How Long Has it Been??!!! 14 Minutes???

    

And no, the title of this blog doesn't have a DAMN thing to do with my absence. Yea I know.. it's been an oogle of months since I've put the petal to the medal and "created", but holy hell I just don't have the juice when I need it! It used to be that if a really good blog idea popped into my cranium, I'd stop everything that I was doing, whether that meant interrupting work, wiping my butt, pulling over to the side of the highway, or waking from half a foggy sleep and logging onto a computer.. SOMEWHERE... and just start clickity-clackin away! As of late, when they come, I giggle to myself, put another Cheetoh in my gullet, and check to see what that night's episode of Little House on the Prairie might be, and whether or not it's worth my time.

 

But there comes a time in one's life that you just have to let shit happen. This one has been kind of stuck deep within, and I really feel the need to just let it all out.

Last month was my high school 25 year reunion. OH YEA! TWENTY FIVE enchiladas... the "big" one... well ok, one of the "big" ones. Five years ago I went to my 20 year reunion and honestly, had a lot of fun. I saw a lot of my old classmates at our alma mater's football game, then had a great family BBQ the next afternoon. I came away with a lot of memories and everyone I saw looked great and seemed to be doing well in life. Keep in mind I didn't get any kind of formal invite in the mail, nor did I receive a phone call or hell, even a damn text message from someone saying "Hey Terri... guess what... the big 2-5 is comin up, wanna help us organize, or hell, just show up?" Honestly I would have never known we were HAVING one had it not been for my beloved St. D having a.. well yea, you know what I'm about to say...

A Facebook Account.

Ok. I've made it abundantly clear in past blogs my feelings about the entire FB taking over the world issue- killing what was once my and the entire Western Civilizations "love" of "Myspace". And no, I still to this minute do NOT have a Facebook account nor will I in the future. I mean sure, St. D lets me get on his account to browse pictures and "laugh-stalk" with my sister from time to time, but honestly, I have no desire to get one of my own. As I've stated in the past, my affliction lies mainly with the entire social genre of modern age that "once you love something, watch out.. cus eventually something cooler and better will come along". EASILY FUCKING DISPOSABLE SOCIETY! And to my knowledge, I do not recall a time when I heard "Well if you dont have a Myspace account.. you wont get information, you wont receive copies of photos, you dont get SHIT sucka!" Folks would just say "Oh ok no problem.. what is your email address and I can ship all of that to you toot sweet!" Or better yet, I can mail you this info via good ol fashioned regular US mail! Now-a-days there is this attitude of "Well if you have Facebook great! if you dont, tough shit sucka!"

 

But I HAVE come to peace with the fact that my beloved Myspace is pretty much dead (although this mutha fuckin blog WILL be posted on it.. OH YES IT WILL) and that Facebook and it's whore second cousin "Twitter" is pretty much here to stay, so since this is a fact... and since it's tough "bein on top" sometimes... Facebook gets fingered for the blame in what I'm about to say... (hehehehe.. I said "fingered"... moving on...)

In July, St. D was Facebooking and happened to announce to me, while I sat watching reruns of Seinfeld, Cheetoe-less, that MY HS graduating class was "getting together" in August for my 25th reunion. "Oh really, when?" was all I could muster up at the time. "Ummmm looks like it's the weekend of Aug 5-7". I believe it was about this time that I was thinking "shitty weekend" because a) we had my daughter's college visit on the morning of the 6th and b) her birthday was the 7th. I kept wondering to myself that even though those ARE INDEED two very important issues, why we couldn't go to the get together on Friday night, and still make the broo-ha-ha on the evening of the 6th since her visit was in the morning.

Then it hit me.

I really didn't CARE to go.

But why?

I mean, there isn't one single person that I graduated with that I didn't like. I loved high school.. was popular and all that horse shit. There wasn't some "dude" that I didn't want to "run into" since I married and share a mortgage with my high school sweetie. I pretty much look butt-assed the same as I did not only at the 20 year, but also IN HIGH SCHOOL- plus a few extra pounds, so who cares? I just couldn't understand my sudden "blase" feeling about the entire issue.

And then... "it" hit me again (not sure what the fuck "it" is.. but damn.. kept gittin me...)

 

There truly is no more "magic" to high school reunions anymore. (again, my blog, my opinion, dont like it? suck it!)

Back "in the day", you always kept in touch with maybe a few very close friends from high school. These were the chosen few that you continued to get drunk with at parties, were a bridesmaid or usher in their wedding, made "god parent" at baptisms, met up with on Sundays for tailgates and BBQ's. These were and still are to this day true friends. Could be just one, maybe ten. But they never needed to know what your mutha fuckin Twitter account was cus if they wanted to "tweet" your sorry ass.. they would drive over and walk in your front door and do it in person!

Then, there was "the rest". Not necessarily folks that you didn't like in school per say, but just folks that were "friends back then", and you just drifted off after school. You didn't wish them any ill will, but just really didn't lose much sleep over "losing touch". Some folks had a choice few that they maybe wished dead, and if they never saw their triflin asses again, life would be that much better.

But when it came time for the "reunions"... there was always a little bit of "pomp and circumstance" involved. Maybe you lost 50 lbs since high school (or the last reunion), got VP of sales at the new job, and bleached ya grill. Maybe you are newly divorced, and HOPE that the hot basketball captain's wifey-poo from the last reunion aint in the picture anymore! Maybe you just want the food and booze and to see who your class has tragically lost since the last shin-dig.

But with the majesty of Facebook, where's the mystery? Even if you loathed some fucker back in the day, it seems like the more friends you have on the "book", the better life is, so hell yea you "friend request" said fucker, and some how make amends via the world wide web. Your goal is to have everyone in the class of ---- from ------------------ HS on your friends list. I mean jesus, there are freakin "groups" you can join, "clubs" you can start up, making sure that you NEVER lose touch with ANYONE ever again!

Your entire graduating class, former teachers, and Lou the custodian knows you lost 50 lbs cus you have 318 pics posted of your new wardrobe. Mr. Basketball now looks like a coked out homeless douchebag, so you have no desire to even TRY to claw him away from "Alice" his boo... and considering "Alice" is still thinner than you, and has a better hairstyle (you know this from Basketball Douche's photos), then why bother?

And "whose who on the death list"- NO WORRIES! Cus I'm sure every other day on SOMEONE'S WALL from __________ High School class of _______ , is a "In Memory of _______________ tragically cut down this morning in an unfortunate zebra mauling accident off the coast of Australia..." Forty-two comments of "OMG.. in our prayers" later, a FB memorial site is fired up.

No longer are there questions of "Oh wow Margie! It's been YEARS!!!! Do you have any children?"

Now it's "Oh wow Margie, since I last read your status this morning, how is little Natalie's infected ass boil, and did she cry when you had to have it lanced?"

Replace "MY GOD JOSIE, YOU LOOK WONDERFUL!" with "DAYUM JOSIE GIRL... that extensive gastric bypass surgery for which you had to argue for 10 months with Blue Cross and Blue Shield to allow you to have, resulting in a horrific bowel obstruction HAS MADE A DIFFERENCE! I'm glad to have read that you passed a turd this morning at 8:17am!"

 

So yea.. I dunno...

Social networking has taken a lot of the compelling and often times "fun" "wondering" out of reunions. If I already know what the fuck you are wearing cus you posted 10 pics (from your Droid) on your page announcing to your 718 friends that "this is what I'm wearing to the formal dinner at my reunion tonight!", then what's the point?

Guess I needed to hit that big "New Blog Post" link...

Four months.

 

Holy batshit- it's been four months since I posted a new blog. I vaguely remember a time when I had these sons a bitches beeboppin and scattin off my digits every other day! Not really sure what the issues have been for the "block", but it's quite possibly just lack of motivation for much of anything other than "mom and wife" duties and taking naps when possible. I suppose a more animated lifestyle would bring blog ideas from the left and right, but it could also harbor with it a few incurable STD's and jail time...

Since 2011 sprung upon us, it's difficult to say that it's been a "business as usual" few months- Harold Camping might have predicted the "rapture" (quite shittily I might add- is "shittily" even a word? Not certain, but fuck it, it's a word in my book... moving on...) for May 21st at suppa time, but if you speak to any Japanese citizen, resident of the midwest, or Charlie Sheen, they might question that it's already done occurred. Whereas I do try to find "good" in the world, 2011 has been a headscratcher to say the least, at the very minimium so far. I'd say Mother Nature, in all her whorish ways, is mostly to blame, but you can pencil in psychotic shooters, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and anyone that finds "Jersey Shore" "entertaining" on the list of culprits.

 

But still, in all that is me, I'm genuinely happy with life and the world. I think maybe it's a small tick of a birth defect that allows me to overlook SOME douchebags. It's also possible that because I can vent in writing, it keeps my hand from reaching for that letter opener or pair of scissors, and gutting some a-hole like a fish.

In other words, it's time for me to randomly gripe about shit that has been bothering me- they are random, they dont always make sense, but I really dont give a shit- CLEANSE THIS VENOM OUTTA MY SOUL JESUS...I gotsta make room for the second half of the year somehow!

1) As most know, I work in insurance. Property & Casualty Insurance. Let this be a lesson to you kids- STAY IN SCHOOL! I've spent most of the last few months explaining to my homeowner insureds why their premiums have gone up, and whereas I understand that the general public doesn't understand insurance, and only see their rates going up, I feel it's important to calmly try to explain to them what's happening in our industry- or at the very least have them turn on their local news any given morning and see how the weather's been. I shall illustrate by replaying an actual phone call I received at work this morning...

 

(ringgggg)

Me: "R--- Insurance" (yea, I dont want a bunch of whackadoos knowin where I work)

Client: "Hey there hon.. it's Mr. F------- (it's not Fucktard, but if you wanna insert that name, I wont object).. Say, why is my homeowner insurance premium goin up?"

Me: "Well I hate to break it to you, but everyone's is- honestly these carriers are losing their shirts on home and property insurance- I wish I had better news for you, but it's just what's happening nationwide"

Client: "Huh?"

Me: "Well as you can see every other day, this Spring has been a bear (yea, I said bear...wanted to say a mother fucker, but I have to keep it professional). Last year brought a lot of bad weather and losses to these carriers as well. Everytime you hear of tornados, hail, heavy wind, wildfires, locusts, and diseased toads, an insurance carrier is having to pay big money to fix all of these things, which are all covered perils (minus the locusts and diseased frogs)" Keep in mind that your insurance company as well as just about everyone's writes in these states. So even if Ohio isn't getting hit with a lot of major problems (they are fyi), your company still writes for states that are, such as Alabama, Mississipi, etc..."

Client: "So in other words, we have to pay for the bad guys problems?"

silence

Disgusted Me, but still tryin to keep it real: "Ummmmm well if you are referring to those people who have lost everything due to a catastrophic weather loss, then UMMMM.. yea, I suppose you are having to "pay" for the BAD guys...Say Mr. FUCKER... I'm looking over your loss history and see that in the last 4 years, you have turned in 3 claims, so does that make YOU one of the bad guys?"

silence (BULLLLYAAAAAAA!!!!!)

Jackass: "Well hehehe.. ok..."

 

Seriously kids.. stay in school...

2) Is it just me, or does that one commercial for Snickers Peanut Butter Squares bother anyone else? It portrays some lady in a conference room setting with two tripods behind her, a picture of a young man to the left, a young lady to the right. She cheerfully asks "Now which one of these tasted better?" At this point, two great white sharks start debating with each other, but come to the conclusion that "Alan" (fuck if I remember his name.. I think it was Alan, or Ted, or Walter) "tasted much better". The conference room chick reveals that YES.. Alan had JUST EATEN SNICKERS PEANUT BUTTER SQUARES!!! I dunno.. I try not to be too damn sensative, but that's just freakin gross... (again, these are random... and I have to get these out to cleanse.. so fuck off if you don't agree...)

3) I'm a HUGE NFL fan, and whereas I am hoping that this lockout bullshit can get cleared by summer so I can enjoy another 4-12 season by my Bengals, I'm to a point that I really don't care one way or the other. But the end all, beat all quote of the morning was from the Baltimore Ravens lineman Ray Lewis when he stated on some radio show that he hopes that this all gets resolved or "we are gonna see a huge increase in crime"...

 

Say WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?    

Now I'm not from the po end of the ghettos, but what he's basically stating is that folks dont have anything better to do in the fall and early winter on Sunday afternoons and Monday evenings other than a) watch football or b) bust caps in someone's ass. Apparantly there is no leaves to rake. There are no naps to be taken. There isn't pumpkin patches to visit, malls to shop at, kids to play with. If professional football ceases to exist this year, people are gonna be rhymin and stealin in drunkin states- raping, pillaging, smokin crank, and takin old lady's purses. I truly hate this loud mouth idiot, but I suppose I'm not that surprised since he "got out of" a murder rap back in 2000.

4) St. D and myself have really gotten into some of the shows out there regarding "survival", "stalking", "disappearing", and what not. I'd rather watch someone talk of their will to survive a brutal attack and live to tell about it than Khloe and Lamar. And as distressing as some of these shows can be, I truly believe that they have a message- "Disappeared" sheds light on missing person's cases that have grown cold; "I Survived" gives viewers the hope that, God forbid if EVER put in a horrific situation, dont lose hope; "Stalked" gives me ideas.... (bahaha.. ok, that was uncalled for, but it is a good show... moving on...)

But there is one in particular that I have watched that I'm just not sure about- I (Almost) Got Away With It explores fugitives on the run... how some of these badasses (wearing Ray Lewis jerseys I would imagine) ALMOST got away with their crimes. I suppose we the viewers are supposed to be transfixed on how great a job law enforcement does to finally bring these b-holes to justice, but to me, all it does is accentuate how they ALMOST let these mutha fuckas get away. Plus they allow these criminals to help narrarate the show.. "Yea, after I shot the baby, I grabbed her sippy cup of juice for nourishment, then stole her dead mamma's car and booked it on outta there before the police arrived..."

I really don't care for any show that gives these convicted douchebags ANY kind of voice. Wear your orange jumpsuit and take it in the ass by "Thor" like a good little boy and fade off into oblivion.

I'm suddenly beginning to feel a little better.

 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to begin planning my "save Jim Tressel's job or I'll set my hair on fire with gasoline" stunt...

"And keep your fancy learnin to yourself!"

I vividly remember, many moons ago, having my little 8 year old heart race after Christmas break, third grade.  It was like any other normal Monday- salt clung to my Kmart snowboots, I took my knit cap off to the glowing rage of "static hair", back before I discovered Sprunch Spray, and hung it up in my shared locker next to my winter coat and brand new matching scarf and mitton set.  Something was going to be "different" today- Mrs. Talcroft had mentioned to us since early September that "after winter break, we would be learning something new".  I was always up for the challenge of learning "sumthin new", but it was usually met with a tinge of anxiety, apprehension.

"Class, I have placed a fresh sheet of printing line paper on each of your desks.  Please take out your #2 pencils, make sure they are sharpened, and today, we are going to begin our lesson in cursive writing."

Cursive writing.

Just like the "big kids" wrote.  Just like I saw my parents write when they had to sign papers for school, our grocery store account receipt, and anything from the government.

Would I be up for the challenge?  It was difficult to comprehend because for the first 3 years of my structured educational existance, I learned, and mastered quite satisfactorily, the standard American Block form of handwriting and print.  My "K's" might as well have been drafted by a T-square ruler- NO ONE could put the little line in the "Q's" quite as nifty as myself.  I remember getting an "E" for "Excellent" on my report cards in handwriting, but now, all of that was going to fall by the wayside for something new- something more challenging.  But we never questioned the new turn of events in our educational curriculum.  Because at 8 years old, we were about to learn something that almost reflected some kind of ritualistic passage into higher learning.  Soon after cursive, we would be writing book reports, having to draft mock letters to our congressmen, go to the blackboard and write answers to oral exams...ALL IN CURSIVE PRINT!

Not surprisingly, there has been a lot of talk in the news as of late about whether or not this artistic form of writing should even be taught.  "Let's face it, kids these days really don't USE it anymore, so why waste valuable "standardized testing" study time on something that will get lost on them as they get older?   And quite frankly, I'm quite open for the debate!  I recall about 2 years ago my youngest daughter doing her homework.  She asked her older sister to help her with something, and somehow, in between calling each other a "jackass" and "doucher" (where do they get this behavior?), my beloved eldest mentioned, half non-chalantly, about "why are you even writing in cursive anymore?  You won't HAVE to once you get to high school!"

That statement started me thinking about the "importance" of taking the time to teach our younger generations a writing technique that has lasted for centuries.  I mean, let's face it, how often do we, as adults, actually hand WRITE anything anymore, unless it's to sign our life away?  If it's not something that can be electronically transferred via a keyboard, then how important can it really be?  Over the years, my handwriting has suffered immensely due to lack of usage.  My oldest daugher, BRILLIANT beyond any comprehension, has an almost indecipherable handwriting, which is NOT cursive FYI.  I used to strain to read her notes when I would help her study for tests and wonder how, ON EARTH, her teachers could read her handwriting.  But the arguement can be made that even in written cursive, it varies from person to person so much that where one person is considered to have mastered impecible penmanship, another's looks like cave writings from the stone age.

We live in a society that "easier has GOT to be BETTER".  I mean honestly, why take the time to teach young children a way of writing when it's OBVIOUSLY going to be lost on them by 9th grade?  Just make a barbaric "X", written in red crayon, an acceptable means of a personal signature.  With technology out inventing itself by leaps and bounds, why not use that valuable 3rd-4th grade teaching time to teach how to update your Facebook status or get your innermost feelings across in 140 characters or less, since that seems to be the "norm".

I suppose, while we are at it, we could also stop teaching basic arithmatic skills since we have calculators smarter than NASA to figure out simple addition and multiplication for us- available at any neighborhood CVS. 

And really, why learn about the Pyramids of Ancient Egypt?  Or Ancient Egypt for that matter?  Who really is ever going to be able to GO there?  Or even appreciate their existance?

I really don't recall ever needing to know spherical trigonometry past Mrs. Snelling's 12th grade pre-Trig class, or having to know what the periodic table symbol for Scandium was unless Otto Hoffman was having a pop quiz that day.

My point being- where is the challenge?  So what if we are eventually going to "forget" or "not need" the information anymore?  It was a right of passage (or "write" of passage if I wanted to get really cheeky) from being one of the "little"kids to being taken a little more seriously as a student, when Mrs. Talcroft told us to sharpen those #2's.  I remember struggling the first few weeks, but practicing until I had it down fairly well.  I remember penning one of my first creative writing poems in "big kid cursive", and feeling a sense of accomplishment, not just for the poetry, but for how it was written.  I remember getting my social security card in the 5th grade (yea, damn, back in the day when it took awhile to encode you with your permanent life marker) and actually having to SIGN it in cursive.  Nothing made me feel more official.

So do I write in cursive anymore?

Not really.  I find myself writing a few things here and there in cursive format, but printing when it starts looking unreadable.

But I learned it.

Just like I learned about the Council of Trent and how to properly and safely use a bandsaw.



Just like I learned to dribble a basketball in PE and bake a pineapple upside down cake.

I learned to use paper mache but I'm not an artist.

I learned musical notation but never made it as a composer.

I found writing a theme about Harry Truman boring, but I discovered the joys of creative expression, even without having become a famous author.

Technology is a blessing and curse.  Before we take what was basic education and turn it into a thing of the past, make sure our children at least know how they can voice their opinion- write to someone to complain.

Preferably in cursive 

And this just in... the remain of Jimmy Hoffa HAVE been found!

(originally written a couple of years ago- the message still very important, so I'm sharing it with hopefully a new audience...enjoy!)

I turn 40 in a few months.  In all honesty, and I believe that I can say this sincerely, it doesn’t bother me in the least!  I know that 30 didn’t bother me, and other than a cute little surprise party planned by St. D with all of our family, I looked at that milestone as merely another warm June day.  I mean sure, I was surrounded by black balloons, vulture and casket cut outs, and "Over the Hill" confetti, but my main concern that day was making sure that I got the last piece of Marion’s pizza and that my little Abbey, age 1 1/2,  didn’t get her hand stuck in the "Claw Game" door (again)...

It has become an oh-so surreal reality that I should be taking better care of myself... no... really! (hold while I grab the last chunk of Otis Spunkmeyer Blueberry Mammoth Muffin that just fell on my lap... hold... ok... GOT IT!)  I have seen all too clearly that, regardless of how many times we go and get "checked out", that life can throw us curveballs- those crippling kind that break someone’s huge bay picture window, leaving us holding shattered pieces of glass and nothing more than shere memories of the past, and vague wonderment of "what could have been"’s.  As a woman, it doesn’t stop with the annual "Lube & Grope" appointments with our OB/GYN’s- as important as they are, the buck doesn’t stop with that office copay.

I realized that despite having a normal BP reading... I needed to start looking into having my cholesterol and thyroid checked, and having a baseline colonoscopy.  Despite what most of you jackasses might be thinking.. the idea of having a 72 foot tube snaked up my bunghole does NOT thrill me in the least, but I understand it’s importance and, since I have a family history of colo-rectal cancer, I figured it a tick important to at least have some kind of initial screening.

My family doctor agreed and put in a "good word" to Dayton’s Digestive Specialists.  I got a phone call shortly after to come in and go through an initial consult, and they would book me an appointment from there.  I was surprised at how quickly they were able to get me scheduled, and was told that this past Wed. would be a perfect time to get cornholed by machinery.  I was given the "prep" kit (well ok, not given, shelled out $10 for some saline solution, Dulculax tablets (for which I have at home), and a nifty Digestive Specialist tote bag), and told to follow the directions PRECISELY as written in order to ensure a CLEAN, HEALTHY CLEANSING....

Now I understood what I was in for- I mean, St. D had his ass Stanley Steamer’d in May of 06.  I remember his "cleansing" day because, as I sat here at work working on a burger and fries for lunch, he would call me every 15 minutes to announce that he was "going"... AGAIN...

St. D: "OMG honey... it’s horrible... OHHH THE HUMANITY....you there honey???"
Me: "Yea honey, sorry, just finishing up the last of my Big Mac... boy, hehehehehe, I shouldn’t have Super Sized... ya know...?"
St. D: "OMG honey... it’s horrible!!!.... I can’t eat, and I’m starving, and there are things coming out of me that just aren’t normal!!!"
Me: (sound of slurping through a straw)... "Yea, ok honey... finishing up my McFlurry..  I will see you when I get home... k?"

I knew what was in store.  I even stratgically looked at the "Things You Can "eat" During Cleansing Day" menu, and decided to be creative and make it a fun adventure.   I purchased my Sugar Free Jello (no red or purples), my orange popcycles, my FAVORITE Propel Fitness Water flavors... and I was SET TO GO!
Tuesday morning didn’t start too bad.  After having taken the Dulculax tablets Monday night, I awoke to the releasing of the hounds before I even had to take the girls to school.  "Well damn!!!! It’s not even noon!  This will be a snap!Besides, I’m not a breakfast eater anyways, and I have been known to be able to skip lunch on some occasions..."

Come 9:38am, I felt as if I had been wondering the Sahara Desert for 17 days.  "WHAT THE SHIT?"  If I were at work, I wouldn’t have given food a second thought!  I decided sitting down to television, wrapped in a snuggly blanket, would take my mind off of being hungry.  Nineteen KFC and 38 cereal commercials later, I contemplated eating my gym shoe... or the dog...."Jesus I can’t do this... I can’t watch commercials anymore!!!!!"  I dubbed any advertising firm in the free world the anti-Christ, and chose to zoom in on commercial-free reruns of the Sopranos on I-Control.   "Very cool, no commercials, just a lot of F-bombs and "busting caps"...

The first scene of the first episode viewed pictured Tony and his crew sitting down to a huge spaghetti and meatball dinner, complete with Italian bread and a huge green salad.  After cursing God, Allah, James Gandolfini, Carmella for all of her excellent Italian cooking, and David Chase, it was decided it might be a good idea to eat some of that yummy lime jello that I made the night before.. just to take the edge off- Funny how it’s difficult to enjoy yummy lime jello when it’s still sitting in your cabinet, dry and powdered, because your sorry ass forgot to make it up the night before.  I decided it best to simply pour the powdered mixture into my mouth, and swoosh it around a tick... "gelatin" is SOOOOO overrated....

I began yelling at the dog for having to urinate.  I contemplated smashing my toes into the baseboards to take the hunger away, and replace it with skin-crawling pain.  It was now 9:52am...
Several hours, one LONG nap, and about 715,914 curse words later, it was time to take the "stuff"- the saline shit that you mix with a clear beverage of your choice... I mixed 1.5 oz of this in about 17 gallons of lemon flavored Propel water... and it still tasted like I was supping on a fucking salt lick.  I asked St. D when he thought it might "kick in"... he answered "about an hour after you take it"... Fifty-nine minutes and 47 seconds later... I lost things from my digestive system that I hadn’t eaten since Kindergarten.  A Twinkie that I ate in 1978 emerged from my loins, as did Amelia Earhart’s shoe, one of Van Goh’s last paintings, and my dignity... St. D jokingly asked me if I was "taking the Brown’s to the Super Bowl".... my precious husband and eldest child had earlier attended a meeting for our "Relay for Life" walk team at my friend’s home, and decided that all of her home cooking shouldn’t go to waste...they brought in homemade Sloppy Joes, green bean casserole, cheesty potatos, and choclate iced pound cake.  They lovingly left the styrophone plate with about 5 pieces of cake on it wrapped in see-through plastic wrap on the counter, for me to pass as I crawled into the kitchen from time to time, on my hands and knees...  It was at that time I wished myself dead....

By the time Wed. morning rolled around, I believe I was too dehydrated and delerious to even care anymore.  I had lengthy conversations with myself about politics, Barbie Dolls, and whether or not Melissa Gilbert has had a nose job.  I longed for raw red cabbage, cherry koolaid, or even cherry rolaids.  I forced myself to take the LAST of the saline enima... and drank the salty confection as if I was eating a Wendy’s frostie.  I chose to pass some time before my appt. by actually bathing- if only to soak my now raw ass.  St. D made it home, and we were off to the doc’s....

I wish the actual procedure was nearly as prose-worthy as the "getting ready", but it really isn’t.  Only word of advice- whatever you do DO NOT make eye contact with the "camera".  They brought in a 103 foot black hose that looked like it had been a stunt double in the movie Anaconda... I asked the nurse if "that" was "it"... she laughed and said "YEP... that’s him".  I felt unnerved until a beautiful stream of narcotic entered into my pierced vein.  I don’t remember a thing, except waking up in a cozy little recovery room, surrounded by the sounds of old folks next to me farting, oh wait.. that’s me...

One small polyp removal later (I’ve named him "Spot")... I’m happy to say I’m "fine".  The doctor stated that everything looked fine, and saw "no cancer".  I’ve resumed eating, and I’m sure, in about another week, I will start having "potties" again...I can fart and no one thinks much else of it because I’m simply releasing the 14 pounds of air that was shot up my asshole during the procedure.

I also know, regardless of the outcome of "Spot", that I did the right thing.  I made a promise to my grandfather 5 years ago as he lay in a nursing home bed, dying of colo-rectal cancer that I would get checked routinely.   I will do it again three years from now, and probably off and on the rest of my life.  I didn’t just make him a promise, but myself as well.  I can now check a colonoscopy off of my "to do" list this year... and next is a simple blood test to check my cholesterol and thyroid.

Life is beautiful- curveballs be damned!

Whose turn was it to do laundry?

I recycle.

Mind you I'm not looking for any kind of metal, although a gift card to Cracker Barrel is always welcome.  But I say this because before reading on, just note that I'm all for trying to keep as little as possible out of the crater-sized pits that we lovingly refer to as "landfills".  St. D, myself, and the little Pav-ettes recycle all plastic and glass waste that we come across, and salvage every aluminum soda can to give to Pappa-P (aka my father in law) for "cash-in".  It makes me feel good at the end of the day to know that, for every layer of Ozone I diminish on any given morning with my Aussie Sprunch Spray usage, I can at least keep the family sized glass mega jar of Prego from becoming someone else's backyard garden.

But as with anything else, there has to be some sort of line drawn in the sand- a limit to how far I or anyone else should go to keep garbage from becoming well, "garbage". 

I was lazily reading our Wednesday edition of The Dayton Daily News when I got to the "Life" section.  Always one of my favorite sections of the paper other than the obituaries, I saw an eye-catching title- "An earth friendly approach to feminine hygiene".  It shows an over-abundantly happy young lady, approx. 19 years of age, on the front cover holding an illustrated "recycle" symbol surrounding a "female" icon.  I suppose I wasn't as intrigued about reading as much as I WASNT intrigued about moving off the sofa, so I proceeded to read the article to appear to be "busy".

Now let me forwarn any reader about the upcoming subject matter- I'm going to talk about "menstration".  I would think my male readers can handle the subject since most of you are well beyond the age of 11 where you and your buddies would "tee hee" in sex ed class, but I'm not completely convinced.  I might offer too much information about the following- clotting, flow, heavy saturation... if you can't handle it, I suggest you click on your "home" page never to return to this blog again!  If I ever experience prostate issues, jock itch, or erectile dysfunction, I will gladly sit over a brewskie and shoot the shit with ya...

Apparantly a woman by the name of Madeleine Shaw, a former fashion designer in Canada (eh?), has come up with a way to not only save Mother Earth from the whiles of waste, but to JAZZ UP that time of the month that most women lay around in gray sweats and oversized sweatshirts anyways.  Ms. Shaw has founded a company called Lunapads, a company that sells reusable pads.

I said REUSABLE pads.





According to Ms. Shaw, there are 85,000,000 women of menstration age in North America, and among all of us Western Civilians, we conger up about 250-300 pounds of "Aunt Flo" waste in a lifetime.  Her grand idea is to market a "reusable" pad that can velcro itself into your cotton lined granny panties and, once "soiled", can simply be removed and thrown into the laundry.  She is quoted as saying "They're about as hard to wash as a pair of socks".  They come in various sizes, ranging from pantyliner small to "say honey, hand me that beachtowel",  and a bevvy of bright and fashionable colors, with groovy flower prints and Easter Egg colored pastels.  Their cost- $50.99 for a three pack with an "average" life of about 5 years.

Before we go ANY further... let me chime in.  Whereas I suppose the initial "concept" is noble, the reality of the entire situation doesn't sit well with me. 
They come in a 3-pack- Any woman who has ever had a period can tell you that the average "curse" will last you from 4-6 days, with about 2-3 of those days flowing like a fucking beer keg.  Now unless I want to do 4 loads of laundry a day, my guess is you'd be wise to purchase at least four of these "3-packs" just to make sure that I have a)a clean lunapad to put on after I scoop up the filthy one and b) I have enough of the "right sizes" for my current need.  I'm now looking at an initial investment of $203.96, not including I'm sure some kind of Canadian-moose tax PLUS shipping and handling.  Between me and my female cohabitants, we go through a "package" of disposibles once a month- I spend about $5.50 on said package, which in essence costs me $66.00 a year.  In five years, I would say I spend about $330.00 making someone at Kotex very happy.  So whereas I would still be about $100.00 ahead (over the course of 5 years mind you) if I invest in Ms. Shaw's brain child,  let's discuss how much extra water we're using at the Pav household keeping these bad-boy's clean. I can guaran-fuckin-tee you that throwing a few of my DNA encrusted Lunie's into the wash with everyone's hoodies and blankies would cause a much deserved disgust, which means I would most likely have to wash the sons of bitches "by themselves"...  I've had yet for anyone to bitch about putting our filthy socks in with the towels, know- what- I- mean?

She also goes onto say that for those critics that find this idea "yukky", just imagine the "yukky" chemicals that are going into our sanitary napkin products and filling up our landfills.  Not for anything Ms. Shaw (who I'm now starting to envision as walking around with no makeup, a flowing Joan Biaz skirt, unshaven armpits, and some kind of body odor), but looking at these beautifully colored Lunapads, what kind of dye ya usin to pertify these bad boys up?  I see blues and blacks, pinks and reds... these all natural?

Just when you think I'm finished.. there's more!  As to not exclude my "plugger" sisters, Ms. Shaw has a tampon for you! 

The Divacup.





Yes, you read it properly- the Divacup.  The name itself pisses me off from the get-go.  The marketing folks at Lunapad must have sat around some big conference table saying to themselves "Yes Pete... let's call it the DIVA cup.. that will appeal to females far and abraoad!"

The article explains, underneath the creepy picture of said device, that the Divacup's job is to COLLECT... rather than ABSORB.  Now, not being a fellow "plugger", nor have I ever been, I really can't testimonialize tampons or their absorbancy.  I'm sure those women that DO use tampons use them because they work for them.  Soak that shit up, pull the cute little string, and insert new!  I've always been amazed at how well these sons of bitches must work because, I can tell you, that Tampax must use some kind of top secret government cotton to grab and hold that shit.  But the idea of inserting this plastic little "cup", and yes, the picture indicates it's about the third of  the size of a shot glass, and "catching" all of that unused goop, only to "hold it" until you "empty" it, leaves my salivary glands on active dry heave duty.  Whereas Lunapad provides you with a cute little draw string "bag" to house said device when not in use, it doesn't appear that the cup itself has a string or any kind of "exit" clasp.  Which leads me to believe whenever you have to dispell it, a good quick SNEEZE should do the trick...

And clean up?  Simple soap and water my friends!  Empty your endometrian lining and it's fluid based gravy into the toilet, go over to the family bathroom sink where everyone brushes their teeth, clean it up (make sure to wash all the nooks and crannies so that the stank disappears), and shove that bad boy right back on-up there, but only AFTER you dry it off on Jr's face towel....Cost of the Divacup- $34.99...

Ms. Shaw stated that the idea hasn't "taken off" in the US as of yet (no shit lady- you gave us Tim Hortons, and we thank you, but just leave it at that!).  She's hoping that "getting the word out there" will help, plus the unconfirmed claims that by using her reusable products, you will experience a "lighter and shorter" cycle (possible fucking mutated "non-chemicals" in your product.. sounds like a gift from the Devil honey).  She also wants women to stop thinking of their cycle in terms of "garbage".  "It's more than just an implicit culture of we take our menses and use disposable products... We're basically treating it (our periods), as garbage, but our period is really INCREDIBLE!  It has the power to bring LIFE into the world".

It was about then that I envisioned myself setting this fucking freak on fire.  Not for anything, but our period does NOT have the power to bring LIFE into the world Ms. Shaw.  LACK OF PERIOD does, but not our period.  If Flo comes to town, face it, the egg didn't split.  It fucking died from lack of fertilization and is now ready to become landfill- learned that in the 5th grade, well ok, except for maybe the landfill part, but you catch my drift.

I have decided that my battle to recycle will remain strictly with glass, plastic (that hasn't been shoved up my twat), and cans.  I'll continue to kill Mother Earth with my unfertilized zygotes and bloody cotton wads.  I'll save my family the years of mental anguish of NOT having to throw my soiled Lunapads in with their jeans and baby-doll tees.

But thanks for the laugh Ms. Shaw... and the blog idea.

And remember....

Have a HAPPY PERIOD!

Shoes

Several months after my best friend Jody passed away, her daughters made a request to her girlfriends- "Ya know, mom would want you guys to go through all of her clothes and shoes to see if there is anything you would like before we take them down to the battered women's shelter".  A fitting tribute really for a phenomenal lady- take care of your friends and family first, then take care of those that can't always take care of themselves.

So the weekend before Thanksgiving, 2008, we gathered at our friend Marsha's house for a deliciously prepared spaghetti dinner, complete with some NFL football game on the telly, lots of chatter and laughter, enough food to feed a third world country, or at the very least our brood, and a lot of sharing of memories.  It was the first time most of us had gathered together since her funeral, and it was theraputic to say the least.  After dinner was over and the guys settled into another room, we girls sat around in a circle and began going through storage bins of sweaters, dresses, capris, shoes and handbags, sharing heartfelt stories of "remember when she wore this sweater to Sam's Club and she got into a pissing match with some ya-hoo that took her parking space!" and "Holy crap!  She wore this dress on her trip to Colorado with Stephen for the military ball!" 

We took turns sharing and laughing- trying on shoes and pants.  There were a few tears through the belly laughs, a couple of hugs.  I believe the half a loaf of garlic bread that I had engulfed prior to our starting had made its way to my feet because as I came to her shoe collection, I noticed some of them fitting a big snuggly, but I staked my claim to a few pair anyways, figuring a good diaretic and jog around the block might allow me the pleasure of avoiding having to buy new ones myself.


Fast forward to present day life.



Our Relay for Life walk was this past Friday at the high school, and as not to disappoint, Mother Nature found a way to cast her furry- thunderstorms and near record breaking cold spells reared their ugly heads about 3 hours into the walk, but we were able to do some earlier in the evening.  Preparing for the walk this year seemed like a complete blur to me- I really didn't do much of anything other than collect my family's money for the walk and serve a few BBQ sandwiches at our Quarter Auction.  I looked around at all of the soon to be lit luminaries and realized that I had forgotten to buy them this year.  Surely there would be one for Jody- I mean really, the last couple of years she had at least a couple!  But as we made our way around the track, my eyes never saw her name.  I remember getting a little pit in my stomach thinking to myself "you have got to be KIDDING me!?"

I never uttered a word, but I felt bad.  I felt like maybe she had been forgotten, if only for this event.  This is the freakin Relay for Life for Cancer and she didn't have a luminary in her honor?  And it was about this time that I happened to look down.

My shoes.

Her shoes.

That clean, perfectly white pair of size 9 Keds that I found at the bottom of a storage bin that November afternoon in 2008 were now stretched out, grass stained...

Worn.

Her shoes have taken me places.

They've journeyed with me through my year long Weight Watchers endevour- walking and running through muddy reserve trails, down rock covered paths.  They protected me through my first bouts of "jogging" (used loosley, but yea, I can actually jog a little without keeling over), and I do believe at times I can hear her laughter, especially when my little jogs would break into Olympic sprints upon St. D mentioning that he "thought he saw a snake under that log you just passed"

They mow my lawn and plant my garden.

They have accompanied me to quick trips to the grocery store, Sunday morning PSR drives, and "Hey, can you go to CVS cus we're outta milk" runs.

The soles are worn, and there a little pieces starting to break off inside, but they are the most comfortable filthy shoes I've ever owned.

I realized that the luminary wasn't any match to where she has accompanied me.

How fitting that the luminaries couldn't really be lit due to the rain, but my shoes stayed on my feet until we got home and I was ready for sleep.

She was there.  She is always

Survived by a merry band of whackadoos!

I lost my grandmother last week.

Unlike my car keys, virginity (pause for sarcastic thought processes galore), and sanity, I assure you I didn't lose her in my traditional scatter-brained way.  She passed away in her warm cozy bed at Brookdale Retirement Center at the ripe ol' age of 91 years.  Whereas I had been pretty lax in visiting her regularly, I always managed to see her on birthdays, occasionally on holidays, and had a pretty impressive hospital run over the years since she seemed to treat those like they were all expense paid vacations to Club Med.  St. D and myself offered to pick her up and drive her to our annual family reunions, but were pleasantly relieved of that duty after we were 0 for 2 in making sure we had everything necessary for a "day out on the town" of oxygen.

Her viewing and funeral was this past Monday.  It was filled with the traditional soft smiles, hugs, "I'm so sorry" from caring and generally concerned family and friends.  I would have preferred a wine and cheese table (as would she I'm sure), but the death care industry is as tight with "social mores" as a Catholic mass, so we settled for a very traditional, quiet service.  As I walked to her casket with my mother and sister, I didn't get the same overwhelming anxiety that most get when in the same circumstance.  My cousin did her hair and makeup, and quite frankly she looked beautiful (dead, but pretty damn spiffy).  I kept waiting for some sense of sadness to rush over me.

But it never happened.

And it still hasn't.

So I have to ask myself, what the HELL is wrong with me?

I had always considered myself pretty damn lucky to have had my grandparents for as long as I did.  At St. D and my wedding, I have photos taken of us at the alter with THREE of my grandparents, as did St. D. I remember even then thinking how incredibly lucky we both were.  But as time went by, we began losing them.  Dan's paternal grandparents lived to be in their early 90's, his maternal grandmother mid 80's.  Same with my maternal grandfather and paternal grandmother.  But my Grandma Midge was quite the spitfire.  She had knocked on death's front door quite a few times over the last several years, but got denied at the entrance (probably a "union" thing- unpaid membership fees, who the eff knows).  I remember hugging my grandpa and my mom's younger sister at the hospital when they "didn't think she'd make it", only to stare slack jawed the next day while she ate a meatloaf dinner and sat in her hospital bed requesting Tapioca pudding and plush slippers.  Then, years later, hugging my grandma as my grandpa neared his last breath, and the same when my mom's younger sister passed away quietly.  "Well ya know, mom was never supposed to outlive dad and Doreen"- well yea, guess what suckas... she did!

My Grandma Midge was not your "cookies and milk" grandma that kissed your scraped knee because you didn't listen and decided to play in the 3 inch space behind the garage and back fence.  She would sigh heavily while spraying the Bactine on your wound, and reminded you that THAT is why we DONT PLAY BACK THERE.  She would happily get the 1967 Barbie Camper and dolls down so that you could play with them, but "MAKE SURE YOU PICK THEM UP AND DONT LOSE ANYTHING!!!  Doreen has had those a LONG time... ya hear?"

My grandpa met her in a bar back in the late 40's.  My mother's biological mother passed away while giving birth to my mom, and after sometime, my grandfather, being a man in his early 20's with a little baby, decided to try the "dating scene" again.  My Grandma Midge herself a young widow with a son and daughter of her own decided to get "Brady Bunch" with Grandpa, and they made it offical on July 28th, 1950.  A decade later they welcomed a daughter together, and life as a lower middle class family was set.  Through the years, her "gritty" personality shorn through to those that knew her, but underneath it all, I always wanted to believe that there was a cup of hot chocolate and a story to be read waiting for me, but alas, it never came. 

But that was Grandma Midge.  It wasn't that she didn't care, or didn't "love"- that was simply her personality, and as I grew up, I realized that it's often difficult to where several masks through life.  You are who you are, and you do the best you can around that notion.

I think maybe the last few years of her life have been the most educational for me.  Sitting with her during a visit, I was always astounded by clarity of memories past.  She would tell me the story of her first husband, and his "cheatin ways" as if she saw him in front of her- down to the last detail of what she had on the day she threw his "sorry butt out".  She would chuckle at herself remembering stories of her childhood, of her "bar-hopping" days and how, when my Aunt Jane was a baby, my grandmother, newly widowed, would leave Jane in her crib with a bottle and go downstairs to drink.  When the place got raided, she escaped through a staircase that not many knew about, and back upstairs to "check" on the baby.  I would laugh with her, thanking her for putting my boozing ways into prospective, and that, even though not blood related, we had some kind of "bond" with the bottle.  She would always ask how my girls were doing in school, reminding me that they get their "smarts" from HER, and stop just long enough to gossip with me about the "annoying chatter box down in room 312".

I last saw her on December 30, 2010.  Something in me decided to go and buy her some Sutter White Zin, and "celebrate" New Years early.  I stopped in after work, and noticed that she wasn't quite herself.  She began fairly unresponsive, but a potty break later, and once I presented her with the best "cheap" wine that Sutter Vineyards can provide, her eyes lit up and asked me to drink with her.  She regailed me with the same stories of her bar-hoppin days that I had heard several times before, but I didn't mind.  I took a small sip with her to make her happy, but enjoyed more so the look of happiness and content as the sweet nectar of the vine found its way to her small aging lips, refreshing her if only for a moment.  As I hugged her goodbye, she squeezed me tight, and told me she loved me- words that I had grown used to hearing from her only in the last few years.  Words that confirmed what I "sorta already knew" in childhood, but rarely heard spoken.

Grandma Midge wasn't a lady.  She was a broad.

She wasn't cookies and milk.  But she made a mean homemade "pot pie".

She let the frustrations of her life glare through.  But you always knew where she stood and how she felt about you.

I guess the lack of tears isn't as much a "lack of caring", but maybe a quirkey reflection of the personality that was her life.




A tough old dame that has probably already gotten St. Peter and 90% of Heaven punch drunk on cheap booze.

Save a place for me Grandma.  And until then....

I do love you.

I Got Dibs on Buzzsaw!

I remember the first time I happened upon the 1987 "Sci-Fi thriller" that Paul Michael Glaser directed titled "The Running Man".  This was no where NEAR the genre of film that I found appealing, but at the time was still dating St. D, and tried to appeal to his movie watching style in exchange for him having to sit through "chick flicks" with me. (Ok, wait one mother effing second here.... "chick flicks" have never been my "thang", so I sat through all of that bullshit in exchange for begging him to take me to see "Die Hard" and "Silence of the Lambs"... well fuck me and call me Katie... moving on....)

Nevertheless, I remember watching with a hint of admiration for such an exaggerated sense of the macabre.  Who would have thunk it- convicted criminals with a last shot of redemption for freedom- if they could punch, claw, and kick in the nuts any and all unspeakable obsticles, human or indifferent.  Naturally it was all a gimick for a "reality" (perish the thought) TV program that would allow the world's human garbage to perish in front of our very eyes, all the while enjoying the sinful bounty that is wagering and gambling.  The only way that the story line was going to relish any resemblence of a "hero" was to show the audience, in advance, that the next group of "contestants" were completely innocent of any wrong doing, thereby allowing us the guilt-free privledge of rooting the "Schwarz" and his possee on through Richard Dawson and fictitious media station ICS's relentless obsticle course of death, doom, and high ratings.

As frightening and ridiculous as it seemed just a mere 24 years ago, think ahead to well.. NOW.  Over the last few years, I often find myself daydreaming about Mr. Glaser and "The Running Man", and how absolutely CLOSE we are to achieving such a horrific epiphany.  I think it first began with such game shows as "Fear Factor"- think about it.  What began as most likely a way to have folks face their fears, all in the name of "correcting some glitch in their inner psyche" for big cash prizes, became a "how disgusting and gross can we make this for ratings?"  I remember someone on the show being deathly afraid of snakes (I'm with ya brother), only to have to lay in a glass terrarium, STRAPPED down, and have a plethy of boa constrictors and pythons dumped on him because, according to the show archives, "We figured they would be LEAST likely to bite..."  Stooping to alltime "lows" were when contestants were made to eat live maggots without throwing up- I personally can't think of too many folks that ARENT afraid of doing that shit, so really, what was the point?  (Oh yea... the "grossology factor"... thus a more suitable name for this dipshit concept of a show).

I never watched this show, yet how did I know about these particular "stunts"?  Because it was plastered on entertainment shows and the internet for all the world to see, whether they wanted to or not. 

We have become a society of goldfish observers, all the while hoping one day WE can be the guppy floating around the shit filled bowl- as long as the price is right &/or we can accomplish our 15 minutes.  Dignity and pride fall by the wayside in place of "fame" and wealth.  We really dont give a shit who gets hurt in the process, and actually encourage violence or misfortune for better ratings. 

Yet why do we, the fishtank observers, keep watching?  Let's face it, if we didn't "tune in", ratings would falter.  Advertising dollars would shrink, and TV stations would have no choice but to drop you like a bad habit in search of "another direction".  I'll tell you why we watch- because we all (myself included) get off on the idea of watching people act like more of an idiot than we think we may be.  We really don't care that the Heidi Montages and Spencer Pratt's of the world become rich (I refuse to utter the word "famous") as long as we can point, laugh and feel just a SMIDGE better about ourselves in the long run.  The only "good" to come of such falicies is the new genre of "point and laugh" shows such as "The Soup" and "Tosh.0"- and yet, even with such ratings grabbers MAKING FUN OF YOU ON NATIONAL TV, people still come back, hoping for the quick buck or endorsement deal.  ("Hey... I was on TV last night... yea, I know it was Daniel Tosh making fun of me for being a complete dipshit and asshole, but hey.. I WAS ON TV LAST NIGHT!)

But just like the captivating story born of Stephen King and brought to life by Mr. Glaser over two decades ago, the comparisons are eerily familiar.  Whereas The Running Man's concept was to "offer freedom" to unsuspecting criminals in exchange for a "good show", "reality" television and game shows of today offer any dipshit that is willing to look like a horses ass on the boob tube in exchange for "fame and fortune".  It's watchable because these morons KNOW what they are getting into, yet don't give two shakes of their own piss (would even drink it if it got em to the bonus round) about looking like a fool, as long as their friends and family can TVO the virtual stripping of any and all pride and dignity.  Every last one of them whores to fame and fortune and, with any LUCK, will spiral into a life of destitution and sustance abuse, only to be cannanized if they are fortunate enough to "make it back up the ladder" to a life that somewhat resembles civility.


But even more sad are those that really dont ASK for the whore but just accidently back into it.  Nothing speaks truer than the infamous "man with the golden voice" Ted Williams.  I remember last week thinking to myself how incredibly cool his story was- a homeless man, self-admitted former drug addict and alcoholic, panhandling on the street corners of Columbus OH, only to be "discovered" by a Columbus Dispatch videographer for his incredibly smooth "radio" voice.  It actually made me feel "warm and fuzzy" and figured it was a nice way to start off a new year (prior to the horror that was the Arizona shooting spree).  "How great that this God-given talent might be his answer to a second chance in life!"  But we as Americans won't allow you to just be a local "human interest" story then fade into hopeful glory- NOOOOO!  Our job as the fishtank attendants is to exploit your "rainbow and unicorn" story for everything we can squeeze out of it.  Two major networks fought for an entire day as to who had the rights to the "live meeting" between Mr. Williams and his aging mother and made sure that we took this self-proclaimed addict and put as much of a chokehold on his now whirlwind life as possible.  I'm not an addict and even I wanted a drink and handful of pills watching this all unfold for him.  In one of his first interviews, he mentioned that it was very difficult to "stay clean" with all of this new-found fame, and was working with a therapist as to how to "cope".  Bring in the half a dozen or more children that he supposedly abandoned for a life of booze, a suspected criminal past, and an altercation that apparently took a physical turn between he and one of his grown daughters, he has, in a matter of a week or so, become a lab experiement on his way to rehab.  I would imagine that E! is already in the works of making "Ted Williams, the E! True Hollywood Story" and now the fish observers are all sitting around to see "what's next"- but only until someone or something new comes along.

We thrive on feel good.

We thrive even more on downward spirals.

We get off on "come back" stories.

We enjoy destruction of others, as long as we don't have to blame ourselves.

I'm waiting for the day that VH1, Fx channel, Spike TV, or most likely Fox turns to The Running Man concept.  Then we can all sit around and play judge and jury for someone elses own plunge into annihilation.

Don't we already?