I Just Had a Quickie...

Please.

Not *that* kind of quickie.

Don't I wish?

A worse drought than the farmers  had this summer, I tell ya. Does everyone assume just because I'm 40 and had most of my reproductive parts removed makes me any *less* randy, especially the length of time it's been since I....

Anyway.

I was out smoking and had a strange observation. My dad's parents slept in separate bedrooms. My mom's parents had the same room, but each had a twin bed. That made me pause. I thought, "If that was the case, how on earth did I end up here in the world in the first place?"

My mom's answer? "I had a double bed."

She's got me on that one.

This is one of the image stickers on my car that was vandalized last week. At first, my mom asked me who that "weird looking guy with the orange hair" was. "It's George Harrison, Ma." At present, I'm considering temporarily dyeing the tips of my hair spikes purple for some reason, speaking of hair color .All! This! Gray! creeping its way onto the top of my mop. But this? This George? It was a vintage sticker that I don't know I'll find a new one.

 

Am I the only one who thinks these non-electric kitchen appliances look more like the set up of a gynecologist's exam room rather than a kitchen?

Everyone online cracks jokes about Chuck Norris. Probably because he's such a poser fighter and greedy infomercial whore with no Eastern philosophical recollection. Who taught him all of his martial art moves and about spirituality? Who was his kung fu teacher? Yep. And they'd star together in the actor/philosopher's film, "The Way of the Dragon."

Best part? Bruce Lee ripping off a copious amount of Norris' disgustingly littering chest hair and blowing it off his hand so he can kick some more ass. One of my favorite martial arts film fight scenes (my favorite being the room of mirrors in Bruce Lee's "Enter the Dragon.")??? No, when it comes to Bruce Lee, my martial arts HERO, you don't fuck around. You don't even entertain the idea of fucking with a derogatory meme, because you literally can't say one bad thing about this late, extraordinary man, both physically and spiritually.

Haven't heard from Guy Friend in a week, and even that was an all-too-brief email. I still think he's mad at me about something I did that gravely disappointed him, or he's still upset about the besiege he received in one of my recent blogs, mostly at the hands of Kate and Best Male Friend. Kate understood. I tried to keep the peace, but felt stuck in between, because I love them and I love him. Meh, maybe he's just super busy, which is my usual excuse for why I don't hear from him. I missed the "I don't care about you" memo, if such a thing existed. It's feasible it's some kind of parental obligation combined with or versus some work-related reasoning as to why he's extinct, but I did point him towards a couple of blogs that I felt he really needed to read, which to my knowledge, I don't think he has yet.

I miss talking to and seeing Guy.  I receive more emails and texts from Barack Obama, Barbra Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, Bill Clinton, Robert Redford, all soliciting another $3 for Obama's grassroots campaign, than I receive from Guy Friend. Thus far, I've handed over $6 to the DNC as support. But what do they do once you one-click your donation because the campaign has your credit card on file?

THEY ASK FOR $5 MORE. Love ya, Obama, will cast my vote, but this grassroot is in deep dehydration. Sure, you don't whore out for corporate and huge public entities in order to secure millions upon the millions you yourself have like Romney, but still. I really just can't give any more. I hope they understand.

Had to start the application process for next semester Community Service Practicum at school. We had to list 7 potential organizations for whom we wanted to utilize our talents and contributions. I chose the following:

• MaineStay: A progam based right here in my own township which caters to the lowest and lower socioeconomic demographics of what's otherwise a very affluent, high-tax area of the suburbs just directly across the street from the actual City of Chicago.
• The Illinois Council on Problem Gambling: I understand addictions and compulsions better than just about anybody. I'll bet you $20 they pick me as their intern, lol.
• A rape victim advocacy agency...see the running theme here? Again, a cause and a base that is true to my rich life experience and where I think I might do the most beneficial practicum.
• Gilda's Club: A sort of St Jude or Ronald McDonald housing and care facility for those suffering from cancer and their loved ones. Founded by actor Gene Wilder, in memory of his late wife, Gilda Radner, who I'm going to guess absolutely none of the 35-under crowd at my school will even recognize her name, much less the tireless work Wilder put into forming the foundation. 
• The Center for Disability and Elder Law: I dunno, I think I picked this one because I spent the last 3 years taking care of the elderly at the medical practice and understand a lot of their personal and emotional issues. 
• The Young Chicago Authors: an internship where you spearhead and organize an annual literary reading and giant Chicago poetry slam. I think that'd be a lot of fun, too. I'd love to help younger people with developing their creative minds/interest in writing.
• The Computer TV Network: grant writing. That's about as much of them as I remember, but it had to do with writing savvy, technical savvy and the ability to work independently. 

School makes every attempt to secure us an internship at one of our 7 choices, which I shouldn't think would be *that* difficult, as we are a very small school (only 900-odd students, including PsyD candidates who are doing their clinical, not community service practicums.) I did read the description of almost all of the programs offered, and felt these were the most suitable, before I had to write nearly 5,000 words as to why I should be offered an internship in the form of an extensive Q&A, and submit my curriculum vitae. 

Wish me luck at the internship lottery! Especially the Gambling Council!

Ah, at least I don't have a little one running around looking for something every time he needs something in order to avoid going to bed. I haven't *had* to read to him a book since he was 3 years old, because as I've said before, he, like I, could read independently at age 3.  He finished "The Little Prince" at around age 5, around which time we transitioned his "nursery" into a Little Prince themed moon and stars theme. He had these awesome glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling of his room that Craig put in constellation patterns. 

Still, the adaptation of this satirical children's book cracked me the fuck up, chiefly because of the audio interpretation by Samuel L. Jackson, which should be a comforting thought to the man who penned the book. NONE of us could get our kids to bed at a reasonable hour when they were little (I still can't today) It's a book called "Go the Fuck to Sleep." Enjoy the narration. It's a crackup. 

Luke had "Goodnight Moon" memorized when he was 2 and we'd read that every night, and he'd recite it with his bottle as either Craig or I (or sometimes my mother or grandmother) would rock him to sleep. Luke was the type of toddler who literally had to be dead ass rocked to sleep and only after he was asleep could even entertain the idea of putting him in his crib. Trust me, putting a like 30-40 lb toddler into a crib takes the strength of 1,000 men. Then soon thereafter, like it says in the book, the kid's out of his toddler bed or crib or bed and asking you for fucking something when you're just trying to chill after having managed your child the whole day. Either that, or "Dad, it's your time to take over for the night...."

On that note, have to hit the books tomorrow for the Ethics midterm on Monday. Jealous of how many of my Knox friends are hanging out in Galesburg this weekend. My 20th reunion will be in 2014, even though I didn't receive my degree officially until January, 1995. The Class of '94 will always be my class. My community. Have a fun and safe weekend, Siwash!