calm panic

omigoooooooood omigoooooooooood omigoooooooood

no panic.

thank goodness honey's new gold toe socks arrived. i did not know that it is easiest to find them at jcpenny. however, 12 new pair are gently tangled in the bottom of the hamper, waiting to be washed. i think i'm ready. when the long shiny busy rolls amiably into the front drive, i'll be cocked and loaded.

i need to put my boys and the rose on some bottom bunks, my wife and big girl will go up high, i'll take another bottom across from a babe, as will jj, and then steven will grab what's left over. he's easy like that. then there'll be junk bunk... it'll hold laundry bags, backpacks, purses, and other miscellaneous items that won't have a permanent home this summer.








underneath my calm panic lies tremendous excitement.

the shut-in outside of chicago

identity thieves must be some lonely, hungry people. yeah, i feel sorry for them, blah blah blah... and i'm territorial, detail-minded, backed by lawyers of the best sort, and not over my PPD. so don't fuck with me.

according to wikipedia:

rupert murdoch founded National Star (tabloid), and also owns the NY Post, and also owns Fox News. fox news is in bed with Bush, who relies on Murdoch's manipulation of the war "facts" to keep us Americans in the dark. murdoch is someone i do not admire, i do not feel he uses his energy for the forces of good. he completely supported the war, as did all of his 175 newspapers who were pro-war, and his channel Fox news did nothing but run pro-war propaganda in the time leading up to the war, and after. lies, lies, lies. where do i have time for that smog in my life? i have enough, living in LA's valley.

a nice lesbian mother like myself? i do not see a single way in which me having a "myspace" would help further me or my family's interests. my wife didn't want one until they told her that many identity thieves were already trying to pass themselves off as her on myspace. so they said that the bet way to combat it now and forever more is to have an "OFFICIAL" space there. honey doesn't ever go there, read her messages, check in, nothing. she never even glances at it. sorry if i disappoint. i'm the turd in the punchbowl, remember? i'm the spoiler. myspace is a great idea- an amazing tool to feel how we are all connected, we are all one. but i don't want to support rupert's businesses.



quick story and then i gotta go see what those babies are up to- it's far too quiet in there....

honey used to get threats from a woman in Chicago- or right outside of. death threats. crazy shit. "when you come here i will find you and kill you!" type shit. so she had security beefed up for awhile. for a year or so, she recieved these threats, and had to have giant men named "Junior" following her around. well, finally honey's "team" had had enough. so the next time she hit chicago for a concert, her security went to the police, and a group of security and police officers went to hunt this woman down.

well, they did find her. in her house. shut in. she was over 400 pounds, and hadn't left the home in years. poor thing. they said she nearly shit her pants when they showed up at her door. and when they saw who this threatening stalker really was: a sad, lonely, obese shut in with no contact with the outside world (other than ending stalkery letters to my wife). they softened a teeny bit. they realized this woman was incapable of carrying out any threats- literally. she could barely move her girth of sadness to open the door for them when they knocked. so they gave her a warning, and we've never ever heard from her again. i bet she still piddles a little when she thinks about that group of officers showing up on her doorstep...

fame. identity theft, death threats, first in line at the store, table at a restaurant, free stuff, invites to fab things, stalkers, security, razzi, bling, oh, on and on and on....

like everyone's life: aspects of my life are good and some are bothersome.

whenever i feel threatened by a stranger, or see something nasty written about me by someone i've never known (how do some strangers think they know me?), i think back to that poor woman who had permanently locked herself away to eat herself to death, but not without first taking some innocent people down with her into her vat of misery acid. what a sad lonely soul.





take nothing personally. i have to work on this.

myspace invader- lookout

dearest myspace invader, please remove the space that you use to impersonate me. i will have a lawyer on your ass by tomorrow, i just don't want to bother anyone tonight. let's see if you play responsibly. :-)



i do not have a space at myspace. the "Tammy Lynn Michaels" at Myspace is NOT the tammy lynn michaels that is married to the blah bah blah.

myspace is owned by rupert murdoch- need i say any more??????


the wife of the rocker, the girl who was on the L Word and Popular, and a few other diddies... the only place she speaks directly online is here at hollywood farm girl dot come.

so to the person who has MY NAME at myspace- it'd behooooove you to take down the photo whose rights belong to me, and my name as well. sweetie. thanks.

the pendulum swings to the other side elsewhere

from 365.com

http://365gay.com/Newscon08/05/051908in.htm


two indian (chennai, india) women who were never allowed share a life together, poured the years of pain upon upon their bodies, in the form of kerosene, and set themselves afire. their bodies were found charred, and embracing.

love is all there is
above all else, certificates or not,

no one has the power to stop love;
we all only have the power to stop the pumping of blood

a stack of thought

how long until i leave again? 19 days? i'm not panicking.

i'm stacking. stacks over here for what goes "under the bus". stacks over there for what goes "on the bus". stacks sitting on the couch for "in the closet of the bus". stacks on the dresser for "do we need to take this?" stuff. stacks stacks stacks.

razor! i can't forget to pack the razor! i almost forgot.... right. razor. i said bandaids. agave nectar, the all-fruit juice popsicles, the non-dairy ice cream crap for the babies, plenty o' diapers.... swimsuits (or rather, pants and a t shirt and a razzi lens up my ass for me)... vitamins... fish oil pills... strollers... hats for all, did i say that? hats?

stacking
stacking
stacking
........

a village of women will show me the way, one by one

i've been finding my community in the women around me. my face to face neighbors. i was at a mom-an-pop diner the other week (my favorite kind of place to eat), and beside me sat a mother, a few years younger than me, her infant son about the same age as miller, and her husband. i didn't understand some of what they said in spanish as they halved their fried chicken plate and began to eat. i was busy with my own stack of pancakes, so i allowed myself to eavesdrop for awhile. they were discussing the fish in the tank before them (i'd never seen a fish tank in a diner either). after several moments of peaceful quiet, i broke the silence by asking her how many naps she was giving her son during the day. this girl,, this young woman, this fellow mother of mine, she didn't hesitate when answering me. "i finally told my mother-in-law to cut his naps from two a day to one a day- he wasn't sleeping at night!" i nodded vigorously, as i recalled my struggles with miller's need for sleep during the day, but his more important need for a solid night of sleep. and his two naps were really stinking up the sleeping at night... or so my mother instinct told me. she and i, we spoke for several minutes about sleep and naps and eating... i realized that each of us had been going on pure instinct to guide us through our virginal roads of motherhood. we compared notes and found that we each decided to mesh the two day naps together into one nap midday. she mentioned no mother alerting her to that wisdom... i certainly didn't have one either.... but our instincts led us to the same conclusion. and then her son let us know with a wail of his lungs that his plate was empty. we quickly closed down our motherhood meeting with curt nods and smiles. i knew as i turned towards the door to leave that motherhood is indeed all i ever wanted it to be and more. it is no wonder i felt half a woman before i had them. not every woman feels this, however, i must admit that my pregnancy and twins have introduced me to a side of life i never saw before- or perhaps, rather, a side of me i've never known. a side that makes me proud, that feels thick and aged; i am getting to know the grown up me, the mother in me. so far, i think i've known the child who was forced to mother as a literal babe. a child mothering is very different from a woman mothering. sometimes i see the children at the mall with their own children. each one pitching a bigger tantrum than the other, "Put on your shoe!" "No!" "Do it!" "No!" "I said you do it!" "Don't wanna! No!" and on and on... everyone's road is different, i see.

the girl at the diner. younger than me, helping light my hazy confusion with her own energy. she a girl, me a woman. she was probably only 23-24. (why does my ego call that a girl, but me a woman?) i walked away from her with confidence back in my stride. it will not be the last time i turn to stranger-friends for answers. nope. i often find that my stranger-friends are far wiser than i.

mothering. i read an article on mothering several days ago, and it left a mark on me. i will probably go back and read it again. when an article freckles my daydreaming, i know there is a reflection in there i didn't recognize, and i must go back to find my face. reread it. find myself, what i didn't recognize the first time around.


the girl in the diner. my sister, my teacher, my reflection.



the mother at the mall, the lady in the elevator, the woman at the drug store, the moms at school.... each one letting me copy off their test, with no judgement or hesitation, nothing but joy for having passed on some "right answers"... i have such love for the women, such love love love.

happy gay day .... 23 days until departure

california supreme court overturned the gay marriage ban.




tissues, sunglasses, baggies, reusable containers....

groceries: almond butter, butter, jelly, breads, apple cider vinegar, olive oil, asparagus, blueberries....


what if honey and i's relationship, committment, and devotion to our family and one another were to be recognized by the great authority of our country? what if our love comes out of the caves, and we are allowed to wear our hearts on our sleeves?


... cereals, almond milk, rice milk, did i say bandaids already? nail files, the deodorant rock thing....

imagine a woman, talking to herself

i have a list of "what to get". "what to solve", "pack this", and "last minute don't-forgets". i need a list of "to do's" started. hmmm..

one week ago i was saying to myself, "pfft, tour is not for another month- i don't need to be stressing out right now." however. i woke up a few days ago and heard my inner self scream, "motherf*cker! we're leaving for tour three weeks from tomorrow!" and then my inner self threw up.

don't get me wrong; i love going on tour. as i have said before, touring is pure heaven for a white trash, former latch-key kid like myself. a mobile home, extra long, with push out sides, and carpeting! wheeee-yew! i'm not kidding. i'm like a pig in shit. i love it. regardless of how many four star, five diamond, six poop hotels i stay in through the years, nothing can impress me more than a fyancy mobile home. which is a tour bus.

three weeks from a few days ago, the big bus will pull into our driveway, and i will spray the territory with my scent: sheets and blankets from home, photos taped to the mirrors and walls, cloth napkins and towels, utensils from our own drawer in the kitchen, and lots of over-the-door hat/coat/shoe storage containers, to name a few things. we'll each have a bunk, from babes to moms to uncle stevens and jj (our family's version of "alice" - like from the brady brunch- but intensely eco-friendly). and everyone has to take shoes off in the bus- i don't need a baby eating some crusty piece of dried dog poop that fell off of one of our sneakers after we walked through a park. shoes off at the door. just like home. there'll be "family space" in the front and the back of the bus. for the front... imagine, a school bus cut into thirds: the front third is family/kitchenette/toilet room, and the middle is bunks, and the last third is family room /closet/extra toilet room. and that is how we swagger through life: one moment we live in a 6500 (?) square foot house, and the next moment we are living in a 45 (?) foot bus. to be honest, i think i prefer the latter. it's much simpler. i find it easier to run the household when there is less house to hold.

laundry. not many options there. throughout the next 3 months, i can either pay an arm and a leg for the hotels to do it, or i can do it myself in the 1976 maytags i find in the back of the venues. again- i prefer the latter. however, seeing as how i will not have guaranteed access to maytags, i must take the position of camping instructor: "clean undies and socks for each day- wear your jammies over and over- pack extra changes of t-shirts!" and then i only buy my oldest boy dark shorts, to camouflage his days' journeys across rocks and over ponds, and down park slides. if we pack for the worst, but hope for the best, there's a chance they won't all look like homeless whinos by days' end. there's a chance i might look like one though. heh.

suitcases, who gets which one, duffle bags, toiletry bags, medicines of all sorts, a vat of arnica gel for the boys, washcloths for wiping hands and faces periodically, bath toys, hotel toys, bedtime books, rainy afternoon board games, decks of cards... safetly pins, sunscreen, scissors, bottled water, batteries, bandaids, stain remover squirt bottle for application on baby clothes right after meals... chargers, computer, nail clippers, hair brushes, barrettes, pens... crayons...



three weeks.

oh my goodness... i just glanced out the window and noticed that the green tips of one of our trees have turned red. like autumn, except it's may... i wonder what kind of tree it is.


toothbrushes, and don't forget toothpaste for babies... camera, baby sound-proof ear-muff thingies, ear plugs, honey's "stop-snoring" homeopathic stuff....


i'll leave first with the babies and jj. we'll make a pit stop on our way to florida. and ten days after departure LA, we'll arrive in Clearwater, and meet up with honey and steven. and then tour starts. since steven knows everything, on the first day of tour, i visually inspect his (literal) tennis shoes. and then i follow those shoes for the next 3 months. wherever they go, i go. i will teach this to the twins when we arrive in clearwater.

i need to make sure we have enough shampoo and conditioner... our newest foe, the PARABEN, has been banned from our contact, so i need to make sure we have enough non-toxic stuff. i've discovered it can be a real challenge to try to live carcinogenic-free in these united states...

sound machine, phone numbers, stamps and postcards, a book for me in case i get a couple of hours to myself, cash, fanny pack for the daily excursions we will take.... my watch, glue, some zit-cover up and mascara....

i wonder what the weather is going to be like in clearwater? i need to look that up. where's my "to do" list? hm. does the weather question go on "to do" or "to solve"? whatever. get it done.

sonofabtich. three weeks.

say what? nothing.

what does it feel like to publish a blog that doesn't say anything.









i wonder.

instead of wishing for your sobriety, i shall wish for my serenity.

in a way
saying nothing
says it all

in another way
saying it all
says nothing
i've found

i've huffed and puffed
until i thought her house of magic tricks
would blow in
and finally we'd collapse into one another's arms-
but no
childhood wasn't what i thought it was
and what i thought it was
wasn't that great to begin with
imagine my horror when my rose-tinted glasses
fell off

i've sang my confusion,
blared it, whistled it and
written it
i've asked begged pleaded and paid

what a cost
letting an emotional drunk
back in life
a sycophant pilled out of her skull
od'ed more than a handful of times
yet doesn't stop

i am not rich enough
to afford
what she brings with her
when she comes

there is not enough room
for all of those curved knives
her giant sweeps of massive manipulation
will splash us all in blood
again

and i eeeeeeeee iiiiiii
will always love you
sick but true
happy birthday to you
happy birthday
it's a big one
i won't contact you today
nor tomorrow either
but happy birthday to the life-giver
the life-shaker
my life lesson
happy birthday

i love you the best way i know how
while keeping everyone safe from harm

god bless you.

yeeeeesss, mark loves politics, the wiki tells me sooooo

some saturday night, in a smokey, hazy club... a stand up, known for her political crass, and her potty-mouth humor, decides to dig in. she was in san francisco, surrounded by her gays and gals... shit, if i was in that situation, i'd have prolly said a few more offensive things than calling hilary a whore. not that hillary would even come up in my stand up routine, unless we talk about how stinkin' great she looks in a suit. i'd have offended so many with my jokes about group incest, and a father who runs part of the KKK groups down south. oh, man, i'm so glad no one has ever taped me talking to honey in the bath tub. yet there was rhandi rhodes. deep dark pub, some smoke swirling the spotlight into more of a foglight... who had the recorder, i wonder? who waited two weeks or so to leak the tape? why not do it right away, like they did with that Kramer guy who went nutso using the "n" word? it didn't take two weeks for that to come out.

hmph. me thinks i smell something fishy, and it ain't my genitals.

i looked up Mark Green, president of air america. he is very verrrry political. editing or writing 21 books, including political best sellers. that always makes me suspicious, to find people who are in charge of tv or radio programming who seem to have a deeper-rooted interest in politics. and it appears that mark green has a keen interest in getting a political seat, according the the wikipedia page, anyway. interesting. for over 20 years. interesting.

rhandi was pro-obama. especially in these past coupla weeks. interesting. the tape was leaked in the past coupla weeks. mark green... hm... who are you supporting?

mark green, mark green, mark green.... i'm gonna remember that name. and i'm going to take note the next time i see him in a political arena. could his interest be more in politics, and not really rhandi rhodes' "whoring" at all?

american concentration camps, by Mouth

there are some people in my life that like to watch the government like hawks. and i appreciate that. this video was recently brought to my attention. it was sent with a message that let me know there are some government officials watching us "loudmouths", and in fact, we are living in 1943 Berlin. do i never learn? one year in softball, my uniform was grilled with the plastic letters above my #3 that spelled "MOUTH". the other years, my uniform said "Grace". grace cuz i played my ass off, and i always tore my knees up when sliding into base. i slid into a lot of bases, heh. bloody bloody games. wonderful! ahhh, the memories....

i digress.

one must give this news more thought. please watch this video, google for more info, and send it to your friends. then discuss.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=277826260716604258

oh, and a list:

http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/sociopolitica/esp_sociopol_FEMA02.htm

confessions of a housewife

my post-partum was/is pretty gnarly. i should've taken brooke's advice much sooner- "meds are A-OK!"

i haven't talked about the meds cuz i didn't want tom cruise to throw me on a couch and start jumping on me

IVF should come with warning labels and a therapist, meds in hand, and refills just a blink away

i love my therapist

i'm sort of excited about touring with the twins... coast to coast with them on OUTside of me now WHOOHOO!

i'm sort of nervous about touring with the twins... coast to coast with them on OUTside of me now YIKES!

i still lack grace when pressed by deceit, but i'm getting better. i'm taking dancing lessons

i believe in forever, fights and all

i love my life, yet i still dream regardless

sometimes, chosen family is often the only kind i feel i can relate to

i miss my old friend John, from high school

when i'm in a restaurant, i still stack my plates when i am finished... it's my secret way of helping the waitress bus the table... if you cut me open, i am one part farmgirl, one part waitress

when my twins kiss my lips and leave soggy trails of drool behind, i don't wipe it clean, i just rub that Love-Spit right in to my face. i love them, their spit, everything about them. but i won't drink out of the same bottle of water- they leave specks of food. spit, yes. specks of food? no

i don't think i'll post pics of twins.* but i'm not going to freak when others take pics of them. i want to share them with everyone, anyway.... but i won't offer them up to the piranhas myself. i wonder if that is the Right Answer... sometimes the right answer is right for a moment, and then changes with fluidity like the waves from low tide to high tide.

sometimes rightness is an evolving state... different rights for each degree of color from the prism of souls

inconvenient facts

superstorms

al told me about them in that little
slideshow he did about
the weather changing
and our destiny hanging by the silken thread of
bush's redneck, oil-paid, shiny necktie

superstorms

go back and watch that part of al's documentary
this is just the beginning
wait until the government is really honest
about the shortage of drinking water that is already
affecting our nation --
stock up on water
i am

superstorms
they aren't going to stop
they aren't going to slow down
they aren't going to get better
the storm season will soon disappear
and all year long we will have to
pay attention to the tornadoes
hurricanes
and
superstorms
nothing is 'seasonal' anymore

at weather.com
one can see how far the storm's palm reaches
half of our country is under seige
by roaring floods and winds

i sort of expect storm after storm after storm
i wonder how that will affect touring this summer
i hate driving into black clouds

superstorms
what an inconvenient truth.

we all find that which we seek.

i find it fascinating when people go to my friend's site and ask her questions about life. sometimes she gets people "asking things" that are really more of a "go shoot yourself in the face" type thing... and she handles them so beautifully. inspiring.

blogging about my life , including my kids, is apparently an invitation for stalkers. i did not know this. but there are opinions (everyone has one, much like an asshole) out there that by me blogging about my life: it is my fault that stalkerazzi's chased us on onto a "Baby Beach". The Baby Beach was supposed to be like a playground: you aren't allowed in unless you have a baby yourself. But just like there are perverts out there who molest the children, there are also stalkers with camera lenses the size of a submarine. no, we didn't see the photographer. no, we didn't send them any dirty looks. in fact, we went to the beach sunday and monday, thought nothing of anything else, and by thursday night, i was sent a link that showed our pics and it said "the family was at the beach today!" my guess? i guess that the people we rented the house from tipped off the camera dude, and all he did was camp out in front of our house and follow us each day. i'm still waiting for more photos from that time to crop up. and we don't have security at a Baby Beach... cuz who the fuck worries about a bunch of families on a BABY BEACH having 20 foot long zoom lenses that will point directly at my family for hours? it's weird though... Honey and I were very affectionate that day... and yet no photos of us hugging are around. or holding hands... hm. i find that very interesting. just fat "let's make fun of the lezzies who clearly aren't anorexics!" photos. life really is like elementary school:

-there are groups of kids that just play and don't worry about much else
-there are groups of kids that circle an unusual kid and point and laugh and make plans to make that kid feel bad bad bad (vultures, i call 'em. they are usually lonely and feel pretty ugly themselves)
-there are groups of kids that sit around and dream and talk and laugh and hope

i'm sure there are other groups as well, but those three stuck out at me, since there are such similar groups in Grown Up Land.

and for some reason, there are a few people that see the exposure of my babies as something i ASKED FOR as i was dreaming up ways to get away from getting beat up on a daily basis. i totally should have thought of that as the hands and fists wailed down on my head: BAM BAM BAM!!! "i wanna get out of here, get famous, get someone to love me... oh, gosh, i should beware though, that the razzi's will have a right to my privacy- oops, is my face bleeding?" SLAP BAM BAM BAM!!! yup. i missed that moment in time. i should've taken the beating and not bothered with the dreaming me out of it all. just like if a woman wears a skirt, and she is raped, it's her fault. love that theory. it's the same idea as "you wanted a job, you wanted fame, so shut up as we eat your privacy alive".

oh, and for those of you reading this, and getting ready to climb back into your darth vader forum to bitch about me (ps- LOVE the avatar of my ass- in fact, when looking at it from that angle, my ass looks great! it looks smaller than i thought. it makes me want to have my ass as my avatar as well!) just remember- to those of you darth vaders, you big mean people who belong back in fifth grade:

-you are coming here to seek what you need to see... we all find what we seek, even if it's only a mirage

-i am your reflection: what you hate about me, you hate about yourself. my traits that you hate are traits of your own that you hate. it's just easier to hate them on someone else, as opposed to hating ourselves. especially if we have a big ego that won't allow us to see our own short-comings

-i will continue to bitch about my life. i will bitch about turds that get stuck halfway out, i will bitch about cramping, cysts, giving money to sycophants and leeches, i will bitch about anyone who hides in the bushes and stalks my family, i will sing joy and praises and write about my history... but for all you 5th graders out there... i don't think there is much on this blog for you.

you should prolly just go back to playing guitar hero, and photoshopping your pets... this playground is nothing but pure trash for you, and there will be no improvement to your life by continuing to read this blog. so feel free to not come and read. feel free to find another lady to bash and project upon and bash... but please know: i can take it fine. i see your words, and when the (misplaced) utter hatred isn't making me laugh, it's making me feel sorry for you. and i wish i could help you. but i only have so much time. and my therapy appointments are for me, not for you.... and i already have two (four) kids, so maybe you can find a good therapist? then your acidic hatred of someone's wife who's barely famous won't eat you alive so much? i'm just concerned about some of you, loves....

anywho. back to life. back to blogging when i can. i hope i get more time. tour is coming up in a few months. here we go again.


my peace to my friends, my peace to my self-claimed foes, and most especially, my love love love to the creatures who hate me so much, they have not taken the time to find out why they love me. hatred is an extension of love.

and i love you love you love you each and every one. big and small, pock-marked or poor, rich or lonely (single). and if your hatred of me helps ease the life of those around you, please, tread on, my friend, tread on.

peace yourself outta here.

:-)

forgive me father for i have sinned,

it has been 19 years since my last confession.

so now everyone knows i shop for my swimwear in the men's department at the GAP- tshirt and shorts. the funny thing was, i had been so paranoid about being accosted at the airport by 2 foot camera lenses, that i didn't even think about razzi being at the beach. i was going to post all about hawaii and the upcoming trip... but nooooo i wanted "privacy", no, i wanted "anonymity". and so off i go to hawaii, entire clan in hand, and next thing i know, there is a shot of my asshole, pointing straight up at the tropical sky through a baggy pair of Lesbian Mom Shorts, topped off neatly by (yet another) sensible, comfy shirt from the men's department. a shirt large enough to hide the issues i have been struggling with for years. by the time i saw the photo of me with a piece of my collar in my my fingers (catching the snot as it dribbled just out of my nostril), it felt like a priest had ripped open my journals at Easter Mass- and all of Big Gay Me was exposed. unwillingly. whether i asked for it or not by being famous/marrying famous-er, is beside the point. a kid like me, who was sexually abused as a child, well, i hate to feel exposed. and to feel both preyed upon and exposed to the public, perhaps even ridiculed? well, i don't wanna talk about how it rings old bells, and reminds me of weak buttons that my therapist and i are fixing. i heart my therapist. she says i'm not crazy, but i tell her gimme a couple more years, and she may change her mind. anyway, if you see any shots of me looking 5 pounds smaller, it's true: i had another giant ovarian cyst rupture later that night. what was that? cyst # 9? 10 now? whew. those are painful. i know, i know, i know. alkaline, alkaline, alkaline. i just threw out my poptarts and peppermint patties. it's interesting to have "before the rupture photos" though.

i am still pondering posting photos online of the twins. * more thought is needed.

and while others may laugh at honey's snorkel, it's what floats my boat.

geez, now i wonder if they have any other shots of me and my post-natal ass out? or picking my nose? or smoking that cigarette thingie? or scratching my crotch where the shaved hairs are starting to grow back? or pulling my thong from wa-a-a-a-ay out of my crack? examining my pores in the mirror, squeezing and pinching my way from forehead to chin? or readjusting my boobs in the nursing bra i can't seem to part with cuz it's too comfy? or sticking my pinky way down into my ear and giving a good "tweak"?

getting razzi'ed is like a Catholic's confession, only in "Surprise!" mode. you don't realize you're about to reveal some flaws and un-airbrushed real life cellulite, and vulnerable streaks of "under construction".... but you are. and in zoom mode, no less. for all to see and "leave comment"s for....

today i started to change into "decent" clothes to run to a store. then i thought of the razzi shot of my ass straight up, or me dabbing at my runny nose... and i realized, "it doesn't really matter anymore. if they are going to play hide and seek, i don't have time to waste playing with them." i need to stop worrying about how i might look if the clickers catch me blinded. so here's how i look, as a mother of multiple kids: sweats, sneakers, big baggy clothes. mostly in navy or browns or grays. all my whites have stains. and i don't always carry tissues. there. now you know most everything the razzi can expose of me. those are most of my confessions. (oh, and i should work on cleaning up my language in general, not just around the kids.) and i wipe front to back.










*note: in my heart, i have four children. however, henceforth, in order to simplify everyone's life and wallet, i will only speak of the two that are sole-ly and soul-ly mine and honey's. peace yourself out.

a handful of safety pins and watercolor hope

again... do i rest the laptop ON my pooch, or under it? if i rest the laptop under my pooch, then my pooch pushes my clicker thing, and mail is accidentally sent before i am done writing it. if i rest it over my pooch, i can't see the screen. i kid. it's not that big. okay, maybe it is. or not. whatever. i want a minimizer bra for my pooch. honey suggested situps. HA! i don't think so. i'd rather just bitch about it than actually break a sweat over it. yeesh.

at times i feel that living the life we do (money, cars, assistants, managers, private jets, etc) really does a disservice to the children. the life i live in is not typical, and it is very easy to become accustomed to certain things, thereby multiplying the chances of having TYPICAL life things feel aggravating. since the likelihood of the children building a life like this is narrow (i don't believe in trust fund babies- well, to be specific, i believe in them, and i have experienced that many are spoiled and empty of forethought or passion) *sigh* where was i? right. raising children in a purple world when they are more likely to live in an orange world. i feel as if we are missing out on opportunities to show them how to live one day. so i'm going to start with clipping coupons, showing them bargains and sales, and then looking at price tags before we buy things. Maybe the next time they ask for gum at the store, i can sort of turn the gum over in my hands, looking for a price, and when I don't find a price, i'll simply put it back and say "i don't know if we can afford it." and leave it at that. right? i don't know. i want a soup kitchen that provides an atmosphere where children can go and help. i think it would do a world of good to famous-people-kids if they were exposed to people that do hear the word "NO" each day; and if they can witness choices and the affect of them (you don't get homeless from working hard, and being healthy, and living an honest life, just my opinion and experience-- considering i was homeless once as a kid, i figure i have a little insight on that situation). i just want the kids to know what hard work is, what it can bring, and what laziness will bring upon them. we are just starting to let go of the remainder of people that live off of us. we pay their rent, food, bills, etc. just cuz they don't feel like getting a job. (i wish i had thought of that as a career: mooching.) i don't want to raise children to behave as if they need the the financial assistance of others to make a life for themselves. if my kids want to flip burgers, i don't care. they just better have integrity and pride when it comes to their burgers. and pay their bills themselves for f*ck's sake.

my pooch rests on my thighs when i sit on the potty. (too much information? eh- go read another blog, sweets, as i am sure there are just more offenses to come from me in the following words). sort of like having a pet in my lap every time i sit down.

valentine's day, huh? oy. another time for commercialism to grab us by the balls of our wallets, and make us spend money on trivial shit to relieve us of our guilt for the times we fight with our lover. i'll do an anonymous, random act of kindness for someone on behalf of honey today, and call that her gift from me. we love to anonymously pay the meal bills for nice strangers who sit next to us in restaurants. maybe something like that would be a good v-day gift to her.

miller is going through a "mommy only" phase right now. is it wrong if i find it to be the most delicious cry in the world? the "only you will do for my me" sort of cry? like stitches to a gash, they are, those twins. like sewing me back together, one wound at a time. and scar tissue tends to be stronger than healthy tissue, so i will be even stronger than before by the time they are done unknowingly healing me.

i'm learning how to raise children as i go through it each day. and raising the babies is sooooo different from raising my other ones. compare it to walking a dog while chained to a backyard post, versus walking a dog while on a leash down the block. same dog, same idea, same environment.... but totally different experiences.

today is Field Trip day. we go on a field trip to somewhere most wednesdays. i am so stinking blessed, i don't know what to do with myself some days, other than smile really really big and sometimes let out a laugh for no reason.

it's not about life being perfect, it's about finding the perfection in reality. thick, sticky, messy reality made of love, war wounds, memories, and hope and a few safety pins.

a pooch, and a dream or five

there's a soft, mobile piece of my lower tummy skin that is a daily reminder of who carried their chubby li'l butts for almost 9 months. it doesn't seem to go away, even if i lose a pound or five. in fact, if i lose any more weight, the skin fold simply grows. honey kisses it and reminds me of "the miracle of not just one life, but TWO lives" and "you're a woman, a mother" and blah blah blah. i'll tell you what i am: a saggy muffin-top. each day as i put my pants on one leg at a time, i spend a minute or five playing with my soft tummy skin. do i roll it and tuck it into my pants, thereby creating the need for me to go shopping for bigger pants? or do i simply wear my pants a little lower, letting my tummy hang as loose as horse balls, but never ever put on a tshirt again that doesn't allow for the extra room of my motherhood pooch? i've been choosing the latter. but then when i get in the car, i go through it all over again: do i tuck the lap belt OVER the pooch? or under the pooch? or, straight across it, which gives a sort of "old man on the way to the pub" look. i don't think it would be such an issue for me, if it weren't so mobile, and always reminding me that there's a tail to this comet, it's just on the front of me... swinging along one beat (or five beats) after the rest of me.

so i am back to wearing honey's pants, like i'm in the first trimester phase again. and i haven't given away my pre-pregnancy pants, because i think somewhere in the back of my mind, i'm hoping this pooch will shrink back to the size of the tummy of an underweight tv starlet. i'm beginning to think it's not going to happen. i am far from hating my body, thought, i want to be clear. how can i hate a body that is kissed almost hourly by two gorgeous creatures like my twinlies? whenever the babies see my belly (which is often, as they are beginning to get interested in people's belly buttons, and what specific part of the body one does pee from: the willy or the vagina? keepin' it simple) they like to stick their finger in my belly button and chuckle... and inevitably, one of them kisses it. swear to god. how can i hate something that is kissed so often? we've taught the twinlies some sign language, some manners, and hugging and kissing. i think those are some basic ground rules for us... anyway, they are the most demonstrative little kids i've ever seen. they seem to understand what a hug means ("i love you") what a kiss means ("make the boo better" or "i love you"), and they are always completely appropriate with the use of both. well, except today when johnnie rose bonked her head on a shelf, she kissed the shelf's booboo (!) before she sought after a kiss for her head bump. like, what kid does that? a 16 month old, for crying out loud! and she's trying to potty train herself... where is THAT chapter in those "what to expect in the infant years" book? i'm winging it at this point.

it's a gorgeous day today. as it was yesterday. these days, when the sun is up, but not too hot... and the waterfall sings me a lullaby of security, i do believe that i live a dream come true, or five. i live my cinderella-at-the-ball everyday. without a midnight to fear. my dreams have turned out to be better than i ever imagined, more than i ever hoped for, and all that i could ever want.




except maybe a a good pooch bra. i could use a good pooch bra.

digressing, politics, and writing without a destination

it's funny how sometimes i realize that there are people out there that seem to think my blog is something that needs resonded to, or needs to be commented on, or in general, needs any feedback whatsoever. what this blog is to me, in fact, is a gym for my thoughts. just working stuff out. sometimes the blogs i write aren't even supposed to be understood by anyone else- they are merely serving as bookmarks for my life: just keeping track of situations by writing cryptic blogs, to never be understood by anyone else but me. and that is fine with me. but my friend recently told me how frustrated she gets when she doesn't understand what i am saying.

"so don't read it," I suggested. her eyes flew open in shock at the idea.
"you don't want me to read it?" she asked incredulously.
"no, no," i said, "i'm just saying that if you don't understand it, don't read it over and over, and get frustrated. just move on.... find another site to read from to take up your time."

painting on the ceiling, remember? this is my cluttered kitchen drawer. this is my cookie made from the scraps of leftover dough. these are my opinions, that sometimes flux and change. ebb and flow... which is why i wish that i had read Hillary's letter to the gays before i went to my voting machine. wtf. that was an awesome letter she wrote. but why didn't she say that stuff sooner? why didn't she bring up the father's gay neighbor when she was on logo doing the debates? why didn't she say that story to honey in response to the gay marriage idea, instead of saying, "it's my personal opinion" that gays shouldn't MARRY, just domesticize their partnership. wtf. i loved her letter. it seemed so warm and loving and open and hopeful. and i just wish she had come up with that speech sooner. it might have won me over. that being said, i think she had more of the popular vote than anyone else that night. and my bet is she might be the next president of the united states. cool. i don't know if she and bill have a "deal" or whatever. i don't know why she didn't kick his ass to the curb after affair #8. but you know what? i never wanted bill to be my husband, i wanted him to make huge decisions for the country and myself. what goes on in their marriage is none of my business. i won't vote for her to be a good wife, i will vote for her to be a good president. i'm not sure when the hyper-interest in the politicians' lives became so apparent. oh, well. i only care about the affect they'll have on my government. in fact, i'd take bill getting a blowjob EVERYDAY over bush getting more money for exxon. i wonder if he gets a cut of it? like a kick-back if you will. that would be enough dough for at least one honey hunt a year, don'tcha think?

that was a HUUUGE digression.

back on point. this blog is very spur-of-the-moment. i rarely spellcheck, especially since i am such a champion speller. no kidding. i read the draft once, and if it makes sense, it is published, if it doesn't, it is not published. that's how simple it is. i rarely think about what i'm going to blog about before i sit down at my computer. in fact, i often think about what i *can't* blog about. for now. but man, i am going to have a KILLER autobiography in nine years. and i'll be publishing EVERYTHING in it. especially the stuff i can't discuss now. hee hee. oh, the details would make one's skin crawl, and perhaps allow for several chuckles. i can assure you it will be highly entertaining. and shocking. and full of truth. i'll leave out the details of the stalkers- well, most of them anyway...

don't come here looking for the answer. i am just gathering my own. don't come here looking for one thing, and then yell about how you didn't find it. maybe if you're looking for something specific, and i'm not giving it to you, you can go start your own blog. of course, i don't take criticism personally, as most people criticizing me, are not really commenting on my blog, but rather, relieving themselves of their own inner-anger or inner-self-hatred. you can't hate me without knowing me. if you know me and hate me, i'll assume you didn't like me cutting off your meal ticket, and you had to go get a real job for once in your life.

i might start thinking there is no digression in blogs.

mrs morgan was my literature hero growing up. a 7th grade teacher, who insisted on me writing as far as my potential could carry me. sometimes i feel the need to blog an "appropriate" piece of writing, in hopes that she'll find it online, and silently grade my writing. i fantasize she'd give me an "A", but without spell-checking, and all my run-on sentences, and the tangents i get lost on myself... i couldn't hope for higher than a "C" . sometimes i think i need mrs morgan in my life again to whip my writing ass into shape. you know? she'd make me write each day, at least once; and she'd make me care again about what comes out of the paper once my fingers have stopped moving.

is it morning nap time over already? i love my twins, AND having them doesn't leave much time for painting on the ceiling.

peace.

yes. much of it. (and more to come.)

on i seek, on i seek.

addiction is a fascinating thing. well, i suppose it's only fascinating if you've witnessed addicts and their behavior and then been puzzled by the results.

why the heck do i need to hide that i have addicts in my family? addictions run rampant. there was the time we ran out of food at donor's house while visiting him... and he made us wait in hunger for half a day until he ran out of beer and "needed" to run into town. so my sister gave us cheerios. leftover cheerios for six kids? not filling. ha. six kids. two kids times three wives... equals six. (six kids all having visitation at the same time- brilliant. it never happened again.) six kids ate cheerios from 6am to dinnertime. well. actually we ran out at lunch. but i don't think of this memory as a "boohoo" memory, it's more of an informative memory: a memory that gives me information long after i lived it. plus, i just can't find the space in myself to feel sorry for cheerio eaters- that little haitian boy's tongue was streaked yellow from the mud cookie. cheerios is far better than dirt.

i digressed. or maybe not.

i recall a love i had once. a love that i thought was love love love. it didn't matter how often she blacked out from her rolling rocks, it didn't matter how little affection she gave me... i only remember having the recurring thoughts "if i can just get her to stop drinking, we'd be perfect!!!" when, really, the alcohol intake is just a SIGN that something else is wrong deeper inside. there are those who have no compassion for addicts. i go through those periods, myself. i go through the idea of "Someone let her fall on her fucking face already, and if that means death, so be it". but if i think about it, really deep down think about it

i still can't believe someone would choose addiction over children. i witnessed it, experienced it, lived it before i was old enough to get my period. no wonder i sought it in relationships. i was a creature of comfort, never straying from my original script. back then anyway.

they suck from the bottle like there is an answer written on the bottom. but once they see the transparent glass or plastic at the point of emptiness, they simply reach for another bottle of promised land. i might always have a fascination with it- the wonder of how strong one's numbness must be to conquer the screaming voices within.

i find addiction to be familiar. when i see it living in front of me, thrown at me whenever i turn on my mail, i cannot help but watch and see if there are answers people are giving that i am not applying to my own questions. i watch others in similar situations, as i'm sure you can guess by now....

i have my own family member spiraling out of control. and she always has been. i just don't know if she's a stand-still cyclone... shrieking insanity in one place forever, or if she will continue to deteriorate. i think it's the latter. i've done interventions, i've pleaded for one to help us help themselves. i've done the counseling with the rehab counselor and patient. and yet no matter how many hoops we all jumped through, we found ourselves staring at her standing in her square one 42 days later. no change.

i find my fellow brothers and sisters can go through similar fates as myself. some of us struggle to find answers, some of us turn our backs and say "you did it to yourself". i'd like to give myself permission to stop seeking the why's of the situation.... i'd like to stop watching the train wreck that so eerily resembles my own memories- insanity, violence, disregard for any safety...

but on i seek, and on i seek.

the spear in your side, is me

don't know what made me think it. don't know if it's true- i only have a theory drenched in sympathy for one who spirals and spirals more...

i found several websites about crystal meth addiction. when i don't know much about something, i can spend so much time educating myself, googling, reading, soaking... crystal meth has made a huge rise in popularity recently, since 2000-ish. and while perusing the sites, i learned several things. for instance, i did not know that heavy continuous use of crystal meth for over a week (only a week?) can cause structural brain damage. STRUCTURAL. like the walls and floors of how one's brain is put together, that gets damaged. and once it causes brain damage, it can cause psychosis. i did not know that. in fact, it can cause schizophrenia-like psychosis. no shit, i am not kidding. (you betcher louisiana, i am not kidding.)

when one is "on meth" as they say, it can cause the person to stay awake for days. DAYS. daze. it can cause the person paranoia, unpredictability and even cause them to be violent.

it's cheap, hooks you after one hit, and can cause horrible skin irritations, looking like sudden onset acne, difficulty remembering, "black out days"...

one way of treatment seems to be putting the addict on a combination of antidepressants and antipsychotic medication with strict daily supervision of a psychiatrist who has the experience of treating drug-induced schizophrenia, by way of crystal meth.




all of this information doesn't mean the whole damn thing doesn't break my heart. a disease out of control, a mind frying in front of us. put that ambulance in a sizzling pan:

kids, this is your brain on drugs.

any questions?



of course, i'm just pulling all of this out of my bum. could be nothing. pure coinky-dink. it's not like a little birdy told me in this big ol' town.

understanding crazy for so many reasons

a little bit crazy can often be mistaken for
a bad thing
an unexplainable thing
but i find craziness
to be completely understandable,
and most of the time,
i find craziness to be an appropriate result
of preceding actions and situations

if i was star of the world at age 16,
on top, be all end all
reaching heights that the grownups around me
can only dream of
i'd feel pretty big
and important, possibly invincible
and totally fucking confused as to how *I*
the CHILD
became so important to so many people's happiness
especially my parents'


when one is at the Heights in
hollywoodland
that reality is not
a sane reality for the rest of us
in laundry land

people yes yes yes yes
whatever you want
anything you say
no questions asked
no rules, open the stores at 1am,
drink at age 16,
no chores, no responsibility
other than to
show up and look fab
and put on the show

the trip back from that land
is brutal
ugly
and often bloody
going from a place where 20 people care for you
like a giant baby
to a place where it might seem
like you're the abandoned baby
would make me
car-ra-ra-ra-razy

to hit the "top" in babyhood
i can only imagine
the vastness of the empty roads before her
after all... she has done it All,
Done It All already

where to go from here?

if i lived in a world surrounded by only
the same 30 people, that would become my world
and my reality
and the photos that come from my reality might
seem strange to others
but not to me
after all
it is
MY reality

my loneliness might lead me to
pick friends from that circle,
perhaps a date or two
someone to help me fill the drowning ache
of loss
loss of my On The Top reality
loss of my world, loss of my life
loss of who i am

if so many people tell a girl
You're on top!
You're the best!
You are THE STAR
once those people leave...
you have no one left telling you who you are
so you might need to make it up as you go along


being On The Top doesn't allow you
to live like a human
take out the trash
clean your toilet, poop scrapes and all

but it does give you a reality
like no other
endless riches and fortunes and open doors
with no boundaries
and never ever hearing the word

no


and when one is no longer in that reality
one might find the rest of the world crazy- not herself
after all....
she hadn't been the one who changed since the
slide from the top...
THEY change.

craziness can be a sane existence in one world
but not in the other world.

craziness is underrated
and understandable.


breaks my heart.
how long can she last?
i'd be in the asylum by now
pink wig and all
wondering how i used to be
such a perfect pop star
and now i'm not

fame is crazy-making
especially if you snort it at a young age.

mm, yes.

yes

some days are better than others
and that is when i try to remember
that all days
can be better than the last

my tom, his suzanne.

it never ceases to amaze me, my naivete. no matter how many deaths i experience in life, each time i think to myself, "but why? why did they have to go?" it doesn't matter if the death had been expected, and we were warned; it makes no difference if the passing was 107 and hadn't recognized me in a decade.... i don't seem to fully grasp death. why it's there, is it lonely, were they scared? are they okay now? it's very childish of me, i understand. and yet, reading about suzanne pleshette's passing brought me full swing into my baffled and bewildered child-like state of confusion.

the first dead body i ever saw was a great uncle. and i remember he looked like a sleeping rock. i had no recollection of knowing him while living, so i met him while he was lying in his beige satin-lined casket. i remember some of my mother's tears fell on his pasty folded hands, and i was very confused as to why he was wearing blush. and as usual, during some of the most painful times in life, my family found ways to laugh. so amidst the pain, there was also display of laughter- perhaps if for no other reason than using laughter as a way to release that which we don't understand inside, "why'd they have to go"? i only know that any memory i have of rosaries wrapped around hands are coupled with giant family potlucks and roaring, table pounding laughter.

great aunts, great uncles, grandpas, great grandmas, a stepfather, even a little girl who was killed by a nurse when she was drinking and driving. that funeral i understood the least: tiny little hands hugged by white gloves, a bonnet, and a teddy bear. she was half my age. once again, "why'd she go?"

i don't know if i shall ever find my answer to that question without stepping into my spirituality. and spirituality is sometimes the only thing capable of getting me through the painful times. spiritually, i know tom and suzanne are back together again. as was always meant to be.

but i still sit here in sunday sweats, the twittering of birds outside my sliding glass doors, the trickle of our waterfall reaching over the sound of a tiny plane far away.... and i wonder, "why'd she have to go? why did he have to go?" and i wonder what it does to our friendship- can i still call them friends? can i still love tom immensely? can i smile when i think of suzanne's sailor cackle? can i laugh when i watch our gag reel from Committed? can i keep the notes we exchanged over the last few years? can i play the good memories over and over when i get sad?" see? death and birth are so much the beautiful same thing, yet my human-ness steps in between my spirituality sometimes, and i am left with simple, earth-bound, human sadness.


it's so hard to let go with fingers, when one knows the heart will never.

Honey Hunts

iowa
new hampshire
nevada
texas
why are we still calling this a free nation? it's like no one is letting kucinich run for president. he's out there, he's trying, he's having fundraisers, at one point he was #4 in the running race. Perhaps a little too close for the #1 #2 #3 candidates? he is trying to be seen. but because he's not funded by bildergerg group. or a rockefeller. or a bush family ally. but time and again, for one watery excuse or another, "they" won't let kucinich debate or put his name on a ballot. which means he is scaring the hell out of somebody in charge. mmm, ahhh.

yes, texas... that reminds me of a story.... I've been sitting on it for years, as i am not as much of a turd in the punchbowl as i claim/wish to be who blurts out secrets because it feels so wrong to keep them in. i was in a tiny little restaurant, no more than a dozen diners and twice as many waitstaff that were nearly invisible and ghostlike as they filled waters and wines, ad dropped off plates, and swept crumbs. it was told by candle light, at a late dinner, to only a few of us, with only pauses in the story when a breeze of another would pass by. i can't name names or anything, but i'll tell you what: it's for real.






The Honey Hunt

Somewhere down south there is family that owns a very large ranch. Through the years, this ranch has hosted all sorts of parties and entertainment. The heirloom ranch was owned by a family of many. Generations of old, to the newest of the youngin's. Many family members would use it for various reasons, both personal and professional. One fella, he typically used it for personal reasons back in his day of whiskey. Especially for the annual Honey Hunt. Now, when it came time for the Honey Hunt, only one member of the family would use the ranch that weekend. Let's call that family member (false name here) Joe. So Joe and all of his big-wig, shin-dig, boozing friends (half a dozen?) would gather at the ranch for a weekend of good ol' boy fun, each one bringing their flavor of gun. And do you know what they'd do?

Someone would be sent off to town, to find a good-lookin (hopefully) illegal immigrant young lady. That friend would bring the pretty girl to the Joe's Family Ranch. Now here's where the fun begins. Once they had the girl hostage, their whiskey breath would carry the Game Rules across the room to her. And they'd tell the young woman this:

"You are on a giant private ranch right now. Pretty easy to get lost here, and no one is going to help you. We're going to free you, and give you a 30 minute head start. After those 30 minutes are up, though, we're coming to find you. We're gonna hunt you. And if we find you, you don't get to leave for a lo-o-ong while."

And then they'd let the young girl that nobody would ever believe anyway, run in maddening despair. This child who is someone's daughter would run like hell through the dried grasses, over the dusty acres and acres and thousands of acres, desperately trying to find her way out, over, away, anywhere but here with those pasty white men.... But few ever escaped. Most of these ladies were caught and gang-raped by Joe and his Schmoes.

You read that right: a Honey Hunt is when a woman is hunted like prey, sexual prey. And after they would finish destroying her body and soul, someone would drive her far far south, drop her off in the middle of nowhere, and warn her: "You can try to report this, but nobody will believe an illegal alien over this family." And he was right.

They picked illegal immigrants, knowing full well, they wouldn't have a legal leg to stand on because of their citizenship status, or lack thereof.

But the interesting thing is this: one of those Hunted Honey's didn't care who threatened her. After her kidnapping, 30 minutes of freedom, rape and beatings, .... you know what she did? She went to an American doctor, where he did the "rape kit" thing, and documented her injuries and the proof. Brave soul.



Now, one may call me crazy, a liar, a liberal fibbing asshole who wants to fuck a goat cuz i wanna marry my wife.... but what I tell you is true. And there are a handful of people that know this. A handful of "higher-ups". A handful of political savvies up in the ranks. AND .... there is one man, who has met the woman, has her affidavit, and wrote a book about the Honey Hunters. I heard it was going to come out a few years ago, and then I never heard about it again. But I know it will be disclosed one day. I can tell the story without the names (god rest her soul who told us this in the first place), but the names will bleed into the knowledge of us all one day.


True story.

so close to the end, and on we sleep.

please.

i'll be your best friend if you just watch this:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuBo4E77ZXo

INCEST IS BEST, WHO'D A GUESSED?

kucinich wanted to debate on NBC. at first, NBC said yes, then they said no. then they said yes, then they said no. then they said yes, after kucinich threatened legal action (and followed through by going to the Nevada Supreme Court yesterday), but in the end.... kucinich didn't get to debate.

NBC
owned by
GE

GE owns nuclear factories
GE has so much waste they need to find a place to stash
GE wants to dump the nuclear waste into the Yucca mountains
kucinich says
HELL NO

GE doesn't like kucinich
who won't let them dump poison in the
yucca mountains of nevada

so of course kucinich didn't debate on
GE- er- i mean NBC

NBC has corporate interests now

now the freedom of speech is owned
by corporations.

how does one forget to breathe?

separation
is not always
a
bad thing


sometimes
it allows one
to feel the truth
from afar.

shit happens. so do you sit in it, or clean it up and refuse to sit in shit again?

sometimes things break
and crazy glue is the answer
other times things shatter
and there is nothing to put it back together
no nail long enough
no hammer to swing hard enough
no glues
no tools
nothing to make it be
the way it was.

and so
if the
way it will be
is deadly
one must
move on move on move on
one foot
in front of the other foot

soap box. soap box. soap box.

i heard a mother complain to another at the mall, "i said to my oldest son, 'why don't you get off the computer? why are you always on myspace, myspace, myspace? Can't you get out and TALK to someone in REAL LIFE?!' and he didn't even look away from the screen as he answered me with a mumble!" the simple, loving, hard-working mom uncrossed and recrossed her keep-up-with-the-family-sneakered legs, and tossed back the rest of her starbucks coffee through un-glossed lips.

she was a little older than me, maybe later thirties. i'd gotten from earlier eavesdropping that her son was 12. in my head, i did some quick math... her son was a product of a woman... who was a product of the atari 2600 and coleco generations. man, that was some fi-i-i-ine pac-man playing. i liked that jungle-something, i loved popeye where he had to catch hearts for olive oyl... loved ms pac man and HATED friggin' q-bert. damn thing never moved the way i would jerk the joystick in my blistered, sweaty little hands. ahhh, those good ol' days when home video machines/games were just beginning to build popularity.

there were some kids in my class who had atari, some had coleco later on, and even later a very few die-hard-video-game-junkie-seniors had nintendo. and now, it seems that those video kids who left the joystick at home when they went to college, are now late thirties and perhaps turning their children towards the fun games they recalled as a child? but the games aren't the same, they are completely different. the details in them now, the sound affects, the visuals, the high-def televisions, the complete creation of a reality that looks, sounds, sometimes feels as real, as real life. and when someone has two choices: they can live in a world where they have no control over life, OR they can practice a virtual life over and over until they DO control their "reality".... which world do you think they wanna live in?

and myspace kids? those are just the kids a few years behind me who got really into nintendo 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and friggin' 19 or whatever. when kids are sitting inside a building, with false senses (fake smelly deordorizers or febreze, smelly detergent and non-static dryer sheets-which are carcinogens, polyester clothes and tubber toys with poisonous dyes) living life with their fingers and their mind, eyes glued to a screen... what else do you mothers expect them to do when they're older? MYSPACE. back to the whole "controlling their reality" idea. man, and as a teen in this day and age - hell at any age in this day and age, wouldn't you give just almost anything to be able to control some of this chaos?

so with that "control of reality" experience going on, the electric gadget business continue to invent electric, "screened" gadgets for younger and younger audiences. i went to look for an "excer-saucer" for the twins when it was age appropriate, and i couldn't find any that didn't look like they were child seats planted right in the middle of TIMES SQUARE. all these fake electronic lights, these fake sounds ("mooo!" said the computer) and so much much much much to look at. it was dizzying. i finally bought the excersaucer that allowed me to leave the "busy parts" off. i want my babies' brains to work hard at developing, and use their muscles,so i don't give them toys that allow them be passively entertained. which means that most of the presents they are given for whatever reason (bday, xmas, kid of famous parents, blah blah blah) are donated to the katrina victims. in fact, the only screen time the twins have ever had is some football on sundays. no, they don't watch, they