A Special Greeting Card

This world's advertisements present an intriguing insight into the human condition. Some are brilliant. They apply humor, a knowledge of consumers, and artistic talents to create a miniature masterpiece of persuasion. Meanwhile others stray so far from the advertiser's agenda that they actually drive customers away. I doubt I'm the only one who gets perverse pleasure out of ads that basically say, "this business is stupid."

Several cases:
- There is a lovely women's boutique for plus sized women, the "Fashion Barn." Come on, all you heifers -- get in here and buy some damn clothes.

- My local cable provider has an ongoing ad campaign that features one of their off-duty employees going about her daily life. Her neighbor says hello, and she responds like an automaton, "How can I help you with that?" Later, the school crossing guard mentions picking up her children, she says, "It's scheduled for today." Our employees are such tards, they have the social skills of a goat.

- I don't think I've ever seen an ad for America Online that makes their users look anything except ridiculously naive. I love the ones that show their users with blank looks downloading viruses. Our users are so dumb that they wear bullseyes -- @aol.com.

This is the trump. I received a very special greeting card today. When I opened my sanitary pad, there in the center on crisp, dainty parchment, was a note: "Have a Happy Period. Always." Now while this time of the month is certainly a momentous occasion (not to mention an experience that would make any dragon reconsider their preconceptions about human fortitude), I never expected that others would want to mark this event.

I'm certain that by now I've totally lost the few menfolk who follow this long-neglected rant space, but my feminine readers will certainly relate. I'm *not* happy. I'm fairly certain that most beings who cross my path are not happy, either. In fact, I cannot fathom EVER having "a happy period."

While I admire the ingenuity of the card designer in finding such a unique place to advertise, I think this is a bust. Somewhere there's an asshole sitting in a posh office making fun of my monthly plight. It's like there's a cyclic murder occurring up in here. Happy? No, more like homicidal. After I get through ripping all of these cute little "greeting cards" to shreds, perhaps I'll search about for a tasty ad executive.

Finally, answers to all my burning questions

Question everything. Hold on to the good.
--the apostle Paul, 1 Thessalonians 5:21, TLB

With something akin to evil glee, I discovered a new web program. Even in its conceptual state, its potential for helping me fritter away my dubious free moments is staggering. Humans (and dragons much more so) are created to question.

As I stared at its enticing invitation, I momentarily was blank, unable to select a single inquiry from the myriad potentialities that filled my mind. Then, slowly at first, and later like a flood, my inner queries poured out.

The inane --
What causes hiccups?
Which was the first book ever written?
How do you play senet?

The hopeless --
What really works on stretch marks? And snoring?
How do you stop cat fights?
Where do you find good herbs, good mechanics and good men?
Is there any form of drama-free employment?

And the deep --
Is there really free will?
What's really out there?
What happens next?
Why are we here?

Thankfully, Yahoo has anticipated my previously undiscovered need for answers. You may never see me again, as I predict this will be even more addictive than blogging.

http://answers.yahoo.com/

The Falcon Could Fly

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/south_west/4555455.stm

Okay, here's some rare trivia for all us Star Wars fans. Credit for this goes to Bobby, the best purveyor of worthless information that I know.

Dead on Target

Yesterday as I dashed outta my classroom to catch a slow train home, I grabbed a Hardy Boys kids book from the bin on table 4. I figured some brain candy should make the ride home more tolerable, and nothing in the Hardy Boys would so engross my thoughts that I'd miss an approaching scumbag. So I start reading through this 1987 release titled "Dead on Target." Let me say the Hardy Boys have grown up.

Within the first three pages of the book, a bomb has exploded in a mall parking lot, and a teen is killed. The book continues to unfold a story about how Frank and Joe Hardy foil the plot of a international terrorist organization. The more I read, the more I had to read. I read the whole book before I got home.

About halfway through the book, I started getting goosebumps and a strong sense of deja vu. This terrorist group had plans to strike at several major U.S. cities, and there were airplanes involved. Creepily, the author detailed the arrival of two terrorists onto a plane, where they both took seats at the very front near the cockpit doors. Later, as a hand grenade rolls about the deck (sent flying by a Hardy kick), one of the terrorists has the stewardess on her knees with a blade at her throat.

Thankfully -- in this story -- we had Frank and Joe Hardy to prevent a near disaster in the homeland. After reading this thing, I'm dumbfounded. If a kids' fiction writer could foresee this kind of thing, what gives with the government of this place?

I clearly remember where I was when the news started pouring in on September 11. My sister was in D.C., visiting about 2 miles from the Pentagon. And, she was supposed to be on a plane outta D.C. that morning. To say that event changed my life here forever would be an understatement.

What I find extremely unsettling is that humans these days are becoming numb to these events. Our naive sense of safety can never return to former days, but we are slipping. People travel through their existence without a thought beyond their own front door. I know I tend toward paranoia but it serves me well. I mean, just because you think people are out to get you doesn't mean they're not. Don't you wonder what's next? And will our government be able to rise to it? Where are Frank and Joe when you need 'em?


Dixon, Franklin W., 1987. Hardy Boys 1 Casefiles: Dead on Target. Archway, New York, N.Y. ISBN: 0-671-62558-6

You Need This

You know you need this. Give in to the dark side of the force...

http://www.geeksquad.com/absentee.asp

Our Chance to Shine

Okay, so short and sweet, not pithy or funny at all. For all of you who have connections with higher powers, have a chat with them on behalf of my hard-working students. Today is the day when we drop everything we know about students as individuals (and how important it is to teach them in the way that best suits their personal uniquenesses) and pit them against a norm in the form of an evil test. While I'm so not opposed to testing -- everything worth doing in life involves testing -- this one is a bastard, and it's unfair to kids who are learning a second langauge. It destroys children's lives, takes away their self-confidence, and brands them forever as "stupid." So for all of you clerics, paladins, and just plain believers, we need some help over here. There's little lives and hearts at stake. I thank you, I really do.

Yard Work

There's nothing in the world to convince you that you need exercise more than yard work. I got up this morning with great intentions...I was going to the farm to gather some fresh eggs, then coming home to plant some spring flowers. Ugh. So I'm covered in donkey manure, peat moss, and ant poison, puffing for air and sweating. I'm a visage only an ogre would love. Somewhere along the path of lugging 40 pound bags of dirt, I came to the realization that I need to step up my workout regimen. Still, I have two dozen eggs in assorted shades of green and brown, a happy kid who's equally dirty, and two beds full of sunflower and marigold seeds. With a little luck, some warm spring rains, and a smile or two from above, we should soon be awash in golden tints. Meanwhile I'm off to investigate the mysterious promises on my bathroom shelf, relishing a "good" tired -- the tired that comes from a hard job well done.

Sleepless in Dallas

For those of you who live a life deprived of unstable emotions, I issue you fair warning. Those of us suffering from bipolar disorder are hiding among you. Bi-polar, Bi GOD! The evil chemical consort that takes rational, sane humans and turns them into sleep-deprived raging demons. This is menopause times a thousand. In my younger days I used to welcome this demon companion. On manic days I could write 10 chapters, do all my Christmas shopping in a single day or clean the entire garage before sunset. Nowadays, I just welcome elusive sleep.

A few tips for bi-polar sufferers and those who cross our paths:

1. Hallucinations
After about three days of sleep deprivation, you start to see things that aren't there. Hallucinations are a form of sleep (at least some part of your mind is offline), so just enjoy the trip.

2. Fuck Ny-tol
AKA Benedryl, this crap only knocks you out in daylight hours, particularly if you take it for allergy symptoms. Go straight for a bottle of Jack. Skip the Coke. Repeat as necessary.

3. Do not disturb
Steal a hotel "Do Not Disturb" door hanger. Alter it to say, "Do not disturb...disturbed already." Draw a picture of the real you anyone who ventures through the door is likely to encounter. For real effect, insert a photo.

4. Snoring roommates
Sharp objects come to mind.

5. Cats
Bi-polar people should NOT own cats. When it's difficult enough to get to sleep, you shouldn't have to fight for bed space with five or six furry bedhogs who insist on sleeping perpendicular to each other just to be pissy.

6. Terminal Exhaustion
Yes, you can die from sleeplessness. Push my buttons at your own risk.

Exhausted and sleepless in Dallas,
Tia

Waiting for Storms

O, storm where art thou?
Two days awarned by aches
I search the dreary gray skies
For signs of danger

O, storm where art thou?
Hiding and waiting to strike
When I least desire
Your thrashing embrace?

Can you not see I
Cannot abide suspense?
I long for sunlit skies
And pain relief that comes
When heaven's floodgates open.

Capturing Dawn

Each day I travel from the far northern suburb of a teaming metroplex into the hub of the inner city. The stark contrast between my rural suburbia and the concrete jungle crept into my consciousness yesterday, making my senses wake up and notice. As I journeyed past twisted trees and sprawling farms dotted with thoroughbreds and speckled longhorns, a blanket of mists covered the sleeping ground, hugging its contours at every dip and divot. The scenery evolved around me, slowly changing from farm to factory, from factory to skyscraper. Like a mystery, that short moment of time called dawn united the myriad views.

When I was young I used to get up early every morning and race down the hill to catch that delicious, shivery feeling of dawn creeping up the mountain behind my father's barn. In my teens I discovered there was a magic moment at twilight as well. Being a slug-a-bed, I saw many more twilights than dawns. As an adult, I rush through my life hurrying to get through traffic and make it to appointments. Until yesterday I forgot the magic of capturing dawn.

Today I crawled out early and escaped late to witness both dawn and twilight, to let the enigmatic harmony of both speak peace inside my soul. In a moment, the magic was gone, but its haunting mystery is a part of me forever.

Murder One

For those of you who haven't figured it out, I spend my time in this corporal form employed as an elementary school teacher. I teach visual arts and creative writing to 220+ little human reprobates in a low-income, inner-city school. Yes, I'm aware I'm sadistic, but I like to think I'm having some small impact on the world I inhabit.

On Wednesday, the principal called me into a meeting to tell me that the director of fine arts for the entire district had chosen to visit my classroom on Friday. So I dutifully cleaned from top to bottom, threw away a large accumulation of "found objects," and climbed the rafters to hang beautiful crape-paper creations designed by Kindergarteners. My room was spotless. The custodian heard this "big man" was coming and also stayed late cleaning my room. She scrubbed every last bit of glue off of the tables and made my sink look like it was installed yesterday instead of being a catch-all for dripping pie-plates of paint on a daily basis. My lesson plans were perfect, my gradebook was in order, everything was perfect.

So this morning, the guy arrived, fashionably late, so as to be here for the last 10 minutes of my planning period and to keep my fourth graders lined up impatiently in the hall. He was nice, the meeting went well, then I heard the kids calling my name loudly from the hall. They NEVER do this. In fact, I usually have the best line on the hall because I threaten to EAT small children who embarass me in public. So I excused myself, hoping this guy has heard none of the commotion, and went out to investigate, wearing my best "shut up or die" face. I discover two kids in a fight. Again, this NEVER happens.

One little girl was bawling and holding her arm, where my mentally challenged student had slugged the ever-lovin' crap outta her. "She was skipping, she was skipping!" he yelled. So while I'm separating the two, trying to look at injuries, trying to calm down the hostile little fireball, the injured girl's best friend pops out with a juvenile insult aimed at the agressor. "I'm NOT a turkey-face! I'm not a turkey-face!" he screamed and started bawling.

So now I've got two kids bawling, everyone trying to shout out to me what they saw and heard, and then two more boys got into it and began pushing and shoving over a dollar. I confiscated the dollar, and ordered the children to get inside the room and take out a book while I sorted everything out. For icing on the cake, the challenged little boy then stood up and screamed, "ASSHOLES! You're all ASSHOLES!" I sent him to the office. I put a cold cloth on the drama queen's unbrusied and unscratched arm. I asked about the dollar and discovered it was extorted from another kid in order to gain the opportunity of being in my class. (A teacher was out, so we split up her kids; they all want to come to art.) I put the dollar in an envelope and told them that whoever really owned the dollar could later go and explain how I got their dollar to the principal who would be holding it. I expect my principal got a $1 tip today...though I swear I'm the one who deserved it.

After all the turmoil was quieted, and the students were finally allowed to get out their art supplies, I looked over to find my evaluator having a great time at my expense. At least I provided him some comedy. Plus, he got to see a side of me the kids NEVER see...the "sit down or it's gonna be murder one" side.

Service?

I went to this really cool restaurant yesterday with my best pal. It's a momish place that is all warm and cozy and serves homemade-tasting meals that you don't have to home make. At an average plate price of around $11, it's a pretty swank place.

So I walk in the door and get greeted by a teenage hostess and a pimple-faced freak who apparently was also employed by the establishment. I couldn't really be sure because he was doing anything but working (mostly was hanging all over the underaged blond "hostess"). The blonde flashed me a winsome, fake smile and asked, "Is a table okay or would you like to sit in a booth?"

Grateful for the choice, I said, "A booth, please."

She then proceeded to tell me she had no booths available except maybe one in the bar or one that was half-booth, half-table. The only problem with this is that I could clearly see an empty booth not ten feet away.

This gets me really fired up. Ninety percent of people who walk into a restaurant don't give a crap about where they sit and are happy to be herded to the spot most convenient for the servers. That's just fine, but the ten percent of us who do give a crap should be accomodated, don't you think? After all, we are paying for this experience. What gives with servers that they can't walk an extra five feet to wait on someone not crammed into a small place like smelly, dead fish?

Here's a few tips for the "service" industry:

1. You have no idea why a person wants to sit in a specific place. It might be good memories, a good view, or a healing injury that is bothered by hard chairs. The reason doesn't matter, give the person who is enabling your continued employment the chair they want.

2. Save yourself a bunch of dollars...fire the damn hostess and let people pick their own seat. Then bust your ass to wait on them no matter where in the restaurant they are.

3. Full drink glass = decent tip. Cash can only float to the top of the wallet when people are well-hydrated.

4. Clean up dirty dishes but make sure the customer is through with them. Making your customers fight you for their food is demeaning to both of you.

5. Always offer dessert, no matter how fat you think your customer is. Fat people buy more desserts than skinny people.

6. Always offer a to-go box. At the prices you charge, we have to get two meals out of our dinner to make coming here worth it.

7. Never, ever, ever sit your butt down at my table. I don't care how cute you think you are, how tired your feet are, or how cute you think I am. I'm renting this space and I don't want any boarders.

8. You're not that cute. And I didn't come here for a date, I came for dinner. Provide me some damn service and quit flirting.

I feel so much better now.

Azathoth's Survey

I like the blogger who posted this piece and I liked the survey, so I copied it. As they say, imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. Feel free to flatter me if you like, but do share where I can find your answers. This is fun, eh?

Three things that scare you:
Losing loved ones
Losing children I'm responsible for or having them get hurt on my watch
Being debilitated

Three things you love:
My family and friends
My work
Kids

Three things you severely dislike:
Selfish people
Prick drivers
Abuse of any kind

Three things in your bedroom:
Lots of cats
Glow in the dark stars and a black light
A fricking huge bathtub

Three random facts about you:
I collect gargoyles; they actually do ward off evil spirits (freaky Bible-thumpers and in-laws, too).
Tundra is my favorite locale.
I've published many books.

Three things you plan to do before you die:
Tour the Mayan ruins
Finish my grad degree
Write something only for myself

Three things you can do:
Give a full-body massage
Paint
See other worlds

Three things you can't do:
Find Atlantis
Resist chocolate
Give up on a child

Inner Peace

Came home today exhausted from the trials of this mortal existence. Today I took a little spill off a chair that I had no damn business standing on. An endless chorus regarding insects and paint on my clothing added to the annoyance of minor injury. Only my dignity was really hurt but the irritation was lasting.

As I limped my way through the door of my human abode, the bathtub upstairs crooned my name. As the steam filled the air I reminesced of long days spent atop my favorite mountain in the warm sun beside a misty waterfall. As I sank into the inviting waters, I noticed a bottle of bath oil on the shelf. Don't really know how it got there...maybe the faeries left it while I dreamed. Its golden label said, "Inner Peace." That's a lofty claim for a lowly bottle of bath solution. It got me thinking about all the things that would be great to pour from a bottle. Honestly, wouldn't you stand in line for a bottle of "Stop Conversation?" How about "Not Tonight, Dear, Don't Ask?" Better yet, "Traffic Begone." Since the makers of Inner Peace hit their mark with this potion, I propose we all create a list of suggestions for future products.

Talking to M'self

Funny thing this "blogging." I really must thank my friend who started me down this path of addiction. Have you ever noticed how it's extremely satisfying to just hear yourself talking? I mean, really, out here in this world of Cyberspace who's to hear? Which makes blogging not all that different from my regular existence. I'm talking, but I'm just talking to m'self. Sometimes you have to do that to carry on an intelligent conversation.

Solar Death Ray

A friend of mine sent me this pithy blog about a guy who has built a working solar death ray. While I found the guy to be a bit of a nerd, there is a certain appeal to creating a device that can burn whatever your little imagination can invent, discretely and from a distance. Brings to mind the smoking gun theory and an ex-husband of mine. If a person is found dead from a gunshot wound, and you are standing there holding a smoking gun, there could easily be enough circumstantial evidence to convict you of murder. But what if there is no smoke, no gun, and you aren't standing there? Hmmmmmmmm................limitless possibilities for improving the human race.

I know, you want it...just don't blame me for your inner wickedness.
http://www.solardeathray.com/

Stabbed Before Breakfast

You know it's going to be a bad day when you get stabbed before breakfast. Living in human skin requires the occassional submission to primitive "healing." I've never met a phlebotomist who had the sense to listen to the owner of the veins they're puncturing. "We appreciate your suggestions," they say, as they stab you wherever the fuck they please. Then they gawk as the veins collapse or roll away just as you predicted. What the fuck do I know about the body I'm living in? "Just sit down, shut up and tell me which finger you want me to stab." Since you're asking, I've got just the finger for you...

Really, humans, develop some better technology. Since you refuse to acknowledge the existence and relatively pain-free, instant cure of magic, you could at least come up with something less primitive than bleeding your victims. Next time you're ailing, I'll be happy to analyze your blood. Just stand still, shut up, and tell me where to bite. Your blood tastes fine to me.