Eight is Not Quite Enough

Oh, this is sad.

(And this post is riddled with '70s American pop cultural references ...sorry Fab and LL)

Willie Aames, of Eight of Enough fame, is broke. So broke, in fact, that he's having a garage sale to raise cash.

The teenage heart-throb of my youth lives in Kansas and filed for bankruptcy last year. He also attempted suicide last Thanksgiving and now his home is in foreclosure. Bless his heart.

The story states that dozens of people showed up at the garage sale.

Dozens? DOZENS? Is Kansas completely void of 45-year-old women?

Hell, there should have been a hundred women on his lawn at 4:30 that morning, wrapped in quilts, drinking coffee and pawing through whatever had been set out the night before, singing the theme song to Eight is Enough.

There's a magic in the early morning we found,
When the sun rise smiles on everything around.
It's a portrait of the happiness that we feel and always will,
For eight is enough to fill our lives with love.

Dozens of people indeed. Oh, Kansans. Where's the humanity? The poor guy had to sell off his mounted deer heads and teevee memorabilia.

You KNOW that if Scott Baio or David Cassidy had a tag sale, Wackenhut would have to provide crowd control.

Poor Tommy Bradford.

The next time I get the feeling that it's time to throw myself a pity party, y'all please remind me of Willie Aames.

Here's a thought: In stead of calling "bullshit" when you know I'm totally making something up (not that I've done that - yet) you need to call "Willie" when I slip back into somber mode.

Although, you know... if he'd been thinking clearly...he really could have spun this into a ton of publicity - and possibly a reality television show - and afterward sold the stuffed moose and Tiger Beat posters on eBay for loads more money.

Where's a good publicist when you need one? Or, you know, Dick van Patten.

They call me...Mr. Rogers

And just welcome to the neighborhood.

The house we lived in before this one was huge. It had five hot water heaters which is nice, but means a bottom element burns out every 12 months. Of one of them. It also means somebody needs to be cleaning on that sucker 24/7 and we're all pretty much agreed...not my job. Unfortunately, that's the general attitude of the rest of the Inmates so...we live in squalor. I'll get around to it eventually. Maybe.

So when we moved back home and I looked up one day and I was 44 years old, seven months pregnant and in the midst of restoring a 120 year old farmhouse? I folded. Like an old chair. The Big Boy came home one day and I said, "I need a house. I need it in two weeks. It needs to have heat and running water." And then I went back to bed.

We bought this house to live in for a year. That was nine years ago and...we are so lucky. Small house, small bills. We went from $1800 utility bills to...in the past nine years?...$230 highest. No lie. This works. The big house was fun, I'm glad I did it, and now I'm glad I'm here. Things change.

HOWEVER. Some of these people are in these small houses because this is the best they can do, not because they want to be here. And that makes for interesting neighbors. Realll interesting neighbors.

The guy across the street died two years ago and it turns out? He and his first wife bought the house, he and his second wife still jointly owned it, and his third wife had no ante in the pot. His son, from the second marriage, semi-moved in while everyone involved waited on the house to sell. Apparently, moving in wasn't that good a deal if they had to maintain insurance. And utilities. And on a four bedroom/three bath with a pool...insurance and utilities weren't worth it. So they showed up every now and then, camped out there for a while, then left. The authorities showed up more than once...I never asked why. I'd look out the front window, there would be a sheriff's deputy over there, I'd let the dogs out and wait until everyone was gone. Strange way to live.

Yesterday afternoon I pulled onto our street and SON OF A BITCH. All up the left side of the street was trash. Not old trash but someone...and I knew who it was...had thrown out fastfood sacks, a plactic grocery sack of beer cans and some napkins and stuff. And since I have MY kids keep that section of the road picked up, it just flew all over me. Flew ALL over me.

I will pause here to admit that yes, alcohol was involved. It was Friday afternoon.

I slammed on my brakes, got out of the car and picked up every scrap of manmade material I could find. Every scrap...there was a can in there with a pop-top. I had HAD it with that sorry-ass kid and his sorry-ass attitude and his sorry ass on my street. I don't care if you live there, ASSHOLE, but work with the crowd. We don't ask a lot.

Got back in the car. Pulled up to that driveway. Emptied every scrap of everything I had picked up all OVER that driveway. Got in my car, pulled up to the next driveway and turned around and when I came back? They were coming out of the house.

You want to TALK ABOUT THIS? Let's talk. Last I heard, littering carried a $500 fine in these parts and I am sick and TIRED of sending MY kids to pick up YOUR shit. Done. Finished. Won't be happenin' noooo more. Get your ass down here and let the TALKIN' begin.

And then I realized...I've never seen these people in my life. And as I slam my door and stomp up the driveway? The new owners introduced themselves. The NEW owners. As the man gathered up the trash I had slung all over his NEW driveway.

Turns out, apologizing and kissing ass profusely count for a LOT. We have mutual family and he went to TBB's high school and we know the same people. We swapped cards and I promised to call if the FORMER owners showed up again. I gave them my number in case I needed to run over and check anything for them. They're not moving in, but improving and flipping the house and that works. It needs improving.

Welcome to the neighborhood. Met the 300-pound asshole with the pit bull next door yet?

An hour later, I was at the farm with my 70+ year old neighbors and I got the truck stuck in the mud and my mom had to come get us. It's possible my weekend drinking doesn't need to start until Saturday.

Friday Funny

Okay, so these are actually the guys from Lord of the Rings, and NOT the Capital One vikings, but it's funny anyway.

The Plan

Okay...so...the unofficial title of the plan is:

Work with Hubster and Hope Like Hell We Don't Kill Each Other.

Admittedly, it isn't much of a plan, but it's all we have.

Remember the post before I traveled to Berkeley and found religion at Chez Panisse?

That was rock bottom. It's like...being in a bad relationship. One day you look at the person next to you on the sofa and you think, "WTF am I doing with this idiot?"

And then that big, red switch that says, "DO NOT PRESS" connecting your heart to your brain just...flips. Flips itself off.

After that you just can't feel the same way about that person again. Ever. No matter how hard you try or pretend like everything is fine. It isn't. And it can't be ever again.

I wasn't completely honest with you all about everything that transpired in California. It wasn't all cute flight companions and truffle pudding souffle. It actually was a pretty horrific professional experience thanks to the manic-depressive, bi-polar human incarnation of evil back at the office in Huntsville.

Anyway...The Berkeley Incident killed my relationship with my job. The final nail in the coffin. It might as well have blown its nose in its sleeve at dinner...or forgotten my birthday...or called my sister a bitch...because there was no going back in my heart of hearts.

And as I was sitting on the phone at 5:00 in the morning, 1,200 miles from home, crying, asking Hub, "What do I do? How do I deal with this?" he asked, "Why are you still putting up with this?" Unsurprisingly I didn't have a good answer. Then he said, "Come to work with me, I need you."*

I. Need. You. The magic words. The "I'll still respect you in the morning" of Eldest Child/Type A personalities.

And the seed was planted. In the last month it has germinated and Hub has been getting excited about it, and so have I.

As far as Hub is concerned the immediate goal, our 60 day plan after I come on board, is not to get organized or provide excellent service or, you know, make money. It is to...wait let me get the quote exactly correct...Oh, that's right. The goal is to not end up "throwing axes at each other."

That sounds doable...I think.

Next up: Crazy Apron Plan

*For those who don't know, he/we started a party rental business about three years ago that is just now profitable enough to support...however meagerly...both of us. But you have to admit - helping people throw parties isn't a bad way to earn a living.

Hooray for City Giirrlll!!!

I love a woman with balls.

OMG.OMG.OMG.OMG

I just did it. Pulled the trigger.

Resigned from my job.

OMG.

I can't tell if I am exhilarated or scared shitless.

I think I'm about to lose continence. Not consciousness. Read slowly.

OMG. OMG.

I did it! I'm leaving! No more verbal abuse! No more mental torture! Well, at least not from this sociopathic management group.

OMG.

Oh, the guilt.

Although I shouldn't feel guilty because all but four people who were here when I started a year ago are gone. Everyone ran out the door screaming. Some of them didn't last 60 days.

One girl with whom I work, after less than 30 days, regretted - aloud - leaving her old job and joining up here.

People around town told me it was a meat grinder. I didn't listen. They were right.

And now I've quit.

Holy crap.

So now what? Actually, I have a bit of a sad little plan...stay tuned.

TeeVee is King

Further evidence that if you can get on television you can do anything!

NASA's online contest to name a new room at the international space station went awry. Comedian Stephen Colbert won.

The name "Colbert" beat out NASA's four suggested options in the space agency's effort to have the public help name the addition. The new room will be launched later this year.

NASA's mistake was allowing write-ins. Colbert urged viewers of his Comedy Central show, "The Colbert Report," to write in his name. And they complied, with 230,539 votes. That clobbered Serenity, one of the NASA choices, by more than 40,000 votes. Nearly 1.2 million votes were cast by the time the contest ended Friday.

NASA reserves the right to choose an appropriate name. Agency spokesman John Yembrick said NASA will decide in April, but will give top vote-getters "the most consideration."

Maybe I literally "stumbled" across it

Most people who work with words always have, in the back of their minds, the notion that somewhere inside them is The Great American Novel. Just waiting to bust out all over. Not me...I've never thought I had it in me, in spite of the fact that everyone ELSE thinks I DO.

"Just write like you talk!" they'll say. But I think you have to be more dedicated than I am, or as I suspect deep down inside...infinitely more talented. But I've been looking at this for almost a year now and...it keeps talking to me. It's talking a LOT.

And the Lord takes care of children and them who can't take care of themselves.

Last April The Big Boy and I took The Little Kids to New Orleans for Spring Break. We had a blast, mainly because all the kids and I wanted to do was walk. We walked hundreds of blocks over that week...we walked blisters on our feet and sunburns on our faces and necks. We walked to the cemeteries and we walked to the Riverfront and we walked to Jackson Square and we walked to every open cafe and bar we could find. We walked in circles and we walked to places that when I called My Boys at home to ask "Where are we?" they nearly had heart attacks and told us to TURN AROUND and walk BACK. We had a great time.

One afternoon as we're walking along, something on the sidewalk (this was a side street, not one of the tourist trails) caught my eye and for some unknown reason, I stopped and looked down at it. This was strange because this entire trip? We carried Germ-X in our pockets like loose change. We squirted and rubbed and massaged every single time we touched a doorknob, a facing or a table. We reeked of alcohol and mint. We were paranoid the entire time we were there and we didn't touch ANYTHING we didn't have to.

But for some reason, I stopped and reached down picked up this button off the sidewalk.

It's made from an old buffalo nickel, and it's very worn. Polished worn. Handled worn. Many-times-buttoned worn. And if you look at it...someone made a button out of an old nickel. A button.

I came home and laid it on a sill in the kitchen window. And kept looking at it. I looked at it a lot, and I keep wondering about...someone made a button out of a buffalo nickel and if you're my age? That's a hippy thing. A 60's thing. A craftsman thing. And this button is worn almost smooth.

I keep wondering about the jacket. In my mind, it has to be a blue jean jacket. A worn denim jacket. With a row of these buttons down the front. And there has to be a story behind who made them and who sewed them on and where they came from.

When my mother was in second grade, her True Love moved away and the day he left he cut a button off his jacket and gave it to her. I still have it.

This button is living with me. I keep looking at it. You know there's a story there, just waiting for someone to remember. "A Love Song for Bobby Long" is one of my favorite movies and if you ever get the chance to see it (IFC/Independent Film Channel shows it occasionally) watch it. True story, to a point. Makes you want to find out who Grayson Capps is and what he has to do with an old drunk English professor and John Travolta.

And makes you wonder about the person walking the streets in New Orleans wearing a really comfortable and really cool and really important blue jean jacket.

It makes you wonder who has sense enough to tell his story.

Do Over

Okay, since yesterday's post went over like a lead balloon, how about this?

Toilet humor usually goes over big around here. :o)

From jalopnik.com

FART Magazine: A Bad Case Of Swedish Translation Meatballs

"Bad translations are a total gas. Example: retro Swedish car mag, Fart Med Motor Revy.
Fart Med Motor Revy was initially published in Sweden during the Fifties and Sixties and, according to our trusted Google translator, it literally translates to: "speed with the engine revy." Could it have been run by Nordic coffee shop vikings? We might need a Jalop to sniff around to confirm this, but we'll believe it was until we smell hear otherwise. There are old copies available on numerous auction sites, but a lack of true info has left us feeling pretty shitty."

"Channeling" Joan Rivers

In the classic words of the class-less Joan Rivers: Can We Talk?

Don't get me wrong, I love Joan. If she was classy, she'd be a condescending bitch. But because she's really just one of us only with her own line of gaw-geous paste jewelry and a plastic surgeon on retainer, we love her, non?

Jerry Lewis : The French

Joan Rivers : Middle-aged women.

Anywho...Can we talk about the ridiculous size of electronic equipment?

Hub and I live on an average suburbanish block. That is to say, it is approximately twelve yards from our front door to the curb...then the street is two or three yards wide...then another twelve yards from the opposite curb to the front of our neighbors' house...and another, say, three yards to the opposite side of their living room.

How far is that? Thirty yards? Add to that another ten yards because the home of the neighbor in question is not directly opposite ours, but on a diagonal...so that's forty yards. Damn near half the length of a(n American) football field.

And yet. And YET, in the evening when I come home, as I approach the front door, or as I turn to close the door behind me, if I look up at our neighbors' house I can tell you exactly what the husband is watching on television. I've been in their home and I can tell you that in this rather small (I can say that because it is the same size as ours) living room/front room/parlor there resides a television as big as an up-ended queen-size mattress. I shit you not. In High-Def.

Damn High Definition to Hell. In the good old days all you could see from the street was a faint blue flicker....

So two months ago a new neighbor moved in behind us. The whole back half of that house is glass - no blinds - and faces our deck - which we use liberally, and in this case the distance is a mere twenty yards from our house.

Do you know how we realized someone had moved into the previously vacant house? We were blinded - a la Todd and Margo in Christmas Vacation - by the High-Def glare of her (yes, I said "her") Sistine Chapel-size flat screen.

Her television, from my deck, appears as large as my television from our couch. It is that big, bright and close. And you can't avoid looking at it. It's like one of those spinning spirals that hynotists use to convince you you're a chicken...you can't look way.

Honestly, what the HELL did people do for wall decoration in the olden days, five years ago, before massive televisions took over the living room? I can't remember...I think my memory has been erased by the enormous visage of Anderson Cooper boring into my brain from across the garden fence.

In an effort to make the best of an unusual situation - and in the spirit of economy - Hub and I have decided to cancel our satellite subscription and watch the neighbors' teevees instead. And why not? It's nostalgic - one of our first dates took place at a drive-in theatre.

Only now, instead of King Kong on a single giant screen we get a daily double-feature: sports in the front and news in the back.

This is waaay past stupid

AIG is handing out bonuses. Millions and millions of dollars in bonuses. To its executives...the ones who necessitated the $170 billion bail-out it required.

http://apnews.myway.com//article/20090315/D96UEPF01.html

I'm no financial genius, but shouldn't this have been addressed BEFORE we gave them the money?

Monday, The Big Boy's college roommate had treatment for an AVM...an abnormal cluster of blood vessels in the brain. Obviously, we have been friends for a LONG time. Back in the day. Along with his then-girlfriend/now-wife. They are Very Important People in our lives.

It was scary. Never mind that we have kids and mortgages and sags and wrinkles...to each other we are still who we were. Funny and active and interesting and adventurous and athletic and...oh, yeah. Skinny. Don't be forgettin' the skinny.

So this was as traumatic a mind-event as it was a physical event. We are now mortal...US, the have-it-all's. One of us is SICK. Like, sick. Like, not immortal. It was shattering.

Everything went better than you could ask for. The scary procedure, which involved holes in his skull, was out-patient. OUT-PATIENT. They drilled holes in that boy's skull and sent him home. (Actually, we went to Cracker Barrel because he hadn't eaten for 24 hours and he mainlined pancake syrup.) But it was awe-inspiring...the entire procedure. I think he was most concerned that we walked into a public place and he was wearing sweats...his family owned a prep-orientated men's shop in his hometown and he be all ABOUT some Brooks Brothers. When he said that? I laughed out loud. "Eric!!! YOU HAVE FOUR HOLES IN YOUR HEAD. I don't think people will be looking at your sweats." And the procedure worked and he's safe and we came home and now we can get on with being normal people with normal lives.

College Roommate went home and rested. Napped a little. Watched a little television. Snacked a little bit. Thanked God. More than once.

And then all hell broke loose. His sixteen-year-old son came home, cornered College Roommate's Wife, and confessed that he and his girlfriend had had sex. While mother and son were standing in a corner in the kitchen, the phone rang. It was the girlfriend's mother, who had found this out (I didn't ask how) and precipatated this entire confession thing. And the girlfriend's mother was off-the-charts. Off. The. Charts. She was ranting and raving and demanding that CR and CRW get over to her house IMMEDIATELY so that they could talk about this and something had to be done and girlfriend's FATHER, who (to quote) is on a nekkid beach in Hawaii with his new 25-year-old wife, is to be included in this talk and SOMETHING HAS TO BE DONE RIGHT NOW.
Except? This is 2009. And CR and CRW had been monitoring text messages for some time and they knew this was coming. (Not a pun. Get to that later.) They had been watching, and talking to Son, and talking some more.

Oh, y'all. They have a print-out of text messages. YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE THS STUFF. The girl texted graphic descriptions of her physical state. She texted, "We have to do this." She texted, "We need to hook up. (Physical comment.) What r we waiting 4?" It's all on paper and in black and white and I'M SORRY. I know I'm on the boy's side but...he's a 16-year-old boy and this stuff is deep and that girl was PUSHING.

Keep in mind I have three daughters and I'm one down, two to go and I WATCH THESE THINGS.

Anyway. Finally, after freaked-out mom has unloaded all her life problems which include a deadbeat "fiance" who can't marry her because he doesn't have enough money, on CRW and then demanded a meeting, CRW finally lost it. Lost it. And I will give her that I bet she lasted longer than we would have.

She blurted out, "WE HAD BRAIN SURGERY THIS MORNING. And it is now eleven o'clock at night and THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT YOUR DAUGHTER, THE-CHILD-DESPERATE-FOR-ATTENTION. I will kill my son, the idiot, TOMORROW. But right now? Right now? CR is alive and not paralyzed and not crippled and...two teenagers just had sex in a truck and as far as I'm concerned? I'VE HEARD OF THIS HAPPENING."

I was rolling in the floor by the time CR got through telling this story. His skull is oozing bodily fluids and his son just had sex. Only, turns out? The son was so nervous he...didn't ooze bodily fluids.

All this grief and? Nothing. The kid is convinced he's going to hell, the dad in Hawaii is pissed because his wife doesn't do teenage daughters, Tuesday came and Tuesday went and teenage son has no cellphone and no car and no life and...he didn't get there.

Didn't even come close. :)

Let's Have Fun!

Mel posted this a few days ago, but I'm only now catching up with the ol' blog reading.

This is too much fun.

And, of course, I just had to share with YOU, kids! Because playing cyber cut-and-paste is SO much better than paper dolls!

Become a Super Hero here and don't forget to share the results!

There are melting pots and then there are melting pots and one of the things I've learned is that hospital waiting rooms are...disposable aluminum pans. There's a WHOLE lot of stuff mixed up in one place in a hospital waiting room.

Yesterday I spent the morning in a waiting room for the family of patients undergoing a really high-tech procedure. All of us there were at the mercy of the (oh. wait. I don't know who Kelly Clarkson is but...if your ass is that big? You do NOT need to be wearing those jeans. Let me change the TV channel.)

Okay. We've switched to Cyrano de Bergerac. No ugly people THERE.

ANYWAY. High-tech procedure. At the mercy of the hospital staff. Point is, everyone there was killing time, waiting on various nurses and technicians and doctors to stick their heads in, make vague observations about the state of the procedure, and then leave.

Politics may make strange bedfellows but waiting rooms? There's no telling.

There was this morbidly obese woman sitting across from us. (Now see...that's not prejudiced. The bitch was HUGE.) And in the course of the intermittant conversations that went on while we all waited somehow it came up that her husband is a diabetic. And she confided in us that...She hadn't been sleeping in her bed for about three months because right before Christmas? The husband had a seizure. So she stopped sleeping in the room with him because (you know I couldn't make this up?) SHE DIDN'T WANT TO WAKE UP WITH A CORPSE.

There's a moment after someone makes a statement like that that you sit there and think, "I missed something here."

Then there's the moment that you realize, "No. She said that."

Of course, the first thing you're thinking is..."WHO'S GOING TO CALL 9-1-1?" And then you realized that NO ONE is. Because that guy can DIE, but he better do it on his own time and not be disturbing NO fat bitch's sleep.

Because waking up with a dead guy? Might give you bad dreams.

Death? Bad dreams? Death? Bad dreams?

Hey, THAT'S a no-brainer.

Ostriches Are Happy Creatures

Tired, tired, TIRED of all the bad news?

Feeling a bit on edge? "On edge" being the understatement of the day.

Yeah, me too.

It's bad enough that reality bites, but listening to the laments of the media on a 24/7 loop is enough to send someone over the edge of the edge.

So after subjecting myself to the glum radio news for 90 minutes on the way into town this morning, then finding the girl who reports to me in an absolute puddle of frustration (at 8:15 on a Monday morning this does NOT bode well for the rest of the week) and learning the Hubster's eye exam and impending glasses are not covered by my insurance, I needed some good news.

Check email account number one, hoping to find a video of a piglet riding a turtle. Nothing.

Check email account number two, hoping to find a good "a priest, a rabbi and a stripper" joke. Nope.

Look at LOL Cats, whose sole purpose is to uplift the miserable masses. Eh...not so funny today, actually.

FINE. In desperation I Googled, "Good News."

Now, I know there exists an American Christian media outlet called The Good News Network, and while I applaud the catchy title, I was decidedly not in the mood for a rousing psalm this morning.

But, lo - what's this Google result? A website called Happy News? Are they being SARCASTIC? Is that supposed to be FUNNY?

No! It's real! And their tag line is: Real News. Compelling Stories. Always Positive.

Freaking. Brilliant. Eat your hearts out, CNN and MSNBC.

Story Headline One: Policeman Pulls off Heroic Rescue

People Saved! Hooray!

Story Headline Two: St. Bernard Rescued from Icy Pond

Take THAT LOL Cats!

Story Headline Three: Winning Ticket Goes to New Jersey Coworkers

People NOT getting laid off!

The icing on the pink, cream-filled Happy Cake?

The Happy Quote:

A happy life consists in tranquility of mind. - Cicero

That Cicero - as a Chicago suburb it sucks, but as a philosopher, he rocked.

Peace of Mind. Elusive. Mythical, even. Who among us, really, has peace of mind?

What would it take for you to have peace of mind? Seriously?

What step would you have to take to finally sleep like a babe tonight, wake up tomorrow looking forward to a new day, and go back to bed satisfied with how you've spent another 24 hours on Earth?

It would require sacrifice, no doubt. But what are you really giving up? A relationship that Jerry Springer scouts have been eyeballing? A job that, yes, is paying the bills in a bad economy but is making you physically sick? A house/car/boat that is the envy of your friends but you really can't afford?

Whatever it is, make sure you cut it loose after you read today's Happy News.

Guinness for Strength. Happy News for Courage.

*Note to Guinness Marketing and Legal Departments: Please don't sue me. kthxbye

Ear Worm Friday Funny

Chaos...Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome

All of this stuff came out of one closet. Today. I found a child's original birth certificate, enough stationery to stock a shop (most of it the same stuff I bought at Office Depot this morning because I couldn't find it), enough connectivity devices for obsolete electronics to build a bomb, my missing camera tripod and a case of beer. Really...a case of beer. I DON'T KNOW HOW IT GOT IN THERE. More relevent? I don't know how LONG it's been in there.

I've been living here ten years.

I found the front half of a dress I was smocking for a child for Valentine's Day...the last time a daughter in this house wore a hand-smocked garment? Clinton was president. I have NO idea where the rest of the shiny red material to FINISH the dress is.

There's my "craft" box. The oils to hand-tint portraits. The projector to enlarge snapshots to make black and white canvases. Eight gorgeous porcelain handles to...WTF? No clue. They sure are pretty but they don't match or fit ANYTHING in this house.

Three bags of fiberfill. Fiberfill? Fiberfill? I can't even IMAGINE what I was thinking...I buy my pillows pre-filled. Genius that I am.

You know those long floaty tubes kids use in swimming pools? There's one of those in here...cut into three sections long-ways. Now you KNOW I had to have a reason but whatever it was? Oh, puh-leeze. Either do it or THROW THIS SHIT AWAY. My friend, Ann, keeps offering to come organize all this stuff but that's EXACTLY what she'll do...throw this shit away. And you know how this works don't you?

Day after tomorrow? I will be in DESPERATE need of one-third of a swimming pool floaty pole. You know it'll happen.

Filler Post

According to Webster

Main Entry: Stunning
Function: adjective
1 : causing astonishment or disbelief

2 : strikingly impressive especially in beauty or excellence

See Also: Robert Pattinson

I love bumper stickers...

...don't do them but if I did? I'd want one like the one we saw today:

Ron Paul was right.