The Ice Queen Cometh

Taking a break from resume writing and submission, I feel compelled to vent. Looking for work after sliding off the radar for the last seven years blows chunks big time. Never one to see the benefit of being a Jane of All Trades, I narrowly tailored my contractual stuff during my "hiatus" to the exclusion of all that is mainstream. And all this specializing has made this process of hunt and peck job search quite painful. What? Oh yes, I mean it has indeed blown chunks.

And hey, there's just nothing that resonates with the awkwardness of this process more so then the chills, and fever, and feeling like crap. Because as everyone knows, feeling like an Ice Queen both physically and mentally translates so completely to perspective employers. I not only shiver all day like my home is in the sub-arctic region of the world, but my temperament and conversational tone mirrors this in kind. That's what happens when the Ice Queen cometh. Pure bitch. Compounding this is the fact that I did not run yesterday because I was on a 24 hour lock down from being so sick. Tonight, however, I will force myself to take one for the Gipper - he owes me money anyway.

The stress of all this must finally be taking its toll because I am noticing that my hair is suddenly breaking off and coming out in my hand by the fistfuls. Or maybe I just need a haircut. Not that I am in any danger of going bald, after three pregnancies and hormonal rages beyond compare, I have more hair now then a sheep dog. But it certainly gives me pause when I cook for the kids. I worry that I'll accidentally dump pot-fulls of hair around the kitchen when I cook. So I've taken to wrapping my head up like a swami for fear that without the protective barrier my kids will need to develop a panache for hairball removal remedies. Hey, it's how my brain works. Okay, vent over. Go home. Be gone with you.

Safety, then and now.

Lessons on safety and personal protection have evolved quite substantially since 1970. Today, school age children are visited by local law enforcement every year to be disciplined in the new gospel of "stranger danger" and personal safety. In "my day" (ha ha) if law enforcement appeared any where near our school it was largely due to the fact that one of the nuns tripped the convent alarm accidentally and the officer was simply there to "check things out". Today, officers and security guards are evident in just about every school. And this is a sad testament indeed to the society our children are facing. A society that causes parents to fear the world in which they live and to scrutinize every detail of the child's day to be certain they are truly being safeguarded while under the care of an educator. My parents never thought twice about where we were, who lived in our neighborhood, or what sort of people were lurking about in the hedgerow. They had a different faith in mankind and in the humanity of people in general. One which never included the requisite obligation that they stand vigilant over us even as we played in our own backyard - for they never feared that anyone was capable of yanking us from our homes, our neighborhood or our safe environments. Or even if they did, they certainly never showed it or drilled it into our head to never stray too far from them, as most parents are apt to do now.

My mother told me a story once where in the early sixties mothers would park their prams (big giant sleeper carriages) OUTSIDE the entrance of Woolworth's (a local five and dime) - and get this - AND LEAVE THEIR INFANT CHILD THERE while they meandered around and shopped for a bit. The store was two stories and had no means to accommodate getting the prams to the upper floor. If any baby started fussing or crying in their absence, a woman passing by would instinctively rock the pram quite gently and coo at the baby until he quieted back down. Imagine a scene like this today with baby joggers and strollers and carriages parked along the glass entrance way to Macy's or Bloomie's. If the baby was even there when she returned, the mother who did this today would return to find a social worker with a look of scorn on her face holding her child and an armed police officer reading her her Miranda Rights for the offense of child endangerment and neglect. And my mother's story, her experience really, occurred only forty-three years ago. Hard to believe.

Even my mother's admonishments to me in my youth regarding "safety" were vastly different from that which I impart upon my own children -vastly, hugely, great crevasse-type differences. Shall we?

The Ice Cream Man
My Mom Then: "Be sure to wait until the ice cream man completely stops before stepping off the curb."

Me Now: "Mommy doesn't buy ice cream from that ice cream man. See those tattoos all down his arm and that tear drop tattoo right by his eye? Well that means he's killed someone, he's been to jail, and he's trying to sell you crack. Don't go near these ice cream men, they are drug dealers. I don't care if they have the bestest ice cream ever. I don't care if they have the Sponge Bob Square Pants one. Aren't you listening? He's bad I tell you. They're all bad. What do you mean, what's crack? Didn't they talk to you about this in school yet? Gawd, what am I paying that school for?"

Halloween
My Mom Then: "Here's a pillow case for your treats. Stick together and try to be back before it gets really dark." (Because back in the 70's you know, there were two darks: dark and really dark. It mattered that we were allowed out until "really dark". That was big stuff.)

Me Now: "Okay kids, let's stick together now. We are only going to these 10 houses because we know these people really well. What do you mean why? Because if we go to a house we don't know, they may be evil and stick razors in your candy. Oh! Which reminds me, no one eat any candy until Mommy has inspected it all. What's inspected? Oh, it means, checked it out....No I'm not going to eat your candy!.....What? No, Mommy just needs to make sure your candy wrappers are all on your candy. What's that? Why is Mommy holding a can of mace and a baseball bat? Oh, that's because Mommy is going as a TAA Baggage Security person this year and these are the items that you are no longer allowed to carry on an airplane. So Mommy is pretending she's just confiscated these items to give her costume the full effect. What? Yes, Mommy also said it was to beat that Rottweiler with in case it tried to attack us. But that was before when I wanted to be a dog catcher for Halloween."

Giving Directions To a Passerby or Helping a Neighbor Driving Through the Neighborhood Looking For Their Lost Pet
My Mom Then: "Honey, why don't you just hop in the car and show this nice gentleman where he can find Fido."

Me Now: "Okay kids, we are going to go over the (air quotes) safety drill. If some pervert, I mean person stops their car and tries to say they lost their pet, they have nice candy, or your Mommy has been in a terrible accident and she wants you to get in the car so that they can take you to the hospital to see her, what do you do?......What do you mean you help them find their pet? What? No! You don't go near the car to ask them what kind of candy! What!!! OMG! No! You don't get in the car to see Mommy in the hospital...No, baby, I'm not hurt. No, stop crying. Mommy doesn't have to go to a hospital. We're pretending here, stay with me. First! Don't EVER trust them. Why would they need a little kid to help them find their pet? All animals today have microchips under their fur and all pet owners have GPS systems in their cars to track them down - it's required of all pet owners. Remember, they are lying to you. So run! Run away from the car. No, not at this second, I mean if it happens. Anyway, run and scream for Mommy to help you and don't stop until you're with me. Second, if they are trying to give you candy - run! They are really mean dentists and they give out the most sugary candy ever so that your teeth will rot right out of your head and you'll be forced to go to a dentist who takes pleasure out of yanking little kids teeth out. Third. What? No, not all dentists are bad, just the ones who drive up in their car and try to give you candy. Not to worry. All the Moms know which dentists are the good guys and only take the kids there. Okay, third. If someone other than a family member tries to tell you that I have sent them because I've been hurt really bad and I am in the hospital, RUN! (Okay, again, not right now.) Mommy would only send a family member and even then they would have to know the passwords. Okay? So don't believe that person either unless they know our super secret password that only we know. Right? Oh! Almost forgot. And if they say that I've told them the password and they "just forgot it" and want you to give them a hint - just run because they either know it or they don't. Okay? Good. Class dismissed. Oh, hey! Hold up there little one. You almost forgot your anklet tracking device. Okay, you're welcome. Love you too."

Vastly different stuff.

A gentler, kinder recess?

Here's the headline: "Mass. Elementary school bans tag" - yes, that's right, tag. No need to blink to moisten your eyeballs. I assure you, you read that line correctly. From now on, those crazy, wacky, tortfeasing little bastards who have nothing better to do at recess than, oh, I dunno, PLAY!, have been commanded to stand down their rebel rousing, non-stop, maniacal games of tag. Why? Because some A......excuse me, because it was determined after careful scrutiny and hours and hours of mind numbing board meetings that those crazy cut-ups of ours, those pesky kids are at it again causing all sorts of liability problems for their school district - they're playing tag. Yes, tag. You remember that game...It's the one where the kids get to run their little legs off after being cooped up in a classroom for four hours, chase their target, and once "tagged" scream "TAG! YOU'RE IT! at decibels that would rival a small locomotive. You don't believe me? Here's the link: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061018/ap_on_fe_st/playground_tag_ban.

The rationale: liability issues. The ban prohibits kids from playing tag, touch football and any other unsupervised chase game during recess for fear they'll get hurt and hold the school liable. And I quote the quote: "Recess is "a time when accidents can happen," said Willett Elementary School Principal Gaylene Heppe, who approved the ban." M'kay, GAYLENE, and yet no apparent CONTACT sport ban during recess? Swell. Really logical stuff. A ban simply on the probability that it might happen. You know, someday a large meteor may fall from the sky and crush my car with me in it. And yet despite this potential for grave bodily harm, I continue to, um, how shall we say?, LIVE LIFE, oh yeah, LIVE LIFE! Remember that GAYLENE? Actually living life and letting a kid be a kid? No? Didn't think so.

I truly fear for the children of today - what next? How about we duct tape the kids to the desks, perhaps then they'll never get hurt. No fear of that. Oh! Maybe we can train the little buggers to simply meditate their way through recess. Would that make you happy GAYLENE? Oh, but then there would always be the fear that kids may sue the school for all those vocal cord injuries when the kids are forced to sit grasshopper style and hum themselves into a zen state. Sure there are a myriad of other activities kids can do instead of this apparent "ninja tag" they are so fond of. But are we losing sight of the forest but for the trees? Why stop with just the chase games? Why not prohibit movement altogether because as we all know, movement of limbs and appendages only increases the probability of injury and we wouldn't want the school to shoulder THAT burden. Holy smokes - that's just a huge responsibility! Sort of like the cross that every other school district has managed to bear despite their radical notions of historical precedent and flawless disregard for the liability apparently associated with a timeless, inane game like, um, lemme see, oh yes, TAG!

Are these people serious? Kids need to exert themselves. They need to burn off energy, because really folks, the times they do not are very difficult times for anyone responsible for their care. They are miserable little beings if they cannot get that energy out. But more importantly, great strides were just made in our school systems nutritionally. Schools have finally agreed to remove the sugary drinks and snacks; remove the high fat content hot lunches; impart better nutritional ideals in our youth and to what end? Just in time to have some educational "administrator" ban a solidly healthy and fantastic way for kids to get their bodies moving and active? Juvenile diabetes is on a ferocious rise in American children, largely in part to their diet choices and LACK OF ACTIVITY. Am I making sense here? Gain momentum in one arena only to have the other component attacked with arbitrary and may I add, irrational logic. And really, a ban like this prompts more questions then it actually answers like what the hell kind of tag game were these kids playing to warrant a school board session that actually took this request seriously? How many tag game casualties were there GAYLENE? A school administrator like this needs to have her credentials checked and checked again and then again. Last time I looked our state educational institutions possessed at least a qualified immunity against civil complaints thereby making it really, really, really difficult for someone to prevail against the "State" entity. Perhaps this is not the case in Mass., but certainly this school could have literally put their thinking caps on had there been an actual legitimacy to this issue of "deadly tag". Shame on you GAYLENE and anyone else who supported this endeavor. Shame, shame, shame.

Body Piercing

I am consistently surprised when I encounter human beings who desire to mutilate their body with various body art or piercings. I am particularly transfixed by those members of society who have the strength of soul and apparent suspension of all intelligent thought who are inclined to poke holes through things like a tongue, a nose, lips, a navel - because frankly I can't figure out not only what motivates someone to mutilate themselves in this manner, let alone how they can muster the courage to go through with something this bizarre.

Body art has existed from the time that Grog was able to figure out that "clay make pretty, pretty on face". Clearly the interest in enhancing, attracting, coloring and camouflaging our visible parts goes back a long, long way. Today, however, I'm sure that piercing is less a demonstration of "body art" but more of a type of self-mutilation. To subject your muscles, flesh and delicate tissue to permanent holes and horrific infections, if done incorrectly, is a notion I will never, ever, understand. To me body piercing is tantamount to self hatred as it seems to say I have no value or respect for the harm this may do in the name of fashion or trend setting. It's a complete disregard for your body and truth be told it completely grosses me out.

I know numerous people and have multiple friends who partake in this ritual of poking holes in themselves and hanging stuff from those holes like a display rack in a department store. And to these friends I say, YUCK! Some of these people are single and everytime I see them I can't suppress the voice in my head which screams: who in the hell could possibly be attracted to that crap hanging from your nose. And of course, I think "nose" and then my mind wanders to an image of that person during allergy season sneezing away and I'm struck by the image of them having to (egads!) take the damn door knocker out of the offending body part when they are forced to live like the rest of the world and blow their nose the old fashion way. And of course, I then imagine that if they were willing to go through cartilage to accomplish that look, God knows what the rest of them looks like underneath all that fabric and toughness. Which brings me back to the original thought: "who the hell goes for someone like that?" Which is promptly answered when the significant other shows up displaying car fresheners from their ears and an entire Craftsman tool kit from no less than twenty different holes specifically targeted to be thee most painful looking places evah.

I once talked at length to a gal whose tongue was pierced no less than twice. And after falling into the rhythm of her speech, or, after taking 10 minutes trying to figure out the exact new cadence of her tongue piercing language, I was able to glean from her the rationale for having two metal balls nailed into and through the most important muscle of communication. In short: there was no plausible explanation she could profess that made any sense whatsoever, with the exception of one: (and if you are under the age of 18 you need to stop reading here): "her boyfriend believed it was instrumental in enhancing the amorous side of their relationship". To which I naively responded: "but the piercing is in your MOUTH!" To which she stared blankly in her best valley girl way as if to say "der". To which I nearly said "I don't get it" that is, until I read her "der" expression for what it was really attempting to say and promptly screamed "OH MY GOD! YOU ARE THE BIGGEST IDIOT I HAVE EVER ENCOUNTERED IN MY LIFE! YOU DID THAT TO YOURSELF FOR A GUY? NO! NO! EVEN WORSE, FOR THAT?"

Suffice to say, speech impediment aside, I understood her next communication (which pretty much consisted of a single hand gesture) so clearly and precisely that I no longer worried about her inability to pronounce normal phrases like: "Hello, my name is..". Her American sign language skills were working just fine.

Freezes Fry-st and his budding flock.

My son holding my Celtic cross in his hand: "Mommy, dats freezes fry-st!"

Me: "Yes, you're right Babe, that is Jesus Christ."

My son: (with great enthusiasm and animation) "Mommy, Mommy! Freezes Fry-st lives in da blah, blah zoo. (literal translation there) Yeah! And he gots da "ele-pants", da zebros, da tie-ga's, da frazee (crazy) pish (fish). Yeah, he lives in da zoo and drives dat boat!"

Me: "That's RIGHT Baby! Who's my widdle religious zealot? Who's my widdle widdle budding bundle of Catholic joy?"

My son: "I am! I am!"

Little hands CAN DO big things.

My son loves to pretend he is driving and will often scoot (more like dive) behind the driver's side of the van the second he is released from his car seat. He will play with the dials, push every button up there, and talk on his pretend phone while manipulating the steering wheel as only kids can do to show that he is DRIVING. I fully expect him to be proficient at this endeavor by the time he is five, because after all the time he spends in the car with me something is bound to sink into that little mind of his by way of osmosis.

Occasionally, however, he manages to "stick" little things with his little hands into things that have little crevices. Things like pennies will go unnoticed until something starts shorting out, like the cd player in the vehicle. I guess I fancy myself a throw back to the Fonz/Happy Days era because my reaction to preserving anything this critical in the car from malfunctioning is to pound on it like a red-headed step child until it begins working again. So far this methodology has worked for me and the boy remains safe. For now.

This morning as I trekked into the vast coutryside of New Jersey in search of a world famous spa, something else went wrong with the vehicle. I had noticed that morning a certain metallic sound sloshing about underneath what seemed to be the steering wheel itself. But it wasn't until some jackass failed to follow intersection etiquette and I was forced to use "the horn", that I became acutely aware (again) that my son had short circuited something highly critical - my "get the frig outta my way" calling card. The horn.

Anticipating that the individual waiting in front of me at the light had missed her calling as a sloth, I attempted to tap ever so lightly on the horn to "wake her the hell up" - you know, a toot toot type of "Hello, asshole. Welcome to the intersection. LIGHT IS GREEN." Well, the sound started out as a courtesy "toot, toot" until it developed into what I can best describe as a speech impediment where it (the horn) lost it's sound, stuttered a few more "beep beeps" until it crescendo'd into an all out air raid siren.

Not only did the woman hit the accelerator and break through the intersection (finally) at lightening fast speeds, but as I rolled away too, the noise from my horn thundered on and multiple cars began darting off the road ahead of me, I guess, to avoid dealing with this lunatic menace on the road. And while this is indeed a strange benefit to "hornitis," I was mortally, mortally mortified.

And what was I to do when people suspected me to be a crazed suburban mother on the verge? I did what any safe, defensive driving individual would do.....At speeds of 55 mph, I would throw up both hands in plain view, cup my hands over my mouth, and then throw up my hands again when passing other motorist subjected this deafening sound from my VW . And doesn't that just say: "Oh my sugar. I am helpless indeed. Don't hate me as I careen past you 15 miles per over the speed limit while sounding like a B-52. Why darlin', I'm just as clueless as you are as to why this a horn is a beepin'."

After first pressing gently with a pinkie, then the ring finger, then the index finger to entice the horn to quit blowing, I did what any rational, intelligent, quick thinking gal would do....I took my fist and pummeled the thing repeatedly until it died. And when the services were over, and I paid my last respects, I pulled into the spa parking lot (on time mind you) and walked in as if sunshine were pouring out of every ounce of me. Because nothing says demure like beating the crap out of your car.

Cat, it's what's for dinner.

I am soliciting information on how to drum out the furriest member of the family without the kids actually knowing. I'm thinking something not too cruel or inhumane for the animal, just a fast, painless death because if I walk into my living room again and step in a hocking good time, I'm going postal.

When I adopted this animal over 15 years ago, I had every intention of loving it until God borrowed him back. Apparently, God understood the unilateral benefit of not having an animal like this around the great Pearly Gates. I firmly believe this particular animal would drive even the most ardent bunny hugger to morph into a sadistic, animal hating maniac. Like me.

After having kids, owning a pet is much the expression "tits on a bull" - what exactly is the point once the two legged beasts enter your life? The animal is fed and is kept indoors and presumably enjoys his time here as he seems to always be so "relaxed" in the abode. He only sleeps about 20 hours a day. But in the time he is actually awake and making his presence known, he adeptly regurgitates a half a body of fur that somehow managed to creep down his esophagus while he was passionately sleeping off the other four waking hours of his little day. Hey, it's rough being a cat. I understand this. Who else in the world couldn't tolerate free lodging and food, a clean crapper and endless crevices and cracks to curl up in to get that needed shut eye.

To say that I have fallen out of love with this cat is truly an understatement. I hardly notice him anymore. And if he didn't try to topple me by swishing through my feet while walking with a child in my hand, I probably would forget he was even in the house and never feed him.

But today. Oh, ho ho. Today, I have had my fill of this little bastard and he must go. Immediately. Nothing illegal or morally reprehensible as I need a good report card for Judgment Day. So, I invite and welcome your suggestions and addresses for that matter, because this little feller is in dire need of a change of scenery and another home might just be the ticket - otherwise, to the sausage factory he goes. Oh! And no need to worry about the age of little kitty and a premature demise, should you choose to adopt him. He is most assuredly on the do not die program and is destined to out live all of us.

Da Iddy Biddy Pyder

With my first child I was the Martha Stewart of mothers. I proved to myself and anyone attempting to scrutinize my parenting that I could teach my kid anything. I had all the time in the world to do it and my first child bore the chevrons of achievement for all that effort. Today, as I review my parenting skills for the fiftieth time - because once is just never enough - I am faced with the reality that my youngest has no idea what a lullaby or nursery rhyme even sounds like. And this is truly my doing because by the time he came around, I was getting BUSIER (having 2 others before him) and life, naturally, had picked up speed as well. And when I am frazzled, I listen to tunes to settle myself. Unfortunately my musical repertoire consists of mainly 80's stuff, pop, swing jazz (not too bad for him) - you get the picture. And this is essentially what he is exposed to on a daily basis because if I have to listen to another Barney/Raffi/Wiggles tune, I'm gonna hurl myself off the next bridge I see.

When my family celebrated my Dad's 70th recently, all the (grand)kids got together to sing him a song. As the Itsy Bitsy Spider came into key, or as my son now calls it, "da iddy biddy pyder", he began looking around the room with this fixed exasperated expression that could only mean "WTF?" He didn't know it. And when he stomped his foot and screamed at the other kids to "QUIET!" - he meant it, because damnit who were they to change up the program with these bastard kiddie songs. He wanted Lovehammers. He wanted to sing "Trees". And when everyone continued in their best rendition of Iddy Biddy Pyder without him, he launched himself across the room and began rolling and screaming on the floor until there was complete silence in the room - as he had originally demanded. I like that he's tenacious.

And when he was satisfied that everyone understood the rules, he put his fingers in his ears and belted out: "I. Don't want to go through this life. Without you. By my side. I, I, I, I, I got it all worked out. In my head. It's how it's got to be. It'll be you. and me. Up in a tree."........and while the rest of the room smiled uncomfortably about his choice of serenade, I found it immeasurably sweet - because this is the mother I have become and screw nursery rhymes - they just don't sound as good as the Lovehammers songs do when the tiny little guy belts them out. And last time I checked, mothers weren't getting the accolades anyway for all their hard work - it's time we get some entertainment value out of these times with our kids.

Super Troopers - Meow

Are these things on?

Overheard in the mall:

Guy: Yeah, I dated two different chics with fake ones.

Girl: What was that like?

Guy: (Motioning with hands as if he's adjusting dials). I dunno, yo. It's like feeling up a training bag at da gym. All stiff. (Starts shadow boxing) I mean, I used to box n all an dere's jus sumpin' weird about it. Made me just wanna hit em' all the time. Badada badada badada! Yo, it was sick. Yeah, I jus like dem boobies all naturals-n-shit. None of dat fake shit.

funny polar bears

My father sent this to me via email. Who knew he was such a cybergeek?

What's not to love?

Prior to breaking my wrist in the most ignoble way possible this summer, I had been studying for the Maryland Bar. I figured, since I've actually managed to live in one state longer then two years...it's time to get crack-a-lackin' on that employment stuff I've been hearing so much about. I joke. And really, you wouldn't understand it unless I added this: I am licensed in two other states already but cannot receive a waiver into this state because I never practiced in my jurisdictions long enough to receive reciprocity from any other jurisdiction. (Minimum five years.) Hence the reason for studying and sitting for these blasted things over and over and over again EACH time I am forced to move. I digress. In EVERY application for ANY bar exam, there is always a section requiring someone who has known you for a minimum number of years to vouch for your character, so long as they are lunatic enough to do so. Soooo, the requisite forms from the office of the bar examiners went out to those people whom I listed as my "references", swoosh, and lo and behold, they all received them.

As my friends begin receiving these requests to fill out these lengthy and obnoxious bar forms, they are simultaneously firing off emails to me to let me know that they've been tapped for duty by the "man". Unfortunately for them, Maryland still requires my friends to fill these forms out despite my having already deferred my application. (Poor them). Today I received this email from one of my references which stated in pertinent part the following:

References are:

$25 per question
$50 per adjective
$75 per three syllable adjective
$100 per signature (could probably be sold for more).

I thought it was super funny, until I read his next email..the one he claimed contained the "meat and potatoes" of his character assessment of me and which supposedly was sent on directly:

It is my pleasure to enthusiastically recommend ******* * ******** to the Bar of Maryland. I have known her for about five years as a neighbor and friend. To the best of my knowledge ******* has never been convicted of being an ax murderer or child molester (but, as you are well aware, sometimes these people are just never caught!). Her...children show no visible signs of hot irons or foot indentations (although long sleeves and pants can hide such marks). I have never seen her streaking down Main Street (although she is a pretty fast runner). I have never seen her playing with lighter fluid or matches (although the neighborhood arson problem did disappear just when she moved away). And finally, she appeared to get along very well with her fourth husband before he mysteriously disappeared. If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.

I love my friends.

Snakes in the head.

I am having one of those snakes in the head days where I just want to trounce on the next ignoramus who blazes past me as I struggle to hold a door open with my foot while ushering three little ones into a building all the while juggling tons of useless crap in my hands (strike that), hand - the other one is still out of commission. Oh! And the thing that chaps my ass the most? It's usually some slovenly jerk who has to turn sideways just to get past me and my little guys....! (Think Capt. Kirk here.) Must. control. head. from. spinning. off. it's. axis. Must. not. pretend. to. have. tourettes. and. blurt. out. what. I. really. want. to. say.


And of course, I have about zero impulse control when it comes to jackasses, so now I don't hesitate. I let the snakes in my head take over and I start hissing "say thank you! say thank you!" to the back of said ignoramus. Most of the time they are so caught up in their own importance that they're oblivious even to my overt verbal assault. At which point my kids turn to me, as if on cue, and say, "Mommy! That fat guy didn't say thank you!" And I just beam from ear to ear because not only are they starting to recognize good manners, they are becoming my little posse. Yes, that's right, even my two year old has my back!

And when the verbal missiles actually reach the target and said ignoramus actually acknowledges the fact that we all lost seven toes between us because of his "ill mannered" ways, I just grin sheepishly, shrug my shoulders and point to the youngest and say "tourettes". And that seems to settle things up between us.

I just love it when wealthy zealots tell people to go to hell.

Enter this guy: David H. Murdock. He is the owner of Dole Food Company and many, many other privately held, highly profitable businesses.

He's 83, he's brilliantly wealthy and extra, extra healthy and he's on a mission to get us all to eat our veggies, or something like that. He's so obsessed with getting Americans healthy that he'll capitalize on just about any moment to address the issue. Case in point. According to the July 28th issue of the Wall Street Journal, in a recent, highly contentious contract negotiation, Mr. Murdock admonished the 67 year old, 245 pound business man sitting across from him for being so "fat". He advised the gentleman that "he should expect to die within 18 months" and not expect to perform the contract to completion because of his unhealthy ways. But then he went even further, as if that wasn't enough, and offered the man an incentive. Murdock agreed to add $100K to the contract value if the man would agree to drop a mere 60 pounds over the next year (which was whittled down to 30 lbs by the end of the discussion). And so it was agreed to and, get this, IT WAS ACTUALLY DRAFTED AND WRITTEN INTO THE CONTRACT TERMS!

Dang it! Now why couldn't I be in on contract negotiations like this? I love when wealthy zealots do stuff like this. And it is sooooo classic that people are willing to turn tricks to accommodate these guys for the almighty dollar. Well, I'm being a little disingenuous here. For $100K, there's very little I wouldn't do. Of course, that has caveats as well, but we'll leave it at that. Moving along. We're walking, we're walking....

Mr. Murdock's sort of obsession with the health and well being of his fellow man, woman, .....any other politically correct genderbender identification that you wish me to mention....., is the type of zealousness I'd hope people would embrace instead of these other hysterics with whom we live side by side. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones who are hell bent on destroying America/Americans by any means possible with their hatred and their misplaced notions of religious directives - "kill the infidel". These people? The ones who proclaim a philosophy that clearly interrupts my notion of a peaceful and free existence on the same planet? Yes, well those people are flat out lunatics. Mr. Murdock, on the other hand, slightly off, but lovable nonetheless because he's like a big, overbearing, and need I say, very wealthy father who just wants the kids to grow up "strong like bull."

The world needs more people like Mr. Murdock. The ones who are so ridiculously wealthy and so close to life's finish line they can actually see the tape and could give a rat's ass about being politically correct. Because when these people have their epiphanies, sometimes they really make sense. Who wouldn't want to eat better, live longer and enjoy being your ideal weight such that one is able to see one's shoes when looking down at one's feet. It's common sense, people. And Americans, look around you. We are getting huge. Which is why I believe the other fanatical loonies who fly planes into skyscrapers to send their "religious messages" make this decision from a vantage point that has little bearing on any substantial life experience of theirs. They are typically too young (18-44) to have lived long enough to decide for the rest of us what's wrong with the world. And perhaps, that is yet another reason why Mr. Murdock's advice is so sound - he's actually had these tangible life experiences after 83 years of living to know that what he proclaims has a modicum of truth to it.

Pilates, yoga, whatevah.

Recently I came across this FASCINATING article online about one Marine's plunge into the pool of physical perfection and excellence through the use of that ageless discipline we all refer to as YOGA. Normally, I could care less about what everyone else is doing these days to stay in shape - it's difficult enough keeping up with my own quest to achieve "body perfect" through limited expansion of energy. So far, I have not found this ever elusive holy grail of the fitness world. So I trudge over to the gym like everyone else, cursing every blessed step I take until I am forced to actually move muscles that resist the instruction to comply.

So here is this little Second Lt. (see images below) expounding upon the benefits of YODA to the journalist and I had to chuckle about the truthfulness of this expose'. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13890826/ Yoga, YODA, pilates, whatevah, they're pretty much all the same as far as I'm concerned because they are truly the silent killers of any of the forms of exercise available to man. And I mean this with all sincerity. When I tell you it is difficult to do, just take my word for it and move yourself along. Nothing to see here.

About a year and a half ago, I purchased the "complete set" of this lovely product:

Why? You ask? Because working out around that time was difficult when I was literally the 24 hour cafe ole' for my bebe - meaning, life outside the four corners of the home was as difficult to attain at times as say, getting Barbara Streisand on that Goodship Lollipop she promised to sail off on when dubya came into office.

So my dvd's arrive and I embark upon my quest for body beautiful through what I anticipate should amount to some rolling around on the floor in some leotards and leg warmers and not much more than that. I am so smug about finding the perfect solution to my anti-exercise campaign, that I invite the family in to witness this remarkable feat. Me, performing what I believe will be some leg lifts, some "bottom" lifts, some arm swirly things to the flashdance soundtrack in the backdrop. What my family actually witnessed was nothing of the sort.

Suffice to say, Pilates is a discipline that I imagine the coaches for the Ukraine/Chinese Olympic gymnasts team conjured up as some really sick form of torture. I am watching the screen, I see all the other body beautiful's performing each exercise effortlessly. I am encouraged to try and do. And I hear Ms. Windsor coaxing me to use my "core center" to achieve these bizarre moves. I tell said core center to obey and listen to the lady. It does not. And I reference the screen again to see why I am not able to fold myself up mid-air and balance myself on my butt while wrapping my arms around two straighten legs in the air which, incidentally, are supposed to be pressed against my nose.

All the body beautifuls on screen have perfect form and I do not hear the rhythmic "thudding" sound emanating from the tv after each model falls over from performing this feat. Oh, that would be inherently blasphemous in the Temple Pilates! And then, like a whisper, Ms. Pilates instructs the camera to pan out to the "beginner" "intermediate" and "advanced" models in the group to give "everyone" watching the opportunity to see how you should actually look if you fall into any of these levels. Apparently, I fall into none of the above because I do not see the model on screen who is falling over constantly and cursing hysterically. That wench, I curse thee. So from my contorted and highly uncomfortable (thud) pose, I strain to see that "beginner" model whose about to be featured and whom I can blow kisses to as my way of saying "oh, thank you, thank you, you kind sista soul of mine."

Did it happen? Did I get to see what Pilates should look like from "beginner" model Bambi? Um, nooooooo. Why? Because like me, she must have attempted the death defying stunt of back bend slash one arm raise with simultaneous leg lift and accidentally fell off the stage. That or she simply didn't exist and Ms. Windsor was screwing with my head. I know these "I'm am just so natural and toned and wholesome with my Yoga/Pilates routine" women. Their condescension about how they can contort is unmasked and soooo unsubtle. They relish in exposing the unflattering and highly uncoordinated movements of people like me and beginner Bambi. And this, is just so unnecessary. Besides, it really messes with my quest for body beautiful through virtual inactivity.

I may revisit these dvd's again someday. I may not. It's just my little way of thumbing my nose at the fitness establishment. "There, take that!" I say in my silent protest of all that is cruel and tortuous when attempting to retrain a body that has no interest in pressing the body perfect autopilot button. For now, I will press on until the next fitness marketing genius convinces me that they are really my friend and will help me in my endless quest for this legendary grail.