You know, I said to myself, I said, “I am not going to deal with this whole political thing anymore. Nope. I can’t. I have my own problems like depression, anxiety, disease of the week, parasites, laundry, etc. So I am just going to Let it Go. Yeah, staying out of it. I mean, sure, he’s an idiot, but you know – how much could he really do?”
I’m a snarky, sarcastic cynic who likes to brag about her dark soul, and yet somewhere, deep inside, there is this stupid thing called . . . optimism? There is. It’s there. My counselor told me about it. She said, “Alice, you are a cynic, but you still hope!” And she’s right. I do! Even though I absolutely know that people are awful, I, for some reason I’m still not sure of, continue to think people are basically decent humans. I just . . . assume this in spite of increasing evidence to the contrary. I’ll give you an example.
For roughly the length of the 2016 political race, I was working on an exhibit about the presidents of the university for which I work. Yes, more presidents. Most of them were okay. But we did have a Trump. His name was even the same as an insect. No one could get rid of him, though, because he had Congress and the Senate, er, the board of regents on his side. Even though just about every faculty member hated him, and voted to have him removed, he stayed. For SIX YEARS that luckily I was not at that university, he stayed. Yes, it’s true. I got to write about him, too, but because one member of that board of regents is still active politically around here and because it’s considered uncouth and embarrassing to admit that this guy effectively shut down academic freedom at our university, and heck, freedom of speech, I had to spin doctor this biography. I mentioned that he caused “controversy”, which made my boss cough out a snicker, but that hey, there were some things he did that didn’t destroy the fabric of education. Yeah. I felt kind of slimy after that.
But anyway, while working on this exhibit, I had the aid of a student worker. I’ll call him “Skippy” cause that’s what I actually did call him when he wasn’t there, and that was before I realized just what a little twerp he was. He just looked like a Skippy. Right, so we’d had plenty of student workers before, and I’d never had a problem with any that worked in library archives with me. In fact, I actually told one, jokingly but not, to please lower his standards cause he was making me look bad. This kid actually chose to go back to China instead of stay with us. So we got Skippy, and Skippy was different. He addressed my boss and me by “Mrs.” and last name. We told him just call us by first names. So I got to be “Miss Alice”. I felt like either a Sunday school teacher or a plantation owner.
That was just the beginning. He also didn’t know how to do anything himself and would constantly ask what to do next. Who does that? If I have nothing to do, I’m going to find something, and it’s going to be something that looks workish. But not this kid. So we gave him plenty to do. And it was so easy. I found pictures in old yearbooks, and sticky noted them, and handed them to him. Scan this. Easy. Did he scan them? No. Or he did, and somehow he did a horrible job of it. He did like to read the old newspapers, which rarely had much in them of use, but he tired me out so much it was like, yeah, you do that. But we did warn him, and my boss and I were very, very explicit in this – write on the back where you found the picture or article, the date, and what it is about. So he – did not. So we told him again, to please look these things back up and write them down. He did. He wrote useful things like “Dr. Polk giving a speech.” Well, thanks, Skippy, I knew that was Dr. Polk, and I know he’s giving a speech cause he’s standing at a podium. But what is the speech about? When was the speech? Where was the speech? Where is your source? Skippy didn’t know.
We told him to do it again. Meanwhile, I am working on biographies of the presidents that weren’t insects.
Skippy finally, finally labels the pictures and information he has collected. Hallelujah. Skippy then leaves, as it was a summer internship. We were so happy to see him go. I start putting his pictures in with the ones I collected. And everything is going well. And then I, for some reason, needed to check something in the yearbook. And I discovered that – and for some reason, this surprised me – Skippy made a bunch of crap up. His labels were WRONG. He guessed, and guessed badly, where these people were, when these things took place, etc etc etc. Wow. So, basically, I had to go backwards and dig up where all this research, some of which, remember, I handed right to him, came from. He actually made my job harder.
I don’t like Skippy much. If he shows up and says “Hi, Miss Alice,” I’m really not responsible for hurling a 1925 yearbook at his stupid little head.
But back to what I wrote out way up there, about our country’s insect, Donald Trump. I was going to stay out of politics, since I had my own troubles. Yet – I look up – and wow, that bad. Less than two weeks and – that bad. He is like Skippy, who at least has the excuse of being 20 years old. Trump, or Cheeto as I like to call him, screws up, he screws up massively, and then he lies about it. And we – are surprised. Because for some reason, that little bit of optimism just won’t die already.
He can’t even do awful stuff right either. Even if you think that the statue of Liberty with her give us your cold, weary, yearning to breathe free crap should be melted down for scrap for the pipeline those Native Americans totally need, you don’t just issue an executive order effective immediately. At least have some organization to your bigotry. Instead, he messes stuff up on a global scale. People are stranded at airports. American citizens are detained, including a five-year-old who is handcuffed. And his people defend him. And I – am amazed. Twenty executive orders in ten days. This from the party who complained that Obama had too many, even though Bush had already surpassed him.
I actually want George W. Bush back. We’ve gone that far. Already.
So people are protesting. But don’t worry, cause Republicans across the country are working at getting that whole pesky protesting stuff shut down too by writing new laws into the books! Cause freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of decency, yeah, none of those are needed. Yet people voted for this guy. They voted for him. Or they just stayed home and did nothing, effectively still voting for him. Just – just thank God we don’t have to worry about Hillary’s emails. Skippy supporters, you did the right thing!
I’m lying. No you didn’t. My sixteen-year-old shouted at the television “You are the president! Presidents don’t call people “dude”! Is he ten?” I think that’s too mature. Let’s not forget he also mentioned “bad dudes” in a tweet. A presidential tweet. This is really happening.
I guess all this idiocy did one thing. It brought me out of cave of self indulgent misery, into the world of misery. Yay. But good news, because I found some great Cheeto merchandise we can all use. Like a voodoo doll. I might even create a contest for people to WIN one. If I can think of one. Thing Two suggested political Haiku. Thing One said “No, those will be awful.” Which is sort of the point, but maybe we’ll think of something.
Got any ideas? Let me know in the comment section. It’s down there. If you skipped reading this post, just make up a response. I will probably believe it. Darn that optimism.
No, really, I mean – what? I have been sick a few days with what we Americans, or maybe just Southerners?, call the CRUD. I have a doctor who said that all upper respiratory infections, tonsillitis, bronchitis, laryngitis, oompalitis, etc are basically the same. So I have one of those. I don’t know. But I have been miserable. You know how miserable? Think of those ASPCA puppies and kittens they show you all the time. The ones that look like Hitler just electrocuted their mother right in front of them. They’re shivering, they’re hungry, they’re wondering why people are just filming them and not doing anything. Which I know I AM wondering. Like sheesh, get the puppy a blanket, and some dog chow you fiends. Sheesh.
It occurs to me the puppies might be actors. If so, well done, puppies.
Anyway, I have been just as miserable as those animals, only not nearly as cute. I was chatting with my friend Merbear on my phone and since I now have a Smart Phone . . . yeah. They got me. But not with the latest, greatest literally exploding phones. No, I have an old Samsung, but it still works. Like it lets me take videos of myself lying down and coughing into the phone so I can show my friend just how bad off I am. And she was like, “Have you tried steam?”
And I’m like . . . steam? I mean I have been having respiratory ailments since my teens and I am like now not a teen and I don’t know how many times I’ve used steam both for myself and my Things (kids for any of you newcomers. More on newcomers later) and I hadn’t thought of it yet. So thanks, Mer, I used steam and it helped a little. I still feel like crapsters, though, and I missed more work than I have time allotted for that, which hadn’t happened in a while and was quite annoying. It’s like my illnesses all hang out and try to figure out who gets to like jump me first. No, no, depression it was your turn LAST week, now let’s give stomach a try. No he had it before. What about me, the bladder – you know the one that – er – leaks. Okay, we’ll let you in, because the cough and that leak thing go together. Yay!
Where was I? Oh, right, sick. You know just when you think you have it all under control, one of those guys pops up. Or better, a new one comes in. Remember how in that emo post I wrote last time I mentioned Lice and other Holiday Tales? Well, yeah, lice came to visit. I hate bugs in general, but bugs that are like, ON YOU? Yeah, that’s beyond awful. So we treated Thing Two and then treated her again and then oh whew and then Thing One got it so we treated her and again and then later . . . they were back. Cause Thing One has very thick, curly hair and my husband and I have very little patience for combing with those awful combs that couldn’t go through a doll’s hair. But I had something up my sleeve. Research. That’s what I do, unless, you know, it’s for a post. So I found this comb, and wow it is like the Allah of Combs judging from what must be real reviews because these reviews were super intense. These people have war stories. So I ordered it.
Guess what Amazon Prime is late on getting to my house? Yup. I WANT MY COMB AMAZON.
So things have not been going that well for me. I was afraid I would never be funny again. This was my greatest fear here, not like dying of CRUD which I kinda thought I might a couple times cause holy crap it’s awful. But yeah, it’s humor, you got to have it. And when I wasn’t able to write, well that was lousy – uh – wrong word. But here I am, writing, and I don’t have a plan to it (did you pick up on that yet?) and it only has one pic in it which I had stored but hey I did it. Cause people have been looking at older posts of mine. So then I check them out. And I laugh because I like my own stuff. But also because it is memories of my life, like with my kids, my work, with me. And the sicks aren’t going to get me. Okay they will, but not like forever there will be days when I’m not sick of some sort! Or have bugs! Possibly! But also if I don’t write then I will not get to expose the really stupid people who have lately been commenting on my old posts. Do you remember booger guy? The one who corrected my grammar on a post about boogers? Well, there’s more of that kind of snot, get ready.
Eventually. Because there are people extremely concerned about my virtual family, a heretical Christmas song post, my knowledge of Sophia the First. Etc. But at any rate, I am trying. So the best thing you could do is not say you are sorry for me because life is life. We all have crap. Heck, our whole country got one big piece of it today, but I didn’t see any of it, or care, cause I was sick. So there are some good things about sick, I guess.
Please like and follow and comment because just one like or follow or comment could save this sad puppy from the horrors of this post.
My kids and I were reading what has to be List of X’s funniest post yet. It’s about Ebola of course. Yes, even my ten and fourteen- year-olds hear about this stuff constantly, because it’s never too early to scare the crap out of children.
You might be wondering what Ebola is, since we never hear about it or anything. Except for every five minutes on the news. Nope, otherwise, not a PEEP. Thing is, the Ebola virus is not new. It’s been around a long time. But it didn’t affect a handful of Americans earlier so NOW IT IS IMPORTANT. We must ask, though, that people keep this in perspective and remain calm and OMG RUN IN TERROR SCREAM AND SHOUT! Fumigate! Don’t go anywhere! Certainly not Texas! (Good rule anyway, and I even live in Texas).
But since I do live in Texas, it’s even worse here. I’m about 6 hours away from Dallas, where an American recently died of Ebola and two nurses were infected. People are so panicked that they shut down the emergency room of one of hospitals here for hours because someone came in with flu symptoms. No, seriously. Turned out it was – wait for it – the flu.
Now, normally I avoid the regular news (and certainly Fox News) like the plague. I prefer to get my news from more reputable sources such as the Daily Show and blogs like List of X. They are a lot more accurate, and funnier too, in a slap yourself in the head and laugh cause otherwise you’ll be planning a mission to the moon with no helmet sort of way. But I was recently sick and had to get antibiotics then had reactions to the antibiotics that made me sicker causing me to need new antibiotics and nausea pills to counteract what they “cured” earlier, before finally they decided to take me off of all medicines because maybe it wasn’t a bacterial throat infection to begin with (I love our medical system). This necessitated going to several doctors at one clinic several times. And of course, they play Fox News. And on Fox News was info about the Ebola virus!
What better thing for sick people to watch, am I right?
At least Fox isn’t like, a fear mongering kind of news. With rabid weasel reporters who get extremely angry when the people they interview don’t get angry also. Nope, they are always fair and balanced and totally calm.
Here’s an example of one blond female reporter (shock!), who might have been pretty if her face weren’t twisted up like a Pitbull’s, interviewing a scientist they clearly didn’t screen properly before letting on the show. I’m paraphrasing some, but honestly, this is how it went.
Reporter: So I guess the government and “Big Pharma” are going to try to block new vaccines for Ebola.
Scientist: Uh, I don’t think so. I mean, they want this cured also.
Reporter: (madface – did he not read the script?) But don’t you think Obama and his people are not doing a good enough job of protecting us from the Ebola virus?
Scientist: (looks a little scared and confused) I, uh, don’t really get into politics but it seems like they’re doing everything they can at this point.
Reporter: (even more madface, foaming at the mouth possible soon) So when do you think there will be a cure? Like, say, if you started today, how long would it take for you to have a vaccine?
Scientist: (now he’s just realized she’s insane and is looking for any exit) I don’t work directly with the vaccine itself – I mean there’s no way to tell for sure anyway . .
Those scientists -what a bunch of maroons. Can’t tell you exactly how long to find a cure for Ebola? What is WITH them? Jesus turned water into wine in seconds. He totally would NOT have a problem at all solving this, if it weren’t for the liberals and gays. I’m sure this atheist, communist scientist is in cahoots with Big Pharma, Obama, and possibly the virus itself.
Obviously I don’t want to get Ebola. I also don’t want to get Diabetes, Cancer, Heart Disease, or get smushed by a semi-truck, all of which are much more likely to happen. At least the U.S. is finally doing more to help Africa, because while starving people and evil dictators who keep food from their own people are not likely to affect us Americans, a disease from the starving people can, so we better get over there and help these people by closing all their airports, ships, and any other form of transportation. Get the jet skis too, just in case. Oh, and uh, maybe do a little doctoring while you’re at it.
And, most importantly, keep your eyes and ears on the news stations so you can lie awake in fear every night. This will cause bonding with your elders who lay awake at night years earlier waiting for the nuclear bomb. So you know, it’s not all bad.
* Note: this post is chock full of satire, sarcasm, and probably multiple inaccuracies. At least I’m being honest about it. Oh and you’re probably not going to die of Ebola unless you like sharing spit. It will probably be a heart attack from all your worry about Ebola. You’re welcome. Also: don’t share spit.
I know I seem like all sweetness and light and fairy ponies and purple sunshine and all that crap most of the time.
But sometimes I feel – less than that. Sometimes I feel sad. Other times I feel ANGRY. Murderous even. I’ve been known to throw steel toed boots. Yeah, I know, hard core there. I’m just tired, and tired of being tired, and tired of being mixed up, and tired of people not really listening to me, or listening but not really. Like what do I have to do to get people to take notice?
Like, seriously, this whole adulthood thing? It sucks. No one tells you that as a kid. But it does. I mean, sure, there are some fun things like not going to public school anymore and how you can NOT do the laundry if you don’t feel like it but then you have no clothes, so there are all these consequences and they SUCK. And while there’s no school, you still have to go to a job or something stupid like that, and chances are, your job SUCKS too if only cause they make you do work and you feel like your soul just got sucked out through a silly straw. You no longer care about changing the world or advancing you just want to get paid and have people LEAVE YOU THE FUCK ALONE.
But do they? No. They keep on existing and stuff, and it’s irritating. And it’s long. Eight hours of your day. Day after day after month after year after the REST OF YOUR LIFE until you retire but wait you can’t no you will die at your desk bwahahahahaha.
But it’s not that bad. I mean, you aren’t in Africa where there’s no food. You have lots of food – that you can eat and eat and eat until you weigh 600 pounds which they say is bad for you, but hey, you can weigh almost nothing and on that BMI chart (Bullshit Measurement by Idiots) still be overweight. Not sure what that means for the ones who really are 600 pounds. Maybe they just spontaneously combust.
And you talk to peeps and they are all “Well don’t change anything” or “You aren’t supposed to be happy” or “kids in Africa have no Happy Meals” or “What about my wart, huh?” or “I’m watching the 10th spin off of Dudes with Cars”. And then you wonder – is this as good as it gets? And you feel sad. But really it’s not sad. It’s anger, bottled up, at all those people who don’t listen, and tell you to go back to your box. And it looks something like this.
I call him the Angryface Monster, and he is my little friend. He kills for me in my daydreams and I love him forever and ever AMEN. Do you guys have an Angryface Monster? Do you ever let it out? Was it violent? Did you get even with the friend, spouse, boss, garbage can, whatever? Let me know in the comments below. Mr. Angryface Monster and I will wait. In the shadows. Right behind you.
Unless I let out the monster and then I go to jail and stuff. Then I’ll be there. You can be my one phone call!
Love and kisses,
P.S. I have considered possibly trying to move from full time at an academic library to part time back at the public library (my evil former boss retired – DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD) but it is much less money and back on crappy insurance but there is more time and maybe a little more purpose but you have to suck it up and work for minimum with teens and not sure I want to do that or not. Any of you faced a choice like this?
“I don’t want to work
I want to bang on the drum all day.”
6:00 AM I’m sooo sleepy but hey it’s FRIDAY people and that’s a HAPPY day cause it’s the end of the week, right? Yeah! Nothing can get me down!
6:10-6:40 AM Eat cereal. Do breathing treatment with the nebulizer (LUKE I AM YOUR FA-THER) and play pretend farm on the Nook (pretend cows don’t milk themselves), use long-acting (supposedly) asthma inhaler. Rinse mouth out a zillion times. Use nasal spray. Hope to breathe. Uh, oh, time to wake up children.
“I don’t want to play, I just want to bang on the drum all day . . .”
6:40-6:50 AM Snuggle with Thing One. Try not to fall asleep. Encourage her that it is Friday and that’s awesome cause Friday and last day and for God’s sake get up. Go to Thing Two’s room. She is in a loft bed which seemed like a good idea at the time until I figured out I couldn’t climb up there and get her out. Pelt her with stuffed animals. Yammer at her. Stand on toes and poke at her. Yell.
“I took a stick and an old coffee can, I bang on that thing ’til I got blisters on my hand . . .”
6:50 -7:00 AM Forgot to wash jeans. Just how dirty are they? Wow, yeah, that’s a few too many stains to pretend I didn’t notice. Wear work pants that are less dirty. Thing One wanders in with a pop tart. Send her to check on little sister and make sure she’s out of bed and getting dressed. Someone has to do it, and it’s not gonna be me. I’m prostrate on the bed, but at least I’m dressed.
“I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day . . .”
7:00 AM Door slams. Thing One reports that Thing Two is, in fact, dressing. Hallelujah.
7:00-7:10 AM. Make stab at brushing teeth. Actually stab gums. Thing Two is wearing a black shirt with cats that says “We are Strange” over a pink shirt along with a lacy blue skirt, some sort of pants that hit between her knee and ankle, but no shoes. There is a strand of pink fake hair in her short hair that she is insisting on tying back with barrettes. I am just informed it is picture day at school. I tell her to take the pink hair out. I can have one standard right? Thing Two has first conniption fit.
“The teacher told me I should stay after school, She caught me pounding on the desk with my hands
But my licks was so hot, I made the teacher wanna dance.”
7:10-7:15 AM. Thing two has second fit. No lunch sacks because my husband insists on throwing out all my plastic bags that I save. For trash liners. And lunch sacks. He doesn’t throw anything away INSIDE the bags, no, just my bags. Like I can send a lunch in a giant paper sack? I plot his demise.
7:15-7:25 AM. I am informed that it is also picture day for singing group Thing Two is involved in. She needs her group shirt. No idea where it is. I need to get going. Every minute I’m late means one more moron with stupid stick people figures on their SUVS dropping off their brats and blocking me in. I get in my car and plug in my MP3 and loudly play
“I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day”
7:25-7:30 AM Thing One is in the car. We are grooving and beating on the dash. Thing Two storms out later, incensed that no one else is upset about her plight. We drive by Sonic so I can get caffeine cause GOD I NEED IT.
7:30 AM Reach Thing Two’s school. She is still howling despite my turning the volume way up on my song. Now she has realized she forgot her lunch. I give her a dollar – no way am I going back. I tell her to quit screeching or the other kids will be annoyed. She says she’s just upset that I got a coke when I COULD have been helping her find her shirt, after all.
“And I get my sticks and go out to the shed, And I pound on that drum like it was the boss’s head”
7:30-7:40 AM Peal out from elementary school. Drive Thing One to her school all the way across town because that’s just so convenient. We yammer and sing along to the song. This time I remember to stop at her school, unlike the time when I just drove right past it and was almost at work, talking all the time, when I realized she was still with me. She hangs out as long as she can until I tell her she has to go in. I feel like a bad parent for making her go to junior high.
7:40-7:50 AM I drive to my work which is actually only five minutes from my house but nevermind and there is no parking because they took away our staff and faculty parking cause like, who needs morale, right? I drive around a while and find one spot at the very back of the parking lot – one spot in handicapped, mind you. I get the awesome placard on account of the cold air making my lungs go splodey. Yay, me!
“I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day”
7:50 – 7:55 AM Sit in car listening to music a while. It’s not 8:00 AM yet. Realize I have forgotten my own lunch.
7:55 – 8:00 AM Trudge to work with headphones in ears. Those college kids have something going there. I am not actually here, I am banging the drum. All day.
How is your Friday going? I’m tired already. Is it time to go home yet?
Have you ever done something you felt good about? Like, hey, maybe you gave money to save a kitten from the wrath of Alice. And then someone else comes along and says, “Well, you know, those kittens misuse those funds. Just the other day, I saw a kitten with a brand new catnip toy.” It’s like you had this cool new balloon and someone just went and stuck a pin in it. Cause you know, balloons will just deflate anyway, right? Look how they helped you out there!
I’ve had this experience a lot of times. In case you didn’t know, I’m generally a very cheap person. There’s a reason for this. I’m also a fairly poor person, so the cheapness thing really works well there. But sometimes I try to give to a good cause. When I was a kid, I liked giving to the Angel Tree fund. You’d pick an angel off the tree with the name of some kid who needed new clothes. And you bought the clothes and wrapped them up and gave them to the Salvation Army people, and then those guys gave them to the ones in need. Some kid got new clothes! Yay, me, I helped.
At least I thought I did, until one day a friend told me, “Well, you know, they return those clothes and then use the money on something else. Like watches.” Like, ZOMG, really? That’s horrible! They took money I freely gave, not expecting anything in return, and. . . and. . . they bought a new watch? Holy crapsters! Poor people don’t need to know what time it is! All they gotta do is sit back and watch the welfare checks pour in.
Oh, yeah, cause that’s the life, you know. Here’s a secret. I took government “hand-outs” once. It was for purely selfish reasons. I wanted to feed my kids. I know, right? I was proud, and I didn’t like going to those appointments on the “bad side of town.” It sure as heck wasn’t convenient. You had to have documentation, and you had to bring your kid to get her finger pricked (Four-year-old Thing One yelled “My haaaand, my haaaand” when they pricked hers), and sometimes you were there for hours. But I was at home with my kids then, because I felt that was the best place for me to be. Oh, yeah, and because if I’d had a job, the salary would have all gone to daycare. That too.
But, Alice, if you didn’t have enough money, you shouldn’t have had children! It’s your own fault! Maybe it was my fault. But it wasn’t their fault. So I sucked it up, and I got a card for food, and I bought government juice and cheese and eggs. One day I had a cart loaded with the stuff, and saw the lady behind me watching. I felt embarrassed until she said, “I’m glad my money goes to help sweet little families like yours.”
That comment cost her nothing. But it made me cry. She could have looked at it an entirely different way. She could have poked a hole in my already partially deflated balloon. But she saw it another way. She saw giving the way I see it. I work full-time now. My kids are older. We are hardly rolling in dough, but we can get by, so even though it might smart a little, I’m glad the government takes money out of my check. Because once I needed that little bit of help, and now others need it. Believe me, very few people are getting rich off of handouts. If they are, I have to commend them. Those panhandlers stand there day after day, asking everyone who comes by for a dime. I figure they earn their money at least as well as most people with office jobs do, especially when roughly 80 percent of their time is spent facebooking.
Not that I know anyone who does that.
People are going to judge, no matter what. I know people might have wondered how someone who needed help buying groceries could afford a decent car. What they didn’t know was that my bleeding heart liberal parents sold it to me well below cost. And I spent my tax return on it. My parents have worked hard their entire lives. No one gave them help. They put themselves through college. They worked, they saved. But my father said, “I worked hard, and no one helped me. So I want to use my check to help other people. That’s how it is supposed to work.”
That’s how it is supposed to work. Isn’t that what most religions talk about? Tis better to give than to receive? I know Jesus was totally out there going, hey, hey, wait a second, where’s my take? Here I go and give you guys a fish dinner, and do I get anything? Well, see if I help you jerks out anymore!
Yeah, no, he just gave to people. And he didn’t check their credentials first. He didn’t go, “Hey, stop stoning that lady! She . . . oh, wait, she’s a prostitute. Go on ahead. Don’t mind me!” He helped her. He helped lepers. When a man asked how he could get to Heaven, Jesus said, “Give all your money to the poor, and follow me.” And yet, I see so many religious people who oppose welfare and government programs for the poor. Guess what? Jesus wrote me, and he thinks you guys who vote against that stuff suck.
Not really, Jesus wouldn’t do that. He’s too nice. But I’m not. If you never, ever help anyone without expecting something in return, you suck. If you gripe when people raise money to help out someone in need, you suck. Once you give, you give. It is no longer in your hands. They can do with it what they will. What they do has no effect on what you did. You still gave of yourself. You still did the right thing.
For what else are we on this planet for, if not to help one another?
I’ve been a rebel my whole life. It’s just that many people don’t know it. I do a lot of rebelling in my head, or when your head is turned. Some people call this passive-agressive. I call it “style”.
I don’t necessarily rebel against anything that matters, but I have an inherent sense of when things are fair and when they’re not. And since life is mostly not fair, I am annoyed a great deal of the time. I want to make it fair. I’m also secretly certain that if most people would just listen to me, we’d have peace on earth AMEN. But they don’t, which is why we still have all those wars and stuphs.
When I was in junior high, I had this choir instructor that would punish the entire class for a couple of idiots being stupid. We had to stand on the risers ramrod straight for over an hour. This hurts. She also said that since it was such a large class, if we felt sick, we should just go to the bathroom. So when we all got punished, I went to the bathroom. I was a good girl, so no one thought to go check on me. I hung out in the bathroom for the rest of class. Fairness achieved.
I don’t believe the way anyone else around me believes. In the highly conservative state of Texas, part of the illustrious Bible Belt, I am a liberal Democrat agnostic. And probably a commie or a socialist, no one seems to understand which is which but both are bad words to Republicans, so I really don’t care if I’m called those things or not. And though I’ve tried to go to church at various times in my life, I finally stopped because I sensed -wait for it – unfairness. So I quit and now I’m going to hell or something. Most people thought that anyway, so I figured if that was they case, why be miserable in church?
I don’t follow parenting rules. La Leche League, who are not frightening militant wackos at all, believe Breast is Best and Everyone, probably even men, should breastfeed if at all possible. I’m only slightly exaggerating here as transgendered people and women with mastectomies are also made to feel guilty for not attempting breastfeeding. It’s unreal. I was told by many I was essentially a child abuser for giving my children formula. They would have allergies. They would be fat. They would get sick all the time. Their IQs would be low. Because studies say! You know – studies! My kids are brilliant, healthy, have few allergies, and are the skinniest kids I’ve ever seen. I’m gonna call bullshit on that one. If you want to feed your baby that way, I think it’s wonderful and wholeheartedly support you. But lay off of me. Formula feeding moms get a bad rap. That’s not fair. So I don’t like it. I rebel.
Someone once asked me if I just like rebelling for the sake of it. But it’s not true. I can’t help believing the way that I believe. My mother believes I came into this world a liberal feminist, and swears she had little to do with it. When I was in kindergarten, one of my first memories is being cheesed off because the boys got to go out and play while the girls had to sit and cut paper skirts. We were supposed to like that better cause girls. Wrong! My parents have similar religious and political views, but that has little to do with me. There are plenty of things about them I have no desire to imitate.
I see it much the way people who have deep faith see it. I could not feel any other way. I could never, ever vote Republican. I just can’t. And it’s not simple prejudice either. Deep down, I feel like we are supposed to help people less fortunate. I think we need welfare, and food stamps, and affordable health care. Everyone should be able to eat, have shelter, get basic medical care. Everyone.
I know, it’s far out and I’m completely bonkers. Much better to fight about stuff like whether we should say “Happy Holidays” or not. Because you know, if you say that, you’re saying “Screw you, Christmas and your little Santa and baby Jesus too!” Yeah, no. If you say happy holidays – you mean happy holidays – all holidays, including that Christmas one. You know where holiday freaking comes from? Holy – days. ZOMG!
Some might ask, well how to pay for this stuff you want? Easy. We pay with our money. All that money that goes to invisible bridges, congressional salary hikes, excessive military spending, and the one percent who sit in their houses and fill up their barns. Guess what? If Jesus comes tonight, you ain’t takin’ it with you. Guess where this heathen got that? A Bible! Sometimes there’s some pretty cool stuff in there, once you get past the rape and murder and all that.
But can’t we all just get along, Alice? Sure. Once everyone does just what I say, it’s all gonna come up roses. Then I won’t have to rebel anymore. Till then, I’ll continue, even if there’s no point to any of it. Cause I’m Alice. Rebel without a point.
I hate crickets. That’s right, I said it. I hate ’em. Even you, Jiminy, you crank.
In some countries, these little bits of horror are considered lucky. I can’t imagine why. Is it lucky because hey, now you know you have excellent hearing what with their constant freaking chirping? You know, like chirp, chirp, chirp HERE I AMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! There is actually a children’s book called The Very Quiet Cricket. That book is a lie. I have never known a a cricket to be quiet except when I’m about to corner the creepy thing and he shuts up, knowing I’m on to him. At the end of the book the cricket finds his voice (spoiler alert) and there is this cute chirping noise and slam, slam, slam goes the book!
Why the AliceRage at these innocent little insects? Well, we’ve recently had a cricket invasion. One cricket found his way in and then shouted out to all his cricket frat buddies “Heyyyyy, guys, come on in! There’s chicks here, I just know it!” And so they came. And they hid in their little holes, each one singing out a song of romance. If I could speak cricket, I’m sure it would sound something like this.
It’s just as annoying in chirps as it is in words, I’m here to tell you. None of them seems to get the idea that there ARE NO FEMALE CRICKETS HERE. Really, keep rubbin’ them wings together (My husband informed me they rub their wings, not their legs, like I give a crap. I’m going to break their legs if I find them.)
I’m not actually a violent person. Well, not against living things, anyway, virtual peeps don’t count. They don’t. Boppo, I’m still coming for you. Anyway, I will genuinely feel bad if I squash out the tiny life of a spider. Not as bad as I would feel if he crawled up my leg, but bad. Yet it’s different with these crickets. These crickets employ a torture method much like Chinese water torture, only with chirps. Chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp! Until you finally go insane. You’re ready to either kill the thing or jam one of those ear cleaners up your ear canal as seen on TV.
We’ve managed to catch a few. Instead of giving them burials at sea (toilet) as any normal person would do, my husband takes them outside, like he’s some sort of Cricket Whisperer or something. Fly, be free cricket! Free to turn right around and come back into my house! I swear they do. There can’t be this many crickets alive in the known world.
My husband thought it’d be a cute idea to tell Thing Two to create “cricket traps” before he left today. Ha ha, yes, thank you. So we have weird contraptions all over the house, baited mostly with marshmallows held over a bucket of water. One of them, though, was a Halloween bucket containing a couple of potato chips set down in a laundry basket with a rope leading from it. And – it worked. It actually worked. She then, just like dad, took it outside and dumped it.
So why don’t I search and find them and stomp them? Because as much as I hate chirping, I’m scared of bugs. I know, it’s stupid, but nothing should have more than two legs, I’m telling you. It’s just wrong. So I guess till then I learn to live with the crickets. Kind of like my comments section on certain days.
crickets . . .
You know how some countries are so restrictive they actually determine what people can name their children? Every once in a while, I think that’s not such a bad idea. Here are some examples of names that get on my nerves.
A common name made fancy by adding random letters. If the kid’s name is Lindsey, for instance, don’t spell it Lynndzziee. It’s annoying, and they’re sure to end up on a stupid reality show like Bachelor Pad.
Trendy names. Please look around and see if there are a thousand other Emilys or Ashleys or Britneys (Brytnees?) out there before naming baby. Otherwise you’ll get a kid who continues to whine as an adult on her blog about how her name is common and she is supposed to use an initial after it, but she won’t, because they can’t make her.
Food names. Apple, Cherry, Candy, Cookie, Yogurt, etc. Someone might eat your kid.
Calling a child by its middle name. People will never get it right. Ever. They’ll be forever called by their first names. They will complain, like my mother and brother do.
Changing boy names into girl names. Ever notice how once a girl gets named something that was once a boy’s name, it forever becomes a girl name? For instance, Kevin is a typical boy’s name. First time you find a girl named Kevin, forget it. All older Kevins will have to deal with people thinking they’re girls. And they’ll whine about it too. I know my father does. We might just be a family of whiners.
Last names as first names. This is really popular these days. Especially the presidential trend. Kennedy, Madison, Reagan, Clinton, Garfield, Bush, etc. What happens if one of these people marries someone with that last name? Hello there, Mrs Kennedy Kennedy, how are you?
Weather Names. Stormy, Sunny, Windy, Rainy, Hurricane, Tornado, etc. If I want to know the weather, I’ll look outside.
Naming all your children similar sounding names. Nicholas and Nicole, for instance. It’s like the same freaking name. Or worse having a Britain, Braxton, and Breydon in the same family. Your kids really don’t have to have matching names. They’re not furniture.
Sparkly names. Rainbow, Star, Love, Angel, Destiny, Unicorn, Effervescent, etc. Just, stop, please.
Vampire names. Speaking of sparkles, if you want to saddle your kid with Edward, fine, but please don’t say it’s from that insipid book. Your kid will figure out he’s named for a fancy, prancy fake vampire his mom had a weird thing for and he’ll hate you.
Naming siblings for lovers. For instance, you have a boy and a girl named Romeo and Juliet. Why would you do that? It’s just icky.
Stupid nicknames. We can’t always control this one, but sometimes people purposely choose to call their kids stuff like “Corky”, “Rusty”, “Chuck”, “Spot” and the biggest offender . . .
Handing down awful names hidden in the middle name. There’s just no reason to give a kid the name Bertha, even if it’s Jennifer Bertha. Let’s just leave that one in the past, shall we?
Naming a child for the place where she was conceived. Would you want to think about your parents and, well, that when you’re a teenager? I didn’t think so. So no naming your kid First Street Diner, no matter how strangely special that place is to you.
So these are my biggest pet peeve names. What are yours?