WEEK 9 AND GOING STRONG…. lost another pound this week for a grand total of 17.4.  I am delighted!!  Now, I’m on a mission to hit 20 pounds.  Will have to kick up the exercise and reduce my points this week.  The compliments come daily, which is good and bad.  Good because they motivate me, bad because I begin to feel cocky.  I’m not even down a whole size yet, so I have NO reason whatsoever to be cocky, NO REASON!!  Cockiness gets me into trouble.  Cockiness makes me not want to watch what I eat and I think I am looking good, so I can eat anything.  NOT!  I am truly not focusing on how much more I have to go, even though it is an obscene number.  But, that’s okay!  It’s been almost two years since I even weighed what I weigh today and this is a horrific number.  Why do numbers even matter?  They shouldn’t, but they do.  Oh well, one day I won’t mind stepping on the scale.  In the meantime I will just focus on losing 2.6 more pounds to hit that 20 mark!! That’s a nice number and since spring starts in 3 weeks. It is nice to know that I’ll be 20 pounds less this spring than last spring. Not bad, not bad at all!!

There are some really incredibly beautiful things in life and I can’t seem to get at them because I’m so busy watching. Observing. Being me. This body is such a wall – a shell. A prison. I can’t break through my awareness of it and just touch what I know exists – what is out there and how it’s in me. Having this body is like pounding a key on the keyboard over and over, and having it fail to type.

I know I sound like I’m on acid but I’m not. I was on acid once, years ago, and it was hell; I hated it. I was trapped in my head and I couldn’t get out. This body feels like an extension of that trip. My eyes are just two holes in my head, pools of visual awareness, that show me everything from heaven to hell but keep me from it all. My mind is like this giant feeler, taking stuff in, touching stuff, but unable to penetrate it and know it, to feel it from it’s own perspective. From the reality of what it is.

No matter what I say, it’s just words. Just more of the same. More begging for attention, or a need for affirmation of existence, or the sense of having an affect. Just blither-blather hitting cobblestones in a cyber world that goes on and on and on, because there’s no end to time and people and perception, and the cyber world just makes that small quaint cobblestone road between your house and the corner grocers a million miles longer, with that many more people in between. That many more houses. That many more strangers.

That many more voices. People, just like you. Or me.

Blogging is a new dimension. It’s a walk on the beach with a million grains of sand, but this time each grain has a history, a life, a world of trouble, happiness, joy, fear , love, humor, opinion… everything. Maybe I’m giving too much credit to the idea of blogging.

I’ve been in the Midwest – my real home – for three years now – and suddenly I miss my beach. The one that used to restore my sanity. The one I used to go to and cry on alone. Where I would go and wish I was back here in Minnesota. Back home, where things made sense. That beach was the only sane person in the world. The rocks, the sand, the waves rolling in like slow, steady breaths, one after another. I knew every rock on that beach – every log…until a really big tide would change them all around. And then I’d find them scattered here and there. It never failed to amaze me how that water could rearrange a beach. The power of the ocean is so beautiful. And frightening. And profound. And reassuring.

I can’t believe I actually miss the ocean. I never thought I would. Damn. That’s what happens when your hours are cut. You have time to think. Oh boy.

I wish summer would come so I could go camping in a thunderstorm. So I could have my sanity restored before I go and do something crazy…like move back to the west coast so I can hear the ocean breath.

P. S. I’m not stoned either. Can’t do that - not with this mind. I think I’m coming down with the flu. (it’s so much easier to say that, than “I think I’m coming down with an extreme case of vulnerability.”)

Anyways, I think it’s beddy-by time for me. Nighty night to all you late night bloggers (and thinkers)

I hate Walmart’s guts.

I have dragged their secret, hidden store manager out of the invisible, nonexistent closet she hides in on more than one occasion to complain. I am a die-hard complainer – a firm believer in the idea that if someone doesn’t complain, things won’t change. And even if things don’t change, it sure does feel good.

I have returned glasses (optical) that didn’t correct my daughter’s vision, and I have caused everyone in the optical department to hate me simply because I told them that they didn’t know what the problem was that was making it impossible for my daughter to see out of the glasses they made for her. They tried three times, each time getting incrementally more expensive, and after the third try they said she “just needed to wear them for a while so her eyes could adjust”. Whatever. You don’t know what you’re doing; admit it.

The (secret) store manager almost escorted me out of the store on one occasion, when I accidentally let a few cusswords slip while trying to express how damn frustrating it was to get home at 7:00 at night after a long, hard day of work and other crap, stop by Walmart for a quick dinner, see shrimp on sale, buy it, go home, cook dinner, toss it in the pan last (because you only need to cook it a little while before it’s more than done) and have it be rotten and my whole dinner ruined. That’s the second time I’ve bought shrimp from Walmart that made my house stink. (Actually I was reading about shrimp and it’s really gross; I’ll never buy it again after that article, from anyone).

There’s not a single person in the world (I’m guessing) who has shopped at Walmart who can’t complain about the fact that they have four hundred cash registers and only two open at all times.

I could go on and on and on for hours about how much I hate Walmart.

But today, I’m thanking God for them because my brakes needed to be done. And my rotors. And they don’t do brakes or rotors at Walmart. But someone who works in their oil changing department does. And he did mine. And now I have an auto mechanic I can trust, without going broke.

So, Walmart, you suck. But there are a lot of really nice people who work for you that don’t. So thank God for you, you cheap-assed motherfucker, for hiring them so they can make this world a better place by doing what they do best on the side.

The last posting about parents sucking ass creating more pathetic adults motivated me to kick some teenager butt, so to speak, on my 15 year old son. I consider myself a loving, good parent, but perhaps I have not been diligent as I could be in making him accountable every day for his homework.  He is slacking big-time and his grades are in the tank.  I am home with both boys every day after school. I have called for a meeting next week with his school counselor and teachers.  This is all a bit embarrassing for me…I am a teacher for G-d’s sake and I can’t get my own kid on the ball?  So, I’m sucking it up and putting my attentions directly where it matters.  I am in his face now– in his space– and he HATES it!  This is guerilla parenting.  This is put-your-money-where- your-mouth-is stuff. This is what you do when you’ve tried everything else besides military school.  You get in their face.

I am presently sitting on the floor in my son’s bedroom, witnessing his homework effort. He hates me, I’m sure, and thinks he is in hell.  I say to him: “watch what else I’ll do to make sure you pass your classes!”

 My teen son will go to great lengths to avoid doing his homework.  Today, he spent 30 minutes procrastinating in the bathroom.  When I arrived at his bedroom door this evening with laptop in hand, I announced that I was spending the evening with only him to provide undivided attention toward his homework. He’s tried everything to make me want to leave: turned on the fan, stared at the wall for several minutes, flipped his papers around for awhile, even laid his head on my shoulder and slumped his 6′ frame into me in a grand demonstration that he has no motivation to begin.

20 minutes later…

He’s working now.  This may be a long night, but I promised myself that I would stay in this room and let my husband handle our younger son tonite.  I hear them through the door behind me. But the guy who is kneeling in front his bed (because for some reason he won’t use a chair– duh!)to do his homework  is more important right now.

                Tyler. Connor. Logan. Dylan. McKenzie. Jarrett.  Jackson. These were last names of families in my neighborhood growing up. These days, you’re just as likely to find a last name of Connor as you are a first name of Connor. In fact, I am willing to bet most day cares are littered with Taylors and Jordans. I hate this trend. When did it get in vogue to take common last names and make them first names? I blame the motarded parents.

                I am sure the discussion started something like this. “Uh, yea, honey, this is the third test, and it’s saying positive.” “That is awesome, sweetie. What are we going to name it? Whatever, I am sure our kid will be the most precious, important kid in all the land.” “Yes, dear, I sure do agree. We must name him/her something unique. Surely, when he/she cures the common cold/restores peace to the Middle East/shits gold, they must have a superior name.” “Pookums, we can name it after my recently departed Uncle Joe. Or perhaps your mother Sara.” “Get a clue, dunderhead. Our offspring surely can’t sport a common name. No, the name must be regal. It must be a name that not a lot of kids these days have.” “David? Rebecca? Pat? Amy? Kevin? They are all swell names.” Slapping her forehead, she says, “Shit, I knew you should have used a condom. Look, I think there’s a great name right next door to us. I think their last name would make a fine first name for our progeny.” “You want to name our kid Tomaszewski?” “No, moron, I think we should name it Cooper.”

                Yes, this trend of using formerly last names as first names is the result of parents trying to sound original. Because snowflake will be so special. Get over it. Don’t hex your kid. And it’s certainly not just ‘normal’ parents. No, celebutards are to blame as well. It just might be worse there. Surely, the offspring of such MENSA members as Gwyneth Paltrow & Chris Martin, Bono & Edge of U2, actrors Shannyn Sossamon and Jason Lee will surely erase cancer and acne off the face of the earth. They must be granted ‘special’ names. It is well known that Paltrow and Martin named their first demonseed Apple. Apple? Seriously, WTF? Even Steve Jobs isn’t that self absorbed. Why in the blue hell would you curse your kid by naming them “Apple”?I can just imagine, when poor, poor Apple is getting beat up by the other girls at the haughty boarding school (while her parents are on holiday on the coast). Bam! “And this is for that other shitty movie your mom made!” Bam, fist meets shoulder in effort to give a dead arm. “And this is for your dad being in Radiohead! Everyone hates that band!” Apple will sob back, “But…but my dad is in Coldplay!” “Really,” her agitator will pause to roll up her sleeves more, “well you shouldn’t have told me that.”

                It must be some rule to be in U2 that you have to name your kids wacky names. Keep in mind, the 2 individuals with horribly gaudy, made up names damned their kids by really naming them Memphis Eve and Blue Angel. Wow, talk about pretentious. Sossamon named her kid Audio Science. Lee named his son Pilot Inspektor. I guess that might be from Russian descent with the ‘k’ and all. Perhaps Burger Flipper doesn’t quite carry the same cache.

                I also find it comical that when a birth comes along, the parents get all ancestral. After largely ignoring much of their heritage, now that a shortie comes along, they feel the obligation to find some long lost, bizarre name. To pay homage to the heritage they never really bothered with. Aiden is a hot name right now. What do you call Aiden for short? Aids? Seriously, let’s think this out here. I know someone who named their first born Maeve. Maeve. WTF kind of name is that? It was explained to me that it is an old Irish name. Keep in mind the parents are both Italian. And I still don’t know if Maeve is a boy or a girl. Good luck finding that on a license plate at Disney World. It used to be all the bizarre names belonged to hockey players. Now, all the major sports are littered with names I’ve never heard of.

                Other hot names just seem kinda made up to me. Caden? Jayden is one of those names that’s a combination of 2 names. Similar to Jaron and Jared.  It’s funny how parents can be oblivious. Hot girl names from 2008 include Hailey, Chloe, Madison, Peyton and Morgan. Right, all stripper names. Just sayin’.

                Lastly, why, o why do parents give their kids a repetitive name? I think we all know a Bill Williams or Tom Thomas. All I’m saying is THINK. If you feel the need to try and look all cutesy, then consider what I did. I got a dog. You can name dogs all kinds of cool things like Bruiser or Diesel. If you have to get all trendy, then scar a dog, cat or gecko with a bizarre name. Just not your kids.

You know, this economy sucks ass. I’m not saying that to be on the “in crowd” either. It really does. There’s nothing worse than having every single flippin’ person you come in contact with pissing and moaning about the economy.

Well there is one thing that I personally feel is worse: To be around rich people who are pissing and moaning about the economy. People who, for the last five to forty+ years, have been wealthy business owners who eat at fancy restaurants, stay at fancy hotels, take frequent jaunts to warm tropical climates over the weekend, buy diamonds, have nannies, expensive cars, designer clothes, fingernails that are prettier than yours (even though you’re supposed to be the woman), and who personally feel that they are the only thing alive on the planet that have been keeping the economy floating for fucking ever.

“Oh my God have mercy on us,” the masked look of horror behind their perfect tans silently screams, “They’re going to give our money to all those fat lazy bastards on welfare who are just sucking off the system, eating our hard-earned money with the silver spoon given to them at the soup kitchen.” Or ,“Holy hell, it’s goddamn socialism come home to roost right here in our proud country. America is going to hell in a hand basket! ”

You know what I say to all you rich people who are suddenly terrified at the thought of not being able to afford your god damn manicure. Fuck you. I’m sick of listening to your shit.

Some of the poorest people I know work harder than you ever have in your life. Not everyone who is poor is a lazy leach, sucking off the system. Some of them are genuinely stupid (that would have been me) trying to figure out how to get by in a place that didn’t make as much sense as it did to you, with your fancy college education paid for by mom and dad. Some of us have had bad luck and spent years trying to overcome it. Some of us made bad choices because we didn’t have the right guidance. Yes, some of us are sucking off the system, and that some of us will always find someone to suck off of whether it’s this or that, but to hear all you fancy bitches talk, you’d think the only people who had ever worked a day in their life was YOU. Big important patriotic American you.

I have a lot of friends that have been struggling for years. They work their asses off. They don’t suck off the system. I am a single mom and I know what it means to struggle. My daughters and I have lived in everything from an RV to a pole building out in the boonies which we renovated in exchange for reduced rent, to a 200 square foot gutted shack that we fixed up and lived in free in exchange for rent, to a mud house that we built ourselves and lived in exchange for rent, to a 500 square foot apartment which we actually rented with money instead of work, to a real, normal home which I finally, after working my ass off for years, was able to buy. I sucked welfare for exactly six months in all those years, and thank God for that system. I really fucking needed it at the time. The welfare system actually does a service.

I appreciate the service all you wealthy business owners do for this country as well. Thank God someone’s got it right. But it makes me just a little bit ballistic in the brain to hear you pussy assed princesses bitch, because even though things have gotten “really bad for you” you’re still getting manicures, eating at the fine restaurants that I’ve never been able to bring my daughters to, spewing about the fat lazy bastards that are about to take over your perfect world. I will fucking bet you a million dollars that if you put a very large number of those fat lazy bastards head to head with you in a who-worked-harder-in-their-life race, most of them would kick your pretty perfect-tan asses out of the ball park. Some of their hard work might even be paying for the manicure you just had.

Whew. (take a breather bitch) Sorry, But my hours are being cut (two days this week) because my boss decided he needed to redecorate the office and pass the bill on to his employees. Who fucking redecorates their office in this economy? Is there something I don’t know about being a business owner that I should know, so that when I become one I can redecorate my office, cut my employees hours, and then piss and moan about all the leeches who are about to start sucking off the system because they’re out of a job???

And what really sucks is, I had just saved up enough money to get a manicure. Fuck it.

P.S. Sorry if I offended anyone. Maybe I should take a drive in rush hour even though I don’t have to go to work today, so I can let off a little steam.

The other day I got a phone call, out of the blue. There was the nicest gentleman on the other end.

“Is this so-and-so?” (He correctly identified me).

First of all, no one ever calls me at work, except my kids, so I was a little confused.

“Uh…who’s calling please?” I’m a little nervous because like I said, I’m at work. And no one knows my work number.

“This is John; I work with Jessie. She mentioned you – ”

“Jessie? Jessie who?” I run backward in my mind, trying to think of any Jessie I have ever known who would have been discussing me with John (who I also don’t know). Zilch.

“O.k…”

“She talked to you about two weeks ago…”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Well she said she did. She mentioned that you were a quality person. Now, our company is expanding in the area and we’re looking for quality people just like you to help us expand. Would you be interested in making an additional two…say three thousand dollars a month?”

Fuck if those words didn’t ring a bell. It’s been the same opener since the birth of the most fucked up phenomena on the planet (aside from serial killers and religion): MLM’s. (MultiLevel Marketing Companies/Pyramid Schemes/Network Marketing Companies)

“No thank you.” Click. And then I spent the rest of the day quietly writhing in my head over memories I thought I’d put behind me. The result of all that writhing is a little MLM story that I’d like to share. This is actually a rant disguised as a story. As they say in the land of MLM’s: “facts tell, stories sell.”

So, once upon a girl-marries-hippy-who’s-way-too-old-for-her time on the West Coast (Seattle, to be specific), a girl married an old hippy (a real one from the sixties) who wanted to be a star (rock star to be precise). But just incase that plan fell through, he had a backup plan. He was going to be a famous artist and make millions on his cosmic paintings of the ethers.

After they got married, he quit his (really good) job. (That was my fault: I told him to follow his bliss.) They moved to a really cool artsy fartsy town 80 miles north of Seattle. Great place to party, hang out in the garage, and… you know. Do art.

They bought a beautiful house on the hill with the money they’d got from selling their Seattle home, and she had a baby while he hung out in the garage and, well…you know.

Naturally it didn’t take long for reality to strike. Bills started rolling in. But no money. While the mom was busy breastfeeding Baby and watching MTV (back when it was still good), Rock Star decided to be a chauffeur in his spare time. He had a friend who’d had his license revoked (yup, drinking) so his friend, being a well-paid attorney (yup, drinking), paid him ($7.00 an hour plus other stuff) to… whatever. I believe, in Minnesota, that “whatever” could be replaced with “drive car” or, “drive cab” depending on how you look at it. He decided to drive car.

(You know, they don’t talk  like that on the West Coast. They’ll say something along the lines of “I cut hair” but you’ll never hear anyone say, “I drive car.” They’ll say, “I drive A car.” Or “I drive Cars,” even though it’s more grammatically correct to drive only one car at a time. But anyways.)

Driving car wasn’t filling in the blanks so the happy newlyweds decided they needed a vacation to think things over. They hightailed it to the Oregon Coast (yup, credit cards; on the West Coast that would be yep). While they were there, an amazing thing happened. They saw a restaurant for sale for almost a million dollars and decided to buy it. Why the hell not; it came with a house and it was right on the Nehalem River which overlooked an Island where Elks (the animals) gathered once a year to mate. I mean, who could resist a view like that – at any price.

The sellers were “Horse People.” They needed to get the hell out of Oregon so they could go ride horse in Kentucky or something. Their middle name was “Creative Financing” so, with the help of Creative Financing, Rock Star decided to be a restaurateur. That lasted two months. Before you could say “what the fuck just happened” they were back in Artsy Fartsy Town, yes, you guessed it, buying house. A different house; they had rented their house on the hill to their attorney friend who couldn’t drive car.

Now we have arrived at MLM Hell. And this part of the story will take them all the way down to California. Oh yes, home of the In-n-Out burger. Double double animal style, extra crispy fries and a chocolate shake. Hold on for one cottin’ pickin’ orgasmic moment while I reminisce.

O.k. done. So. On a whim, Rock Star asked the realtor if he knew anyone who happened to be hiring. Ask and ye shall fucking receive. As it turns out, the wife of the realtor who sold them their house (lease-option to be precise) was in this amazing company which just happened to be in need of quality people. She’d just gotten a check for a thousand dollars. Boom. Just like that. And she’d only been doing it a couple weeks.

The happy young couple decided to sign up. They could really use a thousand dollars right about now. And that’s when stuff really started happening for them. They sold their house, bought an RV. Traded their car in for two more cars – one to tow…the other one…actually, I don’t know what that one was for but it was a such sweet adorable little brand new white camaro with the cutest little kitten face, and, you know, since they were going to move to California to open an office for the new MLM company they’d just joined, they were definitely going to need that T-Top. And, as they say, fake it ‘til you make it. What better way of faking it than to have way more cars than you need? Talk about driving car. Oops; driving cars.

Minnesota was colder this year. The temps reached beyond the “below zero” then necessary – even for Minnesota. There is a true feeling of being cursed this year – both with the weather and our dueling Senator candidates.

The promising economy here as plunged, much like our out door temperature. Our Senate race between Coleman and Franken have attached icy chains to all of us, making it harder to get on with business and shovel ourselves out of our winter hole.

We have little patients here after a very cold and snowy winter. We do know that the coming summer will be hot and humid. There is an essence of constant “doing” to maintain. That maintaining happens before we can even get into our car in the morning. If you listen to the radio on your way to work – you get the gist that the long cold winter of Minnesota is plagued with something more discerning. Coleman recently reneged on another decision. Ballots that he had agreed to, and wanted rejected in the recount previously - now wants them to return. Are you tired of this yet? We are - and it would not matter what party you affiliate yourself, if you act stupid repeatedly, maybe you are stupid. (I am from Minnesota – I trying to uphold my respective position of being “Nice”)

The new – but not so new, revelation is that some of the absentee ballots that were sent into counties may have been counted twice. This is not news – at least nothing new. This regurgitation of events from the Coleman Camp is going to make us “not so nice”. The latest and the best of this “tit for tat” is that the Coleman Camp just sent out emails to different counties asking them for an opinion, and a pretty broad based opinion at that. It is now being considered in court – between the judges, if the floods of email requests are legal and if they get an answer at all - submittable as true evidence in court. Would they be considered “hearsay”? They could be and according to different laws - what question, and how that question is answered, or if that person’s “opinion” can be cross-examined is now being considered. Nothing gained today, except that I was able to chop some ice away on my sidewalk.

The snow is melting, and the temperature here has gotten a little warmer. Perhaps that is some how an omen. Perhaps we can just simply hope that soon this will be over. Now – that once not so beloved Comedian – Franken sounds pretty good to me. Since we are considering all these changes – will you consider a vote change from me? The judges have decided that no “wrong doing” from those election officials have been done. You can see the mad mess of ballots that are being, or have been challenged yourself online. Some of them are pretty funny. My next vote in a election might be a “write in” for “Lizard People”. It now seems, in hindsight – that this one person who wrote in their choice, maybe had some brains after all.