12 bars at closing time.

Source

plink plunk.

I think I'd like to be the world's greatest lady blues guitarist and it occurs to me that maybe I am.  If there are others before me, their names have been lost to history.  Maybe I just need to read more.

There's a pattern here, there's a pattern and a structure only decipherable when the pattern breaks and the sour note stabs, making me curse these befuddled digits.  Thinking of playing until my fingers bleed, but it never happens, not really.

Once I did dip my fingertips into ice water, until the numbness allowed me to go on.

plink plunk.

I need to not be drawn in by the urge to check up on those from my past, through the tempting rabbit hole that is social media, it only creates more questions than it answers.  My ego makes up stories, scenarios that are likely as detached from reality as one can get.

But sometimes it's nice to pretend.  I like to think it's all about me.

Through the looking glass, I wonder if someone pointed out the mistake.  Did they bring it to the surface?  Did it leave a scar, a vicious red x on your psyche?

Did you shake your head, cover your ears?

Ehh.

It's probably not about me, anyway.

I have a song, but I didn't write it.  Someone else's words are all I have to describe my experience.  I've tried to put them as my own but it all comes out a plagiarism, so I am left only to paraphrase.

These words are mine, here.  Put them to what melody you may.

The melody is not mine.

Wasn't going to, just feel like I should.

I had sat on a large cushion in my living room, feeding my almost four-month-old daughter a bottle. It was 9am, Regis and Kelly time, but the show had been interrupted.

With my free hand I reached for the portable phone and dialed my best friend who was a thousand kilometers away with a baby of her own to care for.

"Turn it to Regis. Some jackhole flew a plane into a building. Who does that?" I said, with my usual display of sensitivity and compassion. It could only be a fluke, I reasoned.

"I know, right? People are idiots"

Mere seconds later, the line fell quiet between us as on the screen, before our very eyes, the second plane hit the tower and we seemed to come to the same conclusion almost simultaneously. It takes a special kind of stupid (or, in fairness, a gregious technical error or malfunction) to crash into a building once, by accident. Nobody does it twice.

Not by accident.

"Holy shit."

************************************

I still can't accurately describe my feelings.  Sad, of course, for the families and friends that were lost.  Humbled, by the heroics and feats of strength and perserverance of everyday people.

Afraid.  Angry.

I felt angry mostly because of people's reactions.  Maybe if I had lost someone close to me I would feel differently, but I remember thinking that in many people's minds, this would simply be justification for hate that already existed.  

Justification for taking up arms against people who were different from us.

People who, like many of us want nothing more than to get up every morning, hug their children, spend time with friends and family and enjoy life as it is given, but who would now be targeted merely for sharing a belief system.. nay, for sharing the NAME of a belief system (for, much like Christianity, the interpretations of Islam vary and some people take it to dark places, where others choose to approach from a paradigm of love and respect for humanity), with people who wish to see us dead.

I felt a certain amount of pride in own government's reaction, for keeping a level head when G.W. was making his "If you're not wi' us, yer agin' us" speeches.  We went to Afghanistan, but we stayed out of Iraq and I think that was one of the last good decisions ol' Jean C got to make (or his government made) in that final term.

I felt fear, still feel fear.  During the cold war, my mother used to have nightmares of nuclear holocaust, and of trying to urge us, her children, to run from the danger while our feet melted to the sidewalk in the face of the overwhelming heat.

In the days following, I felt connected to that memory.

I still don't know how I feel.   Awed, that such time has passed.  Vaguely cynical, as the more things change, the more things stay the same.  I don't feel like we have learned much at all.  I'd like to say we value life more, but I'm hard pressed to back that up.

I wasn't going to write anything at all, because I always feel like I'm bandwagon-jumping.  I'm loathe to feel obligated to feel something today.  I had a great day today, spent time with family and with friends and enjoyed life.

And I did it guilt-free.  Maybe that is the lesson.  I don't know.  What is the lesson here?  Is it to fear?  Is it hate?  Or is it to value life, no matter whose life it is?

Anyway.  This song kind of haunts me.

Kimya Dawson - Anthrax

Jacques Cartier, right this way...

So last Friday I booked the day off,  booked and hotel for the girls and I, and embarked on the roughly 1000km road from our little dollhouse to Quebec City.  The girls had gotten the bug after I had told them of the trip I took out there a few years ago.  At the time I had taken five days with plans to hit Ottawa, Montreal and if time allowed, Quebec City.  My itinerary was pretty loose, in fact, I really didn't know where I was staying each night until I got there.  I guess it sounded like a pretty fun adventure, so they got on a thing about going to Quebec City as well, and I had said maybe this summer, if we can find the time and the money.

It so happened I had one last vacation day left for this year, and the ex-hub's current wife was going to be laid up due to surgery, so instead of trying to scramble for daycare for two days I figured I'd get daycare for the one day and book the friday off.  It then dawned on me that this was the Friday before Labour day so there was our 'time'.   Still didn't *really* have the money but I DID have the available credit.

I'm usually loathe to put ANYTHING on my credit cards, but with saving for a house I've been scrimping and saving to death and sometimes it feels like I'm missing out on a lot with the kids because I'm always having to say no.

So I said yes (well, actually I probably said "fuck it!") and we were off.

The basic plan was this:

• Drive to Ottawa Friday.  Stay with friends.  Visit Ottawa either Friday night upon arrival, or Saturday morning before pushing on to Quebec
• Stay two nights in Quebec city, having the full day Sunday to explore the city.
• Get up stupidly early Monday morning and book it all the way home in time for dinner.

You'll note that I didn't leave room to visit Montreal.  That is because I don't care much for Montreal.  As someone rather directionally challenged, the roundabouts and one-way streets disagreed with me.

Anyway, a few days beforehand I contacted a friend of mine in Ottawa who I hadn't seen in some time and asked if they would be around.  In an ironic twist of fate, her response was "No, we're not home that night and I really hope you're not telling me you're going to be in Ottawa because we're going to be in the Harbour.  I was going to come see you."

I am the QUEEN of lousy timing.

So via the Facebook, I put out word that the kiddies and I were seeking accomodations for the night in the Ottawa area.  A friend and former co-worker extended an invitation for us to stay with her and her boyfriend so that was set.  I booked a room at a Super 8 in QC (a pretty cool family suite with bunk beds for the kids, and an XBox 360 in-room that we never ended up using) and we were off.

On the way, we stopped in this awesome hippie store in Sebright, ON.  I just spent about fifteen minutes trying to find out what the place is called, with no luck.

There was a giant Betty Boop statue out front and the front doors and windows were covered with tons of pro-choice, pro-gay, pro-pagan, left-wing slogans and bumper stickers.  An old-fashioned triangle hung near the wooden screen door.

Inside was even cooler though.  They sold imported and old-fashion type pop in glass bottles.  The ceiling was covered in old vintage LP covers, and there was a wall dedicated to practical jokes and novelty items.  The front counter was a display of homemade cheeses and meats.

After spending a good 25 minutes looking around, we moved on, stopping in Bancroft.  My grandparents had retired to Bancroft so I spent many summers there before my grandmother eventually sold their house and moved to Orillia to be closer to family.  We visited Nanny and Grandpa's old house and I was a little sad and nostalgic to see that the current owners have kind of let it go.  The gardens out front have been allowed to grow wild only to eventually starve themselves.  I wanted to take some pictures but I saw a curtain move in an upstairs window and felt that perhaps we were being watched.

There's an amazing lookout in Bancroft called the Eagles Nest where you can look out over the entire town.  When I was a kid I used to write scary stores about ghosts that lived the graveyard beneath the Eagles nest.

Yes, we did interrupt some couple having a moment.

We got to Tasha's about 8pm, so really not much time to explore Ottawa once we got there.  Tash left the company where I work to pursue her dream of running a dog kennel, which means that at any given time, they have a good amount of dogs on the property.  During our stay there were about five in the house.  Given that I am not much of a dog person (I respect their right to exist, and don't wish harm upon them but otherwise, leave me alone) I thought this had the potential to be pretty interesting, but considering the number of them, they were well trained and well behaved, and I almost kind of sort of started to like one of them (god help me if I can remember her name though).

This one.

Saturday morning we took the dogs out for a run on the property and Tasha's boyfriend Dave took both the girls on an ATV ride which they enjoyed immensely.  I was really glad she had extended the invite, because I had a really nice time visiting with them, and they were both good hosts.  Thanks again if you're reading this :-)

After saying our goodbyes, we backtracked to Ottawa proper and visited the Museum of Civilization and the Parliament buildings.  It was ridiculously hot that day so after visiting Parliament and getting some ice cream it was unanimously decided that the best option was to get back on the road and try to get to Quebec City before night fall.  Basically it's about six hours to Ottawa, and another four or five to Quebec.

We reached our hotel about 8:30pm and decided to go for a swim and settle for the night, as we would have the entire day to look around.  The Super 8 hot tub could better be described as a 'kinda-warm tub' but at least I didn't feel bad staying in longer than the required fifteen minutes.

Next morning we woke up and it was raining, which put a bit of a damper on plans to park downtown and explore the walled in area that is Old Quebec.  So we had some breakfast, had another swim and got in the car to brave the rain.

Driving down Wilfrid Laurier Boulevard we kept seeing groups of pirates on the sidewalks, waiting in bus shelters.  As we passed the entrance to Laval University I came to the conclusion that this must be some kind of Frosh week activity.

Upon finding ourselves downtown, I tried to find parking and somehow managed to get ourselves on to the Autoroute 40 by taking a wrong turn.  Know what happened then?

You guessed it, we got horribly, horribly lost.

And those Google maps that you print out when you get directions somewhere, don't do shit when it comes to navigation, since they only name about four roads.  Oh yeah.

EVENTUALLY I made it back downtown and found a place for us to park.  We came upon an outdoor Zumba display and looked in a few stores while we looked for a place to eat lunch that wasn't ridiculously expensive, and wasn't McDonalds.  Because yes, even Old Quebec has a McDonalds.  It's a neat looking McDonalds in an old stone building with wood shutters on the upper levels, and possibly even turrets, but it's still a McDonalds nonetheless.

One place got vetoed because the hostess wouldn't let me in with my coffee even though I made it clear we were definitely buying food.  For all three of us.  So congratulations, pub-whose-name-escapes-me, you lost out on what would have probably been a 40 dollar meal, easy.

Eventually we stopped at a place called Buffet D'Antiquiare, which was a neat kind of place with exposed brick, dark wood, framed black and white prints, and large menus written in vibrantly colored chalk.  The waitress met my helpless shrug and inquiry as to whether she spoke English with a bit of impatience.  I had been holding my own okay up until then, very stiltedly making efforts to communicate in French whenever possible, but at that point, the thought of having to order three breakfasts in french was overwhelming so for that little amount of time, I gave up.

After lunch, we continued on foot.  I was trying to get us to the boardwalk that runs between the Chateau Frontenac and the St. Lawrence River.  I had spotted what I thought was the Frontenac's green-copper roof and told the girls to follow it.  However as we drew closer, it because evident that this building was NOT near a boardwalk OR water.

Not the Chateau Frontenac

This, however is. (from 2005)

I approached a young woman and in my stilted French I gestured towards the building and asked "C'est la Chateau Frontenac?"  to which the woman responded by saying no and pointing to a tall peaked roof well off in the distance to which I responded by swearing in English, saying "merci" and saying to the girls "Okay, so remember how I said my sense of direction is better on foot than by car?  It's better, but not by much."  I pointed out the same roof and said "See that roof? That's where we need to be."

Have I mentioned Quebec is a city of many many steep inclines?  Oh yes.  We wandered through the little shops of lower town and took Le Funicular which is kind of like a Wonka-esque Great Glass Elevator that takes you up the hill to the Upper Town where the Frontenac and the boardwalk is located.
While wandering the boardwalk, we spotted another flight of stairs that appeared to go up another level of town.  After walking up these damn stairs for a good 20 minutes or so, I asked another tourist couple "Umm.. where are we?"

Where, was apparently the top of the Citadelle, which are some of the military fortifications that were built in the mid-1700s for the protection of the city.  It's pretty freaking high up.  Funnily enough, where it took about 20 minutes to walk up the 8 million stairs to get to the top, there's a trail on the other side that brings you back downtown in oh.. say 10 minutes.  Yessir.  well, 25 if you have an eight year old child who leaves her sweater at the top of the Citadelle and doesn't realize until you are halfway back to downtown.  And of COURSE it's the really nice sweater that she really likes and that I really like that her Great Grandmother got her for CHRISTMAS so of course we can't just leave it and call it a loss.  I went up the hill just to the point where I could see the lookout where she left, collapsed on the grass and said "Okay, go get it and come back here."  So with eye peeking over the arm I had flung over my face, I saw the little yellow t-shirt sprint across the wide green field, disappear for a few moments and reappear as a yellow and purple blur bobbing and weaving back across the field.

We made our way back to the car (with the kids naysaying my ability to actually navigate us back to the car.. but I made it there!) and we had dinner at the Chinese buffet next to the hotel.  Next morning we got up at six, we're on the road by 7:20 and did a straight out burn down Autoroute 40 to Highway 401, making small stops for gas and to pee, and managed to make it home around 6pm, in time to get ready for school the next day.

Some random pics of Quebec:

View from the Funiculaire

Dirty old man table art

Lower Town

Probably my favourite shot from the whole trip.

Funny story about that last picture.  I saw the guy in the wheel chair kind of struggling to get up the hill, before I saw him turn around and head back down.  A few minutes later, two kids go zooming past, each hanging onto a handle bar, just motoring this guy up the hill.  I think they were his kids.  They were yelling stuff as they shot past, and the three of them just looked like they were having a lot of fun.

Another Poetic Interlude..

Whilst looking for lined paper for the eldest child, I stumbled across some of my old university assignments, including a chap book of poetry for a creative writing class titled "Does Not Play Well With Others" because I am oh-so-bad-assed, you know.  There were a couple passages I enjoyed.  I'm also considering posting a couple of the essays as blog entries because I really enjoyed writing them, and I still enjoy reading them and I like the idea of getting feedback from those other than the one or two profs that got to mark them.

That all depends if I can find the doc files, because I sure as hell ain't typing out the hard copies.

In the meantime, I'll share a couple of the poems here.  There seemed to be a common thread of disliking structured poetry.

Ours Is Poetic

Ours is not so much a matter of rhyming
More a type of word splatter running
From a mind-spigot, the very timing
Of which is most important, when one most cunning
Forgets about the trying-to-say or
Gives up on wit or random punning

If all academic falsehood is removed
The barest essence of emotion left
There still, is room for a reader to be moved
For emotion lies at the depths,
Lays a foundation for some profound thing
When left unsaid, leaves the soul bereft.

The second one was part of of an assignment to write a poem called a Sestina which has the most effed-up, convoluted structure imaginable.  So like the fourth-grader that does a speech about how much they hate public speaking, I wrote a sestina about how fucking aggravating and pointless sestina-writing is.

Writing the Sestina

I'd say I've written a sestina before
but in all honesty I'd be lying
as I have never attempted a thing
so complicated as this.  I must say
It is really an aerobic feat of mind
to complete.  Really, if i had my way

I would choose to write this another way
and get myself into my warm bed before
I found myself giving a piece of my mind
to whoever came up with this.  Lying
in my bed I could dream of what I'd say
to the creator of this silly thing.

Really now, who comes up with such a thing?
Someone who sits around and thinks of ways
to make complicated methods to say
things that could be put more simply.  Before
I enjoyed poetry, I'm not lying
but writing this makes me lose my mind.

Now I'm not saying I really mind
reading the sestina and other things, 
but I get to feeling like I'm lying. 
Fitting words to metre a certain way
Since it seems the form comes well before
what I am actually trying to say.

Oh but what am I trying to say?
The original idea has slipped my mind.
I had a vague idea.  That was well before
I got wrapped up and tangled in this thing
and my message got lost along the way.
Now exhausted, I find myself lying

on the floor, when I should be lying
in my bed.  For what more could I say
on the subject, considering the way
my eyes are drooping and it seems my mind
is wandering, drifting to other things. 
I should retire, and sleep before

someone finds me lying here.  I don't mind
if perhaps they say I'm mad or something.
I was that way already, long before.

Copyright Andrea Lyn Cole 2006

Is it wrong to play "Another Brick In The Wall" to your kids on Labour Day Monday before bed?

1,985 kilometres (that's 1,233 miles to those on the Imperial system) covered over four days and here I am, home once again, just in time to send the kiddies back to school with lunches containing food I bought tonight at roughly 9pm after realizing "Holy shit! School starts tomorrow! These kids are going to want to eat!"

Back to school doesn't much alter my routine, other than causing my mornings to require a little more structure.  Since the girls go to their dad's during the day, in the summer, getting them ready in the morning consists of little more than ensuring they have pants on their butt, and something in their stomach (and even this is kinda/sorta optional, as their stepmom informed me that whether they eat breakfast here or not, the usually end up helping themselves to cereal when they get there in the morning anyway).

Now it's make sure they're fed, teeth brushed, hair brushed, lunch made, school bag packed and they're dressed.  Not just dressed, but appropriately dressed. 


There's a brief period of about three to four years where you can safely leave your kids to their own devices when it comes to getting dressed.  Around grade two they stop insisting on wearing pajamas to school, turtlenecks in 30°C weather, flip flops and/or Crocs in the rain and can *usually* be consistent with the wearing of underpants.

The years previous to these are the ones where you can use praise to deflect the blame on poor fashion choices away from yourself, the parent.

"Oh.. what an interesting outfit little Millie has on..."
"Oh, yes, I know.  And she picked it out all by herself, didn't you honey??  ALL BY YOURSELF.  NO HELP FROM MOM AT ALL," 


That's right, distance yourself from the purple cordouroy pants paired with the three-sizes-too-small shirt that you kept trying to donate but they kept pulling it out again when you weren't looking, and decided to put it on when you were already fifteen minute late so there was no time to change.  Other parents will nod knowingly.  They've seen the same horrors you have.

My oldest, having just turned ten, is reaching a stage where once again I feel it necessary to police her wardrobe choices, mainly for the reasons that A) she still hasn't gotten that 'color-matching' thing down and B) children's retailers and the school officials who write the dress code have wildly differing views of what is 'age appropriate'.

Have you recently trying buying shorts for a ten-year-old girl that are not more than three fingers above the knee?  Don't bother.  Really.  Save the time, save the effort and make cut-offs.  Or shop in the boys section (where, incidentally, all shorts seem to fall three fingers below the knee).

But basically yeah, we've reached the early stages of that joyous time where her fashion sense may clash with my desire to keep her in outfits that can be described without the use of the term "prost-i-tot".  She's a big fan of the Disney set, whose imaginary tweenie characters seem to have clothing allowances that would probably pay my car insurance and my cable bill together.

Evenings require a bit more structure now as well.  There is the ceremonial unpacking of the school back, signing of notes, throwing out of half-empty containers of pudding that the school, under their so-called "litterless lunch" mandate insists on having the girls put back in their lunch bags.  This is especially pleasant after they've gone to their dad's for the weekend, and the lunch bags don't get unpacked because I like to keep my plastic sandwich containers, thankyouverymuch.

There are showers to be had, on a regular basis even.  In the summer there'd be conversations like this (keep in mind that they often bathe at their dad's for hygiene, and sometimes simply for something to do)

"When was the last time you washed your hair?"
"..."
"Did you have a bath at your dad's today?"
"No."
"When was the last time you had a bath or a shower?"
"..."

*sigh*

"Okay, here's some advice.. if the answer to any of those questions is 'I don't know' then just go have a shower."

School time comes and it's every-other-day whether you feel like you need it or not.  No one wants to be the smelly kid.

So begins another year.  *pours a shot.. or four*

Be Right Back, Y'all

Just having a slice of day-old pizza while I take a break from packing the car in preparation for the four-day  road trip to Quebec City the kiddies and I are embarking on in oh.. say.. half an hour.

Hopefully there will be many tales and pictures to share upon our return.  Most will probably be taken by my oldest since driving and photographing is harrowing at best.  I may share some pics along the way so if you're not already, I can be followed on Twitter.

Also formulating a response to this fantastic post from Chally at Feministe about singlehood and what is the deal with people who act like you're some kind of freak if you're single and happy about it.

The Deficient Single Woman

It's a pretty interesting read, as are the comments.  It's given me a lot to think about, so while I'm gone I'll be collecting and indexing my thoughts on the subject and sharin' em with ya.

Anyway, the road be calling so enjoy your long weekend and drive safe.

Tootles!

Canada has fake bands too, you know.

I'm kind of getting a kick out of HelloGiggles.com as a fun site for randomness and pop culture. (my massive girly-crush on Zooey Deschanel notwithstanding) However, I'm finding it unforgiveable that twice now they have posted articles on the best fake bands from movies and made glaring omissions.  Maybe it's a deep-seated prejudice against Canadian Content, or maybe they are just sadly ignorant of our offerings north of the border (god knows...  Canadians hardly recognize that we have a film AND a television industry, so I can't be too hard on the Americans).

The other possibility is that with the exception of my last choice, the bands I mention can only be considered 'good' if 'good' to you doesn't necessarily mean 'talented, with catchy tunes' but rather 'kind of goofy but nonetheless amusing as fuck.'

Here are some examples that have twice now been left off the list, and have thus prevented me from giving HelloGiggles full recognition as a credible pop culture website.

- OR -

Sometimes I just like to piggyback on other people's ideas.

Thunderface - Corner Gas

Source

Consisting of Hank on Vocals, Brent on guitar, Wanda on bass and Karen on drums, Thunderface decided to reunite for a show at the hotel after a 15 year hiatus, much to Paul's delight.  After kicking the Tragically Hip out of Brent's garage to practice, their one show is cut short by the fuzz, otherwise known as Davis (who is jealous that Karen got picked as drummer over him).




Rod Torfulson's Armada Featuring Herman Menderchuck - Kids in the Hall

Originally known as simply Armada, they're goal was to practice, always showing up on time and arrive having eaten.  The nameless singer played by Kevin McDonald basically did all the work, but was consistently over-ridden by bandmates Rod and Herman, whether it be to add backup singers, or even keep Kevin in the band (while keeping his songs).




The Zit Remedy/The Zits - Degrassi Junior High

Source

Joey Jeremiah, Derek "Wheels" Wheeler and Archie "Snake" Simpson only ever managed to write one song over their 3-4 year career and man, was it terrible but catchy in a way that after 12 hours of having it stuck in your head, you would begin to believe that the 'Something' that 'everybody wants' was probably something sharp to jab in your eardrum to distract you from this godawful song.  Still, you had to admire their persistence.  Maybe, I don't know.

(the only reason I can sit through this video is for the occasional glance at Clutch's ass)

You've been warned, though.

Hard Core Logo - Hard Core Logo

Source

All joking aside, this is really where I think the HelloGiggles article dropped the ball.  Hell, Barbie and the Rockers made it onto their list, but they somehow managed to miss possible the most bad-assed of fake bands.  I'm not saying this just because of my deep-seated desire to be the meat in a Hugh-Dillon-Callum-Keith-Rennie-Circa-1996 Sammich.

I can watch this movie over and over.  I will admit, I have judged people on their enjoyment of Hard Core Logo.  Who could watch the dysfunctional vaguely homoerotic relationship between Joe Dick and Billy Talent, the good-natured antics of Pipe Fitter and John Oxenbergers decent into madness and NOT want to join a punk band?

Well, I would.

Don't take this the wrong way, but to quote Mr. Joe Dick himself "You don't know shit from good chocolate, baby."



(I'm kidding, actually.  I just really wanted to used that line.  No hard feelings, k?)

Has your brain exploded yet today? Here, allow me to help.

This is one of the more brain-explodey, face-palmy, loss-of-faith in humanity things I have read today.

Judge Blasts Kids For Suing Mom Over Birthday Card

From the sound of it, two spoiled, privileged-as-hell upper class twits and their father, who apparently has too much money and time on his hands, have been killing time the last two years in a lawsuit against the kids' mom for what basically amounted to 'Bad Mothering'.

"Did she beat them?" one might ask.  "Was she cruel?  Emotionally abusive?  Neglectful?"

Well, I guess that depends on your definition of cruel.  Among the charges lodged against Kimberly Garrity were:

...failing to take her daughter to a car show, telling her then 7-year-old son to buckle his seat belt or she would contact police, “haggling” over the amount to spend on party dresses, and calling her daughter at midnight to ask that she return home from celebrating homecoming.

My personal favorite one is the charge from her son who suffered great emotional distress because she sent him a birthday card but 'neglected' to include a check or any cash.  Nor did she ever send the poor suffering dear any care packages while he was away at colleges.

Pardon me whilst I grab my smelling salts.

On the front of the American Greetings card is a picture of tomatoes spread across a table that are indistinguishable except for one in the middle with craft-store googly eyes attached.

“Son I got you this Birthday card because it's just like you . . . different from all the rest!" the card reads. On the inside Garrity wrote "Have a great day! Love & Hugs, Mom xoxoxo.”

Granted, that's a pretty cheesy card.  I groaned when I read it.  Googly eyed Tomatoes?  Puh-lease.   That being said though, I would hardly call this a trauma requiring $50K in compensation.  Fortunately, the judge in this case called it for what it appears to be.. bullshit.  This is one of those cases I would have loved to see go in front of Judge Judy - is she even still on the air?

I'm pretty sure Judge Judy would have tore a strip off these kids and their lawyer dad (Oh, that's right.. Mom has to pay her own legal fees to fight this, but the kiddies get Daddy all pro bono and such) and made them wear it as a scarf.

I like to pretend she's flipping the bird here.  Source

The amount of entitlement here is disgusting.  There are two things that piss me off.  Okay, that's a lie, anyone who knows me knows there are a number of things that piss me off.. but two things that piss me off in relation to this story are as follows:

• I take great issue with parents who use their kids as props in their revenge scenarios during and after a divorce.  

It's something I've gone to great lengths to avoid myself because it generally doesn't do the kids any good at all, and I'd say this is a pretty good illustration.  The kids' (who are not so much kids as adults in their early 20s) father claims he tried to dissuade his kids from pursuing the case, but I call bullshit.  Why?  Because he continued to represent them, even though it was a bullshit case.

• Second, I hate the hell out of people who try to frame not getting every damn thing their own little way as 'abuse' or 'neglect'.  

Seriously.  Now, to play devil's advocate, I realize there are two sides to every story and Garrity may possibly be the mother from hell.. but it would stand to reason that if she really were some horrible, neglectful, cruel parent and the kids were going to go so far as to bring a lawsuit against her, if they were going to go that far I would think they'd have something more compelling to bring to the table than 'OMG.. she bought me a CARD, the BITCH'.

It degrades and devalues the claims of people who really have gone through hell and back with abusive parents.  These kids need a little more exposure to what shitty parenting is really like.   Maybe a googly eyed tomato and a midnight call to the school dance wouldn't seem so bad. 

Conversations with my Kid: The "Mommy's not here to win friends" edition

T: Mommy, do you think I'm a good singer?
Me: Of cou...
T: AND YOU CAN'T SAY YES JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE MY MOM.
Me: I wouldn't tell you were a good singer if I didn't think you were.
T: Oh, come on!
Me: No, If I didn't think you were a good singer I'd probably go "Uhm.... er... *averts eyes* How was school?"  And then you'd say "I didn't GO to school today!" and I'd say "Why weren't you in school?  You're GROUNDED!"
T: But it's summer, so there is no school! So you can't ground me!

(at this point I'm thinking 'way to keep up with the conversation, kid. ')

Me: I could... if I was desperately trying to divert your attention by changing the subject.
T: ....
Me:  So yeah, I think you're a good singer.
T: Oh.  Okay.  Thanks.

Good News, Everyone.

My computer is officially fixed.

Be prepared to get esophaegal-lining-rupturing SICK of hearing from me.

*resists urge to sign opening lines from Eminem's 'Without Me'*