One More Thing I Hate

Sometimes I hate Facebook. I hate the political positioning and the religious shit. Hey man, I go to church, if that's what you're thinking. I just don't need to tell the rest of the world how to live their lives in order to be a good Christian.  These days, I cringe when I even hear the words ' a good Christian' because it's almost always followed by some judgemental shit about how other people should live.  These Facebook posts demand that other people to comply with their religious beliefs regardless of what anyone else's religious affiliations are.

Here I sit in my recliner, vaguely listening to drivel on TV, watching my son and my husband laughing as much as anything, and hoping to see something interesting about my friends and their families on Facebook since most of what's on TV bores me.  I like the silly pictures on Facebook the best.  I have one friend, an acquaintance really, and I love her posts because they're almost always of funny animals she takes care of all day.  I mean, these pictures give lolcats a run for their money.   I always want to know where people went, though I'm jealous as hell of my friend who's in Paris right now.  Paris!  And she's posting in French!  I'm not even sure I can like her until she gets back.  I won't tell her that though.  I just need a vacation and then I might be able to be a little nicer afterward.  I mean, really.  Talking about a good vacation we took to Ireland six years ago just gets a little old at dinner parties.

But it just torques my wad when I have to wade through some friend's repost telling me that my son shouldn't eventually get to decide whom he loves and wants to marry. This isn't even a post that my friend wrote!  It's a shit-ass post that she read and then she blithely clicked on the 'like' button and now I'm stuck reading at least a little of its bilge water.  After a while, I get a little nauseated when I even see her name pop up.  I know I will never completely block her though I seldom see anything but this crap on her timeline.  Really, hon, don't you know that I want to see pictures of your kids and those kittens that you're raising and not political and religious crap that makes me feel as though you really are a little on the edge?  Are you on the edge?  Can I do anything to help? 

I don't foist my political or religious opinions on you, do I?  No.  I don't.  I just went back and checked.  When I like a political repost that someone else has liked, it doesn't show up on my timeline.  Most of my posts are photos of my family.  Jack is old enough now that I'm asking his permission to post his image.  I don't want to put up anything that will embarrass him.  That will happen soon enough with his friends.  My other posts are check-ins telling people about the places I visited and liked.  Hell, I don't mind advertising a good restaurant or museum.  Sky High?  Your kid can get some exercise jumping on a trampoline.  The Reptile Zoo?  Who wouldn't want to see a two-headed turtle?  Novhilos Brazilian Steakhouse?  It's a carnivore's dream.

But you, my Facebook friends, do not need to know that I think that homosexual adults deserve a break from our scrutiny.  I would rather not drive my political opinions across the dead carcass of yours on the information highway or vice versa.  And no, I'm not interested in imagining homosexuals having sex in their bedrooms.  I'm also not interested in imagining two heterosexuals having sex in their bedrooms.  Have you seen most people?  Do you really want to imagine that naked and sweaty?  It's not going to look the way they make it look in a movie.  I just think that if two adults love each other, they should be allowed to love each other.  Period.

I've heard people cite the billions of dollars gay marriage would cost our society.  Those statistics are bullshit.  And tell me, what would it save if none of that hate-mongering sputum were ever printed on paper or took up bandwidth on the Internet?  Trillions.  Besides, I've watched your kids.  You don't make them wear their helmets.  There are statistics about how much that costs our society too, so shut it. 

Lately, these reposts are turning words inside out by calling for 'tolerance,' 'democracy,' and 'diversity' when it comes to their opinions.  So vote your according to your stupid opinion and leave me to mine, okay?  That is democracy at its best.  As for tolerance, I have to tolerate your crazy ideas, but you don't have to tolerate mine?  Nope, not the appropriate definition there, hon.  Tolerance has to go both ways to really be tolerance.  And diversity?  Well, I have to live in a world in which  6,973,738,433 crazy people live, people who believe that aliens live on an asteroid hurtling toward Earth, people who believe that gargling Listerine gave their son colon cancer, people who think they have a right to be in everyone's pants politically, and the ones who just want to be left alone to love one another.  Now, that's diversity and you might scream for it as you demand that everyone comply to your will, but there it is and you can't change it, not even by reposting phlegm on Facebook. 

Thank you for listening, jules

Silence

Well, shit, I've been spun around enough times today that I don't know what to do next.  I need about a week in a room by myself to sleep, to think, to eat right, to listen to silence.  Did you ever need to listen to silence? 

Watch It!

The Olympics! 

Watch it.  Just sit and watch.  Don't get up.  That would ruin everything.  During the Olympics, there are a few hundred people in the world who are supposed to be moving around.  The rest of us billions are supposed to be sitting and watching.

Don't forget.  You don't have any training to do on your own.  You couldn't possibly want to walk your dog or go to the lake or, God forbid, take a vacation paddling a canoe.  Just watch.

The sponsors will thank you. 

Oh, don't think I don't like the Olympics.  I do.  I really do.  They inspire me, but do I actually get up more during all of that to begin?  Nope.  Not a chance.

So, work with me here folks!  Let's sit on our lazy asses and watch because that's what we want an excuse to do most days anyway.  Right?

Thank you for listening, jules

My Anniversary Gift Guide

I've been married for twenty years.  Get a load of that.  I told my husband six months ago that twenty years is the year of the dishwasher.  Then I looked it up.  What the hell?  There really is a year of the dishwasher - year four.  That's the modern version.  The traditional version only has a bunch of junk, then gemstones.  The first year is paper.  'Oh yeah, thanks sweetie, for all this recycled newsprint we can use in the outhouse.  Lovely.'  And this poor woman of yesteryear had to wait six years to even get candy. 

These days, because of divorce and inflation, they amp it up.  It's a little like the way the all kids on a Little League team have to get trophies at the end of a season.  Whereas I was supposed to get china from the traditional list this year, china comes in the second year for the modern woman.  According to the modern list, I'm up for platinum at this point.  Platinum?  What the hell do I want with platinum, maybe to coat some missiles or offer up a dose of chemo?  Don't think so. 

I don't want more stuff, well, except for a new dishwasher.  I have too much stuff as it is.  My house is absolutely full of stuff. 

My grandma died two years ago and my family still rents a storage unit for us all to go through when I come to visit next time.  Here's what I already own from my grandmother's estate: a china cabinet, loads of china, a tin of my dad's toys, love letters in a trunk, a teddy bear, five quilts, marbles, Avon figurines, a pitcher shaped like a strawberry, a porcelain head of an elephant, a box of old pictures of people, many of whom I don't know, a rocking chair that isn't safe to sit in, a donkey bank, a piggy bank, doilies, Ball jars, a butter churn with broken paddles, a railroad lantern, a hog hook, a hog scraper, a hog prod, a TNT box (I like that one), a coronet, a single tree horse yoke, quilt blocks, and some fabric scraps.  I really think I have enough stuff to remember my grandmother by.  When I tried to gently say that, my brother said, "I don't care who it goes to as long as it stays in the family."  In other words, he doesn't want it either.  There are only three of us for God's sake.  We can't keep everything she had in her house no matter how much we loved her. I haven't been too eager to go through that storage shed with him.  The last time we went through stuff, it cost me $385 to ship packages to myself.  That really makes my brother mad, that I don't want to keep it all. 

No, I don't need more stuff.  I'm much more interested in experiences.

So Mike and I have decided to take Jack on a canoe trip next week.  I'm a little nervous.  We haven't been on a canoe trip in eight years.  What I'm worried about is that Jack will bring the bad attitude he's developed lately and ruin it.  He's not even a teenager.  He's not allowed to have that kind of attitude yet.  But he does. 

Today, we hiked for an hour and he managed to get mad at me because he was tired and I wouldn't help him put his shoes back on.  I thought shoes was something the kids learned when they were four or five, laces and all.  Apparently not.  And how is it my fault that he got his butt wet in the process? 

Still, it's a canoe trip.  We'll be on the water, breathing in the lake air.  We'll be sleeping outside on an island.  That might be worth some whining.  That just might feel like the appropriate gift for my twentieth anniversary. 

Now, why isn't that on the modern anniversary gift guide?

Thank you for listening, jules

Projecting This Vision Into His Future

What are you still doing here?  Were you listening at the door?

I don't have anything to tell you.  Today, I gave up on any kind of future for my son.  He's going to have to be a lonely derelict.  Here's why

• He won't read unless I nag him.
• He won't pick up his garbage unless I nag him.
• He leaves his dirty laundry on the floor until I yell.
• He leaves his stuff on the floor, on the tables, on the couch until I threaten to throw them away.
• He watches too much TV until I turn it off.  It will be broken tomorrow, I think. An unplugged cable.
• He plays too many video games until I stand in front of the TV and make him lose the battle.
• He won't eat healthy food unless that's all there is.
• He doesn't want to get off the couch. 
• He eats his cereal with his head in his bowl, slurping.
• He has no ambition to actually do what it takes to get what he wants because he expects me to do everything for him.  He gets mad at me when I won't.
• He can be on the couch and ask me to come in from the kitchen to hand him something that's on the other end of the couch at which point I want to slap him but I don't.  I don't hand it to him either.  I just roll my eyes and walk back into the kitchen.  Sometimes I mutter an expletive, but I don't think that's good for him to hear. 

Sometimes I wonder what kind of a husband he'll make.  Right now, I'm not too impressed. 

Is it universal that twelve year old boys are little crappers or am I just blessed to have this particular one?  Don't answer that. 

I'm done now. 

Thank you for listening, jules

Eating Among Aliens

Well shit. It's six in the morning and I could have slept three more hours. Maybe I should go out and get myself some decent food. I'll need it.

I'm visiting relatives. I can't believe how hard it's been to try to eat. I have to eat a lot of leaves to get by, you know, the volume. Greens, lettuce, vegetables.

I might as well say I'm diabetic for all I can't eat. I just can't eat many carbs. That's rice, bread, pasta, grains, sugar, sugar, or sugar. What they call it is insulin resistance. If I didn't eat this way, I would be diabetic.

I've been kind of a shit about it, but it's been hard to get enough to eat. Apple pie, pineapple upside down cake, Cool-whip and jello salad. These are the staples! Not to mention that the salad they handed me yesterday was almost completely wilted. It had that sour smell, and when I tried to wash it, the slime didn't want to come off. Oh no, I was not going to eat that salad. It was spoiled. You think?

I tried to make myself eat it. I really did. I put some slimy turkey on it. I brought a fork. I just couldn't make myself do it. I stuck my fork into it. I brought it with me when we got into the car. I surreptitiously put the whole bowl on the floor by my feet and slid it under the seat. Maybe I am spoiled. You think?

Maybe I should have shouted, "I can't eat this shit!"

I don't know what I'm going to eat today. I just don't. I'm already feeling crabby about it. They don't seem to understand that if I don't eat, it's dangerous for me to drive. I'm supposed to drive today too. I can just see me sitting patiently waiting at some green light, not really knowing where I am. Yup, it could happen. It really could.

If you're driving around anywhere in Southern Indiana today, maybe you should watch out for that.

Thank you for listening, jules

Eight Things I Hate

This post is closed until further notice.  Subject matter is too bad-tempered.

I'm becoming that crabby woman. 

You know that crabby woman.  For me, she is the neat freak who went on the ten day backpacking trip to the Appalachian trail in 1977.  This woman wanted us to sweep out our tents before packing them up every morning.  KP duty was hell because the water was never hot enough, you weren't scrubbing properly, and God forbid a pine needle fall into the rinse water.  Everybody avoided the bitchy lady.  That's hard to do in a group of only 18 people.  Bitchy lady had an awful time.  Dirt was everywhere.  The rest of us had a blast.

I'm not a neat freak, but I am bitchy.   I hate that the grocery store parking lot is littered with tiny green strips from the contest they're running.  Do people actually think the pieces are too small to actually be litter?  Don't they know that somebody has to pick that shit up?

I hate when that car comes racing up my tailpipe as if to get me to move faster on the road.  I don't want to get a fucking ticket asshole and I'm already going above the speed limit.  That person has tried to pass me on the left when I'm turning left into my own driveway on a double yellow line.  Can you say organ donor?  Just don't bring me with you to that party.

I hate that when the guys are playing video games, I can't walk in front of the TV without getting glared at, that I have to pick up dirty socks and Tshirts from the floor, and that there are dirty dishes and empty bags of chips everywhere.  Clean the hell up after yourselves, would you?  I really would like to have a life, one in which I get to play all day and leave my crap lying around for someone else to pick up.  I should drop these kids off in the grocery store parking lot so they can pick up all the little green strips.

Guys, I need to vacuum the damn floor.  Any chance you could pick up the Lego pieces, the Nerf guns, and the camouflage gear that has been laying there for two weeks?  I wish the dog would pick up his toys too.  I came home from the grocery store the other day, game pieces stuck to the wet pavement, and the dog had actually pulled a dozen seriously old toys out of the bin he inherited when he came to live here.  A couple of the things he chewed beyond recognition, leaving splinters and bristle brushes scattered about on my floor.  Bastard.

I'm not allowed to talk like this to their faces, not even to the dog's.  There are too many kids around.  I guess it's the fact that these kids are only eleven.  Well, shit.  Aren't kids who are eleven trying to use a word or two like this?  Maybe a few graceful phrases out of my mouth will bring out the absolute poetry in them. I hate that I have to edit when I'm bitchy.

And while I'm on the subject, why is it that everything out of their mouths has to either be about fighting or about farts?  Can you not tell that I'm in the front seat driving and I can still hear you?  I have turned Led Zeppelin up as high as my ears can stand it, mostly because I like this particular song, but also because I can still hear you pretending to fart. 

And why the hell did my husband tell me that it was a joke that he wanted me to stay up so I could put his laundry into the dryer at midnight?  That wasn't a joke.  You meant it.  You really did!

And why the hell does it have to be ten things I hate?  Why can't it be eight?

Thank you for listening, jules