April 30th, 2008 | 19 Comments »

I have been following the discussion of Jon Armstrong’s post exploring the apprehension of 463 children from the FLDS compound at El Dorado, Texas. I also did some research into the fundamental religion, and the practices that still go on to this day. Go read the post and comments, they are fascinating. I’ll start dinner while I wait for you to come back. You will come back, won’t you?

The commenters are articulate and present interesting viewpoints. My one track mind, however, grasped onto the lead sentence of commenter #39, bookratt:

Freedom brings with it an obligation to responsibly follow the laws of the land and to respect the rights of others.

All I could think is that Americans don’t have any stinking freedom. They go overseas to fight for freedom when they don’t have it in their own country.

And if anybody doubts this, I invite you to read the Patriot Act.

You don’t need to be a terrorist or suspected terrorist for the gubmint to be all in your business. All you need is for someone to notice you. Telephone conversations, emails, blog posts, financial records, health records, ad infinitum, are all fair game. No warrants are needed, no notification is necessary. Secret searches can be performed, and the searchee may never know.

I’m not so naive to think that Canada is not involved in this. The FBI already has access to Canadian databases because of a technicality where the database administration is outsourced.

The Liberal leadership race in Canada stunk to high heaven. We had a most excellent Liberal leadership candidate in the person of Ken Dryden. Ken is upright, honest, smart, and personable. He is a hockey hero to old timers who saw him tend goal in Stanley Cup and Olympic games. (Winning, of course.) He was so very electable.

Ken was eliminated early on. Who did they choose as leader of the Liberal party? The most ineffectual human on the planet. Stephane Dion. The man with no chin. Inarticulate in two languages. Not even close to playing on the world stage, or even electable. Explain please, how that makes any sense at all.

Who was elected Prime Minister of Canada? Stephen Harper. Looks like a Ken doll, but not a Ken Dryden doll, no, the kind with helmet hair. He runs his Conservative party with an iron fist. The media has extremely limited access to him, and none to his caucus members. Why? He has forbidden them to talk to the media.

But, hey! Him and Dubya are good buddies, even though Dubya committed the cardinal sin of calling him Steve. (We like to joke that his wife calls him Mr. Harper)

I just can’t shake the sneaky suspicion that the folks behind Dubya did a little diddling behind the scenes at the Liberal leadership to ensure that Harper had no competition. I have never entertained the fairy tale that politicians have MY best interests at heart.

I’ve always been very proud to be Canadian.

Now I feel as if our country has been violated.

If you think Canada is not following suit, check this out. And this too. If the first one passes, I may have to take down my post about medical marijuana or I could be prosecuted. Skeery.

Posted in the mundane
April 29th, 2008 | 25 Comments »

I hate hospitals. They suck all the energy out of me. I looked around the waiting area, where people were gathered to await various procedures, and did not see a single smiling face. One woman looked like she had been crying for three months, then caked makeup onto her face. I get that people are usually in the diagnostic procedures area for a reason, but sheesh! Your whole freaking life doesn’t have to be focused on what ails you. Or what may or may not ail you.

So what I have (besides those nifty little ball bearings that are taped to your nipple for a mammogram-and really? How fun are they?) is a tentative diagnosis of a cyst. One that has cloudy fluid at one end, which the ultrasound doctor said was most likely because it had shrunk between the time I noticed the lump and had it imaged. And oh, I need to go back in three months to see if it has changed any. Just for the ultrasound. No more boobie-squishing, which frankly, hurts a bit. Maybe more.

I found out why there was such a long wait for the mammogram. It isn’t lack of equipment, oh, no. It’s because there is only one practitioner available to conduct the mammograms. Plenty machines, not enough people. Guess they all went to the states where they get paid better.

So boobie sandwich day isn’t my favourite day, but I lived through it. I’m not in a great mood after languishing in waiting rooms for two hours altogether, amongst those sour-faced patients, but I still know how to smile. I might even do it after a slug of wine or two.

So, for those who want to know? We think it’s a cyst that doesn’t quite behave like a cyst, and we’re keeping an eye on it.

I was going to take a picture of the little ball bearings they tape to the nipples, but the ultrasound doctor made me take one off, and I lost it. And really, what kind of a lame picture would it be anyway?

Please, please don’t unsubscribe. I know I have a decent post in me somewhere. Maybe tomorrow I will find it.

Further explanation of ball bearings: They are BB sized, and are used to mark the location of the nipples on the image, so measurements can be taken for closeups of the lump.

Posted in it's all about me
April 28th, 2008 | 15 Comments »

All of the commenters here have quite a wit, but I choose to highlight a very few of them each week, just to tease those who don’t click over from their readers. All that hunting, choosing, copying and pasting has me all worn out, but I do it because I loves you.

From Dizzee

Memarie Lane admits:

My friend Jeanine and I used to tie up her little brother when we were supposed to be watching him. Apparently he holds us no grudge. I wonder if he has a bondage fetish now?

The Diva adds:

One time my older brother and i threw our younger brother down the stairs in a suitcase. We were a little “Lord of the Flies” out on the farm.

Knudsey observes:

Yep siblings are right bastards, also the youngest I suffered more mental abuse than anything, as I got older I realised I just didn’t like my siblings but now understand their need to put me doon on an everyday basis it wasn’t me it was their issues about me and now I forgive them not that they think there is anything to forgive and only remember what I said to hurt them (in defense but they never remember that) they did hone my sarcastic wit thus allowing me to win the peep twice so I guess God had a reason for it.

From Boobies for Skinny Bitch

Marie in Maine recounts:

Great story, I wonder what the old ladies told everyone when they got home. Why do Scots wear kilts? Cuz the sheep can hear a zipper a mile away.

Nan confesses:

*looking sad* No-one wants hangy down boobies? All you people can go on about is “bigger, smaller,” and not ONCE have I heard “Oooh, I want hangy-down boobies so I will always know where my pencil is”.

Lou Ceel takes the high road:

I will gladly volunteer to fill in, at any time, as an ad hoc boob job inspector/texture assessor. Given my many years of experience in the field, I feel it’s only right and proper for me to offer my expertise in this, a critical area for the proper maintenance of self esteem in young and otherwise flat-chested women. I only ask expenses. Properly approached, I might even bear the expenses myself.

The winner is Lou Ceel

Gotta love those uncles and their inappropriate stories. I think everyone has one. I know my nieces and nephews do.

This puppy is yours, Lou.

Now go forth and be witty. And vote for me. And send good vibes. Tomorrow is boobie sandwich* day.

*Mammogram

Posted in Peep of the Week
April 26th, 2008 | 16 Comments »

The contest for the Bloggy Giveaways Carnival is over, and I have duly entered all of the comments from each day that the contest ran. I stipulated that those who came back and commented on subsequent posts would get an extra shot at the prize. I was hoping that the winner would be someone who would appreciate what they had won, because it really is a beautiful, meaningful piece of art.

To determine the winning comment, I went to the trusty random.org and used the random integer generator.

It selected number 60. And commenter number 60? Drum roll, please…

Is Teeni! I couldn’t be more thrilled! Congratulations, Teeni. Now email me your snail mail info, and that puppy will be in the mail.

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I have a different kind of image for you to puzzle this week. I mentioned earlier that I had begged two photographers from my mailing list for images that I could use, and this one is from Jill in Phoenix. You should go and check out her other amazing images.She just made a big sale to a corporate client, but she isn’t all snooty about it. I fell in love with this image and wanted to ask her if I could use it as wallpaper on my desktop, but she offered it as a puzzle. I’m going to give you a preview of it here, and then you can assemble it. Ain’t it purdy?

Create your own puzzles at PuzzleBee.com!

Tell us your completion time!

Posted in contests, puzzles
April 24th, 2008 | 29 Comments »

My long suffering younger brother, Dizzee, father of Wild Child, still speaks to me after all the torture Mr. Trick and I put him through. I’m grateful for this because he is basically kind and quite funny.

We had a period of estrangement in our adult lives that we decided to put aside when The Papa got really really sick. I think we did it for him, although I believe The Papa didn’t care much for Dizzee’s decision to associate with a Tool of Satan.

When we were kids, we lived the military life. No disobedience, no questioning orders. The Papa may have been a corporal at work, but he was the General at home.

When my parents separated, the kids went with The Papa. There were periods of time that we were only supervised by our older sister. This would be the one that made us smoke when she babysat us so we wouldn’t tell on her for smoking. I love her, really, but people? That is messed UP.

So older sister became the queen bee. Dizzee was around nine by the time he really started acting out because he missed his mom. We all did, but I think it hurt him the most.

He would have temper tantrums and Mr. Trick and I would fill a tub full of cold water and throw him in to “cool him off”. We really just wanted to shut him up because he was an annoying little brother. And because it was one thing we could get away with. We totally wanted to smack him, but we weren’t allowed.

He must have marvelled at what great parents we would be someday.

Our fun-loving favourite uncle visited often, and regaled us with what I now realize were inappropriate stories. We figured he could do no wrong.

One of the stories involved a friend passing out drunk, and to punish him, Unk and his other buddies painted the guy’s willy red, so he would have a lovely surprise when he woke up all hungover.

We thought that was the best story ever. We laughed and laughed.

And schemed how we could have that kind of fun without access to alcohol.

We secured a supply of red paint, and the next time Dizzee had a hissyfit while The Papa was at work, we held Dizzee down and painted that puppy red.

I still remember how gobsmacked we were when The Papa was furious with us over this particular stunt.

“But, Dad! We didn’t smack him!”

Oh, the injustice.

Like I said, it’s a wonder Dizzee talks to me at all.

(Dizzee didn’t mind whipping it out when it wasn’t red.)

And? He’s such a good sport, he gave me permission to publish this picture.

Tags:
Posted in Dizzee, down home