_FQOUOV_gOZynvPV5g6RHbwTxregxigrwnqyFBq7EREd_2aLvHmkAokv6-m8JXv8mT2E2eXQlQR9ZdE0mNE7Ye5osC96BFt0evRKig5IJFFEgRurgr3M7p1o181m4Ky4Wy/s2048/14.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigsQVsGCVfaa_FQOUOV_gOZynvPV5g6RHbwTxregxigrwnqyFBq7EREd_2aLvHmkAokv6-m8JXv8mT2E2eXQlQR9ZdE0mNE7Ye5osC96BFt0evRKig5IJFFEgRurgr3M7p1o181m4Ky4Wy/s320/14.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I love you a bunch, bitch. Why you gotta be with that jerk, Dudley? He doesn't have half a' what I got! I'm a-gonna fuck that dude up. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYaO30t2IDj-I15XyJBVB9xZJEwpJWpXyn1Dww5MW-5QK5cT1s6y8drNp5IT2ovBEK6ZorBnHcBmNuW00mbSayauJoE-YMp5ITxDFwI7NWLm3yDx6NqATV2OPDgNUrqKmHzHBIXYgrfe40/s2048/15.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYaO30t2IDj-I15XyJBVB9xZJEwpJWpXyn1Dww5MW-5QK5cT1s6y8drNp5IT2ovBEK6ZorBnHcBmNuW00mbSayauJoE-YMp5ITxDFwI7NWLm3yDx6NqATV2OPDgNUrqKmHzHBIXYgrfe40/s320/15.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Dance with me, my love! That giant sloth signifies how SLOWWWWLY it will take me to become erect, which will happen next Tuesday. But it will happen so slowly and imperceptibly, you'll never notice! <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluvACncyuqmqhu082wSTJpK0VCsjPGvN3FHJgNiHSNjcKp27sWJj2RcIc8mNrmt0vLzvo3NA94N-WJymj6JACfkEL4iY8-L_A2RXyZxGMD0Ijedp3E64AMG959lYsSLlHAfE6Zq80Z2yV/s2048/16.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluvACncyuqmqhu082wSTJpK0VCsjPGvN3FHJgNiHSNjcKp27sWJj2RcIc8mNrmt0vLzvo3NA94N-WJymj6JACfkEL4iY8-L_A2RXyZxGMD0Ijedp3E64AMG959lYsSLlHAfE6Zq80Z2yV/s320/16.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Surprise, dear! This is how much I love you! But why do you weep and scream so?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcEijEsHuCS_tsBF4KgGCGtYRyJ2aMA6a50YvuUEkwmp3NNWEXsOQKvyuV-n96T0J8nWDoIPGIZJl7pqMxFiTc0QIuO0m7KxM-tAN3gorW5PJNOYUxVyc7z6g6n2Z7ysgoYMGa9WQaPbr/s2048/17.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcEijEsHuCS_tsBF4KgGCGtYRyJ2aMA6a50YvuUEkwmp3NNWEXsOQKvyuV-n96T0J8nWDoIPGIZJl7pqMxFiTc0QIuO0m7KxM-tAN3gorW5PJNOYUxVyc7z6g6n2Z7ysgoYMGa9WQaPbr/s320/17.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I'm SOOOOO CRAY about you that I got you a RODENT INSIDE A COFFEE CUP!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLTaMvNofNI2tsEr0trIlNZdVTp5TM1UBTQaDu_1z_Znp983iqIKIcW_cWL1IwS6Rk4CvU3u-Pe3kQgM1xqkvK35hfyYj2pFJ7xQgXPI25r1VhcnJygpsggbM43TmetRkEOJxHd4FfC59/s2048/18.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLTaMvNofNI2tsEr0trIlNZdVTp5TM1UBTQaDu_1z_Znp983iqIKIcW_cWL1IwS6Rk4CvU3u-Pe3kQgM1xqkvK35hfyYj2pFJ7xQgXPI25r1VhcnJygpsggbM43TmetRkEOJxHd4FfC59/s320/18.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Surprise, love! I got you a corpselike bear with dead eyes! </td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03VImnS9iTyC7rgxMORxQXicNmd68NwndmFSQPXEQmFqQAahxgsx7tGYtayyoucjmX9SMYgeB5yIcU3QVDxIOz0yADYtp-LyzftYvr4dwv_qGsLPaQGUkqGgo2Fe7J2g2deGFYYL1APF0/s2048/19.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03VImnS9iTyC7rgxMORxQXicNmd68NwndmFSQPXEQmFqQAahxgsx7tGYtayyoucjmX9SMYgeB5yIcU3QVDxIOz0yADYtp-LyzftYvr4dwv_qGsLPaQGUkqGgo2Fe7J2g2deGFYYL1APF0/s320/19.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Darling, I wish you had thought your Valentine's Day gift through more clearly. It clings to us most evilly, and has a foul and sticky effluvium that emanates from its nethers. <br /><br />I'm sorry, Megan. I suppose I fucked up again! </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRQ0E7gL3RCaOloz7OKb8TARC43y724_ENMYiv4xN_7NDv73e2PWuFSs3enzfX8gTpuYV48WoD8OkEmJK-ADgJcgkXe2AkTHbBZBGyXssLQBHUQ5KkwaU-GGGQemW7NobhpLd-rFBOOV5/s2048/20.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdRQ0E7gL3RCaOloz7OKb8TARC43y724_ENMYiv4xN_7NDv73e2PWuFSs3enzfX8gTpuYV48WoD8OkEmJK-ADgJcgkXe2AkTHbBZBGyXssLQBHUQ5KkwaU-GGGQemW7NobhpLd-rFBOOV5/s320/20.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />It is so unfortunate, Todd, but whenever I glance at that dog you gave me, I become painfully aware of your inadequacies. Well, I mean, TODD...look at its tongue! But yes, it is our "forever friend" and shall stay with us in OUR BED always [Laughs lightly.] </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzkTuxTp3eDwSbsO-K32ubpV2eLj245Ifw2hYLfAGEIe4oVb-OASPaldeAQlrB9qkR1rBVKLpm8dr8NK5CqdhXLYeWT6676gwkVnaGnP4qTcDd3-qZNpM9JRECpXzmSJv0kIAzJnSRa7Z/s2048/21.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzkTuxTp3eDwSbsO-K32ubpV2eLj245Ifw2hYLfAGEIe4oVb-OASPaldeAQlrB9qkR1rBVKLpm8dr8NK5CqdhXLYeWT6676gwkVnaGnP4qTcDd3-qZNpM9JRECpXzmSJv0kIAzJnSRa7Z/s320/21.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />We used to be alone, Joshua. But now THAT THING IS HERE. And it's always watching us!<br /><br />But Melissa...it's CUTE.<br /><br />Joshua, it has YOUR SPLEEN in its teeth.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSEPcsneilMDmrNuOzSmRGvNZpqQC-TZfJMtzDvWCjLWgCWxgkQy_hTyZH2CjOoCPWRQ95tGhPh0zOBFdJ8leK4n7HDFX8ImzHS49rnraf6A3s0QtQ7hAZk2f7WQMpckXKyPunWQ3Yr2a/s2048/22.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqSEPcsneilMDmrNuOzSmRGvNZpqQC-TZfJMtzDvWCjLWgCWxgkQy_hTyZH2CjOoCPWRQ95tGhPh0zOBFdJ8leK4n7HDFX8ImzHS49rnraf6A3s0QtQ7hAZk2f7WQMpckXKyPunWQ3Yr2a/s320/22.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Oh Bettina, I have a wonderful surprise for you! You for sure won't divorce me now!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50TrKa7jyk3ybqva_5fNviPJdf1f2PC2RCngeUKv5R27mCdi7tyHyOs5YzJmeQFHfPVU7d2KRbPHQSNyoXZWrV4TfW50sPMHo1Jf6zeEFaLAxdYiPumWcYq_6hMYoEZXnyr2gGClYU41A/s2048/23.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50TrKa7jyk3ybqva_5fNviPJdf1f2PC2RCngeUKv5R27mCdi7tyHyOs5YzJmeQFHfPVU7d2KRbPHQSNyoXZWrV4TfW50sPMHo1Jf6zeEFaLAxdYiPumWcYq_6hMYoEZXnyr2gGClYU41A/s320/23.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Chad! Melania! And Scumdog "Greasyhands" Greg, the friend that comes to couch surf for 2 days but ends up staying for 3 weeks and eats all your food, leaves an unflushed turd in multiple toilets, and wanders about in "I [heart] u" tighties making strange sounds out of his buttocks. Marvelous! This will end well.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><h3 style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 11.88px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For past Valentine's Day fun on this blog, you might like:</span></span></h3><div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 11.88px;"></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2014/02/22-awesomely-terrible-valentines-day.html" style="color: #339933; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">22 Awesomely Terrible Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2013/02/terrifying-and-dismal-valentines-day.html" style="color: #339933; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Terrifying and Dismal Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2012/02/subliminal-messages-behind-common.html" style="color: #339933; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Subliminal Messages Behind Common Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2011/02/all-beautiful-ways-to-say-i-love-you.html" style="color: #339933; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">All the Beautiful Ways to Say I Love You</a><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2019/02/really-really-bad-valentines-day-gifts.html" target="_blank">Really, Really Bad Valentine's Day Gifts for 2019</a></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-33476598485166443922020-04-28T18:42:00.001-07:002020-04-28T18:43:09.341-07:008 Advertisements We Really Need to See During the Pandemic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">Why let the pandemic stand in the way of a great advertising campaign? </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">"Never Waste a Crisis," the new catch phrase of a Very Large Company we know (and which is always delivered in a bubbly, buoyant tone during all-team briefings), should now serve as words of wisdom for savvy brands seeking to influence stay-at-home shoppers everywhere!</span></div>
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Here are 8 advertisements we really need to see during the COVID-19 pandemic.</div>
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<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-9202221717435164432019-08-30T21:33:00.001-07:002019-08-30T21:33:18.030-07:00I'm Turning My Tiny Greenhouse Into a She-Shed!So, we rent a house in our charming Connecticut town. It's a very sweet house, if a bit cozy.<br />
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"Cozy" is ALWAYS a euphemism for "this house is so damned small that I can feel your hot breath on my neck at all times" and "if you EVER check your texts while blocking a communal passageway again your phone is soon going to become one with your duodenum."<br />
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Our sweet, wee boys of blog entries past are now hairy teens (one of whom who jokingly dubbed himself "Massif Boi" the other day). They have horrid long limbs that are either flailing about, flung haphazardly over furniture, stuffed deep inside the fridge in an effort to extract ever more orange juice (legs may be included), or frozen in a gorilla-like clutch in homage to an electronic device.<br />
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(The 11-year-old gets a pass, as he is still comparatively small—much to his chagrin. "Why am I the shortest person in our family?!" he complained recently. "This is not fair. Is this to be my eternal fate?" He was encouraged by the promise of something called "puberty," which has yet to arrive.)<br />
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Our rental house has very little privacy. It has a truly awful basement that isn't even worthy of exploration, which is really saying something given that our former basement in Mamaroneck was lousy with man-sized hopping crickets and I still ventured down there.<br />
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There is basically nowhere to hide, except for inside a few closets that are stuffed with all the crap that doesn't fit anywhere else in this cozy house. The property is large and pleasant, with a bunch of trees and shrubberies in the lower half, bordered by a babbling brook. So one could wander down there and hide behind a tree, I suppose.<br />
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This wasn't quite what I was looking for when it came to a private oasis in which to seek my muse. I decided I wanted a "she-shed!" Nay, I coveted one.<br />
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She-sheds are mystical little places that are either converted out of old gardening sheds and abandoned kids' playhouses on one's property, built by hand, delivered in a clever kit, or constructed by lucrative she-shed carpenters. They are like "man caves" except they are absolutely riddled with whimsy and feminine creativity and "quaint details." Plus, they are out in nature and blend into their natural surroundings. I never heard of any damned she-shed stuck down in an old basement.<br />
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<a href="https://www.countryliving.com/home-design/g3163/she-shed-inspiration/" target="_blank">Here are some adorable examples.</a><br />
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Being a renter, I didn't think asking my landlord for a building permit would be a very smart choice.<br />
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But it just so happens that right off the living room of this tiny, really tiny, way too small, cozy little house is an unused greenhouse. There is literally a door from the living room that opens right into it! (Note: It is not a large greenhouse. You could not swing a cat in it without damaging the glass. You might be able to swing Schtinky Teddy, but that is another story.)<br />
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Of course, we noticed it when we toured the property. "How charming!" I thought. "I'll grow herbs in there!" I planted a few in pots and forgot about them. They died peacefully, unwatered and unattended. <br />
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I forgot about the greenhouse. Until today.<br />
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I had an entirely new vision. I would clean the damned thing and make it into MY she-shed: An art studio and greenery which would be MINE MINE ALL MINE. My NEW greenhouse would be awash with vines and winter-loving plants. Cucumbers would dangle fatly from the ceiling, and I could just lean up and bite one while I sat there! A mobile made out of origami unicorns and flying fish and magical sea turtles would swing gently over my old drafting table, soon to be rescued from the garage! I would fill plastic tubs with art supplies! Plug in an aromatherapy diffuser! Play super awesome music and maybe hang some sweet-ass curtains and start to do macrame and all that shit! I might even meditate in there!<br />
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I WOULD GROW SO MUCH FUCKING MARIJUANA IN MY SHE-SHED!<br />
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(Kidding. Seriously! But some GIANT pot plants growing right inside the big glass windows of this greenhouse <i>would</i> look really enticing to all those joggers and bikers and dog walkers and stressed-out moms that pass by my home, methinks. I could make some cash, methinks. I could afford a BIGGER she-shed with all that cash, made by reputable she-shed builders. Maybe I could even live in it full-time with my whole family in an adjunct "shed" built off the lucre of my Pot Empire, and I could also purchase a yacht.... NO NO NO never mind!)<br />
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So today I began scrubbing the green funk of 40,000 years off this little greenhouse. Brushing out the cobwebs and the long-leggedy beasties that have made it their home. (Good thing I am not scared of spiders. Hello, Charlotte!) I got up on a ladder with some Windex and some scrubbies and paper towels and went to work.<br />
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Then I went up to the 11-year-old's room (remember him? He's still cute and he doesn't even smell bad!) and we opened his window together. It looks right down on the greenhouse.<br />
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I said: "I am going to do something very ill-advised and dangerous soon and clamber out your window, stand on this ledge here, and scrub green funk off the skylights on this here greenhouse. Now, if you hear a scream and/or a loud thump, please do come out and check on me, okay?"<br />
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He checked out the scene and nodded at me very sagely. Then he grinned. "Yup," he said. "Okay. Okay, Mom. Got it!" He never even said, "What the HELL are you thinking, mother?!"<br />
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Yes, he shall be invited into the she-shed! Especially because cucumbers are the ONLY vegetable that he will eat. Also, he is still little enough to fit inside.<br />
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Updates to be posted. Here are the early photographs of this project:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4scIGav8Yzgz4qSRwd8DhOLtDxaL1dy4tz07TuHWIFzEpFsNrXxzvC9wXzrD7VRzLUnIcrwCaeqxfW5wiT4cCSpMgOYGFtMn6SRX-zhRLQ25PNv5ogtVhKT9oH5gTjcBfrYknUHbZQLh/s1600/IMG_6222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4scIGav8Yzgz4qSRwd8DhOLtDxaL1dy4tz07TuHWIFzEpFsNrXxzvC9wXzrD7VRzLUnIcrwCaeqxfW5wiT4cCSpMgOYGFtMn6SRX-zhRLQ25PNv5ogtVhKT9oH5gTjcBfrYknUHbZQLh/s400/IMG_6222.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the living room into the greenhouse.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFmdgx_6RKI2w0UhYu00kv2q3wNcpkcMMxq0G5q-KnF65eVC0K7AIvsGMRBMSUF1FFwlZf9Z65ioKQ32huvXGlTl76AkiW8eFw0C6kN6ddYSvZNbpIlQoNvFRQhG6DovMJ2kesKgqtKVM/s1600/IMG_6224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFmdgx_6RKI2w0UhYu00kv2q3wNcpkcMMxq0G5q-KnF65eVC0K7AIvsGMRBMSUF1FFwlZf9Z65ioKQ32huvXGlTl76AkiW8eFw0C6kN6ddYSvZNbpIlQoNvFRQhG6DovMJ2kesKgqtKVM/s400/IMG_6224.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After cleaning some of the glass.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnzCJKqj2VBfA_AAT2h0KuZBxtrNfyiaUoNCbFqdKvgyhDX7kxYgZ6-xJxRskS2Dv8-iWUtvxdpL0vgVHmD-Jcs2XklHpLCw8Dlwj0-j28sBhjTnTEySA2dbsRKx_02UU1vWXrNoHKKHF/s1600/IMG_6225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSnzCJKqj2VBfA_AAT2h0KuZBxtrNfyiaUoNCbFqdKvgyhDX7kxYgZ6-xJxRskS2Dv8-iWUtvxdpL0vgVHmD-Jcs2XklHpLCw8Dlwj0-j28sBhjTnTEySA2dbsRKx_02UU1vWXrNoHKKHF/s400/IMG_6225.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Funk!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvwUXkCkK7JsyNho-kpWIosL4ySUXCWd38iKKVMxhbqN8a2GkPn3E3JI_26KW-gi20dgXw4c24LjWiPM7TSmevzeq5UpFmovRlkViD9Ry9Bw-Jq6ERY7gPuWUZJ83549SqIdzdWcA9jbm/s1600/IMG_6229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvwUXkCkK7JsyNho-kpWIosL4ySUXCWd38iKKVMxhbqN8a2GkPn3E3JI_26KW-gi20dgXw4c24LjWiPM7TSmevzeq5UpFmovRlkViD9Ry9Bw-Jq6ERY7gPuWUZJ83549SqIdzdWcA9jbm/s400/IMG_6229.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green Funk begone!</td></tr>
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Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-69121409794021680332019-02-02T17:50:00.001-08:002019-02-04T16:30:27.840-08:00Really, Really Bad Valentine's Day Gifts for 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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First of all, I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. It's a Hallmark holiday designed to psychically wound the single, the lovelorn, the dumped, and all the depressed losers who are clearly unworthy of love.<br />
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But it's really much more dreadful if you are actually in a relationship, and your dumbass sweetie decides to purchase a last-minute Valentine's Day gift for you at the local drugstore. Because then you know your significant other is a psychopathic asshole.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvKXVdwEtZBM4_jnHwH5j9z2uM50tOdDEG5qdsp2gDyfm0gxV_UllFeIMNdaI1_pROpGcgEHTVKwFqfAEvhCF0yMC_Jd0JeMrmfRUATwuOpyYqz0kx2R_NEjexaPc-LpgKMOSx4aV1PRi/s1600/Sad_Sloth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvKXVdwEtZBM4_jnHwH5j9z2uM50tOdDEG5qdsp2gDyfm0gxV_UllFeIMNdaI1_pROpGcgEHTVKwFqfAEvhCF0yMC_Jd0JeMrmfRUATwuOpyYqz0kx2R_NEjexaPc-LpgKMOSx4aV1PRi/s400/Sad_Sloth.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An amputated Valentine sloth in a cup. His expression pretty much affirms that your loved one is a cheating bag o' dicks.</td></tr>
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Here is this year's crop of creepy, unromantic, and soul-crushing gifts that will make you question JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING about that cheap-ass bum who used his CVS "ExtraCare" bucks to buy you a deflated, phallic stuffie that was made in a factory by weeping orphans.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElPz_xAOmFvgAFbYMWPeYX6wFBC1ZlA1moeLhO354gCqW0i9QxyPQ3qRbE43durEdkG4pn4kyFG0sC5KNspOyVz6ise3YBaUIfshtkDAhBiRYaHdNCYKXVdfjzv5yPw3dXCTHljs6speG/s1600/Nubby_Monkey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElPz_xAOmFvgAFbYMWPeYX6wFBC1ZlA1moeLhO354gCqW0i9QxyPQ3qRbE43durEdkG4pn4kyFG0sC5KNspOyVz6ise3YBaUIfshtkDAhBiRYaHdNCYKXVdfjzv5yPw3dXCTHljs6speG/s400/Nubby_Monkey.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think this thing is intended to be a sex toy of some kind, with nubby stubs for "her pleasure." Honestly, you should not want to feel it even touching your neck, let alone your vulva. Plus, it has been manhandled by every germy-handed kid that came into the store, and probably gnawed on by a teething baby. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbTLKXjtB81fcRvZOT-5N9GXoCJKUSLHtBI0RhnIiHp7CijWOpzq3_TqkAPvaICT9tZ7n6miW0u0KXLOIZ6K7jQqoDObvLnTvwXKOzzzBguytBQ5EP72BdsGgdKeMnqS0s9arM16OMcg6/s1600/Crushed_Puppy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbTLKXjtB81fcRvZOT-5N9GXoCJKUSLHtBI0RhnIiHp7CijWOpzq3_TqkAPvaICT9tZ7n6miW0u0KXLOIZ6K7jQqoDObvLnTvwXKOzzzBguytBQ5EP72BdsGgdKeMnqS0s9arM16OMcg6/s400/Crushed_Puppy.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This puppy's heartbreaking sadness speaks volumes about the person who gave this gift to you. The flowery quote on the back reads: "Not even the noblest of poets has measured what the human heart can bear. I, too, have sought in vain for my soulmate, my love, my other self, only to end weeping on the shores of life's bitter mysteries. I have felt pain. I have felt sorrow. I have loved more magnificently than one will ever fathom. By the way, this huge box of chocolates will make your ass even fatter than it currently is. Which is a difficult thought to endure."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOP0ifho7E1Cq2d0CtaRPXjdBM7Q_PIWb-RcKF8Tw-ll0cfB6MjQp9Qr24lhqkg-Uz0mmjA6I6c8dxNqDpsG8mlQn8FmiBb2EBkzh_kPO_0aW71BLVjX6iTuXERvW7t1d3kZTO-twJblP/s1600/You_Blow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOP0ifho7E1Cq2d0CtaRPXjdBM7Q_PIWb-RcKF8Tw-ll0cfB6MjQp9Qr24lhqkg-Uz0mmjA6I6c8dxNqDpsG8mlQn8FmiBb2EBkzh_kPO_0aW71BLVjX6iTuXERvW7t1d3kZTO-twJblP/s400/You_Blow.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nuff said.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIan__ZUPHBY1M4gKOrri0V22R09oDNE9ON1tGk967TGtB65mBhEM0u_m4fBj8Epl8R7U_d80qzQAeLk7ooS8reAwGY3Bi60yeFUOh1mY9N7xc6P2Rd20WGph7mmCx3qwI9iR_OoaZFR4d/s1600/Valentine_Giraffe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIan__ZUPHBY1M4gKOrri0V22R09oDNE9ON1tGk967TGtB65mBhEM0u_m4fBj8Epl8R7U_d80qzQAeLk7ooS8reAwGY3Bi60yeFUOh1mY9N7xc6P2Rd20WGph7mmCx3qwI9iR_OoaZFR4d/s400/Valentine_Giraffe.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let me say this once, and once only. THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT THIS. Nor does the giraffe look "wild." He looks like he needs to redirect the Viagra from the neck to the nethers. And that bow-tie? Break up with whomever gave this to you ASAP. You do not want to grow old with that motherfucker. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9Em234nSUmixIvmT54EdPdmXi_w4mh3pvy6aGues2QCxU0Q7Uhwik7GvvzSgxDIf5IMQU_7QCieE6dwabCVLvjM7B_3vlaK1eQSYhGIF7ARUvBhfmBs9imhoeO1ACjYbfC_u-zsdFyht/s1600/Penile_Bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9Em234nSUmixIvmT54EdPdmXi_w4mh3pvy6aGues2QCxU0Q7Uhwik7GvvzSgxDIf5IMQU_7QCieE6dwabCVLvjM7B_3vlaK1eQSYhGIF7ARUvBhfmBs9imhoeO1ACjYbfC_u-zsdFyht/s400/Penile_Bear.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There something vaguely penile about this. Maybe it's just me. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19EFeQGGDcZ8DHdFe_CPgzHzXPRgu-5nzk0V4Ke7kaG23c3jVhkIDnb1s-H1uLSAguUTbFgCXAPVHWWZhxqL2mLkMs2BC2ZmlEFUSepk5558ho8q3cux8_alFVRqwx0CYwAGGpsGJWML3/s1600/Perfect_Man.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj19EFeQGGDcZ8DHdFe_CPgzHzXPRgu-5nzk0V4Ke7kaG23c3jVhkIDnb1s-H1uLSAguUTbFgCXAPVHWWZhxqL2mLkMs2BC2ZmlEFUSepk5558ho8q3cux8_alFVRqwx0CYwAGGpsGJWML3/s400/Perfect_Man.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, this is even better than Mr. Romance of a few years past, because this dildo is EDIBLE. Did I say that out loud? No, I typed it! However, one has to wonder who gives this gift. If it's a decrepit old auntie, you might forgive her. But if your lover gives you this gift, he has an offshore bank account and is likely screwing the neighbor's cockapoodle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjih9gFGWAxmtFkQONc-eKjqjIVJ23Znu6GJGR_q4ofYQ_WKVyP602HKRsqJUWLk9Qh_BK0yq8vC3ODqoDZHHuLOZ85e9kTz5GHcDGs8bGEq-yg4MeKfgIbh1rv1zdnXwdHOoQAPnQR8flp/s1600/Cuddly_Cuties.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjih9gFGWAxmtFkQONc-eKjqjIVJ23Znu6GJGR_q4ofYQ_WKVyP602HKRsqJUWLk9Qh_BK0yq8vC3ODqoDZHHuLOZ85e9kTz5GHcDGs8bGEq-yg4MeKfgIbh1rv1zdnXwdHOoQAPnQR8flp/s400/Cuddly_Cuties.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, if "love" means sitting on the toilet for a few hours after the 'Love Bandit" has made its way through your colon.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijI4DB0UkfJ8WKIdGWB8_C_YJrHKmYNtCo6YsI6xfT8Y0ejpsAQ7zw4SdgyTRqgSN-tmLRHfyvhH2QOo91cpptzkxB6TLPA-zYa5WRtPfUE1ryJqKRAmFpbXsKsppt53WqjZD9Jv0njsL6/s1600/Collar_of_Shame.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijI4DB0UkfJ8WKIdGWB8_C_YJrHKmYNtCo6YsI6xfT8Y0ejpsAQ7zw4SdgyTRqgSN-tmLRHfyvhH2QOo91cpptzkxB6TLPA-zYa5WRtPfUE1ryJqKRAmFpbXsKsppt53WqjZD9Jv0njsL6/s400/Collar_of_Shame.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, WHY would you ever think this is a good idea? What he really means is "If you try to leave me I will KILL YOU and feed you to my pet hogs." The man who gives you this is secretly into German Scheisse Videos. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ums3SK0buJVni094VlSeURCnV9VLiNe4jLyu4PG4zC0Aap8nP4TqlpXs_msk5F0R7mZZhnbFkZtd3YCdLyJAp6UswAtCPIGW6aNQ_vxaDRZKxMH_wg8PjmQVqgLGbRzcip4MAhplpKhw/s1600/Valentine_Turd.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ums3SK0buJVni094VlSeURCnV9VLiNe4jLyu4PG4zC0Aap8nP4TqlpXs_msk5F0R7mZZhnbFkZtd3YCdLyJAp6UswAtCPIGW6aNQ_vxaDRZKxMH_wg8PjmQVqgLGbRzcip4MAhplpKhw/s400/Valentine_Turd.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Speaking of Scheisse. Maybe this is supposed to be a Hershey's Kiss, but it looks an awful lot like a shiny, space-age turd. Like that emoji turd, maybe, but with a twist and a dollop of extra turd on the top? But it LUVS you.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOILXm-gH0gGsIw5pbhI7srmyoRPCjX02WcCAvrHVjVrXMatgQPX0b8TUpau9yy-XRPWQ-xe8ftaHKnp5hXznPLWReKrsO4iWDKuuOqF4jj3VbtArLo9wqWPRbTlLWCPXLi-f0J2VO042/s1600/Drunk_Woodstock.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUOILXm-gH0gGsIw5pbhI7srmyoRPCjX02WcCAvrHVjVrXMatgQPX0b8TUpau9yy-XRPWQ-xe8ftaHKnp5hXznPLWReKrsO4iWDKuuOqF4jj3VbtArLo9wqWPRbTlLWCPXLi-f0J2VO042/s400/Drunk_Woodstock.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodstock, drunk in the gutter and consumed with existential angst. If I got this I would cry for about 5 days over the cruel, cruel nature of this terrible world. Then I would call my attorney.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UVmvhkTclEK8c88CG4KFXvrmmB7UfAk-8h8MI5y6Ry-8z1WAHnhHahZskYuc8xUZqbw16yAvz6DsmKDhRUwTH7JxpUi7PIcIw4a0jMzt4uLp8cfoWiYTF6yNcR1YLnHQlnZ0PPnqR9se/s1600/Mickey_Spanks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UVmvhkTclEK8c88CG4KFXvrmmB7UfAk-8h8MI5y6Ry-8z1WAHnhHahZskYuc8xUZqbw16yAvz6DsmKDhRUwTH7JxpUi7PIcIw4a0jMzt4uLp8cfoWiYTF6yNcR1YLnHQlnZ0PPnqR9se/s400/Mickey_Spanks.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When I visited Walgreen's, I noticed a store employee arranging the terrible panoply of stuffed horrors on the shelves. He did not seem to notice the casual way in which he flung this spank-ass Mickey Mouse into the shelf, but I did. Titillating! Inviting, even!<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">For more Valentine's Day fun on this blog, you might like:</span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2014/02/22-awesomely-terrible-valentines-day.html" target="_blank">22 Awesomely Terrible Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2013/02/terrifying-and-dismal-valentines-day.html" target="_blank">Terrifying and Dismal Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2012/02/subliminal-messages-behind-common.html" target="_blank">Subliminal Messages Behind Common Valentine's Day Gifts</a></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2011/02/all-beautiful-ways-to-say-i-love-you.html" target="_blank">All the Beautiful Ways to Say I Love You</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-27244162411384061032019-01-31T21:00:00.002-08:002019-01-31T21:11:22.718-08:00I Made a Pet Out of My House MouseI now have a pet mouse. In the absence of any other pets, I have decided to adopt the only other female in the household, who happens to be vermin. In fact, I am not sure "she" is even a female. It has been suggested that "she" is a male who has a wife and litter behind the stove, and is thieving crumbs and goodies to fatten his family.<br />
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I resent these accusations, for I have a spiritual bond with "Avomato," whom I have named due to her obvious loves of avocados and tomatoes. She has destroyed many such items.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjP4q7aRoyPW4a26ZXhFV0HE-4-yCnYP2sYyr_SPO5bi5VVwP-j2IerPuCR01j0qd18BVCJAfTTa6LLiiL2QhMZhDgBC_Cw7haQvMfcU-N180nUg7UdXMD3eTCIqwxGHeZ5p9aEzo-rer/s1600/Food+for+the+Mouse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjP4q7aRoyPW4a26ZXhFV0HE-4-yCnYP2sYyr_SPO5bi5VVwP-j2IerPuCR01j0qd18BVCJAfTTa6LLiiL2QhMZhDgBC_Cw7haQvMfcU-N180nUg7UdXMD3eTCIqwxGHeZ5p9aEzo-rer/s320/Food+for+the+Mouse.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avomato requires a balanced diet. Including CHEE-TOS!</td></tr>
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Bloodthirsty members of my household have many things to say:<br />
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"Mom, are you really putting a plate out with snack for a MOUSE?"<br />
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"What is WRONG with you?"<br />
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"This mouse must die."<br />
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Why do I have such a soft spot for wee Avomato? Is it because when I am typing away, lonely as a monk, I hear her stirrings in the kitchen as she drags away a glorious orange Chee-to that I have left for her?<br />
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Others have suggested that Avomato will leave "poo." All I have to say is that she is very cleanly thus far, and has left only 1-2 small turds. Or maybe 3-7. Or 8-15. I vacuum them up with the Dustbuster and all is good.<br />
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Who can say this for their cats? Cats leave large and horrible turds in litter boxes, which must be pulled out daily, lest the cats get snarky. Dogs are worse. Who hasn't seen a happy dog walker, swinging a hot bag o' turd as they stroll along, having wrenched that very turd from its clutches in some neighbor's grassy sod? I have had the pleasure to walk a dog, and the experience of tearing the turd from the grass blades nearly made me wretch.<br />
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Avomato's wee turds are tiny. And there is no scent. The fact that they are on MY KITCHEN COUNTER is troubling, but as long as they don't mingle with anything similar (e.g. chia seeds) and I disinfect the counter regularly, what's the trouble?<br />
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I have stepped into dog turds in neighbor's lawns, unawares, in sandals. Just saying. This was disturbing.<br />
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The only problem with Avomato is her lack of true love. I give, and she receives. She never cuddles with me. She is rather heartless, after all. She hides whenever I come to greet her with a hearty "Avomato, my love!" Just earlier, I spied her from the outside window, head into a bowl of gnocchi. I rushed inside to have a heart-to-heart, but she had vanished behind the stove. It is a one-sided relationship, but I don't mind.<br />
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She is perhaps faithless, and cruel. She is perhaps a male mouse. She is nothing I imagined, but I feed her all the same. I leave small things out for her, because it is brutally cold outside. Where would she go now? What would she find to eat? What if a plethora of Avomatos invade my kitchen, come the spring?<br />
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She found me. She found my warm kitchen. She found my expectant heart, open to a creature we normally would rather extinguish from our lives. Many would have purchased a trap. Please, for goodness sake, don't ever use one of these <a href="https://www.catseyepest.com/blog/facts-about-mouse-glue-traps" target="_blank">sticky traps</a>. They couldn't be crueler. In college, my friend and I found a passel of tiny, stuck mice on a "Mr. Sticky" mousetrap. The custodial staff had put them down, unbeknownst to us. Heartbroken, we thought about peeling the mice off, before we realized that to do so we would have to tear their limbs off. The glue was that strong. I don't want to tell the end to that story; it has haunted me to this day.<br />
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If you must use a trap, use a humane one: See <a href="https://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2007/09/me-and-mouse-in-night.html" target="_blank">Me and the Mouse in the Night.</a><br />
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Who is to say who should be lucky, and who unlucky? What differentiates you from the mother mouse who climbs frantically from the broom which has dislodged her from her nest in the garage? What makes you better? Do you care for your children more? Would you climb down walls with your children clinging to your back, knowing that there is no savior waiting for you? I've seen a frantic mother mouse doing just that. A group of mice is called a "mischief." A mouse can squeeze through a hole the size of half a dime.<br />
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Are you that amazing? I think not.<br />
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I will choose to be kind—senselessly, stupidly—even for the smallest and meanest among us. I would rather make the mouse a heroine in a children's bedtime story. May there still be little boys listening to that story. Boys who would make a mouse sentient, and allow her a name. She will have a story to tell. This heroine mouse might become a memory when you are old and jaded, and will awaken a small spark of empathy.<br />
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But if cockroaches ever rear their heads, they ain't welcome. Kindness has its limits.Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-53410273962786611442018-11-27T19:49:00.000-08:002018-11-27T19:49:31.391-08:00The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, November 2018It's been a dreadful long time since I posted on this blog, so I decided to resurrect this recurring feature from the distant past.<br />
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1. What are you wearing?<br />
A "schwag" fleece given to me by a former employer, which is too embarrassing to wear because of the logo, but is awful warm. It makes me feel like a "Best Buy" employee who is forced to wear the company uniform. So I will wear it around the house in a lurking fashion. I think I may have to sew a patch over the company logo. Then it will be acceptable.<br />
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2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?<br />
The theme of 2018 is definitely mental illness. My WebMD searches reveal such terms as "How do you know you're going crazy?" and "Signs you have Schizophrenia." I even took a quiz that asked me if I heard voices and saw things that "obviously aren't there." Obviously? How do I know that they are "obviously" not there? I see nothing and hear nothing, obviously. Unfortunately, this means I am mentally well. Is there a pill for this condition?<br />
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3. What was today's workout?<br />
I sat my ass in a chair and typed. I'm angry about it. Note to the wise: Work out in the morning, lest the day escape you.<br />
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4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?<br />
I use the phrase "bless his/her heart" whenever appropriate. I learned this from my Texas friends. It's a phrase that really means "Fuck this asshole," but it sounds so much nicer.<br />
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5. What's that burning smell?<br />
The house mouse ran into the fireplace and extinguished itself.<br />
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6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?<br />
Today I should be a turkey vulture, and settle upon a still-warm carcass. I actually enacted this role last summer, with some campers. Digging out their entrails was good fun.<br />
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7. What are you drinking, and why?<br />
I am drinking down the angst of too many days wasted and ignored. Nights there are when I sip a sullen hunger.<br />
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8. In what ways hast thou offended?<br />
I failed to plan for dinner tonight and thus hast ordered many pizzas, which feed my hungry sons but provide no real pleasure in the cooking arena. I opted for Blue Apron as a test. It will be delivered this Saturday. Bring it on.<br />
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9. What's the next big thing?<br />
Summer camps for adults. S'Mores and cocktails. Slip 'n' Slides followed by rabid dance parties. Arts & Crafts with body painting. That sort of thing.<br />
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10. Music selection?<br />
Camera Obscura: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCIXI9ubfFs" target="_blank">My Maudlin Career. </a>Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-27768599302944249412017-12-20T21:13:00.002-08:002017-12-21T10:49:06.526-08:00Netflix Presents: The Caged OrangutanI've been watching <i>The Crown </i>on Netflix. Although the Queen is rather priggish and tweedy, the series has many merits. Among them are the chance to practice one's parade wave (it's really quite dismissive, without any sort of real effort—it's just a wiggle, without any jazz sauce thrown in) and one's accent ("Why, <i>thenk ewe</i>—best delivered after the children have inadvertently put the dishes in the actual dishwasher just because it was open and blocked their path to the sink.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnWYLrw5BtydYFNHi7sXxDJlQadkyGN9LDq6eedTPV8mQfykhyphenhyphenpiF0D_KV3kwZVuwrNxJla7Kbnj_9rOU1xMpvDZ-uPNcL1gEtOekWO5oFuSl_aS7OOI3vAKGS2o6axAdQyKB0cWgUhHd/s1600/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnWYLrw5BtydYFNHi7sXxDJlQadkyGN9LDq6eedTPV8mQfykhyphenhyphenpiF0D_KV3kwZVuwrNxJla7Kbnj_9rOU1xMpvDZ-uPNcL1gEtOekWO5oFuSl_aS7OOI3vAKGS2o6axAdQyKB0cWgUhHd/s400/maxresdefault.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<div class="tenor-gif-embed" data-aspect-ratio="1.0" data-postid="4084753" data-share-method="host" data-width="100%">
<a href="https://tenor.com/view/queen-wrist-funny-music-weird-gif-4084753">Look At The Flick Of That Wrist GIF</a>.</div>
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It has given me cause to think about what Netflix might produce next, and I do believe I have the answer, <i>thenk eww</i>. My series shall be entitled: <i>The Caged Orangutan. </i>It will cover the all-too-brief presidential reign of Donald J. Trump, and ooh, it'll be a goody.<br />
<br />
Focusing on the truth rather than the facts,<i> </i><i>The Caged Orangutan </i>will present a sympathetic story of a beast too noble for the chains and limitations of public office. The series will offer viewers a rare glimpse of behind-the-scenes triumph as the titular Orangutan handily escapes a fetid, burbling swamp of his enemies' making and, instead, rises to glory.<br />
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Herewith, I present Season One's list of episodes. All shall be directed with the utmost attention to historical and period detail, but may be altered as regards the facts, for facts are alternative. I await the day when we can hearken back to this timeless era! Oh, do I.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw-SDOXozZvuULdNqYrjrzF7lZE_od0MBaiy_3XeZN9R7xh90_b2kTAaXzt4_1sKRFy8xWt0wW2NoQFourIsqnnNs98Im67zWf6yRaMkDGOnK14cwrzqk-04NwRYq5VUe2fIDix27zjyb/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-12-20+at+3.06.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUw-SDOXozZvuULdNqYrjrzF7lZE_od0MBaiy_3XeZN9R7xh90_b2kTAaXzt4_1sKRFy8xWt0wW2NoQFourIsqnnNs98Im67zWf6yRaMkDGOnK14cwrzqk-04NwRYq5VUe2fIDix27zjyb/s400/Screen+Shot+2017-12-20+at+3.06.17+PM.png" width="400" /></a><br />
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<i>Episode One: "A Thrice-Married, Incoherent Fool, Say You?"</i><br />
The Donald unites the nation with a soaring, eloquent inaugural address, which draws crowds larger than ever imagined by man or beast. The mall, fouled with many human footprints and empty fast-food wrappers, becomes a symbol of a nation soiled by too many liberal Democrats. Chuck and Nancy engage in a plot to kidnap orphans and sell their spleens to pay for Medicare.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Episode Two: "Alternative Facts"</i><br />
Presidential advisor Kellyanne Conway stuns and awes the populace with a newly-coined phrase. The Donald chastises Spicey over his poor wardrobe choices. Eric shoots a magnificent lion. Melania engages in fisticuffs with a rogue WH staff member, and upsets the tea service. Barron retires unto a closet where he still awaits for someone to come get him out.<br />
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<i>Episode Three: "Rise, Frederick, Rise!"</i><br />
The Donald invokes the spirit of long-dead Frederick Douglass, inspiring a nation of young African-American men and women to don MAGA hats and follow his Twitter feed with acclaim. Jared makes progress with the Kremlin, and Mitch McConnell's face grows 73% droopier. Paul Ryan gets an unexpected handjob.<br />
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<i>Episode Four: "Your Ratings Are Rather Poor"</i><br />
During a prayer breakfast, the Donald demonstrates his Christian values while he simultaneously savages the career of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Nordstrom drops Ivanka's clothing line, leading to a massive boycott and an almost-complete shutdown of the economy and the train lines. Conway saves the day with a selfless ethics violation. Spicey renews investors' faith in Wrigley's gum products by gnawing 56 sticks in as many minutes.<br />
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<i>Episode Five: "Tapp This!"</i><br />
Notorious foreign-born black dude, Obama, is caught red-handed tapping Trump's phone lines, and is excluplutated to Mexico, homes of rapists and a few good folk. Donald Jr. wrassles a snake. Hillary is caught mangling multiple email accounts. Eric shoots a giraffe. Tiffany makes a surprise appearance. The economy comes to a halt due to Obama's prior machinations. As a result, we are now 1.4 trillion dollars more in debt! "Thank <i>eww</i>, Democrats, for doing <i>nothink </i>but badnesses in the name of poor and sadly uninformed and ill-dressed poeples," says Ivanka. "<i>Thenks </i>to the dreary democrats."<br />
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<i>Episode Six: "The Mooch"</i><br />
The Donald obstructs justice, but with jazz hands. James Comey perfects his ice-skating routine. Anthony Scaramucci delivers a searing and uplifting speech, and is subsequently fired for poor footwear. Ivanka tries on new shoes. Melania is fitted for a new outfit. Don Jr. and Eric work on their collusion strategy, and attempt a high-five, with poor results. Several national monuments become limited, due to their unfortunate life choices.<br />
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<i>Episode Seven: "It's Mueller Time!"</i><br />
The Donald visits storm-battered Puerto Rico, where he tosses cans of tuna, cartons of eggs, and rolls of napkins at the poor, to much acclaim and some head injuries. Mueller closes in and indicts Flynn, Manafort, and Papadopoulus. The latter is recognized as a "very brief little wee piddling underling and perhaps coffee boy in his Majesty's court." "He perhaps once brought us an herring," says Ivanka. "'Twas a very small herring."<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Episode Eight:"Rocket Boy"</i><br />
Regretting his early months as being "soft," the Donald engages in a war of words with North Korea. "Little Rocket Man" responds by firing a payload of nuclear weapons at an unnamed place in the ocean. Eric bets on a horse. Don Jr. retains new attorneys. Melania purchases new real estate, banking on the planned tax bill to come. Obama windsurfs and sports new board shorts.<br />
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<i>Episode Nine: "God Bless the United Schstateshsh"</i><br />
After the Donald's dentures come unhinged during a speech, his dentist is brought in for a routine waterboarding. Melania researches vacation spots. The IRS continues their unjust audit of Trump's taxes. but promise to keep the audit going "as long as you are King, mine seigneur." Don Jr. and Eric shoot an infirm water buffalo. Melania adjusts Barron's bowtie. Kellyanne retains a new math tutor for brothers Eric and Don Jr.<br />
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So much is to come in Season Two, so stay tuned!<br />
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The all-star cast of <i>The Caged Orangutan:</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0rOcv0zNzmvOGdAxLp9aVVdxkeLiwcXWTDtgRAo30Z1Dte1ETHECg_ntGJKFQAUz5YW_DH-09ZOg31LeD4gFXvuR7U5Y3tDMFLsa2YHvDpDam1x03a-n13jg3R_35TbZ9xOcNAqlcbcm/s320/steve-bannon-jokes-looks-like.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Douche-Schwister McFister as "Steve Bannon"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8cxFYq_HhRMA2zNooFaDj6a_BcrOZWwvdMr0uNQEzDsVjUz4ny81Syj0rjY5VtjEta5AKjwKzQeQHupLpQLtLf0Mp2NxfcoIpubEXEg33byQT11ePD76uvr8wZZuNsAcprI5JwAV1nac/s1600/17-kellyanne-lede.w710.h473.2x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG8cxFYq_HhRMA2zNooFaDj6a_BcrOZWwvdMr0uNQEzDsVjUz4ny81Syj0rjY5VtjEta5AKjwKzQeQHupLpQLtLf0Mp2NxfcoIpubEXEg33byQT11ePD76uvr8wZZuNsAcprI5JwAV1nac/s320/17-kellyanne-lede.w710.h473.2x.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloriana "Jennie" Boobaster as "Kellyanne Conway'</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ftJYHU-TW0Jmf1MzumWwsf1s1XkZfe8iDwo8tsAbe348tBp5GJkk4VyBEb30Oo2Nhu_bwRVo5dgl6NKBHS5tAKHgsdiGcCLBnnU0Ks6hkwz5y-ticHFGBJ2tw78llQ7QXbEUeIxqd9PM/s1600/o-MITCH-MCCONNELL-facebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ftJYHU-TW0Jmf1MzumWwsf1s1XkZfe8iDwo8tsAbe348tBp5GJkk4VyBEb30Oo2Nhu_bwRVo5dgl6NKBHS5tAKHgsdiGcCLBnnU0Ks6hkwz5y-ticHFGBJ2tw78llQ7QXbEUeIxqd9PM/s320/o-MITCH-MCCONNELL-facebook.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonny Dirtdover as "The man with the face of the turtle"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL40Ff2DBcNmdiWrtp3xzUFK2dMftprAHzwToWlZ1spBovH1bfOpBKzI9sXTmqI-ZwmDqXkT330GX7gpx68a6gR_WVTpyAjA4nlQnd_emAX3zMRHeWjyqH6QHdlXo-J60Fdh9QCoYJil5a/s320/michael-flynn.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gen'l Dirk Fistfihéter as "Mike Flynn"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKY4V_rWLpxICZNnF9-VJcbcelixKnE8ojItofxqD_D8-IjCloxAIe6G12bZ6je3AKp8o99vypDwPFbBcvEjHX88l4aOaVV6PA_2lgpBa4bD8z3FOGY6E2mZ_K7BU0UjtH6-tGgHA0eO6m/s1600/SwampRat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKY4V_rWLpxICZNnF9-VJcbcelixKnE8ojItofxqD_D8-IjCloxAIe6G12bZ6je3AKp8o99vypDwPFbBcvEjHX88l4aOaVV6PA_2lgpBa4bD8z3FOGY6E2mZ_K7BU0UjtH6-tGgHA0eO6m/s320/SwampRat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wendy Smith as "the Swamp Rat"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homer Gorphins as "Paul Ryan"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judy Lovephin as the voice of "Jared Kushner"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lyle and Erik Menendez as Eric and Don Jr.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(c) Bricklayers Union of America. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whoever she is. Dude, I would date her if she were not my daughter.</td></tr>
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<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-12215783422565540002017-04-26T14:43:00.002-07:002017-04-26T14:46:14.935-07:00Dear President Trump, I Demand My PonyDear President Trump,<br />
<br />
You may not remember me, but we met at one of your rallies. I approached you and expressed my need for a pony. I said: "I am one of your sorrowful and fragrant forgotten people, and you need to do me a SOLID. I am a 'Party Pony,' yet I possess no pony. Sad!"<br />
<br />
I got your signature on my #MAGA hat but you didn't notice the fine print stitched inside the hat, which reads: "You will be getting a pony from me, Donald J. Trump." Because you don't like to read I did not bother you with it.<br />
<br />
Without a pony, I am like Obamacare in its "death spiral." Without my promised pony, I can no more hold my head up proudly than you can count on KellyAnne not to rattle her chains in the "Black Hole of Calcutta" which is another term for the SUB SUB BASEMENT of the White House.<br />
<br />
Is my pony down there, Mister President? Because I would very much like to claim him!<br />
<br />
Does KellyAnne have my pony??!!<br />
<br />
My pony will need a wall. A large wall. This wall will protect him from DRUGS and PONY TRAFFICKING.<br />
<br />
I would like my wall to be 85 feet in circumference plus 8 feet in height to protect from marauding deer and pony rapists and peddlers of biblical literature. I would also like the wall to have the name TRUMP in giant gilt lettering so the animals know to be scared. I would like a separate bathroom for each type of animal, excepting the queer ones. They can piddle in the woods.<br />
<br />
Can I get the name "Trump" tattooed onto my actual pony, Mister President? I would like the tattoo to be in gold. Can you please make the tail end of the "p" in "Trump" look like a flowing mane and the top part of the "p" look like a pony's face? Here is a sketch so that you get it perfect:<br />
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If I don't get my pony, which I will, then more DRUGS and bad hombres will liberally drown my pony in offal. This is what my pony would look like on drugs and do I need to tell you that this is bad?!! No, I do not. I drew this picture of my pony while on so many drugs it's ridiculous! Unbelievable!<br />
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I want my pony to be a handsome animal, President Trump. He should be bedecked and beblazoned with COAL DUST and other detritus of planet-destroying badness. He should wear a collar of plastic bags from the Great Plastic Garbage Patch! Which is a hoax! I shall call him: TRUMPLETTE, and he will be mighty among very small horses.<br />
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My pony will shit into the beautiful streams of our great country! Its farts will cause the ozone layer to COMPLETELY DECAY! Ha, ha—that's fake news because THERE IS NO OZONE LAYER. My pony will belch forth great witticisms and strategies and (unintelligible)!<br />
<br />
I would like my pony to be delivered by military aircraft. And I get to keep the aircraft. No, wait. I would actually like my pony delivered by ARMADA. Use MapQuest, please. I will also be keeping the armada. Send the aircraft too, at a discreet distance so my neighbors don't get alarmed.<br />
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My pony needs to be super-duper, higher, better, better. In fact, this will be its middle name! Actually, find me a pony whose middle name is ALREADY "Super-Duper, Higher, Better, Better." I want this documented and I want to see its birth certificate. Make sure the "higher" part is figurative because I don't want any stoned-ass, pot-smoking pony.<br />
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The pony's last name should be "Unintelligible" because I see that you used this word maybe EIGHTY-FIVE TIMES in your <a href="http://talkingpointsmemo.com/edblog/trump-interview-full-transcript" target="_blank">latest interview</a> so it must be a word that you love very much! I will also love my pony very much!!!<br />
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Make sure that you find me a pony whose last name is ALREADY "Unintelligible." I do not want to have a pony who has changed his surname, because that pony might be Mexican, which means the pony is a gang member. Gang members are impalatable to me and to many others, including youth.<br />
<br />
My pony will be the greatest pony in the history of, but you know what, I'll take that also, but that you could be. He will be the greatest pony but I will also accept the other. You know what I mean. Just get me my pony.<br />
<br />
You promised me a PONY. I am not yet weary of winning. I have much energy!<br />
<br />
Eagerly awaiting delivery of my pony, "Trumplette Super-Duper, Higher, Better, Better Unintelligible,"<br />
The Party Pony<br />
<br />
<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-11627284541003541202017-03-09T22:29:00.000-08:002017-03-10T17:27:04.954-08:00The Things We Remember, for Tamar Kitzmiller (1954-2017)Do you remember the time, Tamar, that we hiked that wild mountain in Vermont, so intent on our gossiping that we missed the trail junction and continued for a full mile down the wrong trail? We recognized our mistake far too late into the game, and quickly became panicked at the realization that we had to pick up your tween daughter at a local ice-skating rink. She would be disappointed and annoyed. Rather than fess up to our own idiocy, we concocted a fake story about encountering a mother bear and her cubs on the trail. They had menaced and delayed us! And the cubs were dreadfully cute. There were three of them. One had a stubby tail. One had a lisp, etc.<br />
<br />
Your daughter ate up that story, She quizzed us about the adorable cubs. We lied like bandits to her, and to the kindly dad who had given her a ride home from the rink. The truth came out quickly, of course. Do you remember how I snortled, "We sure fooled that old Griff fellow!" without realizing that we had failed to properly hang up the phone and he could <i>still hear us</i>? (His name was something like Mr. Griffin.) Did we ever get <i>the business </i>from J and H, who were both disgusted and amused! ("You rotten, rotten liars.")<br />
<br />
I could be altering some details of the story because memory doesn't always serve, but I suppose it doesn't matter. You're not here to correct me anymore, Tamar, so it's my story now. But it's still ours. It was a long time ago. Forgive me.<br />
<br />
You surely remember our trip to the "Bloody Brook," in dead of night. It was in your hometown of Norwich, VT. We thought it would be a grand old idea to venture out en masse and skinny dip, drinks in hand. When we arrived at the Blood Brook, we found that the relative lack of rain had limited the brook to a shallow trickle. We went in anyway, dipping our nethers in a few sad inches of water. We laughed and laughed, and we scrabbled over the wet stones to find our shoes. We looked up to the full moon. We padded home in the dark, shoes in hand, drunk with love of our lives.<br />
<br />
On another occasion, J and S polyglued eggs to an old railroad tie and we shot them clean away with BB guns. And we lit a bonfire by soaking a roll of TP in fluid and firing it down a zipline from an upstairs bathroom into a big garbage can of combustible materials. Does this sound impossibly dangerous? Oh, yes. But you have to understand: We were all guaranteed to live forever.<br />
<br />
On so many Halloweens before I had children of my own, we painted our faces and carved pumpkins and roasted the seeds in olive oil and salt and ate them until our stomachs were sick. I spilled a mason jar of seeds into your front lawn and picked them out of the grass blades and ate them anyway. I was dressed as Ballet Pumpkin, or the Octo-Moose, or a Flying Purple People Eater—my costumes have always been a bit unique, and you lent your support with your clever sewing and additions. You always styled yourself as a one-of-a-kind witch—with such enormous creativity! I recall the Halloween when you had a smoking urn of dry ice on the lawn, and you sat in grand splendor with makeup so thick and green that no one could recognize you.<br />
<br />
(Years earlier, I also recall arriving at your home for a visit and going to use the toilet, after a very long drive. I opened the lid to a smoking cauldron of doom. I thought the toilet was about to explode! Dry ice. Thanks for the panic attack, guys.)<br />
<br />
You had a red door on that house, and a yellow lantern. You had cross-country skis on the wall of your garage. I once dug a flowerbed for new tulips in your backyard. When we had boys (all three of them), we sat in your backyard and made "Pine Noodle Soup" and played catch with a rubber chicken. I always felt at home there. We sat under a tree that oozed with sap and looked out on the half-pipe that J built for your son W and we talked until the sky grew light. We never ran out of things to talk about. Nor would we now, if I had the chance.<br />
<br />
Just give me one clear night. One afternoon, in hazy sunshine. Give me your cats Blossom and Addie, who once crawled into my guest room and kneaded my chest for comfort in the night, or your small black cat, Misty, who darted in terror from our amateur movie-making, in which we made her an unwitting victim of a fiend that rose from the leach field. But most of all, give me you, Tammy. I miss your sweet, chuckling, authentic laugh. I wish everyone reading this who didn't know Tammy could hear your laughter. It was the best laugh ever possible. Real as anything you can touch with your hands. Yours was a laugh that suggested there was a deep river of goodwill flowing beneath us all, and you were privy to the source. You loved your life.<br />
<br />
My god, but every moment matters. Because you're gone now, Tamar, and you were my sister in heart, and I never ever thought you would be gone. I sort of thought we would have another moment, another time, to recollect each and every one of these stories. I know you were a bit older than me, and all, but I never thought of you as such. You were young in every way. I could come to you and say: "Let's make fancy hats and costumes and parade down the road and toss water balloons at everyone just to delight their souls and knock them off their rockers," and you would never ask "Why?" You would only ask, "When? And do you have the water balloons handy?" Or better yet, "Let me fill them! Where's the nearest water tap?"<br />
<br />
I remember my very first trip to Norwich, VT. Our dear friend S introduced us. I met you and J, and we sat by the fire, and he tossed popcorn at your knees, for no reason I could discern. There was a bright painting of hummingbirds above the mantel. The next day I slept in, and you all teased me relentlessly, saying I was "due the sleep to which I was accustomed and would sleep until the time to which I was accustomed." We went to a local apple festival and bought and ate crisp apples, and you gave me a lunchbag stuffed with goodies and trail mix that I took home and ate, bit by bit, until it was depleted. You called me "Princess Pomme" and later "Princess Pumpkin." I took your teasing for love. I pretty much knew that I loved your family then and there. I loved you. I love you. You one day said I was the little sister you never had. I couldn't be more grateful for that role.<br />
<br />
Over time, over years, as your children grew, their artwork came to fill the walls of your home. The green-snouted thing with the purple eyes. A massive sunflower. Lopsided little clay cups on the windowsill. And as your children grew further, we played games. Your daughter drew a rabid raccoon during a game of Pictionary, and it stayed magnetized to the refrigerator for years, its eyes two magnificent little spirals. A quote appeared one year, attached to a cartoon, perhaps: "God does not play dice with the universe." J put that there. He's wonderfully clever, often challenging us to logic puzzles and math games. He loved you for more than 40 years. And we love him. He is as much a part of us as you are. And so are your children. We aren't related by blood, but we are all family, forever.<br />
<br />
Do you remember, Tamar? I know you do. Every story, every inside joke, every prank, every night by the fireside singing our hearts out with the boys strumming the guitars, every conversation, every walk in the woods. We lost you sometimes in the "Triangle" and then we found you, and then we lost you again. You and I roamed about at night in our pajamas, and we lay down on the clean earth to look up at the stars. Who will remember your laughter? Who is going to remember "Mahlon Bither" and "Team Goat" and "Braised child under 10" and all of it, all of it, except you and those of us who remain?<br />
<br />
Tamar, everything you ever did and said is part of that deep river flowing fast toward we know not where, and we're all standing in it together, and we are stronger and better and braver for having known you. We will all work hard to make this place better than we found it, for certain.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love you, Tamar.</td></tr>
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<i>For Tamar Kitzmiller, 1954-2017. </i><br />
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<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-63179725204703812542017-02-08T13:10:00.000-08:002017-02-08T13:11:53.514-08:006 Horrifying Attacks on America! Unreported by Dishonest Fake News Mainstream Media!Now revealed! Horrifying attacks on U.S. soil, unreported and disregarded by the dishonest and failing fake news mainstream media! We now honor these terrible tragedies and mourn the victims. May they remain forever in our hearts and minds.<br />
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<h3>
<b>Grizzly Vengeance</b> (Every Classroom in America, 2003)</h3>
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After their last remaining habitat was completely destroyed due to the construction of Trump Glacier National Park Casino and Trump Continental Divide Plaza, undocumented Grizzly bears poured into classrooms everywhere and snacked on lots of little children. Sad! #wearegrizzlyvengeance</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EZvrndhhfshzOBomtc0aM8zh791rccAhyphenhyphenmTULc3nz4KU6USgztQ6wldaK7MaabqorAwZ_oE1PPjlbHgpA5yF7FczwhTxFv86J1dLcOsAfaP_aoMJUke7eM6YMcTaD3SxEjY02tQNUI4d/s1600/Grizzlies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EZvrndhhfshzOBomtc0aM8zh791rccAhyphenhyphenmTULc3nz4KU6USgztQ6wldaK7MaabqorAwZ_oE1PPjlbHgpA5yF7FczwhTxFv86J1dLcOsAfaP_aoMJUke7eM6YMcTaD3SxEjY02tQNUI4d/s400/Grizzlies.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If only the little mites had been armed, this senseless slaughter could have been averted.</td></tr>
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<h3>
Vulv-A-Lago (Palm Beach, Florida, 1980-2017)</h3>
Many innocent vaginas were indecently grabbed during this ongoing series of heinous attacks, conducted anywhere from airplanes to furniture stores. The perpetrator is still at large. Sales of skirts have fallen sharply since the attacks began. The ominous rattle of Tic-Tacs is usually the only sign that the attacker is approaching. #bevulvalagovigilant<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZ7tOBzKXcP5ttsJ2zn17QJPwaAgmXjXYriJz5Rer8wHmn0NnWowihb7NubSYG9GXnADwMhlBpUUtLOaR0r6hA2n9WT3-1MQKe6n4nOrYv4xN2RNmegNfZNf8v-MiYCABs457xFZnFxyn/s1600/trumpucker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZ7tOBzKXcP5ttsJ2zn17QJPwaAgmXjXYriJz5Rer8wHmn0NnWowihb7NubSYG9GXnADwMhlBpUUtLOaR0r6hA2n9WT3-1MQKe6n4nOrYv4xN2RNmegNfZNf8v-MiYCABs457xFZnFxyn/s400/trumpucker.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victims of the Vulv-A-Lago Attacks describe "stubby" and "grabby" hands that were nevertheless "surprisingly quick," "octopus-like," and "seemed to be coated in Cheeto dust."</td></tr>
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<h3>
The Haunting of the National Mall (January 20, 2017)</h3>
Hundreds of thousands of dead people, most of whom voted illegally, descended on the National Mall for the Inauguration of the 45th President. The spectres made many spooky noises such as "boo!" and "woooo!" in an attempt to scare the living daylights out of the sparse crowd of flesh-and-blood humans. The living, however, took little notice of them, given that they were fixated on the completely insane scary-ass bat-ass crazy carnage spewing from the new President's mouth. The massive crowd of dead folks—which amounted to the biggest audience to ever witness an inauguration in all of human history, period, end of story, shut your pie hole—went completely unreported by the dishonest and failing news media, who claimed they "couldn't see them." <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG05co78wf4lGiJR8FT4mYmeg7YMaPZnej9rptDFbd_bdvbQIt2aCWM5TgHWKraX2aDfuD2zBcbTmFCBD9sm7aUI69EBri8xPbceIF9yLf0qdRoC6upW0QwFpzLJFXakwpJjfjC_K_mN7X/s1600/Inauguration_crowd.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG05co78wf4lGiJR8FT4mYmeg7YMaPZnej9rptDFbd_bdvbQIt2aCWM5TgHWKraX2aDfuD2zBcbTmFCBD9sm7aUI69EBri8xPbceIF9yLf0qdRoC6upW0QwFpzLJFXakwpJjfjC_K_mN7X/s400/Inauguration_crowd.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I see dead people. SO MANY dead people. More dead people than YOU will ever summon, loser.</td></tr>
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<h3>
The "Holla 'Bout the Cost" (Walmart Store, Birmingham, AL, July 7, 2010)</h3>
Walmart shopper Wanda Chunks severely annoyed other patrons of the store when she decided to make a big ruckus over the price of an irreverent T-shirt, saying, "I'm not gonna pay eight dollars and fifty-eight cents for this piece of China-made crap!" Ms. Chunks continued to rant and holler about the cost of the T-shirt throughout the transaction, until she grumpily exited the store. Scarred patrons had to be consoled for hours. Despite the fact that the failing and dishonest media omitted the traumatic incident from their news coverage, an official Holla 'Bout the Cost Remembrance Day is now in the works. In a spirit of inclusiveness, Holla 'Bout the Cost Remembrance Day will honor basically anyone who has ever been annoyed while shopping, or irritated by anything at all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpxv5sL_9N8GaWJFuuIFFRySWOnkLJYMeaFL1wqtAEoaeX9R6t6lElMKx-uYFc59k-ZXKzsBaa-ycnv7PI89-7KlQcKxwJj871AxuA1Tv8LIkIqJBpNUv-gCsKaug4GlnWMW9CNdCHab-/s1600/people-of-walmart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFpxv5sL_9N8GaWJFuuIFFRySWOnkLJYMeaFL1wqtAEoaeX9R6t6lElMKx-uYFc59k-ZXKzsBaa-ycnv7PI89-7KlQcKxwJj871AxuA1Tv8LIkIqJBpNUv-gCsKaug4GlnWMW9CNdCHab-/s400/people-of-walmart.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to new trade tariffs, the price of this T-shirt is now $43.99.</td></tr>
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<h3>
The Fact-Butcher (Multiple Locations, 2016 and ongoing)</h3>
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This bloodthirsty villain strikes quickly and decisively, mangling and butchering facts with a savagery only equalled by a too-hot flatiron and a dearth of hair conditioner. Distracting its victims with a plea to "look into its heart," the Fact-Butcher then dispatches them with a patently ridiculous statement. Do not engage with the Fact-Butcher. Do not look into its eyes. It will tear your entrails out and feed them to its army of wild pigs. You have been warned. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have the appearance of being sorta dead, at least on the inside, and I voted. So, you see, millions of other creepy half-dead and actually dead people must have voted as well. That's why we need an immediate investigation into massive voter fraud. Which must have taken place because my Dear Leader told me so. What do you mean there's "no evidence"? What about the evidence that's in my <i>heart? </i></td></tr>
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<h3>
The Man-Turtle Terror (Washington, D.C., February 7, 2017)</h3>
A terrifying half-man, half-turtle hybrid ponderously crawled from the sludge at the basin of Washington's newly-drained swamp and, without provocation, attacked a women who was trying to do her job. The creature then fled into the sewers. Any sightings should be reported to the Department of Homeland Security and the Environmental Protection Agency. The dishonest so-called "media" continues to claim that the Man-Turtle Terror is merely a Senator from Kentucky who happens to look remarkably like a turtle. So nasty! Terrible! #StopTheManTurtleTerror<br />
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<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-4895867211194160872016-12-15T20:56:00.002-08:002016-12-15T21:27:46.169-08:00The Fibromyalgia Autobiography: We Are the Brave<span style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t know what to do or even how to write. The pain is so bad that it permeates every second of every day; I get no respite. If I thoroughly distract myself with something consuming, such as drawing every fibre and curve of the poinsettia plant on the table, I can sometimes, most fleetingly, eliminate the pain from my top-of-mind consciousness. Even then, I know it’s there. I know it’s glowering at me, demanding that attention must be paid. How dare I presume to ignore it. It should know that I’m most decidedly its prisoner, and ignoring it is impossible. I’ve merely placed it in the second shelf of things I cannot forget.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Imagine internally repeating a word or a string of digits, something you know intimately well, over and over and over. Your name. The numbers 4 8 15 16 23 42. It would seem like madness. So does the word I repeat, but it is more of a tome than a word, a dull and singular autobiography that tells but one incessant story. I repeat it while making coffee, while reading <i>Prince Caspian</i> to my eight-year-old son, while hugging my 11-year-old son goodnight, while I’m making a joke to my 13-year-old son about the “sentient basketball” his kindly and generous godfather gifted him for Christmas. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9l1_GNfr4SDCGqKGBMbf7woPxnhQITCLf1DEx6VseBz0ZVqOmWMcxChHj4ZzjmLFqYUUxOPY9f-pp_mMNI6xZmfllmuoPo9FrIY6-8T20lW9rWusMgInHtwLxvOeesfleqxMwubFhVT7/s1600/bb72d3692722edf62dc5c887c229110e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9l1_GNfr4SDCGqKGBMbf7woPxnhQITCLf1DEx6VseBz0ZVqOmWMcxChHj4ZzjmLFqYUUxOPY9f-pp_mMNI6xZmfllmuoPo9FrIY6-8T20lW9rWusMgInHtwLxvOeesfleqxMwubFhVT7/s320/bb72d3692722edf62dc5c887c229110e.jpg" width="248" /></a><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;">(STOP. Okay, the sentient basketball is this basketball that links with an app on your smartphone and it tracks all the shots you take and calculates the trajectory of the ball and it’s seriously smarter than all of you. I have suggested that it may devolve and start shouting things at my son such as “Missed the hoop AGAIN. Sad! Loser!” by which point it will have detained our entire family in a special “camp” while it bounces recklessly across a keyboard linked to its Twitter feed. But I digress.)</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">The story in my head has the word “pain” is embedded in the title of every chapter, in every monotonous sentence, and in the cliffhanger at chapter’s end. Synonyms for “pain” could of course be employed here: <i>ache, agony, spasm, torment, misery, distress.</i> I’m afraid that, while in pain, I’m not even clever enough to call upon any of these vocabulary words. It’s all simply pain.<i> </i>It makes for extremely dull reading: “This book sucks. One star, but I’d give it a zero if I could! Sad! Loser!”</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">(But if I were to be imaged and mapped as an electrical grid, I would be very exciting indeed. I would tell a strange story. Spasms, and flares along the knots and hubs, and bright loci, all firing, firing, firing, until the world’s end.)</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Even as a prisoner of the very boring and pedestrian pain, I sometimes still think: <i>I wonder if I made this all up. </i>Because if I did, I can fix it. I know I can. Many doctors said it was all in my head before I was diagnosed. They could be right! I will fight like a wounded dog in a ditch to fix this. Because I have beautiful people in my life who love me, and they are counting on me to be brave and beautiful and to <i>ignore the pain.</i> (Sometimes, when I pass a mirror, I think the expression I wear resembles that of a hurt animal that cannot speak and dumbly wishes to be put out of its misery. My friend, the veterinary surgeon, sees this look all the time, before she expires the animal. And then I tend to think that I’m really quite good-looking. And someone this ridiculously good-looking cannot possibly be sick, right? I also have great legs and really decent biceps and fine, upstanding boobs. But I digress.)</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">If this is all in my head, then all I need to do is relax. Breathe more. Take some Aleve. Do yoga. Stop worrying. Swim when I can. Hot water. Pay attention to my posture. Take supplements. Use the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Miracle-Ball-Method-Relieve-Included/dp/0761128689" target="_blank">Miracle Balls</a>. Ahem, this is really a thing—“miracle balls” do help.) This was honestly supposed to be part of a different post, the post that listed “All the Things That Help Me With My Fibromyalgia.” I don’t want to suggest that these things don’t help! In fact, they certainly have. The problem is that they are temporary. Maybe I just need to use these remedies more. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">But just when I’m exulting in the moment of finally selecting a new “inner dialogue” volume from my shelves—perhaps its “Just Keep Moving! You Are Fantastic!” or “Bonus Energy Surprise! You Won the Fucking Lottery Today!”—I reach out and pluck out that sad, dog-eared volume on <i>pain</i> whose author looks like she got whacked with a cudgel studded with stabby Christmas ornaments. Whacked hard in the knees, ribs, shoulders, back, elbows, ankles, fingers, collarbones. Still smiling, wanly. Her author photo tells the whole story. She’s an absolute expert on her subject. Not many people can see her pain, because she’s smiling well enough. But I do.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">It’s so very hard to choose another book.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">But I will. I must.</span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">How do we go on? People who have Fibromyalgia are in constant, sometimes unimaginable pain. Some are in worse pain than I am, which I cannot imagine. How do we even face the day? How do we read a book, or hug our children, or cook dinner, or fold the laundry? How do we commit to jobs that require us to smile at people? How do we shop for groceries and actually return our carts to the cart corrals (please tell me you do; Fibromyalgia is no excuse here.) How do we continue to stand out in the cold wind and gas up the car? How do we limp down the driveway to collect the mail? How do we sit in a chair, as I do, and type out blog posts that will garner us no favors or fame or money?</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Because we are the brave. No matter how bleak it seems, we will never just read one simple story. We can acknowledge that we have read, and will read again, that dreadful autobiography: The one that I call <i>Pain. </i>It will always and always sit on our shelves. But it isn’t who we are. We are a great library of poetry and truth and submarines and whelks and tangerines and fireworks and ocelots and 17th-century history and rockets to the moon. We are here for a reason, and we will be called upon when it counts. Because we already know what heartbreak feels like and we have been brave and strong for so very long. We will never give up, never stand down, never falter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If there is to be a resistance, I will be at the forefront. I am not scared. Why would I be? I am well-versed in pain. Maybe I could finally place that awful, boring volume called <i>Pain </i>way down to the fifth or sixth shelf, well below the volumes of <i>Dignity</i> and <i>Honor</i>.</span><br />
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<i>Postscript:</i> Please. Return your carts to the cart corral. Or even to the very door of the store. We aren't the kind of people who leave our carts parked upon the curb, even when we are bone-tired. The carts do <a href="http://thepartypony.blogspot.com/search?q=shopping+carts" target="_blank">tend to get away</a> and cause mayhem.Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-92016524275042783102016-11-21T20:35:00.001-08:002016-11-21T20:42:56.925-08:00The Fox and the Rabbit: What Does Fibromyalgia Feel Like?What does having Fibromyalgia feel like? I've read numerous descriptions and, although there are definite themes shared among us, every person's experience is unique. I tried to find a blog post that captured all of my particular symptoms with perfect eloquence. I couldn't. What I found is that, even though I <i>think</i> I'm suffering like a Christian martyr trudging up a slope strewn with shards of ice, rusty screw guns, and carnivorous sticky buns, there is always someone whose pain is worse. Sometimes much worse. That doesn't offer me much solace. It just makes me sad.<br />
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Haven't a clue what I'm talking about? Learn more about Fibromyalgia <a href="http://www.fmaware.org/" target="_blank">here</a> or <a href="http://www.fmcpaware.org/aboutfibromyalgia" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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But I do want to explain how Fibromyalgia makes <i>me </i>feel. It might help when a friend or loved one doesn't understand why I keep grimacing during, say, a board game. Maybe after reading this post they will say: "Ah! You feel as if someone has turned your sinews and muscles into sharp metal strands, and is now braiding them quite viciously," or "Well, NO one cares for nails made of hot gravel being pounded into their joints! I'd grimace, too. Carry on, it's your turn." Or even "Malevolent sticky bun latched on to your brainstem again, what? No wonder you're so sluggish and foggy-headed!"<br />
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Here's a simple experiment. It may seem unseemly and unpleasant. First clench one hand tight into a fist. Now choose a part of that fist and bite it, for as long as you can tolerate. Your curled fingers will do. Give it a fair amount of pressure. Give it five minutes, if you possibly can. Notice what happens.<br />
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The immediate "victim" of the bite, your clenched fist, will begin to protest. It's already remorselessly tight, and now something is <i>biting </i>it? Seriously?! Not good. But, there's more! Soon, your jaw may become tense and tight, even sore. The exertion of holding the fist, along with the bite, will begin to seem intolerable. All you have to do to release the pain is to open your mouth, open your hand. Why are you doing something so ridiculous as biting your fist, just because I suggested it? Please do not do this in public.<br />
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If you have Fibromyalgia, you probably know where I'm going with this analogy. If you know a loved one who has Fibromyalgia, you might have your whole fist stuffed in your cakehole at the moment, and are feeling surly, and I appreciate that.<br />
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Fibromyalgia feels as if your body is gnawing on itself, every minute of every day. (Even on the "good days," when it's just gnawing with less fervor. On the best days, it still nibbles, like an itch that can never be scratched or eliminated.) As I've suggested, your body itself is already intolerably "tight." It has become a fist that never opens. Then, you visit it with numerous indignities, and they are certainly not confined to the hand—you sink pain into the neck, into the knees, into the edge of the jaw itself. Note that I do not use the passive voice in the sentence above, because you sense that your own body is conducting this cruelty.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">I am hideously aware of the pain in my own jaws and also of my victim's pain.<br />
It's not cool.</td></tr>
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You become intolerably <i>aware</i> of the pain. You are the jaws of the predator, and there is no pleasure in being the predator. You will never kill your victim. You are a fox worrying the rabbit to death, over and over and over. Unlike an actual fox, you feel the rabbit's pain. You aren't even hungry. You feel remorse for the rabbit. The rabbit and the fox, the jaws and the flesh and the pain and the grief, are bound together forever in a singular dance.<br />
<br />
If you are still biting your fist, stop, you fool. You probably look like an idiot, with tears springing to your eyes on the Metro North. You probably look like a woman who wants to scream because she is so heartbreakingly frustrated and is biting her fist to prevent herself from doing so.<br />
<br />
Thank you for trying, if you did, but no one should suffer for very long. Where does that leave me? Some mornings, when I wake up to another day of stiffness and aching and mind-numbing pain, the phrase "What did I do to deserve this?" sometimes springs into my head. I really thought that today might be different. I limp my way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. My entire frame feels off-balance and wobbly. Trembling hot shards of pain fire through my shoulders, knees, elbows. My upper back and neck burn as if I've been beaten heavily with a cudgel, scalded, racked, and seized. I think that maybe the nasty local gang, the "Sharpened Hot Sporks Laced-With-Acid Boys," took me down last night, unawares.<br />
<br />
I had a haircut last Friday. My first in many weeks. A woman was washing my hair and massaging my head and I relaxed a little bit and had this random thought: "Hey, I wonder where I would get heroin in this town, if I truly wanted heroin? Because I heard it's a real suburban problem, but I'll bet it would take my pain away. For sure it would. But, goddamnit, it's <i>heroin. </i>I probably should never try heroin, right? I think barfing is involved. OK, forget it. How does one get one's hands on medicinal marijuana? Would I qualify? I don't want the kind of stuff that makes me mistake a can of Mandarin Oranges for a can of Marinara Sauce and serve a very wrong and disgusting meal. I just want the pain to <i>go away.</i>"<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo2YdL_G4oC142UY0fQHy81p3KqP7jC6YbiwfIA_f3yLRtdQVN7EdXObd_W89FVJDysz4t6s_6jKAIAl3MTQ4lmqe0TMtokD_c_oCpxT87T7s-uyVDTiOMvdTcM9XgcMKxMSjCYiPsW0fy/s1600/o.18106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo2YdL_G4oC142UY0fQHy81p3KqP7jC6YbiwfIA_f3yLRtdQVN7EdXObd_W89FVJDysz4t6s_6jKAIAl3MTQ4lmqe0TMtokD_c_oCpxT87T7s-uyVDTiOMvdTcM9XgcMKxMSjCYiPsW0fy/s320/o.18106.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Not very tasty atop pasta. Oops?</td></tr>
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<br />
Then there is the horrible malaise and fatigue. Making even the simplest breakfast for my sons feels exhausting. Bending down to pick up a bowl from the cupboard, walking it to the breakfast table, removing a carton of milk from the fridge, returning to retrieve a spoon from the cutlery drawer, extracting a box of cereal from the cupboard, setting it on the table—a series of small steps that is, somehow, torture. Every move hurts, in varying degrees, and depending on the day.<br />
<br />
My sons are perfectly capable of all these tasks, of course. But if I were to languidly dictate orders from my fainting chair, I fear I would become the cover girl for <i>Bad Parenting </i>magazine. As I write this, I realize that delegating <i>every single task in the house </i>would be the best thing for my sons. It wouldn't hurt them one single tiny bit, and they have energy to spare. It's just my guilt that keeps me on my feet, thinking "I should be a better parent. I should have more energy. I shouldn't hurt."<br />
<br />
I have never been a person to collapse on the couch, except when I've come to the very end of my rope. I have to <i>keep going </i>all the time. I can't sit still. My mother, in her late 80s, is the very same way. She will insist on painfully ascending the stairs to the second floor just to ensure the pillows on the guest bed are fluffed, no matter how many protestations we utter. She will wander around endlessly, buffing the counters, long after she should be in bed. I've despaired of her perseverance, yet I am proud of it in a way I can't explain. Well, yes, I can. I explain it this way: <i>We are not lazy people.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So I don't stop, ever. A day without exercise is wrong. My overactive mind will punish me for it. My body will feel restless and unfulfilled if I didn't swim or bike or walk or run, even if it is simultaneously crying out in agony. I can be utterly exhausted, defeated, and in agonizing pain—in a place where I have no business anywhere but in bed or on the couch—and I still insist on exercising, hauling firewood, dragging around set pieces for the middle-school musical, playing piano, toting groceries.<br />
<br />
Being Strong and Tireless is part of who I am. A me that isn't "strong and tireless" isn't someone whom I would recognize or even care to know. I'm the person who can pick up the 80-lb canoe solo, if asked. I'm the mom who can swim a mile and then spend another hour playing "pull-up" with the kids (a vicious form of Sharks and Minnows in which you literally have to dive down deep to capture your minnow and drag him/her to the surface). Why, just two days ago I was hauling a huge and recalcitrant fake Christmas tree, part of the decor for the middle-school musical, out of the school foyer. The damned tree was collapsing on my head, barfing out ornaments and tinsel. I was sweating and grunting. A man paused and asked if I needed help. "Oh, no thank you, I got it," was all I said. Then I went and got another tree, and dragged that one out, too.<br />
<br />
I felt good dragging those trees. I felt like the warrior I know myself to be. I didn't hurt a bit while I was dragging those trees. I would have dragged a thousand trees. I don't know if this is true of anyone else with Fibromyalgia, but sometimes the harder things are the easier things. They make you completely forget that you are all torn up inside, because, after all, every day and every moment you are all torn up inside. Lifting rocks and bricks and boards makes the "torn up inside" feeling make sense. Of course it <i>should</i> hurt to drag that heavy load. It would make any healthy person hurt. Therefore, I am healthy. Or just very stupid, because I probably pay for my exertions later. Plus, I won't take a moment to rest.<br />
<br />
It's the little things that hurt, the small and ordinary offices of life. Putting away laundry is just dreadful, and that's probably true for people who don't have Fibromyalgia, too. When I hear "I need help turning on the water for my tub!" from up the stairs, my mind bends and wavers. It's a weary climb up one short flight, a cranking of handles. Why does something this small have to be so painful? When I pass the pile of papers and school photos that should be trimmed and filed and put away, I always think: "I'll do that tomorrow. I'm far too tired today."<br />
<br />
It all feels rather hopeless, sometimes, because even watching television is painful. How could watching a <i>television</i> be painful? As I sit there, trying to focus on the plot and to lose myself in the story, I am bitterly aware of my muscles spasming, of my utter failure to relax, of the tight hold the invisible, gnawing <i>thing</i> has on my neck and shoulders. Sometimes I stretch, and my tight joints protest. At other times I try a little self-Reiki, palms to jean-clad thighs, and I wish the pain away.<br />
<br />
I have been successful on a few occasions. Sometimes it recedes, and I am able to forget (for 1 minute, 2 minutes, 3 minutes?) who I am. This happened two days ago while I was drawing this grasshopper. I used the book <i>Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain</i> and I drew this grasshopper upside down, in an attempt to shut down my anxious time-clock left brain and activate my right brain.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1Z1J_y-yKnjiPGwocreD84Krc78t4D5M3j4x8OvTDV1IfAwL8ZfgHIQi9Ti2LOwPv8HpWnZxRFYu1sjHc7PxTmKJikexh5Y9wusbgGgtBo_NGnTDnkNsAcM2crk845ydUP1b8vX0sAAg/s1600/IMG_1755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1Z1J_y-yKnjiPGwocreD84Krc78t4D5M3j4x8OvTDV1IfAwL8ZfgHIQi9Ti2LOwPv8HpWnZxRFYu1sjHc7PxTmKJikexh5Y9wusbgGgtBo_NGnTDnkNsAcM2crk845ydUP1b8vX0sAAg/s400/IMG_1755.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">My sketch of a grasshopper. It will probably be devoured by a hungry predator within minutes, its short and fleeting life meaning nothing. </td></tr>
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Guess what, little grasshopper? My pain went away, while I was drawing you. Now that I'm writing this, it's back in full force. It eats away at the base of my skull, and at my shoulder blades, and inside the architecture of my knees, and it burns along my back, and here I am staring at this grasshopper and I <i>know </i>that while I drew it the pain was still there, somewhere waiting on the sidelines. But it didn't matter. Because I wasn't trapped in my body. I was calculating the precise distance between wing and leg, and dreaming of hauling big loads.<br />
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I don't have any real wisdom to give. The only things I have ever figured out are to stay busy, to not be lazy, and to keep on, and on. Never give up. Keep doing. I'm still in pain. Sometimes it's bad. Some days, really bad. </div>
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The fox is still dancing with the rabbit. The rabbit gives itself wholly, unwillingly—taut as a wire. The fox digs in with claws and teeth, but it has no love of the conquest. I watch their exertions with my clenched fist held between my teeth, praying for absolution. Praying that I can hold on long enough to be a proper poet for the fox, the rabbit, and the breaking day. Give me enough time. </div>
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Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-70635632802033285442016-11-07T20:25:00.000-08:002016-11-07T20:25:00.752-08:00The Party Pony Officially Endorses Hillary Clinton for President of the United States<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="c06dg" data-offset-key="8khe4-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="8khe4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">As has been made abundantly clear via my social media messages, I do not care for Mr. Donald Trump aka DRUMPF. But rather than continuing to belabor the fact that Trump is a misogynistic, racist, predatory, bombastic bottom-feeding swine with the temperament and vocabulary of a Lumpen fifth-grade fish-eyed playground bully, possessing zero experience, credibility, or substantive qualities, I'm going to talk about Hillary Clinton.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5WeF9qEIf3v_AvXOdCOS8h5UbGUvBSJRSLMUmJEKyVcnKjK460ELUhyphenhyphen3uLiDiLoKXmmb4dzAT4wjyqhxMI5xKuzxd5Jl53sQaWdAH4VC86UjVFUNa0ABjS-3XZJF6uaNtRqiOFooqE2jY/s1600/donald_trump_gop_debate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5WeF9qEIf3v_AvXOdCOS8h5UbGUvBSJRSLMUmJEKyVcnKjK460ELUhyphenhyphen3uLiDiLoKXmmb4dzAT4wjyqhxMI5xKuzxd5Jl53sQaWdAH4VC86UjVFUNa0ABjS-3XZJF6uaNtRqiOFooqE2jY/s640/donald_trump_gop_debate.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am a Lumpen swine. Right? Yes? Fact! Sad! Y'alll are losers.</td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="8khe4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span data-offset-key="8khe4-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span data-offset-key="8khe4-0-0" style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was never a particular fan of Hillary. In fact, e</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ight years ago, I wrote a couple of blog posts comparing Hillary unfavorably to Obama. Obama's</span></span><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> gift for oratory, his grand plans, and his passion made Hillary seem cold and strident by comparison. I wrote that Hillary's gaze could turn</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"> "people's blood to an icy slurry and harden the poo in their bowels." </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">There was something about Hillary I just didn't </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">like. </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">E</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">very time I heard her speak, I cringed. Her voice stung my ears. There was something shady about her. Everyone knew the Clintons were a dirty lot! Maybe she'd lied in the past? What about that </span>healthcare reform attempt, when she wasn't even an elected official?<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Her outfits irked me. Her facial expressions were annoying. Her plans and policies were sound, of course, but that didn't matter. I didn't <i>like</i> her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never occurred to me then, as it has so clearly now, what kind of immense bravery and dedication a woman must have to subject herself to the thousand arrows of the angry mob, to the hideous sniffs of a demagogue who says whatever the fuck he wants and gets away with it, but you make <i>one little misstep </i>like refusing to acknowledge that you have fucking PNEUMONIA, and it will stick to you like shit sprayed out of a trumpet. (Pun intended.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlAoqSbnhJd6GIYR4TgExIhyphenhyphenWkevrTz1QH0aDcp-e6wLMhij1GbCZKuKhLU4FkHzOMY7MxmzaxbL807-vrNVruAR_teK8Lfmu4xfw6m6DYL9Pt4bYGx07IXY0bsrgEGi_nnE6_kqtZ0Gzz/s1600/join-stop-trump-780x520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlAoqSbnhJd6GIYR4TgExIhyphenhyphenWkevrTz1QH0aDcp-e6wLMhij1GbCZKuKhLU4FkHzOMY7MxmzaxbL807-vrNVruAR_teK8Lfmu4xfw6m6DYL9Pt4bYGx07IXY0bsrgEGi_nnE6_kqtZ0Gzz/s640/join-stop-trump-780x520.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have been besmirched with a thousand hurtful sniffs, and yet here I stand!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who, really, would <i>want </i>this job? Let's take the campaign, hideous in </span>itself. Hillary stood there time and again and calmly defended herself against a man who was behaving like an Internet troll under the bridge, a man lacking any reason or decency. He rudely interrupted her, called her a "nasty woman," told outrageous fictions that any elementary-school child could Google fact-check and debunk within minutes. He made us collectively gasp when he said he'd "keep us in suspense" as to whether he will accept the results of tomorrow's election.<br />
<br />
Look, people, I would have <i>lost my shit.</i> I would have flung my shoe at the orangeman's thick skull, declared the entire nation incompetent, and sallied forth into the mist to spew obscenities and throw offal at random people. Hillary did not! She just persevered, talking about her long record of standing up for children, for the poor, for the elderly. She has a long record of public service. I was impressed by<a href="http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2016/11/07/final-argument-for-hillary-clinton-based-on-3-indisputable-facts.html" target="_blank"> this piece</a> today from Fox News, by Lanny Davis, in which he tells a story of Hillary arriving at Yale and asking where she could volunteer for the nearest legal services clinic, because "the reason I came to law school is to help me do public service."<br />
<br />
Who among you could stand up to this craziness? Who among you would even <i>want </i>the job known to turn your blonde hair to stark grey in a matter of months? Who would want the nuclear codes, or have the savvy to talk to hostile nations, or would have the wits to work through tax laws and health care and nominating the next Supreme Court justice and everything else that goes into being President of the United States? Who among you would worry every day if the pantsuit you wore on television would inspire rude commentary, if people who wear T-shirts calling you a "bitch" might poo on your lawn, or if second-amendment nutbags might be thinking "Hrhm, I think Trump told us to <i>take her out</i>, but I'm not dead sure 'cause I'm not quite clear on the English language, but I sure gotta stockpile of GUNS!"<br />
<br />
Do YOU want that job?<br />
<br />
People, I don't. I would be scared. I'm a strong and smart woman, and an opinionated woman, and a clever woman, but I am not afraid to admit that I would probably run and hide and have some tea parties and bake cookies. It's not for me. I am a writer and a comedian and a musician. I'm not as tough as Hillary Clinton. Trump and his goons are genuinely SCARY. Hillary has not run, and she has not hidden. She keeps fighting. She <i>wants</i> this job because she cares, and because she can do this job.<br />
<br />
Hillary is amazing!<br />
<br />
This is America's biggest job interview. One candidate has prepared herself. The other candidate has randomly grabbed random pussies and bragged about it. Whom would you hire?<br />
<br />
Hillary is THE ONLY highly-qualified, experienced candidate—in fact, it is said that she is <i>the</i> most highly-qualified candidate we have ever had. She is smart. She is tireless. I've read many endorsements of Hillary and I have come to not only support Hillary, but...I dare say...I actually <i>like </i>Hillary.<br />
<br />
Yes, I like her. I like her, and I respect her. It took me a while. Over the course of this ugly, tumultuous election season, my attitude toward Hillary Clinton has undergone a sharp reversal. Yes, next to Trump, Jiggles the Clown or Bobo the Rat-Faced Boy would likely look "Presidential." But I'd like to expunge the "Presidential Look" terminology from the whole campaign. Why are we so petty as to focus on a pantsuit, a haircut, a stance, facial hair (what candidate in past years has dared to boast a beard?), a tone of voice, a manner of blinking, a host of hideous sniffs? (The latter WAS rather suspect.)<br />
<br />
Hillary Clinton has shown the most amazing stamina I have seen in a human being on the public stage. She cannot be destroyed by a demonic clown. In fact, she has engaged in a dialogue with the most ludicrous ass-hat ever seen in this history of our country! A man whose entire career is built on nastiness, real-estate discrimination, tax-evasion, and rump-slapping. Who else would you want to stand in the Presidential office but a tough woman who can stand up to that shit?<br />
<br />
C'mon, have any of you been <i>that </i>woman sitting around the conference table, while Mr. Beefy McRedFace shouts YOU down at every opportunity even though you are <i>the smartest person in the room </i>but, because you happen to be a rather introverted woman (not me, I'm more of an extrovert, but I know them well and some of them are super smart and probably smarter than me) you don't raise your voice loudly enough? If you were to speak up, would you need to <i>yell</i> to get over the bloviating sound of Mr. Beefy McRedFace? Wouldn't that make you seem awfully... strident? Shouldn't you be more polite? Because women like Hillary...well, you know...they might actually be MEN in disguise. That's creepy. You're probably up to no good, too, like her.<br />
<br />
Let's face it, girls. It's because you have a pussy (ick) that Mr. Beefy McRedFace thought it was okay to shout over your wise words that would have saved the organization from a 5 million deficit! Fact! Sad!<br />
<br />
Trump would have grabbed that, and lost millions due to tax loopholes, but you are simply not hot enough. How does that make you feel?<br />
<br />
Hillary has made mistakes. We all know about them. And she has apologized, unlike her rival (who apologizes for <i>nothing </i>except maybe once, robotically, via teleprompter). These mistakes do not include inciting violence, damning an entire religion, mocking the disabled, pawing lecherously at unfortunate members of the opposite sex, and telling Mexico they are going to pay for a wall to keep their rapists, drug dealers, and a handful of randomly-chosen "good people" out of this country.<br />
<br />
Who the fuck cares what that douchemuppet Trump said? Hillary is the only wise and sensible choice in this horrifying election. She's been steady and sure and has stated her views eloquently. She has real, solid plans with a wealth of experience to inform them; her opponent has nothing but blather and hatred (and won't outline any plan at all). If you simply cannot stand Hillary and are considering a third-party candidate, ask yourself: Exactly <i>why </i>do you despise her? Is it her voice? The perceived taint of Clinton "dirtiness"? The pantsuit? The hairdo? Could it because she's a woman? And women are not supposed to "act this way"? Eh, maybe you really despise her policies and you believe she's damned crook, but I ask you:<br />
<br />
Examine your opinions. Examine them closely.<br />
<br />
Final note: I asked my three boys tonight (ages 12, 11, and 8) at dinner if they thought that having a woman for President of the United States would be "unusual" or "normal." They all three said, one after the other, "Normal. Normal. Normal."<br />
<br />
They also know it's historic. But they are young enough to realize that this isn't really "normal," and innocent enough to believe that it is.<br />
<br />
I will be proud if they grow up in a world where a female President of the United States is not just historic, but "normal."<br />
<br />
I will be proud if the little daughters of <i>anyone's</i> supporters will say, on Wednesday the 9th, that they could, one day, strive to be President too.<br />
<br />
Because anyone can. But only the bravest will. It wouldn't be me, I'll tell you. But Hillary has it.<br />
<br />
#I'mwithher<br />
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Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-66196763728737538122016-04-14T19:30:00.000-07:002016-04-15T05:59:45.244-07:00Deep Dive: Underwater Therapy for FibromyalgiaIf you have Fibromyalgia, you've probably been told that swimming is one of the best forms of physical therapy to relieve the pain. It's absolutely true. Per my doctor's recommendation, I try to swim laps for 40 minutes first thing in the morning, whenever possible.<br />
<br />
<br />
She also told me I should do yoga, but I loathe yoga. All those hideous bare feet and tooting noises! All those smug skinny people with their sticky mats and expensive unitards and other sorts of leggings and tards and snoods and things.<br />
<br />
Listen, I <i>know </i>that yoga would be good for me if I just had the patience, but my mind operates much like an army of frantic little gerbils galloping away on spinning wheels, all wearing spectacles cut to the wrong prescription and listening to competing radio stations that fluctuate on a spectrum between "BBC Unsettling and Depressing World News" and Top 40 songs with inane lyrics like "Now that I'm without your kisses/I'll be needing stitches." (The logic of such a statement causes me significant pain, wholly unrelated to Fibromyalgia.)<br />
<br />
This is <i>exactly</i> why yoga would be good for a person like me.<br />
<br />
But when one has only a bare 40 minutes, perhaps, to get in essential exercise that will save one's body and soul, I would choose many other activities, such as:<br />
<ul>
<li>Kicking the hoo-ha out of something inanimate</li>
<li>Digging a ditch</li>
<li>Climbing a hill</li>
<li>Moving slabs of concrete from one location to another, for no real purpose</li>
<li>Swimming!</li>
</ul>
<div>
It is the latter that brings me the most peace. It's a form of moving meditation. I've always been a strong swimmer, so I don't flounder or flail. I just move forward; I'm unstoppable. I never get tired. I prefer lakes and large bodies of water where I can just head to the horizon and go on until I meet the far shore. But I can put up with chlorinated pools when that's all that is available.<br />
<br />
(For the record, I have spotted some weird and unpalatable people in pools as well as in yoga studios, displaying their awful naked feet and such.)<br />
<br />
It was in such a pool that I recently—and accidentally—discovered an amazing thing about Fibromyalgia and water that dramatically reduced my pain. Here's how it happened.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In preparation for volunteering some of my vacation time at my children's camp, I signed up for Lifeguarding Certification at my local Y. The course takes five full weekend days. I expected that this would involve a great deal of swimming, but it actually involves a fair amount of "sitting in a room and watching videos."<br />
<br />
Also there are some exciting scenarios during which one has to revive gravely-injured and non-responsive victims, who happened to be made of a rubbery substance that made me sneeze explosively for five minutes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJu2EEhUG4m50ITyYAZyJFmHnPGzUmYY9y0GVueTc-_9pqDniXeX6s-N86F42KRFfls4Nr2CQ36q7agbL6E_rSC6fklIc4qp4wnFQ9B70m0CeWUuzSJHyrfSr_MWoDC_n7uBtzmjEsRcBw/s1600/CPRManikins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJu2EEhUG4m50ITyYAZyJFmHnPGzUmYY9y0GVueTc-_9pqDniXeX6s-N86F42KRFfls4Nr2CQ36q7agbL6E_rSC6fklIc4qp4wnFQ9B70m0CeWUuzSJHyrfSr_MWoDC_n7uBtzmjEsRcBw/s640/CPRManikins.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do NOT swim here. For any reason.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
The other participants in the course are two 15-year-old girls and two 18-year-old boys. They are amusing to watch during the boring "sit and watch videos" part of the course because they get all itchy-fingered for their cell phones. One of them fell asleep for a few seconds the other day. And one became so bored that he started aimlessly drawing with a pen on his own palm and gazing obsessively at his artwork.<br />
<br />
Plus, they have some pimples. Other than that I am jealous of them, except for the fact that lifeguards—who guard your fucking <i>lives</i>, people, and the lives of your children—can expect to make about $10-12/hour max. After five full days of reviving rubbery half-people and listening to lessons that include "Fecal Incident Response Recommendations!" They ought to make more money.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z8sOYiMtMTBacZeAYrS2i0hEi02MLZLFDUZMX3W65nzjPrwT7ucDDcvdyC1nnAJ6kEqT6Z4h4pFFZ4MqkojX_8TOqKbFFH2Rvz2XdR8V8FLY26Yls5h5X3MGwjbEuc_wO1x3yTzp7G84/s1600/lifeguard.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5z8sOYiMtMTBacZeAYrS2i0hEi02MLZLFDUZMX3W65nzjPrwT7ucDDcvdyC1nnAJ6kEqT6Z4h4pFFZ4MqkojX_8TOqKbFFH2Rvz2XdR8V8FLY26Yls5h5X3MGwjbEuc_wO1x3yTzp7G84/s400/lifeguard.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
[Aside: I was faster than all of them in the swim test except for one of the 15-year-olds who happens to be on the swim team.]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, to even qualify for Lifeguarding you have to do three things:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. Swim 12 laps (6 breaststroke, 6 freestyle)</div>
<div>
2. Jump into the water, swim out and dive straight down to 13 feet to retrieve a 10 lb brick, swim up with it and get it back to the wall and yourself out of water within a time limit.<br />
3. Tread water for 2 minutes with your hands out of the water.<br />
<br />
I was feeling pretty warmed up and happy after task 1. But, as I stood shivering on the pool deck and watching the nervous teenagers in line ahead of me complete task 2, I got a mite anxious. What if I failed the test and sank like a stone? What if I couldn't find the brick while peering through the shitty, smeary-assed goggles I'd grabbed from the Lost & Found since I'd misplaced my own?<br />
<br />
When it was my turn I struck out, sighted the brick, and made the dive. All the way down to 13 feet. I grabbed it, and kicked myself to the surface. It wasn't that hard, but it wasn't particularly fun. I swam to safety with my precious brick and that was that. I got out.<br />
<br />
As we did the third task, I noticed something strange. I felt lighter. Better. The persistent ache that I'd felt even after swimming the 12 laps (admittedly not a long distance) was entirely, completely gone.<br />
<br />
The synchronized swim team was practicing at the same time, to a bouncy little jazz number. Boy, were they amazing! In perfect unison, they rose out of the water like dolphins and flexed their arms and kicked and then vanished beneath the surface. The timer started, and I pulled my hands out of the water and did a little jazz hands number to accompany my water-treading, just because I felt like it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEGE2hhmYl2PFR6W7Q8uCBcXsbWTuDdJimU1WAntp53SQUv5aROGPLfQav3ticwI2YG4kR0M-2j_6Dn8qHWn4XE65I2R8Ojbz9ULp85jU98eWu_0D6HSmA1bo7Qmie-uCSpfBnxWQI1ZA/s1600/Team_3-23-2013_HGM_123.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEGE2hhmYl2PFR6W7Q8uCBcXsbWTuDdJimU1WAntp53SQUv5aROGPLfQav3ticwI2YG4kR0M-2j_6Dn8qHWn4XE65I2R8Ojbz9ULp85jU98eWu_0D6HSmA1bo7Qmie-uCSpfBnxWQI1ZA/s400/Team_3-23-2013_HGM_123.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
The whole rest of the day I felt better than I had in weeks. Now I make a point to swim underwater and I feel a big difference when I do. I go as deep as I can. Something happens down there, under the pressure of pure water.<br />
<br />
I think there is some science behind this, according to my sister-in-law, who is a natural healer. Water somehow helps equalize the pressure in the body and helps lymph nodes drain properly and some other stuff I haven't fully explored yet. Google hasn't been very verbose on the subject. Maybe this will work for some, and maybe not for others. I'd be curious to hear your comments, and any research you come across.<br />
<br />
All I know is that when I dove deep, it righted something in me; it equalized my hurting self with the world. I was finally a real thing in the world. I didn't need to fight the hurt anymore. At least for that day, and that was enough.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-17986364498364408412016-03-04T19:54:00.002-08:002016-03-04T19:54:53.898-08:00Fibromyalgia: This Is Who I Am<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I hurt. I hurt
like a bird brought down from flight, a tree limb weighted by ice, a shuddering
bolt of metal in a groove. There were times I ran in the sun. I have swum
across lakes. I have carried heavy loads. I will still do those things. I will.
But I hurt, all over. Something with talons has me about the neck and digs in,
and I strive every moment to escape. Signals fire down my limbs. Elbow, wrist,
fingers, knees, ankles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpspjPWzL1kOv4WB4ddhhaGjh97i_qboNrWpIcEMzck3WIEloLXMF7F6DewBh5uTZY8ezmaXYraguan-m4wf_OAQLa_K8-r7ITA0EwPJRBM-E1QcQRfBLjbI3yox7l0PRAFPZz-XM7bgfD/s1600/wing_of_an_ice_phoenix_by_mooki003-d74if3m.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpspjPWzL1kOv4WB4ddhhaGjh97i_qboNrWpIcEMzck3WIEloLXMF7F6DewBh5uTZY8ezmaXYraguan-m4wf_OAQLa_K8-r7ITA0EwPJRBM-E1QcQRfBLjbI3yox7l0PRAFPZz-XM7bgfD/s400/wing_of_an_ice_phoenix_by_mooki003-d74if3m.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I’ve recently been
diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, and I have the most profound relief. Honestly, I
wish it had been something worse. Something that would make people really sit
up and take notice! Because “Fibromyalgia” sounds sort of like “Oh, you have
the Yuppie Flu” or “You have some chronically lazy and fake pain caused by your
hatred of being a servile wench at the beck and call of the helpless multitudes” or “You wish to get out of folding the laundry again.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Well, it’s
real, and you can listen to people speak about it in the <i>NY Times</i> <a href="http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/03/03/the-voices-of-fibromyalgia/?_r=1">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">And read about it <a href="http://www.niams.nih.gov/health_info/fibromyalgia/">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">And <a href="http://ww.fmcpaware.org/aboutfibromyalgia.html">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Fibromyalgia has the following symptoms, at least for me:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Lots of fucking pain all over your body, most of the time except on those rare "gift" days.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Crushing fatigue, on and off.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Fuzzy-headed "fibro-fog:" A condition that makes you feel drunk, but not in a good way.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>A hyper-attuned startle reflex, such that a ringing phone or a sneaky kid with a water-bomb makes me have a small panic attack.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>An unsettling feeling of nerves "firing" in my body when they should not be. Like a series of small bombs going off: Plink! Plink! Plink! Every time they fire, I grow tense and exhausted.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Still, I wish I
could have told people I had Lupus, or something like Granuloid MyoOptic
Diffusion Carconosmia (doesn’t that sound scary?). My 16-year-old cousin died of
Lupus! She really for real did. And that would mean I might die of it too, and people
would feel really sorry for me and bring me pies and never once question the
veracity of my pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I don’t have
Lupus, so thinks the doctor. (Still waiting on the blood tests. I might have it, or worse.) And I don’t get any pie. I don't even care for pie! I hate pie. Don't bring me no stinking pies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">For months,
years, I have asked doctors to tell me what’s wrong with me. They have all said
I’m healthy as a horse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“Your bloodwork
is completely normal and there is nothing at all amiss. You should consult a
psychiatrist, because you are clearly a nutter who is looking for attention and is making up a whole lot of fantasy badness in your head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“Your MRI shows
nothing that would explain this pain. Everything is normal. Normal! I will send you to
physical therapy, where they will charge you up the wing-wang to pull at some elastic bands and hoist wimpy 3-pound weights and do stretches. But your physical therapist will be exceedingly white-toothed and attractive, at least.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“I’ll write you
a prescription for Myclobenzaniadreapene. That will relieve some of the pain.
Except you’ll be so sleepy you won’t be able to function. In any way. You will
be comatose. And during your comatose-ness, you will actually still feel pain! Because the pill is actually just a placebo made of horseradish and marmot sweat, with a touch of sleeping powder as a glaze.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Before I knew
what this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thing</i> was, I complained to
anyone in range, when I hoped to have a kind ear. My fingers turned cold and
numb and white, when the temperature was a mild 62 degrees. I slapped at them
and felt nothing at all. I cried, my cheek against the cold bathroom tile. My
comb was filled with loose hair and I was as stiff as an 80-year-old, clenching
tight upon the banister to get downstairs. Every morning is like that. I’m old
before I’m young again. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I get really cold when no-one else in the room is cold. My teeth start chattering. I don't understand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">One friend
said: “You're cold? Come on. Women are being enslaved in Syria. Hello, #FirstWorldProblems.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I stopped
complaining, for the most part. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Well, no I didn't. But I tried hard. I tried to direct my complaints toward kind ears, such as those of my veterinarian friend, who, upon hearing some of my symptoms, suggested I see a rheumatologist. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">"My vet sent me," I told the woman who finally diagnosed me. My vet says she sees dogs gaze at her with the same kind of sad puppy-dog pain-filled eyes that I have. (She's one of the few whom I have allowed to see the full spectrum of unattractive misery.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I don't wish to complain, because it is utterly boring. But I want to explain away the grinding
exhaustion that casts a dark shadow over my face during a game of Uno. I feel I
should account for the fact that I keep grimacing, that I suddenly have to lie down. The raptor
of pain has me in its grip. I’m not your mother anymore. I am a thing. I am a thing of want
and hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“What’s wrong,
Mommy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“I’m in a
little bit of pain, honey.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“Are you sick?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">“No, I’m fine.
I’m not sick. I would like a healing hug.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">And so they
give them, believing in their small powers to cure. And every now and then I
feel a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frisson </i>of energy awaken me,
and my back sings, and my heart thrums, and my very hair starts to vibrate, and
I think: “My son is a natural healer!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">When the hurt
settles again, I decide: “That was some powerful mojo. But it didn’t last. But
it was for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>while it did.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">(I really do
believe in things like Reiki. In my next life, I will be a Reiki practitioner.
I will help<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>people, and heal them. And
I do believe that my sons’ healing energy has given me something. Maybe I am a
total whacknut, but littlest son’s last “Ultimate Special Hug With Kiss
Attached And Some Chi” packed a big whammy. I'm not joking.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">My doctor gave me a pill. I am waiting for it to work. I don't write anymore. I don't do much of anything anymore, except wait for that pill to work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">It hurts while
I am watching a movie. I try to pay attention to the plot, but really I am
wondering: “When does the pain end? Will this go on forever and ever?” It hurts while I am watching my eldest son’s
basketball game, during which he moves so gracefully, so swiftly, that, for a
brief moment, it makes my heart swell and ache beyond comprehension. How could
he be more beautiful? He's suddenly so tall, so heart-rendingly tall. And my second son spins through the living room and lands
at the piano bench and bangs out a perfect rendition of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star Wars</i> theme from memory and then
spins away, pain free, light as a breeze. And youngest son flails himself
without fear from ottoman to couch in gap-toothed ninja derring-do, and I watch
it all and feel love and joy and all along the way I can’t help but think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m in pain I’m in pain I’m in pain.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I wish I could
stop thinking about it for just one hour. Five minutes. And I feel incredibly
guilty, because here they all pass before my eyes and what am I thinking about?
Me. My own pain. Circus caravans and dancing yetis and talking penguins in bras could
pass before my door and I would still be crouched in some small corner of my
brain, cognizant of only one thing. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pain.
Boring selfish whiny stupid ever-present pain eating my days alive.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">What a bore. I
have become a fucking selfish bore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">I wish I could
stop feeling it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">But sometimes I
make myself forget, actually. I am learning to play “Linus and Lucy” on the
piano. When I sit down at the piano I become not myself, for some pure minutes,
and although I feel pain tracing its insidious way down my right hand as I hit
the chords, I don’t care. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Last winter, I
decided I would learn how to skate, because it was the scariest thing I could
imagine. I could twist an ankle! I might fall and crush my coccyx! Or I might fall and a skater would skate right over my hand and slice off all my digits! (OK, you have now probably realized that I suffer from anxiety, too.) I hurt all
the time while I was skating, but I didn’t care. I was learning how to fly. One
day, while I was clinging hopelessly to the side wall and scratching along, I
heard a girl say to her friend, “You’ll never learn to skate if you always hold
onto the wall.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">On that day I
resolved to let go of the wall, and I was freed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">This winter I
went sledding. I learned how to serve in paddle tennis, such that the ball goes
in 95% of the time as opposed to 5% of the time. I practiced in my driveway
once, against the garage door. I hurt the whole time I was doing it, but I
didn’t care. I played one-on-one basketball with my son in the same driveway,
and I was terrible—an embarrassment! He took me down. He was “baller,” in
tween lingo. I was a rickety, rusted thing. But I tried, and played, and that
is what I care to count. I gave him a run for his money, because I never go
halfway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Every moment
hurts. But every moment matters, even when I hurt. Right now, as I type, my
neck and back and arms and fingers and knees are a blurred presence of pain. I
want so much to walk to the piano and just play, free and clear. I composed
songs; I want to finish them. I want to sing. I want to finish that beautiful
novel, but after being at a computer all day, hunched and intent, my body
betrays me: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No more no more no more.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">Even writing
this hurts. Typing even hurts.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>But it
was worth it, because maybe someone like me will one day read it and think: <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am not alone. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "adobe caslon pro";">We are not accidents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-20411480916424212012016-01-06T20:17:00.001-08:002016-01-06T20:17:30.454-08:00Anonymous Letters and Anonymous TurdsI haven't posted here since the demise of the Manny. Nor have I written very much at all, despite the desperate pleading from my legions of fans for the sequel to my novel, <i>The Hundred: Book Two. </i>It's in the works, I assure you, you girl who sleeps with Book One beneath her pillow (that doorstopper must give her a crick in the neck!), you wanna-be author boy in that one school in the Bronx, and you creepy guy in the trench coat at the end of my driveway. Fans!<br />
<br />
I just happen to be very busy right now. We moved to a new state two months ago. (Rah Rah Connecticut! And hurrah for our state animal, the Sperm Whale! Really? I just Googled this and I am a little shocked. And thrilled. Did you know that <i>Moby Dick</i> was based on a real Sperm Whale who was called...wait for it...Mocha Dick! He roamed the South Pacific in the 1840s. I'm not kidding at all. From Wikipedia: <b style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;">Mocha Dick</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;"> was a notorious male </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sperm_whale" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-decoration: none;" title="Sperm whale">sperm whale</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;"> that lived in the </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pacific_Ocean" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-decoration: none;" title="Pacific Ocean">Pacific Ocean</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;"> in the early 19th century, usually encountered in the waters near the island of </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mocha_Island" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-decoration: none;" title="Mocha Island">Mocha</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;">, off southern </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chile" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-decoration: none;" title="Chile">Chile</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;">. He was often accompanied by Whatta Dick and Totall Dick, his brethren, who pretty much destroyed everything. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;">Mocha Dick survived many skirmishes (by some accounts at least 100) with </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whaler" style="background: none rgb(255, 255, 255); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; text-decoration: none;" title="Whaler">whalers</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px;"> before he was eventually killed.</span>)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4w3pl29jq7ZgXcwpqWja9IqdEdT8YXGEnYJE3K3Zt1tPOB5DOE8D-JPx4W1EaGNw1sV-SFhzLrvNVr3ukGEzNfu-17nCiacq2IlMvjm5AOU7VKX6qn_d7LD3vRYkRLgWU3Z1efy1fKFV/s1600/220px-Mocha_dick_1870_UK_reprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4w3pl29jq7ZgXcwpqWja9IqdEdT8YXGEnYJE3K3Zt1tPOB5DOE8D-JPx4W1EaGNw1sV-SFhzLrvNVr3ukGEzNfu-17nCiacq2IlMvjm5AOU7VKX6qn_d7LD3vRYkRLgWU3Z1efy1fKFV/s1600/220px-Mocha_dick_1870_UK_reprint.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Told you Mocha Dick was real! You were inclined to disbelieve me, weren't you? His bwuddahs are real, too!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, back to me and my writing, or lack thereof. I wrote several songs in the last few months, and they even have real chords! And I can play piano and sing! (Albeit like a dying goat.) I also wrote some anonymous letters to strangers in my old neighborhood, before we moved. No, no, they weren't <i>those</i> sorts of anonymous letters! Not the kind of letters that also include a turd lovingly Scotch-taped to the envelope. (Although, I must say, some individuals might have merited such a delivery.) They were lovely handwritten letters, containing hope, inspiration, intriguing quotes, and sometimes a full shot glass worth of Vodka, if you wrung them out carefully.<br />
<br />
I did it as a sort of experiment. I was feeling a little ill-at-ease at times before our move, and also overwhelmed, so I thought: Why not spread some love/happiness/surprise/whatnot into the void of the neighborhood by penning these completely original letters and then slipping them into random mailboxes? I'd write them at night. No copies were made, so I can't prove to you what they said. Of course, there's the beauty in it, right?<br />
<br />
Then, on the way to the gym or the post office the next day, I'd scan houses and mailboxes for the right "vibe." When the house felt just right (maybe <i>maybe </i>it would have a little sad feeling, as if the people who lived there might need one of my letters), I would quietly steal up the walkway and slip the letter in the mailbox and then scurry away.<br />
<br />
Then I would always get a really pleased feeling, like the kind of feeling you get when you have placed a pickle under your friend's pillow and you can just deliciously picture them discovering it at 3 a.m. and shouting, "What the fuck? Who would put a fucking pickle under my pillow?!?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyLvox3Z2LpGOd3jhzjaciL8qFS6HQIsaBFwjD7tYPkxQd5-uB-lviVxD9Rs55UhJEd4IvwFv_uaJXNTibESXeOxPxYgcXPbLZqp7ERCYuVSTJOvch1CzUggq_3-70CGLVrMuBym3MNuU/s1600/enhanced-7879-1427781273-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyLvox3Z2LpGOd3jhzjaciL8qFS6HQIsaBFwjD7tYPkxQd5-uB-lviVxD9Rs55UhJEd4IvwFv_uaJXNTibESXeOxPxYgcXPbLZqp7ERCYuVSTJOvch1CzUggq_3-70CGLVrMuBym3MNuU/s320/enhanced-7879-1427781273-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is simply a pickle. Ever found one under your pillow? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Except this was awesome and different! Not a pickle. A nice letter, written by a former English major with a Master's Degree in Writing. Me! So instead, they might say, "Honey, there is a psychopath around here writing anonymous letters filled with goopy sentiment, and the paper smells a little like Cheetos. In fact, there is some orange detritus on the edge of the paper here. But, gee, I feel <i>so </i>much better suddenly about my life, and now <i>I </i>shall write anonymous letters as well and the joy will spread throughout the world and defeat terrorism and other bad things. Yay!"<br />
<br />
Weirdly, after delivery of a letter, something good would often come my way. Not checks and barrels full of money (<i>Poo poo</i> on you, <i>The Secret), </i>but a bit of good news, or a happy day, or someone using the serial comma without provocation, or some such.<br />
<br />
I don't know if anyone reading this received one of my letters, but, by gosh, you should note it in the comments if you did.<br />
<br />
So when we moved into our new home, a new sort of anonymous "delivery" began to appear. As background, our family loves board games and has often played the game "Balderdash," which is the same thing as the old game "Dictionary." In Balderdash (or "Bladder Dash" as someone most famously called it) you get an obscure word and then everyone has to write a phony definition that will fool people and garner votes. One day when we played, the word was "Thob." Someone submitted the definition: "A poo that doesn't flush." Ever after, should a son fail to flush the toilet after expulsion, it was by definition a "Thob."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JKU-w4az2eV3b4HiuTSG8Ea4smLuj2dzmcSmwjzitadCqAbCamk6TKqer8ClzjN75qV45ZBg8IsYbNquyEn6TSSDq69_LIAUSRT8WFLzdfYoczWalpZ8l7ZVX3OEwuPAMzp_e3Fe0Ej7/s1600/PILPOO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JKU-w4az2eV3b4HiuTSG8Ea4smLuj2dzmcSmwjzitadCqAbCamk6TKqer8ClzjN75qV45ZBg8IsYbNquyEn6TSSDq69_LIAUSRT8WFLzdfYoczWalpZ8l7ZVX3OEwuPAMzp_e3Fe0Ej7/s320/PILPOO.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thobbie the Thob!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then it began.<br />
<br />
Day Two in our new house: I enter the downstairs bathroom and find a horrible, fat Thob covered in acres of toilet paper. "J'accuse!" I said to our youngest boy, who denied any part in the matter.<br />
<br />
Day Three: A fresh Thob discovered, same toilet. Same acreage of TP. Many fingers were pointed.<br />
<br />
Day Four: More Thobs, this time in multiple toilets. We suspect copycats. Guests are present and they are also queried.<br />
<br />
Day Five: Another lone Thob in a toilet previously unsullied. The atmosphere is grim in the house, and accusations fly.<br />
<br />
Day Six: This time, a Thob in the toilet closest to the boys' bedroom. Middle Child discovers it and reacts with terror and wild running-about. "It smells bad!" he cries.<br />
<br />
Day Seven: Quiet and peace reigns. Is it over?<br />
<br />
Day Eight: A new Thob! Back to the original, with a full roll of toilet paper nearly hiding its glistening pelt. Horror in the household.<br />
<br />
Soon after that, the Wild Thobber left off his repulsive activities, and we have not seen a new Thob since. But I await its arrival, with anticipation and a little bit of glee.<br />
<br />
For who amongst us hasn't wanted to leave a surprise for someone else? Or find one. A pickle under the pillow, a Thob in the executive washroom, an anonymous and completely random letter to the lonely, housebound person who used to work in the sad office with the diner plants and the candy trays at every fluorescent-lit cubicle? A little cairn of rocks where there isn't supposed to be one. A note duct-taped underneath a bench in an out-of-the-way train station, from which very few people ever leave. Write letters to the world.<br />
<br />
<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-33283082366367854072015-08-12T19:57:00.000-07:002015-08-12T19:57:00.989-07:00The Manny Diaries, Chapter Fifteen: The Pushing of the Swing<div class="MsoNormal">
“in the cupboard sits my bottle</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the phone rings gamboling its sound </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
against the odds of the crooked sea;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drink deeply and evenly now,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drink to paradise </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and death</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the lie of love.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
—Charles Bukowski, <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/books/The-Roominghouse-Madrigals-Charles-Bukowski?isbn=9780876857328"><span style="color: #005bf4; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">“Soirée”</span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No more cliffhangers. No more chapters to be delivered. This
is the final chapter. It’s the end of fifteen parts, both sad and fierce, and the end of a
eulogy that began with the very first chapter, although I didn’t know it then. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Manny died on Tuesday, July 7, 2015. We don’t know the
hour. His relentless talking, both the internal dialogue and the external
monologues, had already presumably gone quiet. He had left Mexico to renew his
visa, which he did periodically. After crossing the border from Guatemala into
Mexico by bus, he suffered a seizure, collapsed, and fell into a coma. A good
Samaritan pulled his passport out and called the American embassy in Mexico
City.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23DB7my8B2-kKq-ozBQFOxtZAR_aNURcX4DAhWD3q477NEggPw5YlkQ9Q2DaiGXHD3GMPIdwOItUUeHJWAhjEKyeSRfQLB_laHEdjMRPMFYZ6vRYFafO4bPPOXnrrt2F01UeT-ZMmAiLa/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23DB7my8B2-kKq-ozBQFOxtZAR_aNURcX4DAhWD3q477NEggPw5YlkQ9Q2DaiGXHD3GMPIdwOItUUeHJWAhjEKyeSRfQLB_laHEdjMRPMFYZ6vRYFafO4bPPOXnrrt2F01UeT-ZMmAiLa/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is he. <br /><br />Oh, you would so mad if you knew I shared any photos of you, but this one shows you at your happy, smiling best so i'm going to pretend you never said anything. You look happy. Besideswhich, you can't git after me me cos you are dead! (Oops, sorry, trying on a bit of your style of humor.) The text caption for this one read; "Look, Miss Jennifer, I got a haircut!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband had spoken to Manny on the previous Friday
afternoon and he was right as rain. Sober as a judge. They were catching up
after not having spoken for a month, and they talked for an hour and a half. The
conversation was so innocuous that my husband can’t clearly remember any
specific details. There was no “Lupita the beautiful Mexican girl, who stole my
Chipmunk puppet but whose skin was so soft, so very soft.” There was no talk of
missing pants or missing chunks of tongue or angry landlords or roaming oxen or
stopping up the toilets or avocados falling like manna from the trees. (When he
was sober he might have, I dare say, been a bit more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ordinary</i>. But one might say that he was reasonably happy. A decent
trade-off.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Sunday, my husband received a call from the embassy. Some
years back, he had helped Manny obtain a passport, and his name was (eerily!)
still on record with the state department as a result. They told him that Manny
was in a coma and that the doctor had stated that, “the prognosis is not good.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days later my husband placed a call to the embassy and received
word that Manny was gone, his ever-present nattering and wild speculations
silenced and darkened forever. He was dead of “unknown causes.” Unknown except
for the dubious devil of drink, which may have finally killed him in the end.
Perhaps he had tried to stop again. Perhaps he had tried to begin again. We
don’t know, except that he had quite suddenly ceased to exist. It was what we
had expected, all along. I knew I’d never see him again, and I won’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had often said things like: “But what if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">die</i>, Miss Jennifer? What if I were to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">die</i>?” He was truly afraid of dying. He
knew in his heart it was a constant possibility. Some people are hyperbolic,
prone to doom-filled mental wanderings, and hypochondria (myself included). He
was all that and more. He knew he was going to die. It was just a matter of
time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You think you’ll have a chance to prepare, to say your
goodbyes. You’re hoping for movie lighting. But then you step off a bus and
fall down in a parking lot, or a dusty field, and no one notices but for a kind
stranger. You’re there and then you’re not. You’re nowhere. You’re torso-deep
into a bush with your pants missing and still have the grace to guffaw about
it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Manny, in the year that you lived with us, you crafted us
near 100 meals, probably more. But you’ll cook no more. Where is your sunburnt
smile under that ridiculous hat, and where are your 14 chickens that you bought
for a song? I think you named three of them the Big One, the Middle One, and
the Little One, after our boys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His name was Mark. I’ll stop calling him Manny, but I’ll
leave his last name off the records. His last name—the name we knew him under
for many years—was real. He often went by another name, Frank, by which many of
his friends knew him. But it wasn’t real. Many other things he told us weren’t
real.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was 54 years old, and not 63 as he often told us when he
was drunk. (This had caused confusion, as my husband knew his true age by his
passport. However, he [that is, Manny] had told us that Mark was also an
assumed name. His real name, he said, along with the person had been when he
was born, was long buried and forgotten. He had intentionally aged himself by 9
years.) He never served in Vietnam. He never killed anyone in combat. He was
not adopted. His parents were not shot by Stalin’s goons as he cowered under
the bed. He had a daughter, adopted, from a short-lived marriage. He adopted
her in 1999. She’s sixteen now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had four siblings, all of whom (but for one) had washed
their hands of him years ago. “We haven’t seen him in 26 years. Let him be
buried in Mexico’s version of Potter’s Field,” said his sisters. One brother
still cared, and we found that brother through the embassy. He hadn’t glimpsed
Mark since 1990, when Mark had come by his shop to borrow $5,000. The brother
wonders if that lousy $5,000 that he didn’t even care about kept Mark away for
so long. Mark could have repaid the loan, too—he had the money many times over
in the next two decades, when he was doing well financially. His brother would
have gladly forgiven the loan just to spend more time with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost everything he told us, especially when he was drunk, was
a lie. And his lies went even further. He had told friends that we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">owed </i>him because he had paid for my
husband’s law school education, and that, despite that, we were constantly
“shaking him down for money.” No, simply not true, my husband’s mother paid for
it. And we never shook him down for money. In fact, he owed us money. But we
didn’t care. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m picturing rattling the poor man’s pockets as I “shake
him down” and finding only some Dove dark chocolates and shards of broken
pretzels and maybe a linty quarter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh Mark, I’d like to swat you in the face with a sheeny-eyed
red snapper now, but I can’t. Nor can I ask you what you meant to achieve with your
wild fictions and your weeping over the dead you left behind in Vietnam. I now
know that you had Muscular Dystrophy as a child, and they had to cut the
muscles on the backs of your legs to help the condition (why I do not know;
looking it up instantly hosed my computer, as if Mark is gleefully fiddling
with the controls from the beyond to prevent fact-checking of his falsehoods).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We learned that your mother doted on you and you were always
the favorite. “My sweet Mark. My poor Mark,” she used to say. You outgrew the
condition, apparently. You got an apartment and your mother would deliver
groceries to you once a week, out of love. But when your mother died in 2013,
you didn’t attend her funeral, nor did you attend your father’s funeral in 1996.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the “wetwork” you supposedly did. Did you ever actually
hurt a single living thing? You had so much anger burning you up inside. You
had so much pain. And so much love, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why did you adopt a daughter and never speak of her? Despite
that, why did you love our boys so much? I have videos of you pushing our
children on a tree swing, and laughing. You had a great, big belly laugh. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> laugh that made fake cocktail-party
titters seem shameful. You had a deep chuckle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They amused him greatly, our boys. He let them climb over
him and batter him like he was made of granite, despite his aches and pains. He
was never dark then, during the pushing of the swing, although the darkness was
in him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t fully realize the fact of Mark’s death until I saw,
a few nights ago, a photograph of the urn that carried his ashes. It had been
delivered from Mexico to his brother in Detroit. It seemed awfully small to
house such a big man. How can someone so massive be just…gone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a wooden box, rectangular in
shape. It made me feel scared for him, until I remembered: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s not in there. That’s just all the ashes that are left from the pains
and sorrows and hungers and loves of that big, ungainly body that never quite
fit him.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mark, you were a real physical presence. You used to startle
on my stairs. You toasted tortillas on our stove and chopped endless “guavacados”
on the cutting board. In our closet we have your old coat on a hangar, a
“Dickies” brand coat. Your old winter hat is wadded-up in the pocket. You used
to point at the logo and snigger, “Look, it says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dickies. </i>Hee hee hee. Dickies!” That was your trademark sense of
humor. A little juvenile, a little dirty, but we laughed all the same.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was a mountain of a man—all crags and thorns and gullies
and crevasses, a big bumbling sorrow of a man who loved his dog, Gus, so much
that he carried the bulldog’s urn of ashes across the country. He cried his
heart out over that dead dog, to us over the phone over many weeks. He wept
like a baby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where is his wok, and his perfect citrus press? I covet that
citrus press. All his meager possessions, left behind in Mexico with the
landlord who grew to love him, too, even over a short period of time. Rodolfo
wept on the phone while discussing the details of Mark’s final months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can I think that Mark inspired one of my sons (the “Middle
One”) with a passion for cooking that has never wavered over the months? I’d
like to think so, yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His art collection in the storage unit had already been sold
for pennies on the dollar by the time we learned of his death. We have a couple
of broken, antique lamps in the garage, and a collection of photographs he
never bothered to return to the art galleries that had loaned them out to him.
We have a handful of photos that contain him, the man, the Manny. We don’t have
much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought to write, “I wish I could have told him that I
never hated him.” No, I loved him. But I think I did manage to tell him that. He
read this blog once in an indignant fury (after my husband informed him of its
existence) and told us to “fix it!” He wanted it all deleted. He wanted every
piece of information about him that existed to be expunged from public record. My
husband wrote back, “Suck it up!” We would never delete it, especially now. It’s
a record of who he was, both sad and joyous. He didn’t leave much else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You played a joke on the world, Mark, and maybe you’re still
sniggering about it, and we’ll never know why. Lies and deceit and family
estrangement and pain and heartbreak and drinking and more lies and even more
drinking, but you did something right, because we sit here in the cricket song
and the dark night thinking of you, and we are filled with sorrow. You fed us,
you pushed our boys as high as the moon, you sent us stupid photographs day
after day via text message with inane and obvious captions: Bunny. Groundhog.
Fish in River. Goose. Sailboat. Bunny eating weeds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You and your big fat smile, Mark. That stupid mustache.
Those awful baggy t-shirts and your rangy arms. The way you flinched when
someone dug their hand into the grated cheese instead of properly using a
spoon. The day you wandered up behind me, silent, because I was playing Cat
Stevens’ “Wild World” on the piano, and you said, “I always liked that song. I
sang that song once.” The day you fixed the broken switch on an old lamp I had,
and smiled proudly like a little child who has learned to tie his shoes, and I
was grateful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-85711363781541999072015-05-11T20:52:00.000-07:002015-05-11T20:52:15.678-07:00We Eat Like Animals<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/V0fmfWpCoZ8" width="560"></iframe>Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-63669393871092601922015-04-02T19:30:00.000-07:002015-04-02T20:07:31.831-07:00The April Fool's Day Prank I Pulled on My Mom<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
My mom has a habit of collecting newspaper clippings about awful tragedies and worrisome things that her children need to know about, putting them in envelopes, and mailing them off to us. </div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
Over the years I have gotten clippings that pretty much tell me I am going to DIE at any moment because the world is full of dangers. And clippings about bed bugs. My mom may have a specific fear of bed bugs. (One time, in fact, one of her bed bug clippings randomly wound up in a box of clothing that we were trying to sell at a tag sale in our yard. Most unfortunate! Nothing sold, and we could not understand why.)</div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
Anyway, when it came to April Fool's Day I realized that the best person to prank was my own mother. (There will be more blog entries about the pranks I have pulled on my mother, because this is rich fodder indeed.) I decided to prank her with an email, even though she doesn't read email (my dad does, and he prints them out and hands them to her). So I thought, how about a [blank] of-the-month club? What would really give my mother a good laugh, once she figured out the prank? Ideas included:</div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
Bag of Organic Matter and Compost of-the-Month Club<br />
Something Dug Up at an Archaeological Site of-the-Month Club<br />
Things That End in "Ork" <span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">of-the-Month Club (January: A Spork! February: Pork!)<br />Exotic Meat Nugget </span><span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">of-the-Month Club</span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
But my brilliant sister came up with the perfect scheme. Bad News of-the-Month Club! (aka <span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">Clippings-of-the-Month Club, for more sneakiness). </span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">NEWS FLASH: I just got an email signed from my mother stating that she "does not wish to receive this service. Please remove me from your list." Maybe the </span><span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">Bag of Organic Matter of-the-Month Club would have been more favorably received?</span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<span style="font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">Here it is:</span></div>
<div class="yiv9498462151" dir="ltr" id="yiv9498462151yui_3_16_0_1_1427933958388_2665" style="background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 15.9722213745117px;">
<br /></div>
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Dear ______,</div>
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All sorts of need-to-know news is generated every single day, and some of it can be quite alarming: Articles about foreign bug infestations, infectious diseases, political plots, malfunctioning children's toys, cars that suddenly accelerate without warning, and so much more. But it's impossible to keep up with all the absolutely crucial stories that YOU really can't miss.</div>
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That's why we created Clippings-of-the-Month Club! Our dedicated team of editors works tirelessly each month to comb media sources, local and worldwide, to bring you the stories that you need. We inform. We educate. We help keep you safe and alert to what's going on in YOUR world.</div>
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Each month, you'll receive a fresh bag of newspaper clippings delivered right to your door. You'll find stories that amaze, educate, and startle you. We guarantee that you'll want to share these headlines with everyone you know, especially your loved ones. It's truly "can't-miss" news. Here are just a few examples of the kind of news you're going to get every single month:</div>
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Please tell a friend about Clippings-of-the-Month Club. We hope you enjoy your year of astounding, amazing, and hair-raising news stories.</div>
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Best,</div>
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Juniper Crane</div>
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Clippings-of-the-Month Club Co-Founder</div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-30398240145778448032015-03-28T18:43:00.001-07:002015-03-28T18:43:30.663-07:00The Great Shopping Cart MassacreI used to spend a fair amount of my time stalking shopping carts and photographing them. (I intended to say 100 percent of my time, but that sounded weird so I edited it.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTagknUbKaeOdwj79eYDxGGapvhBkQCyiUvmWNY-XCpc31ciJ201o5WVxJefuAl3blgxG9E0S7Ph2MORlXm9jd5ixreW0GUWtgzshhWbuF2R01zOom3_g07piemuYuol2EfFITsy25WFU/s1600/Classic_shopping_cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTagknUbKaeOdwj79eYDxGGapvhBkQCyiUvmWNY-XCpc31ciJ201o5WVxJefuAl3blgxG9E0S7Ph2MORlXm9jd5ixreW0GUWtgzshhWbuF2R01zOom3_g07piemuYuol2EfFITsy25WFU/s1600/Classic_shopping_cart.jpg" height="320" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winner of "Best in Show" at the International Shopping Cart Exposition, 2011. (Domesticated.)</td></tr>
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Why did the carts fascinate me? For one, they are sly. They are quick. They can be quite savage, and can attack without warning. Yet they are also lovely, wild creatures, often filled with candy wrappers and empty bottles of Night Train Express.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FuwopJfaTokepHrtM5Qv4vl9X51JqYDfzxijw6P9dXmCjC5ve0YgdTGyENNlZqqJtdq0MifoEqsJcUjjMPQrCrQVSDBVDGF_6SfUGEqNVJR0K9PuNJaW9aVmRcStEL9eWG0TnERmXFQp/s1600/nighttrain01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FuwopJfaTokepHrtM5Qv4vl9X51JqYDfzxijw6P9dXmCjC5ve0YgdTGyENNlZqqJtdq0MifoEqsJcUjjMPQrCrQVSDBVDGF_6SfUGEqNVJR0K9PuNJaW9aVmRcStEL9eWG0TnERmXFQp/s1600/nighttrain01.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The afterlife for me looks like...a shopping cart?</td></tr>
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And they migrate! Once a single shopping cart infiltrates a neighborhood, you can be sure that more will follow, as if drawn by the scent of their kind. And as for their reproductive capacity—well, shopping carts will try to mate with almost anything, such as the door of your brand-new car. Basically, they are used to snuggling together in close proximity and, like a sausage and a bagel, fit together like magic. Traditional shopping carts are the randiest of the food and goods transportation mechanisms, unlike the "Four Wheel Deluxe Rolling Thingy," below, which hasn't even bumped wheels with another cart-like entity for at least a year. Sad.<br />
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But my scientific interests took a turn a while back, and I took a break to pursue some other topics. My recent scholarly publications include:<br />
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<b>Chlorinated Pools: How Come There Is No Plant Life? </b>(<i>The Journal of Well-Funded Yet Incredibly Pointless Studies, </i>2013)<br />
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<b>Wallpaper Moves So Slowly Because It Doesn't Want to be Caught So it Can Kill You in Your Sleep</b> (<i>Reader's Digest Large-Print Editions, </i>2014)<br />
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<b>Goodbye, Doo Doo. Where You Goin' Now? Can I Come, Too?</b> (To be published by The Golden Box for Young Readers, 2016) <i>*Reviewers may request ARCs by writing to me in the comments section of this blog.</i><br />
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Anyway! All of these ventures were deeply boring for one reason or another. Except for the children's book, which was not boring at all but still gives me the shakes and the willies. Have <i>you</i> ever been inside a sewer? All in the name of authentic research, but it's not very nice.<br />
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And then today I came across this horror—a multitude of shopping carts, dead in a ditch! Had they flung themselves to their doom because people had been buying too many heavy objects, like pumpkins (out of season) and Big Fat Loaves of Bread and Bacon Bricks? (Note: I purchased a Bacon Brick at De Ciccos on Halstead Avenue last week but no carts were harmed during the event. Bacon Bricks should be the subject of another post. What, you've never bought a bacon brick?!)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjdSSHNRRvyogutJxJyBvfOg8g_vHgFKFmIl2o0XyFfGkEoZBZ6aAFNrw1rNljO7F5E8yzUcpkU7DVNGVbPGQpHQV_eRYqSzt4HzPMJYyVOSfDyXaEsvzjncMn287MwMqCRJEqoFtksFQh/s1600/2015-03-28+14.53.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjdSSHNRRvyogutJxJyBvfOg8g_vHgFKFmIl2o0XyFfGkEoZBZ6aAFNrw1rNljO7F5E8yzUcpkU7DVNGVbPGQpHQV_eRYqSzt4HzPMJYyVOSfDyXaEsvzjncMn287MwMqCRJEqoFtksFQh/s1600/2015-03-28+14.53.44.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The humanity!</td></tr>
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What led to this massacre? Please, shield your children's eyes, because these photos are disturbing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmA0txcXR2Zp9PBf16JyqmMM8L_ePpNBDT_WksWM8ZtGj-c8k0BDz0XV3eV29ov09NmZt16aSFdsSVtMvZ8jsPQckg3CA-Y0wG_PzEcRyKeBeXXKoI3kt7qbKalLIv-QlZiqqQ6QHYntE/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmA0txcXR2Zp9PBf16JyqmMM8L_ePpNBDT_WksWM8ZtGj-c8k0BDz0XV3eV29ov09NmZt16aSFdsSVtMvZ8jsPQckg3CA-Y0wG_PzEcRyKeBeXXKoI3kt7qbKalLIv-QlZiqqQ6QHYntE/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.06.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gravely injured; no hope for recovery. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtAxshU0JlhIbR9dsEWVbccwN_zWOiMiDrEtpRXAIizUMQhihleIvrW_aVhx_xoXqUCJJuQjg98FsSSydOg9LlTHmt9MHFcWUe_DFjcIdhyeJtsV2-4AMNHlHy0jhW8g1GxMeiSWilNwv/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtAxshU0JlhIbR9dsEWVbccwN_zWOiMiDrEtpRXAIizUMQhihleIvrW_aVhx_xoXqUCJJuQjg98FsSSydOg9LlTHmt9MHFcWUe_DFjcIdhyeJtsV2-4AMNHlHy0jhW8g1GxMeiSWilNwv/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.31.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't even bear to look. Heartbreaking.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3aqkpBB9iTGAPPcaX4gKfrKpoGQj8V9c-Dx6xNieJnII1Y6rFNuhLG39jlg11qZpiWOPf6pmq06mtRHXCR872v8oi-iWjK83ONahHi1emuJM-X-w90Yv1472FPAFKBzmuX9u4yy9ZYHxV/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3aqkpBB9iTGAPPcaX4gKfrKpoGQj8V9c-Dx6xNieJnII1Y6rFNuhLG39jlg11qZpiWOPf6pmq06mtRHXCR872v8oi-iWjK83ONahHi1emuJM-X-w90Yv1472FPAFKBzmuX9u4yy9ZYHxV/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.37.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going to kill self now.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAHljssku1PgoEBVmZu0sMWkHaGPTFj0_RZIXceT1KmTv3_NB6rt5KNVoUsxaRGzfTaumZ-RexeXmLZqA9iBbgEdhZmtmvje2tHr0xwiNqvg1rzQT2Dy6XEzHbWv5LI087k88o5t7Z_X3/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihAHljssku1PgoEBVmZu0sMWkHaGPTFj0_RZIXceT1KmTv3_NB6rt5KNVoUsxaRGzfTaumZ-RexeXmLZqA9iBbgEdhZmtmvje2tHr0xwiNqvg1rzQT2Dy6XEzHbWv5LI087k88o5t7Z_X3/s1600/2015-03-28+14.54.50.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ahhh...glglggjjfjfjjk. Choking on tears.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What led to this horrible event? Was it because I ABANDONED the shopping carts for "more interesting" pursuits?<br />
<br />
But no, we must not blame ourselves. In fact, I think this is clearly the work of the notorious Pimples Tuscadero, disgruntled "Stop 'n' Shop" bagger, age 22. Vengeance shall be mine. Oh yes, it shall.<br />
<br />
You have not died in vain, my beauties. I will chronicle your majesty once again. Just as soon as I finish my work on <i>Basement Crickets of the 21st Century.</i><br />
<br />
You might also like:<br />
<br />
http://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2008/08/nature-red-in-tooth-and-handlebar.html<br />
<br />
And a whole lotta my older posts, too. Get to it. Life is short, and awfully sweet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-46237645078379482332015-03-02T19:02:00.001-08:002015-03-03T06:01:26.230-08:00The Manny Diaries, Chapter Fourteen: Someone Whacked Me on the Head and Stole My Pants<div class="p1">
The Manny has had a spate of bad luck lately, but I want to reassure all his fans that he is absolutely fine, despite the rather ominous tone of this post's title. If I were more verbose, the title of this post would have been "Someone whacked me on the head and stole my pants, shoes, and underwear, and then some ladies found me lying stone cold naked from the waist down in a bush," which is decidedly worse. Because who steals underwear?! And why leave the shirt and take the skivvies?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT02-jnuy-amX7q6yLjyBjZZi5F5uObHOE71x882cB-UXpPhEAiUOrjUYHWNqLljvneLTFxO36lJyjRyWRaHknjGscO4nBZSLbuIdjGmCL06BTm2FtSLhqFwZRL4SLdPlYfWoDkZ3n3Epc/s1600/Legs-Under-a-Bush.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT02-jnuy-amX7q6yLjyBjZZi5F5uObHOE71x882cB-UXpPhEAiUOrjUYHWNqLljvneLTFxO36lJyjRyWRaHknjGscO4nBZSLbuIdjGmCL06BTm2FtSLhqFwZRL4SLdPlYfWoDkZ3n3Epc/s1600/Legs-Under-a-Bush.png" height="217" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is so much more acrobatic than it must have really looked, and my Photoshop is poo, but how long do YOU want to Google terms like "Hairy male legs protruding from bush" before you have to permanently clear your browsing history and take a scalding shower? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But let's back up. A while back, we got a phone call from Manny, who had suffered a stroke/seizure sort of thing and was slurring and hiccuping uncontrollably. Luckily, the stroke/seizure sort of thing had occurred while his kind landlord, Rudolfo, was on hand unstopping the toilet.<br />
<br />
"Apparently, you're not supposed to put TP in the toilet in Mexico," says Manny. "Because I got it all clogged up. Why do they call it toilet paper, anyway? If it doesn't go in the toilet what kind of paper IS it?"<br />
<br />
Manny suddenly keeled over and whacked his head on the floor and commenced bleeding and writhing. He related the story as such:</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"I fell flat on my head. I almost died! I was bleeding out on the floor! Rudolfo, he sticks his wallet in my mouth so I won't bite myself. But it's too late. I already swallowed some of my tongue! I mean, a big chunk of my tongue! I think I swallowed it!"</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"So anyway, Dora, my landlady, calls the Red Cross. She says to me, you're not going to die today, and especially not in my apartment. Meanwhile, my skull is cracked open. It was too much! Did you know that a quarter-inch of my tongue is missing because of the crazy-ass seizure I had?"</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"The Red Cross tell me I have brain enamelies. I was fledge-e-ling around all over the floor. My arms were in the air! I bit my tongue off! My mind is crazy! The Red Cross told me that my tongue will fix itself."<br />
<br />
He seemed okay, though, and fairly jolly despite what had happened. The Red Cross didn't charge him a penny. He hiccuped and blamed it on the "brain enamelies." He didn't drink anymore, of course!<br />
<br />
He went on, sharing more details of his life in Mexico:</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"So then, the lady with the scorpion tattoo calls me. I met her at the Learning Library—all the gringos go there. She tells me about the guy who put scorpions in the Mezcal. He cuts their stingers off. Charges $250 a bottle. Hey, my eyes are doing weird shit. There is a guy here who is trying to sell me an AK-47. I've gotten old, and OLD! One day this crazy German chick shows up at my door. She wants to sleep with me!"</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"Did you sleep with her?" one of us asked.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"You know I'm a private guy! I don't like to talk about that stuff! How dare you ask me! Yeah, I did.</div>
<div class="p2">
See, I'm glaringly honest about everything now. I'm like a retarded child! And I'm not drinking a drop."</div>
<div class="p1">
<br />
Then he started talking about how awesome Mexico was and how we all had to come down and live there because it's so beautiful and so safe and marvelous. He planned to rent a beach house. He hoped that we would serve as his "memory," because his brain was doing weird tricks and couldn't remember things properly anymore. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br />
It might have had a little bit to do with the night, a few weeks later, when someone whacked his skull with a crowbar and took all the clothing off his nethers. He was lost, walking around dazed in some neighborhood, when someone gave him a whack and left him slumped in the weeds, free of pants and shoeless.<br />
<br />
"They even took my underwear," he said. "The Red Cross made me some paper towel underwear. I still have a big dent in my head. Like a HOLE in my head, Miss Jennifer. It was awful."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMjvrDcNzW3TyDi5evzkKreia9IhKTYKPtRGN7OZPEKLPUeamNomDrsgImazZiPxom-_wdqmz42luKgQ82adHMBdocPdNI0sTKGo_cViim-OXFiKiq2x4mnUgBdAs69XfOO-mV4nxIbzd/s1600/PaperUnderwear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMjvrDcNzW3TyDi5evzkKreia9IhKTYKPtRGN7OZPEKLPUeamNomDrsgImazZiPxom-_wdqmz42luKgQ82adHMBdocPdNI0sTKGo_cViim-OXFiKiq2x4mnUgBdAs69XfOO-mV4nxIbzd/s1600/PaperUnderwear.jpg" height="249" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disposable undies. Not the finest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
During the incident, the poor man bit his tongue again. Maybe a wee little chunk went down the gullet?<br />
<br />
But he's still in fighting form, despite the fact that on top of all this, he had a heart attack not too long ago. The Red Cross told him he probably had the heart attack because he stopped drinking so suddenly that it shocked his system. "Remember <a href="http://thepartypony.blogspot.com/2014/02/a-man-in-my-attic-and-rodent-in-my.html" target="_blank">that day you picked me up on the side of the road</a>?" he said. "That wasn't alcohol. It was my HEART."<br />
<br />
But, mind you, he is <i>not </i>drinking now. Ahem. His landlords are the kindest people possible—much unlike his previous landlords, who kicked him out for giving the Mexican workers free beans and rice. The Mexicans shouldn't "get used to the idea that they get anything for free."<br />
<br />
"You don't do that to people, that isn't right," he said. "He told me, you will either be shot or arrested. So I left."<br />
<div class="p2">
<br />
He's a good person. He delivers meat to some of the local men, whose wives reportedly hate him because all they serve is beans and rice, and he shows up with steak and mushrooms.</div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<br />
"My life right now is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I pay $235/month to live here. And they feed me three meals a day," he said. "Oh, and I'm about to get married to their niece. She's only 25, and she likes me. Her name? What? No, I didn't forget her name, I just don't remember it. She likes me a lot! We're going to move into a bigger place. She wants to take care of me!"<br />
<br />
Manny had just been to a 9-year-old's birthday party, where he had been offered alcohol, and he vociferously refused. Purportedly.<br />
<br />
"I'm so much healthier. Listen to how I'm talking. This is not crazy! I feel so much better. I am healthy! I am not worried about drinking too much. I love it so much here. They knock on my bedroom window at 11 at night and bring me tostadas. This is a good world. This is a good place."</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-33716068553657063592014-12-17T19:11:00.001-08:002014-12-18T15:07:25.313-08:0010 Ways in Which I Have Ruined My Sons' Lives (Irreparably. With flawed bagels, and beets.)<div class="p1">
I have ruined my sons' lives completely and forever and here is proof.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
1. I made my six-year-old take a shower. Yes, I actually made him take a shower. (He didn't want a bath, either.) Direct quote: "You have ruined my life forever. You have even ruined all my birthdays for the rest of my life, and all the weeks leading up to every one of the birthdays. And the weeks after the birthdays." (Note: This particular cleansing did not take place anywhere near his birthday.)</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
2. I failed to answer my phone when my 11-year-old called me to ask if he could go to his friend's house. Before he could try again, his phone battery died, so he was forced to come home, and was quite displeased. Direct quote: "Would it be so much trouble to actually answer your phone for one time in your entire life? Is it your ENTIRE life's purpose to make my life suck?" (Note: I did not answer my own phone because my battery was dead.)</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
3. When my nine-year-old, who tends to strew a lot of food around his seat while he eats, left bits and pieces of crumbs all over the floor, I jokingly suggested that we nickname him "Bits." He bolted from the room in tears. Direct quote: "You are a cruel mother."</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
4. Once, at a local Grange fair, my six-year-old desperately wanted to try one of the arcade games in which you shoot darts at balloons to try to pop them and win prizes, including ugly stuffed animals in appalling hues. Each try cost five dollars. I refused, and explained to him that these games were often rigged, and that he would not win the giant purple gorilla. And even if he did, the beast would not darken the threshold of my home. Direct quote: "You have ruined my life forever, and you have ruined it so bad that you have even ruined it after I am dead. I want a different family."</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRktKcIUxBPOISW4kv0ZH1TtLCs3kMguQmMAOFoYFavZAZaUNzELKFGCDcI4LNDzkaBOpYcBipf9TKPb9gwGe_zVSQPlCKGA7bE73cZ22v2kUD5sFVSTBmdaW42hagEmEichVvm0DOQc83/s1600/UglyCarnivalPrizes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRktKcIUxBPOISW4kv0ZH1TtLCs3kMguQmMAOFoYFavZAZaUNzELKFGCDcI4LNDzkaBOpYcBipf9TKPb9gwGe_zVSQPlCKGA7bE73cZ22v2kUD5sFVSTBmdaW42hagEmEichVvm0DOQc83/s1600/UglyCarnivalPrizes.jpg" height="230" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you don't have one of these in your house, you have definitely ruined your child's life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
5. I served the same six-year-old a bagel on which the cream cheese was not properly smeared so as to cover every nook and cranny on the bagel. He looked at it in disgust, and then promptly burst into tears. Direct quote: "I can't even get a good bagel around here. No one ever helps me. I have to do everything! You need to fix this bagel so that there is not ANY spots that do not have cream cheese on them!"</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9R3ssa9NHcme16U_LdiXIUurOPLjBqToTIbUSlvdGkGGHmIZLcVKNn-TQC2ftkgMVtuMjXZf6rj_Hb1AF1qHbeyDPAikKQGg1FwQ1b1HwpeSrYspJLzz_Ja6q98H6JXa5kWd9gp1A8Sg/s1600/bagelcreamcheese.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9R3ssa9NHcme16U_LdiXIUurOPLjBqToTIbUSlvdGkGGHmIZLcVKNn-TQC2ftkgMVtuMjXZf6rj_Hb1AF1qHbeyDPAikKQGg1FwQ1b1HwpeSrYspJLzz_Ja6q98H6JXa5kWd9gp1A8Sg/s1600/bagelcreamcheese.jpeg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You missed a spot. You worthless failure! I would have been better off raised by circus folk who would have LET me have a go at that balloon-popping activity and I would have WON a stuffed animal, for sure I would have. Now fix my bagel. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
6. Just about every time a child loses a tooth, I completely forget to put money under the pillow from the tooth fairy. I remember the next morning, and in a desperate frenzy I rush upstairs hoping that the child hasn't noticed. If I am lucky, they also forgot because they were too hungry for breakfast, and the tooth is still there. However, in most cases, they have re-hidden the tooth in some completely obscure place in one last effort to find out if the tooth fairy is clever enough to find it. Now it is far too late to do anything but write an elaborate, long note from the tooth fairy explaining that she got caught in a windstorm or had a lot of work to do after a fistfight in which children lost many teeth. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In addition, my brothers ate the cookies that we left out for Santa last year with such gusto and chomping and "yum yum" noises that my nine-year-old was drawn out of his bedroom and compelled to spy upon them. Direct quote: "Mom. I know things. I have seen things. Many things. You don't want me to speak them out loud. Do you? DO you?" </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
7. After having had too many margaritas at a friend's party, I ended up telling their 10-year-old daughter the name of the girl that my son liked at the time. Whoops. I guess that was pretty bad? But for goodness sake, the child should've been in bed! Let's move on.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
8. I told my 11-year-old that his two younger brothers were like a gift to him because he had constant companions and steadfast friends that would last a lifetime. Direct quote: "Your poisonous fecundity has completely ruined my sanity and deprived me of any chance of a nice hot relaxing shower without the revolting scent of my sibling's turds plopping into the toilet at the SAME TIME." He didn't say it out loud. But his eyes did.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
9. When I served my six-year-old an innocuous chicken tender, he informed me that this wasn't the type of chicken tender that he preferred, and that I should know this by now. He just doesn't care for that brand of chicken tender, and the fact that I served it to him indicates that I have little understanding of his needs. Direct quote: "This is the worst day of my life."</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
10. I tend to write humiliating blog entries about a child pooping out blueberries during tubby-time, and other things that my sons surely would not want the world to read. However, I have been posting so sporadically that I think I have only about five followers by now. So it's seriously not a problem at all that I can use phrases in my blog like "ass-grabbing toadhat" and "muppet-fondling marmoset" (<i>totally</i> hypothetical examples of phrases that I might use, mostly in photo captions). Because just a<i> handful</i> of local moms of my sons' friends will ever read this blog and cast shame and aspersion upon my family, and will come for us with the beets, rutabagas, eggs, offal, old toys, etc. to toss at the property with cries of "Pfaw! Horrid badly-raised children!"</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
All these items would look totally NOT out of place on our lawn. I mean, my son did say he wanted "beets" for Christmas this year. He definitely meant these types of "beets," right?</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoB3W4Tr4tT2u3XCPx1zNM9gnb9Y-VEWrUhjO9nZNlysKfehMOf7DFGX4_XxmIlYkdXliAlUo4PGRfBkAPQEWiwIOrnThbtixegBwKuvPNSZBIzBpolaau2w5ZAp_KRLRQrB_PvFqVhJJn/s1600/Beets.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoB3W4Tr4tT2u3XCPx1zNM9gnb9Y-VEWrUhjO9nZNlysKfehMOf7DFGX4_XxmIlYkdXliAlUo4PGRfBkAPQEWiwIOrnThbtixegBwKuvPNSZBIzBpolaau2w5ZAp_KRLRQrB_PvFqVhJJn/s1600/Beets.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fertilized by Doctor Dre! I mean, um...what? These are beets!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
So maybe I just ruined a <i>few</i> birthdays and all the weeks leading up to them and all the weeks following them?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Coming Soon....Chapter 14 of the Manny diaries! In which he gnaws off his own tongue. Sorta. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-20733970982405402502014-08-17T18:08:00.001-07:002014-08-17T18:08:58.922-07:00Art and Love Therapy for Evil Little BoysSince our return from NH two weeks ago, my three boys have been on the verge of fratricide. At summer camp, they were all in separate cabins and left to torment only those in their own age bracket. And their counselors, poor scarred 18-year-olds who still probably wake up at night in a cold sweat.<br />
<br />
But now they have turned on each other like wolves, guided only by my new 14-year-old babysitter who was left with no recourse but to lock them in the basement and blast the "Frozen" soundtrack at them from the stereo. I fully sanctioned the activity. When they finally broke free my eldest son snatched an empty Vodka bottle from the recycling bin and chased young Mordred (as they call her) down the street brandishing it at her. I am sure the neighbors have an even finer view of us than they did before!<br />
<br />
The evil reached its pinnacle yesterday afternoon, when 1) Eldest Son hauled Middle Son across the driveway, leaving him with horrible asphalt burns 2) Littlest Son scratched Middle Son so viciously that 3) Middle Son kicked Littlest Son clear across the room and cracked his head into the record cabinet housing the turntable.<br />
<br />
The babysitter had long been let off duty, and I hastened downstairs to the screams. The accusations flew fast and fierce.<br />
<br />
"He hurted me worser than I did him so he should be punished badder!"<br />
<br />
"I did NUFFINK."<br />
<br />
"I did nothing; however, I am sure I shall be blamed as I always am, because this is the course of things."<br />
<br />
That last speaker, age 10, then flung the TV remote at my head and, as it bounced off my skull, I shouted "GO UPSTAIRS!"<br />
<br />
"You always punish ME and not THEM!" he shouted. "Just because I hit you in the head with something you punish ME! Is this fair? Oh, you are such a good mother!"<br />
<br />
He was right. They all went into a big fat time-out while I fumed about what I would do to PUNISH them. For wasn't punishment the only acceptable solution? I fretted that I <i>was</i> a bad mom. I didn't know the least thing to do right now. What would serve justice for their naughtiness?<br />
<br />
Then it came to me. I would kill the little buggers with kindness. I gathered them in the living room and proposed several options to make reparations. They were:<br />
<br />
1. You will each write a heartfelt letter to both brothers expressing that you love them and WHY. The letters must be of a reasonable length and written to the best of your abilities.<br />
<br />
This got feedback:<br />
<br />
"I dunno how to spell!"<br />
"This is the worstest!"<br />
"Oh shoot me now."<br />
<br />
2. You will perform a skit representing the theme of "Brotherly Love." The skit must be of reasonable quality. It may not include battle scenes or death.<br />
<br />
This also got feedback:<br />
<br />
"But skits without conflict <i>suck."</i><br />
"Can we have just one battle scene? It could, like, lead up to a scene in which we all hug?"<br />
"Will you be filming it? Cause if so, <i>NO.</i>"<br />
<br />
3. You will parade down our street singing a song that I will quickly compose called, "I Love My Brothers and My Brothers Love Me."<br />
<br />
Feedback:<br />
<br />
"I will nevah evah do that."<br />
"Option Three sucks."<br />
"Shoot me now."<br />
<br />
Middle Son was openly weeping at this point, and Eldest Son was thrashing about in chair rubbing at his eyes. Littlest Son was staring glumly into space.<br />
<br />
So, all options voted down, I told them that they had to collaborate to devise Option Four themselves. And they had to do it without arguing and come to a polite and genial agreement amongst the three of them as to what Option Four would be. This was, of course, the secret behind Option Four. The devising of the option was the activity in itself. Whatever they cooked up would simply be bonus material.<br />
<br />
I left the room and returned in about five minutes. During that time, they had all mutually consented to make gifts for each other. The gifts would be made out of clay. They were very keen to get started. There was no talk of screen time. They were, in fact, <i>excited </i>about their plan.<br />
<br />
I got out a bucket of air-dry clay and put on some music and they made these. They aren't done yet; they still need to be painted and presented. But they check them throughout the day to see if they are completely dry yet, and Middle Son keeps asking when he can give his presents to his brothers.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3Z3mTeAleL9yuOsuxKfZsWSOOWsDnZkAF6y6pJDacxGOjoHgYW-55cVWggmh5LCWklnKpxoZRHLSpg1guwVQjGDpBL8T-DuVnj-fTKltxDZE32BR0ak5deG6JemP7Rg800_gnQN82GR9/s1600/Dragon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3Z3mTeAleL9yuOsuxKfZsWSOOWsDnZkAF6y6pJDacxGOjoHgYW-55cVWggmh5LCWklnKpxoZRHLSpg1guwVQjGDpBL8T-DuVnj-fTKltxDZE32BR0ak5deG6JemP7Rg800_gnQN82GR9/s1600/Dragon.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A magnificent dragon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtwIyQjRh9rhk4iAFpVU6yqtIwrrfbI_yC-XB_RivTP0qiy9_foCsdR7uepdVN8kRN75byl7Jg1iJu-bN8gRzXc1vxaKfajPINybvs0mZmmWbMdQYqPQbsx-HLVPVvclng4nlae-MQgJW/s1600/Necklaces.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtwIyQjRh9rhk4iAFpVU6yqtIwrrfbI_yC-XB_RivTP0qiy9_foCsdR7uepdVN8kRN75byl7Jg1iJu-bN8gRzXc1vxaKfajPINybvs0mZmmWbMdQYqPQbsx-HLVPVvclng4nlae-MQgJW/s1600/Necklaces.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handmade necklaces.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uTP5HKr6BN2Tu8Awmme7g7cPxQ2Rydenjy8F9p5BExDYmdBjR1843FYq5LV4wezelLOcu52f23XP2VkA6NFyWKN6jTMDuVPvcedRGjMIRbM9PQ4FYiM8UMbZzQo-cvStY32FmqqFchyphenhyphens/s1600/StubbyThings.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uTP5HKr6BN2Tu8Awmme7g7cPxQ2Rydenjy8F9p5BExDYmdBjR1843FYq5LV4wezelLOcu52f23XP2VkA6NFyWKN6jTMDuVPvcedRGjMIRbM9PQ4FYiM8UMbZzQo-cvStY32FmqqFchyphenhyphens/s1600/StubbyThings.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange stubby things?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After the experiment was over we met in a circle for a group hug, during which the boys, unprompted, said things like:<br />
<br />
"I love you, my brother."<br />
"My brothers is the best!"<br />
"Hugs and love! Hugs and love!"<br />
<br />
We concluded it all with a "Go Team!" cheer, after which I solemnly reminded them that any of the previous options could easily be invoked at any time.<br />
<br />
The next day we heard a long, piercing scream from the bathroom. Middle Son had sprayed perfume directly into Littlest Son's eyes. He claimed he had been spraying it to "cleanse the room of bad smells" and that he had sprayed it far from Littlest Son's face. In fact, the victim had had his back turned to him!<br />
<br />
Littlest Son cried out that his brother had "broken the bond of brotherly love."<br />
<br />
A forensic reenactment of the crime revealed that the lie was preposterous, and the offender was sent to bed. The next day, I decided to bring down Option One (letter writing) as the penalty.<br />
<br />
The gist of the letter read, in sum:<br />
<br />
"I did absolutely nothing wrong and have no guilt whatsoever because I am innocent and did nothing wrong and am innocent. Will you forgive me? Love, your brother."<br />
<br />
I shall start work on my original Brotherly Love song shortly, which will be filled with uniquely embarrassing references such as:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Brothers never argue, brothers always share.</div>
Brothers even give up their last pair of underwear.<br />
My brothers are my blood, to them I'm always true.<br />
If they ever called upon me, I'd even wipe their poo.<br />
<br />
Public performances forthcoming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-49096511831388464872014-07-03T18:21:00.001-07:002014-07-03T18:21:19.396-07:00The Manny Diaries, Chapter 13: I Found My Smile...in Two Gallons of Mezcal"Miss Jennifer! Miss Jennifer! I'm going to buy ten chickens tomorrow!"<br />
<br />
Such were some of the first words that Manny spoke when he finally reached me by phone from his new home in Oaxaca, Mexico. And boy, did he ever sound drunk. <i>Happy </i>drunk, mind you. Ebullient drunk. Almost giddy with drink.<br />
<br />
"Ten chickens! Like, 20 cents a piece. Hey! Do you know you can get two GALLONS of Mezcal here for only $16. Two gallons! Not that I'm drinking anything because, man, I'm about a mile high up in mountains and it's beautiful and I don't need to drink or do anything bad at all. Nyet! Nyet!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTG67xD6dptCdtxg1FM6HVfnGAGVUf-92hmO90q4NYYN_ppPz2odcYYJZN2tQNtnvu4qKuxR6zEMQJrh1WFhiq5f8GKimwYeXy7H0udSZext5Xy59cuMLdboILiMXVBfnJr7NJ4BGPy_7/s1600/Chicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNTG67xD6dptCdtxg1FM6HVfnGAGVUf-92hmO90q4NYYN_ppPz2odcYYJZN2tQNtnvu4qKuxR6zEMQJrh1WFhiq5f8GKimwYeXy7H0udSZext5Xy59cuMLdboILiMXVBfnJr7NJ4BGPy_7/s1600/Chicken.jpg" height="217" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will he name one of his new chickens "Bun-Bun"?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Was that Russian he was speaking? Yes, he revealed to me that he can speak about 10 different languages fluently. Never once while he was staying with us had I heard him speak one word that wasn't English or mangled English.<br />
<br />
"Any Eastern European language there is, I can speak it. I don't like to tell people because they will get an impression of me," he said. "Like a wrong impression or a weird impression, you know?"<br />
<br />
It seemed odd that a man who forgot how to pronounce words like "guacamole" and called a "beet" a "parsnip" and a pork loin "that other meat--the meat, you know the one, that's not chicken and not beef, dammit, what's that called?" would have such a facility with languages. But I didn't argue.<br />
<br />
"Nyet!" he said again, and then: "Dammit! There I go again. It's so confusing, all these languages going around in my brain."<br />
<br />
"How about Spanish? You learning Spanish?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah yeah! Uno, dos, tres, nachos!" I laughed. "What, what?" he said.<br />
<br />
Mexico was treating him rather well. He loved it there, after only two or three days. He could see the President of Mexico's house from where he stood! The food was fresh and good and unbelievably cheap. He repeatedly remarked on the cheap price of the Mezcal and then quickly added "not that I'm drinking it" after every reference. He mused about the two gallons of Mezcal that were about to be delivered to his casa, and sniggered gleefully over the cheap price. "For cooking. And maybe a sip with lunch. Just a splash," he coughed.<br />
<br />
He insisted that we all come down for a visit and live like kings. Heck, we should all just move down there permanently, because it was heaven on Earth. "Those boys can run wild in the agave fields!" he said. "It's the safest thing! A mile of space! They would be perfectly safe to just run <i>wild. </i>Except there are these burros...these really big burros. What are they called? Burritos...OXEN. I mean, bulls! You don't pet those guys. They could gore you."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAh-_9_THy7cESYLct7cLBY3CXVm_rnKslwBVh39oNniF4_5rc3vS3xpZArpEwhprnn9B8BQSw5n08NhP0LFTy-uSc2SEtN2XucmgTVUQiMJ8Q8oic4qBDrUTkILkVvzp-c-e9fEhgVnd/s1600/Oxen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAh-_9_THy7cESYLct7cLBY3CXVm_rnKslwBVh39oNniF4_5rc3vS3xpZArpEwhprnn9B8BQSw5n08NhP0LFTy-uSc2SEtN2XucmgTVUQiMJ8Q8oic4qBDrUTkILkVvzp-c-e9fEhgVnd/s1600/Oxen.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That is one big Burrito!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The trip down had gone perfectly. His large bag weighed two pounds over the weight limit, but the woman in the baggage area had winked and waved him onward. The Federales treated him kindly and laughed at his jokes, despite the fact that he'd been gurgling free double Absoluts on the plane (apparently Aeromexico hands these out for free, plus hot breakfast. What an airline!) "I would not be escaping from anything, of course. Who the hell wants to escape TO Mexico?" the Manny snorted at customs, as they all laughed and waved him through.<br />
<br />
His new landlords met him at the airport and took him out for dinner: A huge meal with tequila shots that amounted to about 8 dollars total for three people. After this he became really chatty and mentioned that in Vietnam, he had killed 163 people. Apparently, they keep a tally. It's considered a sort of honor, a point of pride. I think it has haunted Manny his entire life.<br />
<br />
"That's a lot of dead people," he said, almost soberly. His landlady had hushed him and said, "Let's not talk about that, okay? Not out in public and not to other people, at least?"<br />
<br />
"I almost screwed my pooch there, Miss Jennifer!" he said. "163 people. That's a lot." There was a long moment of silence and then he was off and running again:<br />
<br />
"Do you know how salty the salt is here? And how sugary the sugar? I took a big lick of a salt pile and it was so salty I almost threw up. They have mountains of salt! Your dad, I mean your husband, would hate all that salt. The sugar is just so <i>sugary. </i>And the sun? I'm brown like a beautiful Mexican girl! I've found my smile. I have finally found my smile. There is nothing better than this. Do you know how much free booze there is, Miss Jennifer? I mean, I'm so happy, I'm not needing to drink <i>at all</i>. Just a little with breakfast, lunch, and dinner, you know?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtbE8xHNEvWTwlkBhibnObfZEZ5G0nuH69mSqWwMGb5JLTkyOiwyk7wMzZkBXLLwNyYU-E0ErKQPkhhg_zs2_ZOGGgShsZ6YOAU35n9MWEuOgxNo9iDDC4z5VKXVYMX7ZGCazYrZJtZ9J/s1600/mezcal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHtbE8xHNEvWTwlkBhibnObfZEZ5G0nuH69mSqWwMGb5JLTkyOiwyk7wMzZkBXLLwNyYU-E0ErKQPkhhg_zs2_ZOGGgShsZ6YOAU35n9MWEuOgxNo9iDDC4z5VKXVYMX7ZGCazYrZJtZ9J/s1600/mezcal.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right: Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He called back about 10 times in the next two days. He sounded a little lonelier; he asked to speak with the boys and they all shouted things like "We miss you!" as we poked them and pointed at the phone. He'd received his chickens and was prepping to name them. They each produced about one egg per day. He thought he might name three of them after the "little guy, the middle one, and the big one," our sons.<br />
<br />
"You really ought to come down here. I'll pay for your trip! I'm working on a new business plan. Pretty soon I'll be making 10K a month. Hey, did you know that you can get a meal down here with eggs, beans, chorizo—all you can eat—plus three shots of Mezcal, all for three bucks?"<br />
<br />
The last time he called was June 21. I recall that when he had been gone a few days we took note of a strange sort of melancholy, almost as if we had been at a funeral. "I feel as if someone has died," I said, in the parking lot of Trader Joe's. And then there was the thought: He has gone there to die. We will never see him again.<br />
<br />
We will never see him again.<br />
<br />
Never again will I be worried that, upon stepping out of the shower robed and towel-turbaned, that Manny will sight me and recoil and stammer his way into a doorframe. Never again will I see the plate of fresh-cut fruit that he has laid out for the boys at 6 am, making sure there is an ample supply of red apples (the only ones youngest son likes!) in proportion to green apples, along with cuts of watermelon and pineapple. Never will I see the chaotic mess he has made of the kitchen after a stir-fry extravanganza, with drippings down the edge of the stove. We won't hear him moan and cry out: "The pain! The pain!" as he plods up the attic stairs to his dark aerie.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghh2CCKzh6B2zRXnCWTlUaQc79tC8-XSoHadAt3-H3ibVqt081l_ksoDv2D6FT4CYtVYWjMdKEad2GHiDEowVjL4guCrTZ3UFbjdH2P41lcEnRyNvAfXxRaRzA9ceq3vJWyPJVRHKRNsNj/s1600/kitchen-mess-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghh2CCKzh6B2zRXnCWTlUaQc79tC8-XSoHadAt3-H3ibVqt081l_ksoDv2D6FT4CYtVYWjMdKEad2GHiDEowVjL4guCrTZ3UFbjdH2P41lcEnRyNvAfXxRaRzA9ceq3vJWyPJVRHKRNsNj/s1600/kitchen-mess-2.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hast barfed profuse filthy dishware whilst I wast cooking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here is what I wonder on this rainy, desolate, wind-cooled night: As he steps out beyond his meager possessions (wok, pot, coffee carafe, lemon squeezer, spoon) and looks past the casa to see the burros plodding along, carrying firewood against the sunset, is he perhaps, strangely, the happiest of beings? Does he know even one sure thing that we do not, if even for the briefest of moments? He has claimed his smile. He knows better, perhaps, than to expect its certainty each dawn.<br />
<br />
We dream a fiction. We can never really know the truths that fools and madmen hold in their dark, stung, longing hearts.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918384375542511734.post-75716923486004159112014-06-20T18:14:00.002-07:002014-06-20T18:14:36.994-07:00The Manny Diaries, Chapter Twelve: Chippy and the Back ScratcherHe made it. The Manny made it to Mexico. He's really there, and he is really not here. I think I'm suffering from a fair amount of disbelief.<br />
<br />
There's a residual effect in the air, like he left some ghostly effluvium here, such that I can almost hear him groaning "The pain! The pain!" as he treaded up the stairs at night. I still realize with a start, at 5:15 pm, that no one is cooking my boys a gourmet dinner, and now I have to toss some frozen lump of a thing in the oven to get them fed. I look out the window and expect to see him shuffling through the garden in his slippers, inspecting the pea shoots and looking for Bun-Bun, his special tame friend, who must have lost his (or her?) parents to a hawklike personage because the thing is FEARLESS.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinw7Vdo2kwe0b3Elbe5ERjl_hKLyXmqtpvgC96umrx_41rBMtgz0kkfBU2RBU_AoxLKXMKZZZdDBMgtX2n_SBgkdxxlu4NBdmPTR6u3JNedXZRgJGRSjUjNsSJl3HXjiKgvppKw-aCYYAT/s1600/My_Tame_Baby_Bunny.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinw7Vdo2kwe0b3Elbe5ERjl_hKLyXmqtpvgC96umrx_41rBMtgz0kkfBU2RBU_AoxLKXMKZZZdDBMgtX2n_SBgkdxxlu4NBdmPTR6u3JNedXZRgJGRSjUjNsSJl3HXjiKgvppKw-aCYYAT/s1600/My_Tame_Baby_Bunny.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Bun-Bun.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I once remarked that we shouldn't be so quiet and gentle around Bun-Bun because we were teaching him additional fearlessness that his parents had failed to teach him and he was gonna get snacked upon. I worry about the little fellow daily, as does, no doubt, the Manny.<br />
<br />
Before he left, we suggested that he would be lonely without his special animal friends, Bun-Bun and Fatty the Groundhog, who lives under our shed. So we jokingly plucked a "lovey" out of the Vast Bin of Neglected Stuffed Animals and gave him Chippy the Chipmunk, who is a hand puppet,<br />
<br />
He really took to Chippy. He walked around with him a bit, talking to him and working the hand puppet so that Chippy would "respond." I said it made him seem less crazy because at least he was talking to SOMETHING as opposed to just babbling to himself. In fact, he took Chippy with him to Mexico. But, he left the back scratcher (pictured below) behind. Do you know how I found out? When we were cleaning his room, after his departure, my husband gently scratched me on the back with it as I was bent over stuffing things into a garbage sack. glgflflh!!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDcAFWzlmQogVdRRHrlMLSBkkgllutRdN6jh46tnV_x47stiwB2e_JDyCiC-1I_9TJy5fadJPjzoPm5UDe1o3GV8hzkQ1Nm4iEsOp94o6EZFY_IpWeaUtHFVXCdipdmK59W_xNglqHLnN/s1600/Chipmunk_Puppet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDcAFWzlmQogVdRRHrlMLSBkkgllutRdN6jh46tnV_x47stiwB2e_JDyCiC-1I_9TJy5fadJPjzoPm5UDe1o3GV8hzkQ1Nm4iEsOp94o6EZFY_IpWeaUtHFVXCdipdmK59W_xNglqHLnN/s1600/Chipmunk_Puppet.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chippy and the Back Scratcher. Use your imagination to picture the scene with the Manny in it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The cleansing went on for quite a while. It took all morning to take down his blackout curtains and let the sun shine into the attic room, sweep the desk of detritus, and gather up a sackful of greasy and sticky coins. There was some half-gnawed peanut brittle. There were some half-empty Coke bottles, and a bottle of ear wax remedy. There was not, however, an empty liquor bottle of any kind. We figured he's gotten pretty savvy and spirited them out in the dead of night, or maybe poured the stuff into Coke bottles in the parking lot of the CVS and then tossed the evidence.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYO2J8VWNg33Kzg8lUWnaOW8GaEJNBHwVdXKOtvGUoE2vhiudy5H51zrXMJXIEKbxGGEPdQ6oJBDyo8k7P0cvMnIT-ullOZYMhyrBfMqPbs3v-XfeedYpZqXljE6MoE8vHdVElxjm55rH/s1600/The_Lair.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYO2J8VWNg33Kzg8lUWnaOW8GaEJNBHwVdXKOtvGUoE2vhiudy5H51zrXMJXIEKbxGGEPdQ6oJBDyo8k7P0cvMnIT-ullOZYMhyrBfMqPbs3v-XfeedYpZqXljE6MoE8vHdVElxjm55rH/s1600/The_Lair.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The things we leave behind.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Because there was no doubt—no doubt whatsoever—that he had started drinking with a feverish intensity right before he left for Mexico. On Friday morning, two days before his departure, he showed up in the kitchen at approximately 8:30 am as crocked as a monkey. He was mumbling and slurring and blathering about how dreadful his life was and how fearsome things had become.<br />
<br />
"Someone's gonna screw my pooch!" he said dolefully. "Everything that could have gone wrong for me <i>has </i>gone wrong. All of it!"<br />
<br />
I said: "Are you drunk?"<br />
<br />
He staggered backwards into a doorframe as if I'd punched him in the gut, his eyes bugging out.<br />
<br />
"Drunk? DRUNK? howonearthcouldibedrunk? Huh? Heh?"<br />
<br />
"Well, even a child can see that you're drunk."<br />
<br />
"No no no no no I'm not drunk! I don't drink! Why would I be drunk? My life is so bad...the pain, the pain." And he massaged his aching hip. He stumbled around, mumbling madly and bumping into things.<br />
<br />
My husband had words with him. Well, they weren't just "words." They were bad words, spoken at a high volume. By the time we came back from a school concert event, he had gone into the city to conduct one last errand. Husband sent him a note apologizing for raising his voice, but Manny simply must not drink and lying about it just made it worse. He wrote back:<br />
<!--StartFragment--><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, Verdana, Helvetica, Arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Not drinking I'll have a hotel Saturday need to go don't trust you<br />
What about thee quorts in your space you have your own problems </span></span></blockquote>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
"Thee quorts" referred to something he'd seen in our own liquor cabinet—intriguing, given that he had no possible reason to look inside that cabinet. But then again, we'd been noticing a few things vanish from that cabinet now and again.<br />
<br />
Here was a dreadful dilemma. How was he to get to the airport? How would we ensure that he was going to get on that plane and fly to a different country? And would he return in time to pack Chippy, his wok, the back scratcher (evidently not, in this case. glrk!), his French press, his lemon squeezer, and a handful of underwear?<br />
<br />
Fortunately, he did. And he came back wearing this jaunty chapeau, which I think he imagined as a Mexican sombrero-like accessory but, on him, looked a little small atop his big ol' head.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKqskKvAsSWqQ7k1jt9jDHT0dlEgXEVTY01tvsFWH7vQXmZDnY3v7sXOtSXeXQBF2cMBT_aBGVWFEtsbSYr2QSrtMQiY8ay253ffePZNr5sI4YwPNhGSnvwHLVGXDyPYry29wYKEmmoPE/s1600/Promotional-Mens-Straw-Hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKqskKvAsSWqQ7k1jt9jDHT0dlEgXEVTY01tvsFWH7vQXmZDnY3v7sXOtSXeXQBF2cMBT_aBGVWFEtsbSYr2QSrtMQiY8ay253ffePZNr5sI4YwPNhGSnvwHLVGXDyPYry29wYKEmmoPE/s1600/Promotional-Mens-Straw-Hats.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heisenberg Dos, in straw.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This isn't the last chapter, of course. You've probably figured that out by now. There is more. Indeed, there is more.<br />
<br />Jennifer Prescotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14668379038698377139noreply@blogger.com0