The joy of having kids--I never knew until now

I've been following an online friend's blog this year. She had a stillborn son and she and her family are putting their lives back together. It's been worse than anything she could've imagined or ever wanted to imagine. I can pick up a tiny fraction of what she's going through and that's quite hard enough, thank you.

They're thinking seriously of trying again and she is wondering about any number of things, not the least of which is the sense of risk. I just posted something that I realized I wanted to post here, too, because part of my reply made me realize how much I've learned in the last 9 years with The Babe's three kids, who I love and am enormously proud of.

Children are always a risk, no matter what the age. And it never gets easier. I've learned that through being a stepfather. I worry about them all, even my 31-yo oldest daughter, no matter what, no matter when. But I've also discovered, much to my surprise, that it's all worth the risk, too. And that's something I never knew until I had kids to love of my own.

The joy of having kids--I never knew until now

The Blessed Virgin Mary makes an ironic appearance

(Not really SFW, but very, very funny.)

The Friendly Atheist has this article about the appearance of the BVM in an ironic location. But, hell, if Jesus can appear in tortillas and mildew stains, the BVM can appear in... uh...

Be sure to read the comments, which are also very funny.

The Blessed Virgin Mary makes an ironic appearance

What a great t-shirt!

What a great t-shirt!

Dear dogs and cats....

Dear Dogs and Cats:

• When I say "Move!" it means to go someplace else, not just to switch positions with each other so there are still two of you in the way.
• The dishes with the paw print are yours and contain your food.
• The other dishes are mine and contain my food.
• Please note: placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.
• The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack.
• Beating me to the bottom is not the object.
• Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.
• I cannot buy anything bigger than a king-sized bed.
• I am very sorry about this.
• Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort.
• Dogs and cats actually curl up in a ball when they sleep.
• It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible.
• I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.
• For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom.
• If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open.
• I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom for years; canine or feline attendance is not mandatory.
• The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog or cat's butt! I cannot stress this enough.

To pacify you, my dear pets, I have posted the following message on our front door:

RULES FOR NON-PET OWNERS WHO VISIT AND LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT OUR PETS

1. They live here. You don't.
2. If you don't want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture. (That's why they call it 'fur'niture.)
3. I like my pets a lot better than I like most people.
4. To you, it's an animal. To me, he/she is an adopted son/daughter who is short, hairy, walks on all fours, and doesn't speak clearly.

Dear dogs and cats....

Pornstar or Potato?

An exciting game and moderately SFW, too! No parts are actually exposed.

Pornstar or Potato?

Watch out for this man! (not kidding)

If you are in the greater Seattle area, you should keep an eye out for this man. He's charming, he's fascinating, and he's got an impressive and colorful history. I know him and a number of his victims personally. I'm pleased to see that people are adding up the stories about him.

It's looking like a lot of his chickens are finally coming home to roost, but I'm sorry that he's still running around loose. Oh, well, not forever.

Watch out for this man! (not kidding)

A good quote to start the week with

It's late and I'm up working on manuals. I have Robert Schimmel on in the background: he's a comedian I'm very fond of who survived cancer and major life upheaval and is back performing. He's awfully funny and very real.

He closed his show with this lovely quote: "Life is not about learning to survive the storm. Life is about learning to dance in the rain."

A good quote to start the week with

No, how hot has it REALLY been?

(More odd stuff at Va-Va-Voom.)

No, how hot has it REALLY been?

The crappy taxidermy photo blog

Oh.

Dear.

God.



Be sure to check out the other blog, too, which has a rather "Mondo Cane" feel to it.

The crappy taxidermy photo blog

Stupid joke du mois

This is the stupid joke of the month. You've been warned.

There was a little boy by the name of Billy. Billy was an ordinary little boy who did ordinary little boy things, like playing, eating, bathing, destroying things, and going to school. One day, when Billy went down to the bus stop to meet the bus to go to school, he found all of his friends huddled around in a little group, talking about the Purple Wombat.

Being a little boy, Billy was curious. So he asked them, "What's the Purple Wombat?"

"You don't know what the Purple Wombat is?" the children exclaimed disgustedly. For the rest of the morning, they would not go near Billy, always standing far away and staring at him. Then the bus came. Billy, confused, got on the bus along with the rest of the children.

"Hey, Mister Bus Driver!" one of the chldren shouted. "Billy doesn't know what the Purple Wombat is!"

The bus driver turned around abruptly. "You don't know what the Purple Wombat is?" he said in disbelief. He ordered Billy to sit in the very back of the bus, all by himself.

Eventually, they got to school, and Billy got off the bus and went to class. Class proceeded normally; the students did the pledge of allegiance and worked on their multiplication tables for a while. Then the teacher led them into a unit on geography. Billy was not really paying attention, but he heard the teacher mention something about the Purple Wombat.

Billy's hand shot up, and, when the teacher called on him, Billy asked, "Teacher, what's the Purple Wombat?"

"You don't know what the Purple Wombat is?" the teacher cried in alarm, "Get yourself to the principal's office right now, young man. No, no buts -- march!"

So Billy headed down the long, dark, frightening hallway to the principal's office. He slowly opened the large, heavy door, and timidly entered the room behind it. There, at a large, imposing desk, sat the principal. The principal was a hulking man, balding, with a thin mustache. He spoke in a deep baritone voice. He was enough to frighten little boys like Billy who had been sent to his office almost to tears.

"Well, Billy," he began slowly. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Mr. Principal, I just don't know what's going on today. Everyone's been acting weird, and they're all treating me really badly. Like teacher just sent me to you and stuff."

"Now, Billy, I'm here to help you. I'm the princi-Pal, after all. Heh heh. Can you tell me why everyone's acting so strangely?"

"It's because I don't know what some stupid Purple Wombat is."

"What? You don't know what the Purple Wombat is? That's it. I am calling your mother, young man. Consider yourself suspended."

The principal threw Billy out of his office and told him to go home. Billy, crying, began the long walk home. When he got there, his mother was standing in the doorway waiting for him.

"Billy!" she called, sobbing, "I was so worried about you! What happened?"

"Mom," Billy cried, "Everyone was being mean to me and I had to sit in the back of the bus all by myself and the teacher sent me to the principal's office and the principal suspended me, all because I don't know what the Purple Wombat is!"

"What? You don't know what the Purple Wombat is?" Billy's mother shrieked. "Go to your room this minute. Go! Just wait until your father gets home!"

So Billy marched up the stairs and into his room. He collapsed on the bed, crying. After some amount of time, he heard a car pull in and some doors shutting. His father was home. He could hear his parents talking downstairs but didn't know what they were saying. Then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and his door opened.

"Billy," his father began in that lecturing-father tone, "Your mother says you've been acting badly lately. Would you like to tell me what you've done?"

"Dad, I haven't done anything! I just don't know what the Purple Wombat is!"

"You...don't know what the Purple Wombat is. Well, in that case, you can just stay in this room all night, mister. And forget about dinner!"

Billy's father slammed the door and stormed off. Billy collapsed on his bed, crying his eyes out. He spent the next several hours that way -- lying there, crying, wishing he would wake up.

Then, in the middle of the night, he heard a voice. It said: "Billy. I am the Purple Wombat, Billy."

Billy sat up with a start. He looked around the room, trying to find the source of the voice, but he could not.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. Find me, Billy."

It was coming from out the window. So Billy got up, put his shoes on, opened the window, and climbed out on to the roof.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat."

Billy jumped down off the roof and followed the voice down the road. He got to the edge of a wood.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. Follow me, Billy."

The voice was coming from inside the wood. It was very dark and very frightening, but Billy didn't care. He had to find out what the Purple Wombat was. So, bravely, he entered the wood.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. Keep going, Billy."

Billy kept going into the wood. He could hardly see anything, and he kept falling down and walking into things and hurting himself. But he kept going, driven by a need to find this enigma that kept calling his name.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. This way, Billy."

Eventually, Billy emerged from the wood. He was on the shore of the town lake.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. I'm out here, Billy."

It was coming from out across the lake. Billy got one of the small rowboats from the dock, untied it, and rowed out. Since he was only a small boy, it was very difficult. But he had to find out what the Purple Wombat was.

"Billy. I am the Purple Wombat. Row, Billy."

The voice was coming from across the lake. Billy doubled his effort, and the boat began to move a little faster. When he was about half way across the lake, he heard: "Billy, I am the Purple Wombat. I'm up here, Billy."

It was coming from directly above him. Billy stopped rowing and stood up to look for it. The boat tipped over, dumping him in the lake. Billy didn't know how to swim, so he drowned.

Moral: Don't stand up in a boat.

Stupid joke du mois

How to write a GOOD complaint letter

I got this from Sheilagh, an old friend of mine, who said "This came from the July 2009 edition of the Chippewa Pages newspaper from Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. I was trying to do a dramatic reading for my Mom and sister and was laughing so hard I couldn't finish."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets rolling after the first paragraph. It's PC Magazine's 2007 editor's choice for best web mail award-winning letter."

Dear Mr Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the Leak Guard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos for being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from 'the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills'. Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period".

Are you flipping kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?

Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi-pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending crap. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons

How to write a GOOD complaint letter

Guess what? Gay "therapy" doesn't work!

Well, it seems that, after examining 49 years of evidence, that a panel of the American Psychological Association says that therapy to "change" from gay to straight doesn't work. (Boy howdy, now there's a surprise, eh?)

This article says that the panel voted 125-to-4 that this kind of change is unlikely and attempts to enforce this kind of change lead to depression and suicidal tendencies. As an alternative, for patients who are having problems reconciling their sexual orientation and their religious faith, therapists are being urged to consider such things as recommending switching churches.

This has been a long time in coming, but it's really nice that the religion is finally being regarded as the choice and the sexual orientation as the immovable object.

Guess what? Gay "therapy" doesn't work!