Taboo Subject #1 Faithfully Submitted

I respect everyone’s beliefs.  I truly do.  I figure if there is a God, then all the different kinds of religion are just different roads to the same place.  My problem lies in that little phrase which has already pissed off probably half of the people reading this:  “if there is.”

See, what you don’t understand is that while you have chosen your road—applied for your mapquest route so to speak, I’m good with that.  I just don’t understand why I have to go the same way.

Some people want to take the expressway.  Some people want to take the toll roads.  Some want the scenic route.  Others want to get there fast and wait in their car for the doors to open up.  And others—let’s face it, you know it’s true—are on the wrong road, but they want to convince you they’re on the same road as you, when really, they’re on some bypass that was never really finished.

I’m good with what you believe.  I really feel no urgency to convince you that you’re wrong.  Hell (probably a poor choice of words), I agree that you may be right.  I’m ecstatic that you’re happy and all that jazz.  But really, what if I don’t particularly want a blessed day after I pay my credit card off—what if I want a hell of a party instead?

Religion has always fascinated me.  Because of a lot of things, I suppose.  Mostly because everyone says you shouldn’t talk about it—naturally that makes me want to talk about it.  But also because historically religion has been bent to make people do horrible things.  There’s not a single religion that I know of which doesn’t speak about harmony and peace.  Whether you worship God or the Sun or the trees or Mother Earth, it’s all supposed to be about creating a quiet place in your soul.  However, religion has dedicated itself to destruction throughout history:  the crusades, the holocaust, the 9/11 attacks—they all had a religious component.

I’m thinking about this today because it’s Sunday and because the Jehovah’s Witnesses just came to my door.  Honestly, I thought I scared them away last year and figured they’d put a big black X over my address and never return.  But they were there, smiling vacantly as my Rottweiler barked and growled and considered having them for lunch.  I answered the door eating a leftover piece of my birthday cake.  I see that as irony because from what I understand, the JWs don’t believe in celebrating birthdays.  Okay, right there is a reason I’m never going to join their ranks.  I mean, you can give up your birthday if you want, but I’m keeping mine.  I like being the center of attention for one day a year and if I could have more birthdays and guaranteed gifts I’d take them too.

Anyway, I shushed the hellhound and tried to be polite to them.  There was one guy and three women.  All in their late fifties, early sixties.  Dressed like the Amish; breaking it down like the Mormons.  They said they noticed my doors were open and I was home on a Sunday morning.  I thought about telling them I was an Orthodox Jew and therefore had to be home and not using any kind of power item, but the television was on and I knew they could see it.  I think it was a rerun of Rosemary’s Baby, but I can’t be sure.

I should also warn you—since I didn’t warn them—that I have a history of arguing about religion.  Mostly because it interests me intellectually.  I’m sure it probably contributed to the end of my marriage.  I really wasn’t prepared for my ex to come home one day and suddenly be “born again” and he wasn’t prepared to come home to find someone who could argue what he thought should be taken as faith.  I’m of the opinion that if someone tells you the lake is fluorescent pink today, you might want to check it out for yourself before you agree—and my ex was like that punk who’s standing there going “What?  You’re going to check?  You don’t believe me?  You need to believe me or you’re a bad person.”  He came home from church with some real opportunities for me to question his sanity.

I’ve missed those discussions.  (Insert evil laughter here, totally inappropriate, I know, but it’s there and I’m not going to deny it)

The Jehovah’s Witnesses stood in my breezeway, the wind tossing their hair around leaves dancing across the driveway behind them.  Their flyers clutched in their hands.  Benign, blank looks in their eyes.  “Sister, we’d like to give you our flyer.”  He held it out to me.

“You ever think about changing the name of it?” I asked.

He frowned.  The women behind him (yeah, that’s another thing I found kind of annoying) exchanged confused looks.

“Well, it’s called Watchtower,” I said.

He gave me a blank look.

“Charles Whitman?”

Still nothing.

“University of Texas?  The guy shot up a campus from a watchtower.  In fact, watchtowers are traditionally military fortifications.  You know, places to put gunners and snipers to pick off people before they can invade your fortress.”

“Well, that’s something you could learn more about if you joined—“

“But you believe that it was Satan’s arrogance and self-importance that got him thrown out of heaven and yet at the same time you believe that your religion is the only one that’s real and everyone else has fake religions.  It’s practically a perfect analogy; you’ve become what you claim to have overcome.  I’m not sure I can fully absorb that kind of hypocrisy.”

“Did you just call us hypocrats?” one of the women said.

I shook my head.  “No.  I’m just saying I’m having a hard time reconciling your words with your actions.  How will I ever be able to join you when I can’t understand your doctrine?”

“I don’t even understand what you’re saying,” another of the women said, copping an attitude.

I nodded at her.  “That might be a huge part of the problem.  Don’t you think you should understand what you’re preaching before you start preaching it?”

“I have my faith,” the woman said indignantly.

“But you can’t believe what you have faith in.  And if that’s the case, then you’re really no better than the brainwashed cult which people have claimed you were since your creation in the late 1800s.”

They were moving out of my breezeway into my driveway as I spoke.  That blank benign look was changing over to something close to panic.

“Perhaps you only escaped the political persecution because you’re a large cult rather than some small cult which can be bullied around easier.”

The third woman who’d been silent until now, pulled herself up, jutted her chest out and threw her shoulders back.  “The devil quotes scripture for his purpose.”

I rolled my eyes at her.  It was early in the morning otherwise I might have stopped myself from this.  “You do realize you aren’t quoting scripture to me, you’re quoting William Shakespeare, right?  I mean, I was an English major.”

“Let’s go,” the man said, turning away from me and ushering the woman away.  Before he left he grabbed his flyer back from me.

“I guess sheep come in all forms,” I said, loud enough for the compliant women to hear.  “Thanks for stopping by.  Please refrain from doing it again next year; there’s no guarantee I’ll be awake this early in the morning.”

They heard, because they made sure they had the last word.

Yeah, I know, this whole thing is pretty insulting if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness and I admit it was wrong of me.  I’ve really become rather sensitive about people telling me what I should do and how I should act when they don’t even come close to being the people they think they are.  Delusions are rampant among human beings who claim sanity.

For the last 30 years, I’ve listened to religious people tell me why they deserve to borrow money when they’ve never paid anyone back in their entire lives.  I’ve watched my ex get religious and spout about the “Book” while running up my credit cards with gambling debt, refusing to work, and smoking a joint.  I’ve watched people fly planes into skyscrapers, killing thousands while yelling “God is great!”   I’ve watched people kick other’s out of homes they’ve had for generations because they are unworthy of being close to the Holy Land; and then wonder why those now homeless people harbor a grudge.  I’ve seen the graves of those who were slaughtered like cattle just because they held one set of beliefs.

In the end the most religious people are those who never tell me about it; who understand that religion is a personal thing to take you where you want to go, not a  battering ram to get yourself what you want and to get people to look at you like you’re a good person.  So, drive your roads, people.  Be sure you pick one that makes you happy and gives you confidence, strength and support.  But, leave me alone; I’m still studying mapquests and I’m not even sure I want to meet up with a lot of the people who say they’re going to the end.  I’m certainly not all that keen about hanging out with a bunch of people who judge me and others and refuse to consider other options.  If there’s a God, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care what road anyone takes as long as it’s a good road without too many exit ramps.

I’m also pretty sure that if there is a God, he’s got a sense of humor.  I’m sure he’s laughing at the Jehovah’s Witnesses who ran off my driveway after cussing me out this morning.  And he’s looking around at his peeps and he’s saying, “Well, they’re not on my flippin’ list. DANG!”

THOSE PANCAKES WILL KILL YOU

So, it’s been an interesting few weeks here.  Victories and defeats.  Which is kind of what life is about; isn’t it?  It’s funny how people seem to focus so much on the defeats, but in reality it’s the defeats and the challenges that make us better people.  And let’s face it, I need all the help I can get because I’m not a good person.

First the victory.  I finally paid off the debt I ended up with after the divorce.  Two years, thousands of dollars of debt gone.  I’m back to where I started “almost.”  House and car.  When I got married, I didn’t have a car payment.  If I’d been thinking clearly two years ago, I would have bought a used car and try to have it paid off by now as well instead of buying a new car—I thought I was going to get the A-plan for one last time, didn’t know I was going to have to pay the doofus for that.  But whatever, the debt is gone.

So, what do I do to celebrate?  Well, run up my own debt of course…lol. Actually, my house needed carpet from the day I moved in.  I thought about carpeting the entire house, but changed my mind when I looked at the number of books I’d have to move and the huge desk in my writing room.  So, I just settled for replacing the worst of the carpet.  It does look awesome and better yet, the strange musty smell that I couldn’t get rid of in the house has disappeared.  When that carpet is paid off, I’ll move on to the bedrooms.  I figure, I’m more inclined to get different colors for the carpets in there anyway.

But overall, I consider being out of debt and getting new carpet a win.  I think Charlie Sheen would as well. 

But the old Karma hag still has her eye on me.  Can’t let Jo be all that happy, can we.  Oh no.  Can’t have that.  It would upset the balance of the universe.

With the recent elimination of my staggering debt, I decide I need to relieve myself of my mother’s constant nagging and get myself checked out.  I did the doctor thing when I started training for the 5k thing, but that was just for the heart that beats too fast.  This time I got the whole blood work thing.  This is kind of how I got the results.

Doctor:  You know no one has ever checked your sugar before.

Jo:  Well, aren’t you supposed to?  I mean, I’m fat.  I have diabetes in my family.

Doctor:  Yeah, you would think that would be a normal thing to check, but no one has.  I looked at all your records.  Got nothing.  But I checked it.

Jo: This isn’t going to be good; is it?

Doctor:  Your glucose levels were really high.

Jo:  You do realize today is Halloween right?  You realize I have a huge tub of candy sitting at my house right now, filled with good stuff, not the crappy Whoppers or Almond Joy or that black and orange wrapped “no name” candy. 

Doctor:  Would you like to reschedule your appointment for tomorrow?

Jo:  Well, you’ve kind of already ruined it just by inference at this point.  And my birthday is in 10 days, along with carb heaven Thanksgiving.  You’ve effectively tainted those as well.  So, you might as well spell it out.

Doctor:  Well, you don’t have any of the other symptoms.

Jo:  Actually, I probably do, but I also excel at denial.

Doctor:  I can see that.  Well, I’m going to give you a tester.  You’re going to test for a month and fax the results back to me.

Jo:  What about—

Doctor:  Whoa there.  I know about you and your question asking.  I’m setting you an appointment with a dietician so you can spend three hours of her time asking questions about food and combinations and times to eat.  She’s got a cheaper hourly rate.

Jo:  I appreciate that.

Doctor:  I’m really not doing it for you, to be honest.

Jo: Still.

Doctor:  Okay, I’ll check out your fax and call you in a month.  Have a good Halloween.

Jo gives doctor a dirty look.

Doctor laughs and sends Jo to billing.

Yeah, so that’s what happened.  I now have to be a grown up and do what I need to instead of what I want to.  Pretty crappy if you ask me.  But, you know, the alternative is dying a horrible death.  If I go out, I would prefer that it be fast.  I don’t want to be losing legs and feet and toes or taking injections every day or whatever.

So, I met with the dietician.  I really don’t need her to tell me what she wants to tell me.  I know the deal.  Most fat people know the deal, we know what we’re supposed to eat and how we’re supposed to eat.  Check out my friend Nancy’s blog if you don’t believe me.  She tells it like it is.  We obsess about it; we feel guilty about it.  We figure everytime we open our mouths people are saying, “Look at the fat girl, she’s eating!”  We’re self conscious about what we buy in the grocery store.  But I ask my questions and the lady is actually quite good about deviating from her program and answering me; I actually learn some stuff.

Of course, what I learned sucks.  I’m addicted to carbs.  Carbs are bad.  My favorite foods in the world are carbs:  rice (there goes the Chinese addiction), dressing at Thanksgiving, homemade bread, potatoes.   Yeah, Thanksgiving is gonna suck for me.  Pass the fickin’ green bean casserole.

Could have gotten an iPad for my birthday, instead I get a flippin’ treadmill.

This is how my day went today:  Wake up. Stab myself in the finger until I bleed.  Write down a pathetically high number. Have oatmeal with skim milk and some nuts for breakfast.  Go out and work in the yard.  Stop for lunch which consists of a hard-boiled egg and popcorn.  Clean the gutters.  Come in for a bottle of water.  Stuff myself into a sports bra that severely restricts my breathing.  Get on the treadmill.  It’s great to get some use out of these running shoes again; isn’t it?  Run/walk 15 minutes.  Simultaneoulsy with the run/walk:  yell at dog to stay away from the treadmill, yell at the cat to stay away from the tread mill, yell at the dog to stay away from the cat (I can see them chasing each other back and forth down the hallway on my new flippin’ carpet).  Let the dog out.  Yell at the dog for chasing a squirrel.

They say high blood sugar makes a person irritable….

Take a long bath.  Read on the back of my bubble bath that baths are not recommended for diabetics.  Say “fuck em” I’m not giving up my bleeping bubble bath.  Talk to friend on phone.  Talk to mom on phone.  Eat dinner:  baked salmon, brown rice, and a small salad with Italian dressing.  Go in to type my blog so I can bitch.  Try not to think about how much I hurt right now.

How my day should have gone:  Wake up.  Pancakes.  Check Facebook.  Play on my new iPad.  Rake the yard.  Come in.  Have a boloney sandwich while watching Ghost Adventures on the DVR, maybe a few episodes of Seinfield on DVD (up to season 3!).  Talk on the phone.  Facebook.  Write.  Oooh, look, I have a new iPad.  Dinner:  Salmon with a honey teriyaki glaze, mashed potatoes and dinner rolls.  Write.  Watch some TV.  Play tug of war with the dog—using the cat.  Bubble bath without caring about the annoying blurb on the bottle.  Eat some leftover 3 musketeers.  Bed.

Yes, life would be so much easier if the pancakes weren’t trying to kill me and if adulthood hadn’t come crashing in.

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong

Observations from the Center of the Universe: One of these things does not Belong: I’ve been some places this weekend. Places that I don’t belong. You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’...

One of these things does not Belong

I’ve been some places this weekend.

Places that I don’t belong.

You know, it’s a free country; but not everyone fits in everywhere and that’s the truth.

I had lots of things to do this week before I started my week of hell:  2 charity events that I’ve somehow in charge of—although I have great people helping me, I still feel the pressure, 2 doctors appointments, new carpet coming early the week after so everything has to be done this week, and about 6 meetings.

And yet, this weekend, I find myself in two places on consecutive days where I’m surrounded by people who are clearly not planning to do anything this week or next.

To be fair, Saturday wasn’t as bad as Sunday.  On Saturday there were some professionals mixed in with the crazies.  Saturday was Walmart day.  I confess I do some grocery shopping at Walmart.  Some of the things they sell are way more expensive than other places, but for average stuff, they’re good—dog biscuits, kitty litter, toilet paper (the cat is a neat freak and wants to wipe after). 

I was in a contemplative mood when I was in Walmart on Saturday afternoon.  Most people I know were probably out working in their yards, getting the last of the fall work done or watching college football.  These were the people who weren’t.

There are some Walmart trends that I’m not real comfortable with. 

First, what’s with all the people wearing fuzzy pajama pants?  Saw one girl wearing fuzzy pink Miss Kitty pants and a big parka.  It really wasn’t that cold.

There was a heavyset guy in baggy cotton shorts, a t-shirt advertising a Flock of Seagulls concert, and a satin top hat—he was looking for clown shoes around the Halloween costumes.  A lot of people were at the costume section, going through those costumes like someone had hidden gold bullion in the piles of witches and evil clowns and vampires and Lady Gaga meat suits.  But of course, we’re talking about people who wouldn’t know what gold bullion is—the smartest of the bunch might assume it’s used to make soup.  The Walmart employees stood around the outskirts of the carnage watching the carrion feed.  Pieces of costumes flew up from the pile periodically.  Marlin Perkins stood off to the side filming.  (If you get that joke, you’ve just dated yourself).

As I tried to maneuver my cart around the place towards the dog treats I realized I hadn’t used the conveniently placed sanitizer sheets on the handle.  Good thing there were three used ones in my cart.  I wondered vaguely why they were stained brown.  I abandoned my cart between the baby clothes and the car seats.

As I made my way to the dog treats, I developed an itch.  But because of the whole sanitizer thing, I refused to touch my face.  I decided that maybe I should go to the restroom to wash my hands.

I walked to the bathrooms, which are ironically in the rear of the store.  My way in was blocked by a woman in one of those motorized carts.  She was a huge woman.  HUGE!  I’m not even sure how she managed to get into the thing.  I’m not sure how the motor managed to make the wheels move…they were practically flat.  I thought those carts were supposed to be the old and disabled.  I tried to go around.

The woman moved forward for the block.  The motor of the scooter thing groaned with effort.

I gave up.  Better just to get out as quickly as possible.  It was clear were social mores at work that I did not understand.  I tried to leave the little lobby area by the restrooms and layaway.

In the doorway, a big man in a scooter sat talking to a woman with a cart.  Neither of them looked at me.  The guy had a stringy dirty pony tail down his back—probably to give potential cardiac surgeons an idea where his spine was…the thinning greasy tail pointed at it between folds of flesh.

I cleared my throat.

They didn’t look up.

I was pinned, trapped between scooters.  There was a moment of panic.  A claustrophobic feeling of flesh closing in on me.  I’ve never wished for a blue light special to draw away the wolves more in my life.  Then, as my life started to flash before my eyes, I saw an opening.  The woman with the cart moved to go after a dirty kid who was running around the hunting section with a crossbow.

I made my move and looked down the aisle towards the dog treats.  There was another scooter.

They were swarming.

I weaved down the yarn aisle, fooling them.

I came out at bedding, made a left and grabbed the dog treats.  Kept moving, found kitty litter, then backtracked to checkout.

Where a restless scooter guy was in front of me, moving back and forth, torturing the motor—it screamed with each effort to move.  With him was a big woman who managed to move on her own two flip-flopped feet.  She wore a tent with a hole in the middle, no bra.  The tent was made of thin pink material, showing each horizontal roll, and two vertical lumps lying out on the bloated gut like raw bread loaf dough left out to rise.  She was itching her nose with a dirt encrusted finger, there was hair hanging out of her nose, there was a booger on those hairs, clinging there waiting for rescue.

So that was Saturday and why I ended my shopping trip crying at the sanitizer dispenser.  For those of you who saw me at Walmart on Saturday.  Thanks for stopping to make sure I was okay and for not mentioning anything about it on Facebook.

So, on Sunday, I worked in the yard all day.  I got dirty and sweaty and muddy.  I raked, mowed, and planted about fifty bulbs for next spring—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and crocuses for those who care.  I don’t normally keep pop in the fridge.  But, I had a turkey in the oven and a good dinner for one planned so after I took a shower and changed into clean clothes, I decided I could hop in the car and grab something at the convenience store down the street.

I’ve never been in that store on a weekend.  I’ve never been there, apparently on a sunny afternoon that’s about the perfect temperature.

Because that’s the temperature that brings people out of their apartments and across the field to the store.  Think of a scene in a zombie move where the zombies are staggering across an open field toward the protagonist; now, replace the zombies with people who are alive but haven’t showered in days so they smell like zombies.  I parked the car.

I grabbed my purse and my Droid phone that I saved up for, that I use as a house phone and a business phone and a scheduler and a planner.  There’s an ice bin on the sidewalk before the door.  It’s chained with a thick chain and a huge industrial type padlock—kind of reminds a person of a medieval dungeon except there were people in those dungeons, not ice bins.

A guy with no teeth and one hand holds the door open for me.  He steps back and waves me in with a stump covered in open sores which I know are needle tracks because I’ve researched what they look like while I write.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says in a voice that is gravelly and soft and phlegmy all at the same time.  His eyes are leering at my chest.  I move into the store.  There are two teens in there, huddling over the donuts rubbing their hands together.  Their clothes are dirty.  There’s a sickly sweet smell pulsing off of them that’s mixed with the skunky smell of recently smoked weed—I’ve researched that too.

The pop is at the back of the store.  There’s a guy at the back of the store.  Bald.  Flip flops with dirty feet and long yellow toenails.  Cotton shorts with—no underwear, it was obvious, I didn’t look that close—and a blue t-shirt with stains all over it and a dribble of mustard over the bizarre bulge of his belly that really looked like he might be pregnant with one of those exercise balls.  He’s buying 40oz Schlitz Malt Liquor bottles from the cooler section near the sprite that I want.  I have to wait.  He shuffles off after he manages to get two bottles out.  His flipflops make hissing noises on the dirty linoleum.  His toenails tap, tap, tap away.

I get my 7-up.  I hurry up to the counter to pay.  Flip-flop exercise ball guy is there in front of me.  In front of him is a guy who’s buying lottery tickets with pennies.

The teens have chosen chocolate donuts.  They’re now standing behind me eyeing my phone with a kind of lust that makes me wish I’d left the phone in the car or at least had 9-1-1 punched in ready to call.

The guy is still buying his lottery tickets.

Flip-flop-give-the-man-a-pedicure guy is trying to make eye contact.

The clerk has a gap in his teeth, top and bottom missing, giving him a little box there in the middle of his face which has a tongue flickering behind it in the darkness.  He breathes through his mouth.  His breath whistles as it moves through the gap.

The lottery guy has finally made out his $3.  He smiles triumphantly at the clerk.  He scratches himself.  I hear things scurry away from the friction.

“You want the kicker with that?” the clerk asks.

I almost scream.  “NO! He doesn’t want the fucking kicker?  He can’t even afford the stupid ticket.  Maybe he should apply the $3 to his water bill and get his water turned back on so he can shower.  Maybe all these people can pool their money and get one shower going…somewhere.”  But I press my lips together and wait.

Shuffle, shuffle, tap, tap.  The guy puts his bottles on the counter.

“Is that it?” the clerk whistles.

“Yep, I’m a Schlitz man.”  He looks at me and grins.  He has no teeth.  He gives a laugh.  His cheeks puff out.

I try not to stare.

The guy pays.  And says.  “Guess I’ll shack out my chances with one of those tickets as well,” he says, lisping and slurring without teeth.  His cheeks puff out and deflate with each word.  He looks at me again and shrugs.  “You never know.”  He laughs again.  He rubs his shirt where the mustard stain is, smearing it like a windshield wiper versus bird shit on a car window.

He doesn’t move when he’s done.

The clerk looks at him.

“Can I get a sack for this? Gots to walk across the grass back to my place.” Puff.  Deflate. Puff. Deflate.

“Sure,” whistles the clerk.  He double bags the Schlitz.

Shuffle. Tap.  Shuffle. Tap.

I move into place, feeling the teens standing behind me eying my phone.  I put the Sprite on the counter.  I open my purse.  I pay with a twenty.

The clerk hesitates a second.  “Anything else?” he says between whistling breathy pants.

I shake my head.  I get change.

“Do you need a bag for that?” he asks.

I shake my head again.  “I’m good.”

He nods as if that explains everything.

The teens invade the counter before I can grab the pop.  I have to reach around them.  The smell of stale sweat and pot makes my eyes water.

They look at me as if I’m somehow violating them.

I hurry out the door, nearly collide with a huge man who looks like he’s been pumping iron for 40 straight days while shooting up with steroids.  He’s got a tattoo across his forehead.  It says “Batman.”

I hurry to my car and lock all the doors.

I don’t want to judge.  I really can’t help it.  One of these things don’t belong and it’s me.

Ice Cream Truck Registry? I vote yes!

That f-ing ice cream truck came by again today.  You know the one.  It plays this annoying song and then the song stops and this chilling woman’s voice says, “Hello.”  Then the music starts up again.  There’s something very disturbing about it.  It makes me want to call the police or some child abuse hotline or something.

The truck in our neighborhood is driven by some big burly guy with a bald head.  I know this because I was out walking my dog and he stopped to tell me that I “Shore had a nice lookin’ dawg dere.”  I’m not making fun of people with accents, but this guy could have played a pig rider in Deliverance if you know what I mean.  I wasn’t worried, mostly because I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.  He goes more for the Ned Beatty type or perhaps he’s just a raging pedophile.

Which brings me to the question:  what kind of licenses are involved with ice cream truck driver?  Does the health department inspect these things?  Because that guy drives around for a long long time.  If I’m not mistaken, he’s got a bottle of hooch hidden under the seat.  That calls for peeing.  There’s no port-a-potty dragging along behind.  I’ve never seen him stop and ask to use the restroom someplace.  In fact, I’ve never ever seen an ice cream truck parked at a location that has a public restroom.   This brings us to the banana popsicle that was bought my one little kid who ran out of her house with a wad full of cash that she’d obviously stolen from her mother’s purse.

From the looks of the lawn maintenance, mom was probably passed out on the living room couch with a still smoldering doobie in her hand or she was locked in the bedroom with her boyfriend of the week.  Either way, the kid runs out and the stupid truck is already stalking me so it’s not a big deal for it to stop right there.  The kid nearly runs me down in the urgency to get to the window.

Child Molestor guy gets up from the driver’s seat and comes to the window.  And says (I’m not kidding about this either) “What can I get you, little girl?” in a fake deep voice that has me convinced I better look for his picture on the registry.

This little girl orders a “banana flavored popsicle.” 

Banana flavored popsicles are yellow.

Like pee.

I’ve just been wondering where the guy pees.

The girl looks thrilled.

The man looks strangely excited and flushed.

I am looking for the number to the health department.

Better yet, there's this poodle that keeps pooping in my yard.  I think his owner would make a nice meatsicle...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1Q23MzSrkg&feature=related

Running, Not, Persevere. Did you see that? Trash. Poop. Friends. Independence

The themes that have dominated my days since my last blog have been many:  Running, not running, perseverance in the agony of defeat, trash, poop, opening my eyes to the stories others just pass by, good friends and Independence Day.

RUNNING: I suck at it.  I ran the 5k in Huron and came in dead stinking last.  Yeah, all the people walking it beat me too.  The injured, the lame, the aged, the fat, and the ugly kicked my rather large ass.  I went with a friend and I’m sure she finished with me because she felt bad for me.  Then I went to the Kelleys Island 5k.  Not last!!  Took five minutes off my dismal time.  Got beat by people who ran a 10k.  BUT…I beat the 90 year old guy and the guy with the peg leg.  Yeah, the guy with a peg leg had an accident, but the road narrowed there and it totally was not my fault.   See the picture with the commentary by the smartass with the sign.

NOT RUNNING:  See above.  I suck at it.  I really do.  My body does NOT want to run.  My mother tells me  “women built like us are not meant to run.”  And I can’t completely disagree with her.  I am never going to be a runner like others.  This is the first thing I’ve ever done in my life where I’m assured to never ever excel at.  I’ve fallen off the training regimen time and time again.  No real excuses other than the ones in my head.

PERSEVERANCE:  Which brings me to the fact that I am stubborn and eventually I am going to run an entire 5k.  It’s character building as well as good for me.  It’s in my nature to be one of those people who when I figure out something is hard or that I can’t be the best at it, I quit.  That’s been my history.  I’m pretty proud of myself that I’m not letting that happen here.  It might take me 5 years to get to that point, but I still have it in my head that I’ve got to keep trying.  No one has ever pushed me to push myself.  I’ve never done that struggle.  I set my goals, I figure out how to reach them and I go stomping along with a bull-headed single-mindedness without ever thinking maybe I can’t reach that goal.  Running is different.  I think it’s making me a better person.  And in the end, that’s what we all should be doing it trying to become wiser with age.

TRASH:  There’s been some observations along the way.  First, there’s a lot of trash along the roads.  It’s amazing what people will just throw out of their vehicles.  You never see it when you’re driving along the road to your next destination; but, when you’re crawling on the asphalt gasping for air it all becomes painfully obvious.    The most common piece of trash is definitely beverage containers; plastic water bottles, pop cans, etc.  But there are also things you wouldn’t expect.  A box of condoms unopened.  An iPod.  A Brittany Spears CD.  Strange garbage bags wrapped in duct tape.  A license plate.  Two pillows.  A tube of toothpaste.   People dump the most amazing things.

POOP:  Dogs dump too.  And responsible owners carry baggies.  We don’t like it.  We feel like idiots, but we do it.  The man who walks his stupid toy poodle down my street is not a responsible owner.  He has a that little white puffball on one of those 20 foot retractable leashes.  And he doesn’t bother to control the little shit.  And I use the word “little shit” on purpose because the other morning, I’m coming out of my house to go to work and there’s that dog (and really are things that small really dogs?  I mean aren’t they really just cats that bark?) pooping in the middle of my front yard.  The guy who really should turn in any “man card” he might possess for walking a foofoo toy poodle is just standing there watching. 

I was nice when I asked him if he had a baggie to pick up the poop.  He said he didn’t.  I asked him if he intended to return with one.  And he said “That would be unreasonable.”  It was morning, I don’t do well with mornings anyway so I suppose it’s not “unreasonable” to expect that my internal temper switch would go off at that remark.  I replied.  “No, unreasonable would be me bringing my 75lb Rottweiler over to your house and letting her go in your front yard.  Which I will do if you don’t come back and pick up after yours.”

He didn’t come back.

And that’s how “Poop Wars” began.

That night, Chemlawn had sprayed the lawn.  It was a sign.  I hitched up my dog and walked her down the street.  I stopped , on the sidewalk, letting my dog roam---I have one of those nice retractable leashes as well. 

He watched from the window.

I expected the cops.  I was going to demand DNA testing.

The cops never came.

It takes ten toy poodle poops to equal 1 rottweiler poop.  I think I got this in the baggie.

EYE OPENERS:  It’s amazing the things you see when you actually look.  I’ve started rewriting my novel after a long bout of writers’ block.  I can’t really explain how writer’s block feels to someone who isn’t a writer in their soul.  Writer’s block doesn’t mean a person can’t write—at least not to me.  I can put out endless non-fiction articles.  The technique is still there.  It means you can’t create.  All the while there’s this pressure building up in your head and you have this craving to get it onto a page, but it doesn’t want to come out.  Some argue that Hemingway actually killed himself over it.  I can only tell you that I understand why even though I can’t imagine ever pulling the trigger next to my head.  How did I beat this horrible affliction?  Facebook.  I would post a list of “Things I saw today”.  Now everyone thinks those things are lies, outright lies.  But at least one of those things is very true on every post.  I just made up stuff to go with it.  It’s a writing exercise for me.  However, this town has more than its fair share of weirdness.  Some of those things are mostly true.  It’s not my habit to post truth on Facebook (and why should you? It’s the fricking internet.  It was designed to give liars a forum), but when you’re looking, there’s some really crazy stuff going on.

FRIENDS:  Speaking of crazy.  I have a great group of friends.  They constantly remind me that not everyone in the world is crazy, stupid, and cruel.  Sometimes my cold hard heart even thaws a little.  They’re all so diverse, but I’m constantly amazed that they accept me for who I am.  I think that’s part of my pathology, my insecurity.  I never used to have it, but it was festered in me by someone who constantly refused to accept me for who I am.  My friends do.  They don’t try to change me, they don’t judge me, and they seem to like my company.  To be honest, sometimes I think they’re lying about that.  But either way, I am grateful for the discussions, the advice, the encouragement, and the perspective that each and every one of them bring to my life.  In fact, they’re friends to get tattoos with, friends to just sit with and listen to music, friends to play Scrabble with, friends to have a drink with, friends to insult and get insulted back with.  It’s hard to believe that two years ago at this time of year, I had only a few friends who I barely spoke to, I lived in a house that didn’t feel like home and was constantly absorbing the blows of subtle criticism.

INDEPENDENCE DAY:  It was two years ago on the Fourth of July that I began to take my life back.  In hindsight, that realization that I’d lost who I was and the determination to get myself back is probably what prompted the ex to attempt to tighten his grip on my self-esteem.  The tightened grip set me free, because I’d finally reached a point where I could no longer bend without dying.

Two years ago I sat in my living room and looked around at the abstract art on the walls, white floors and black leather furniture,  the chrome knickknacks and thought “Where am I in this place?  How did I get here?  There’s nothing of me in this place.  Who am I?”   Today I sit in my living room and when I look around I see photographs of nature on the walls—I took some of them and had them blown up and I was never “allowed” to hang them in my old house because they “didn’t fit”—tan carpet that needs to be changed because it’s old and has gotten loose, green animal-proof couch and slate tables with a big dog sleeping on the couch and a fat cat sleeping on the coffee table,  and the knickknacks which had been wrapped and stored away have returned—a collection of bad taste bears, a ceramic skull candle holder, a bunch of plants, a Black Forest coocoo clock which was always got stopped because it coocoo’d too loud. 

While I do miss certain advantages with men, I find that none of them are worth giving up my independence.  I don’t want to deal with someone else’s problems.  I don’t want to be criticized for being who I am all while someone hides behind the veil of being “helpful.”  I’m not perfect, but I’m me and that’s better than being perfect, it’s better than being someone I’m not.  I’m free.

I feel like running free through the trash alongside the road.  What I saw today:  crazy woman running wild and free through garbage and shit.  That’s me.

Waxing Philosophical

           In order to heal, one has to admit the truth to oneself.  And after a year and a half, I can finally do this.

I loved him.  I loved him with all of my heart.  I clung to a memory of that love long after he’d killed it.  By clinging to it, I began to die myself.

Strong, independent, I am a person who thrives in personal freedom and a person who craves a bit of the hermit’s existence.  But I loved him.  I gave that up for him.  I let out the person inside that I so carefully keep protected.  That inner core we all have, that makes us vulnerable.  I left it exposed and he sliced off bits of it.

In my head I have this image of one of those Middle Eastern gyro shops where the meat is on a vertical spit that spins slowly.  If you want a gyro, the guy running the stall takes this mean looking blade—maybe one that’s been used for hundreds of years in that street stall that I’ve seen over and over again on the travel channel adventures I’m addicted to.  He slices off thin lines of meat, catching it in a pita and drowning it in vegetables and cucumber sauce.  That’s like my soul, turning on the spit.  And I let the man slice off bits of it and make something he claimed was better.  I believed him.  I wanted to believe him.  But, instead of a sandwich all that was left was this bare, greasy metal pole waiting for another piece of meat.

I’ve been speaking to people about their relationships lately.  It’s so much easier to see clearly when you’re on the outside.  It’s hard to look at the stall where you left yourself.

I want to hate him.  For a while I did.  But I’m letting that go now.

I have another friend who gave me this image of putting the things one can’t change but that one stresses over into an imaginary balloon and letting it float away.  That’s what I’m doing with the anger. 

I thought I would be left with nothing but the spit and the greasy remnants of meat not fit to see the pita.  However, in admitting that I loved him, I’ve found something more.  I’ve found a comfort in myself that I never had before.

Sure I have faults, but I try to see them clearly.  At the same time, I try to have a sense of humor about everything.  And I do mean everything.  Life’s short and you can ruin it by taking things seriously, by living for something that will never be, and worst of all you can live your life for what someone else wants.

I saw that before it was too late.  I stopped it before I was completely dead.  I have returned to myself.  Not the self-centered girl who had goals and ambition and the single-mindedness of high school.  Not the driven college co-ed who walked the straight and narrow, filled with a silent fear of failure and of life itself.  Not the young woman trying to figure out where she belonged and feeling lonely and lost because society told her she needed to be loved to be whole. 

I am the woman who belongs in this skin.  My goals are set for myself, to challenge myself, not to prove anything.  My ambitions are just to be happy; I’m not afraid to stray from the path that others say is the “proper” path in order to be happy the way others tell me I should be happy.  I know what makes me happy; I don’t need someone to tell me.  I try hard not to judge and I try just as hard to laugh.  I am not afraid.

Yes, I loved him.  Then I was just numb, feeling nothing.  For a time, I confess I hated.  Now I’m ambivalent, or conflicted.  I feel sad, but not for the reasons you might think.

Here is a man who spent 10 years of his life trying to mold someone into what he thought he wanted.  A man who searched for happiness and could never find it.  A man who thought he was succeeding in his attempts only to find that at the bottom there was nothing left to carve off, because the only thing left was a core of steel.  Ten years.  Failure.  And I’m sad because he cannot possibly know why.  He learned nothing.  He doesn’t understand what he had or what he lost.  So, he returns to where he’s always been:  cleaving his way through the universe searching for some golden truth that will make him happy.

Happy isn’t outside.  Happy is inside.  I wish that on everyone.  Acceptance rather than fighting against what is.  Seeing the beauty in the little things instead of climbing over bodies to get a better view.  Comfort in one’s space.  Challenging oneself with every step forward.  Always moving forward to improve yourself, for yourself, to be able to lean back and give someone else a helping hand over the rocks you’ve already crossed.  Peace in their space.  A core of steel to walk over the rocks without fear.

So, today’s blog isn’t funny.  It’s not funny because I loved him.  I loved him with all of my heart.  I truly did.  And today, I throw the last shovel of dirt on that.  Solemn.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  I am here.  I am who I am.  You are who you are.  That’s okay.  There’s a core of steel inside to hold you up.  Don’t be afraid.

Me versus THEM

It began on Monday.

I was taking the dog out for the last time of the night and it was just sitting there on the dark green carpet of my sunroom.  He wasn’t very big.  Still he was there.  Just sitting there doing nothing (this seems to be a recurring theme in my life; that’s for another blog).

How do I know he was a “he.”  It’s not like I was going to pick him up and check.  OH HELL NO.  I know this was a “he” because I have an instinctive distaste for the “he”s of the world these days.  I’m not real sure where it came from, but it’s there.  I can feel it crawling around inside my guy like a taco from a street vender.

I don’t mind “them” as friends.  I don’t mind them to talk with and laugh with and do things with.  I seem to mind them in my house, using up my space.  Yeah, I know:  there’s some psychological shit going on up there in my head in regards to this—another blog.  And here he was in my house.  Not just in my house, but in my sunroom, my most favorite of rooms in my house if you don’t count my writing room with all it’s cool stuff.

The dog was outside, the cat was no where to be seen.  I confess I considered letting one of them at this invader.  For a split second.  I’m a coward like that.  But, he wasn’t very big.  So I stepped on him and squished him.  Picked up his remains with a  single paper towel.

I felt pretty brave as I stuck those remains in the trash.  It was Monday, the trash had just come.  The remains sank to the bottom of the bag.  For good measure, I drank a Mike’s Lemonade and tossed the empty bottle into the trash on top of the now crumpled paper towel with held the body.

I slept well.

Until Tuesday.

On Tuesday I went to let the dog out.

There was another one.

I was barefoot.

This one was a little bigger.

He was sitting in the corner between a shadow and the light.  Like I wouldn’t see him there.

But I was barefoot.  I used three paper towels.  I moved fast and slammed the towels into him.  I hurt my hand.  The floor under the green carpet of the sunroom is concrete.  But, you know, a girl has to make sure something’s dead.

I wrapped up the paper towels and squeezed them tightly.  I wanted to make sure he knew I meant business as his guts squirted out into the paper towel.

I took the body to the trash.  But this was Tuesday and the garbage in the trash can would leave the body not at the bottom of the trash, but a little closer to getting out.  I mean, I was SURE he was dead.  But you know, it was kind of close.

So, I just took the trash bag out to the garage.  I mean, it’s not like wasting one trash bag extra this week is really going to break me.

So, yeah, two nights in a row.  But you know, I’m a big girl and I shook it off.

On Wednesday night, it was just a nagging thought in the back of my mind.

I don’t know why the dog didn’t go straight to the door to go out like normal.  Why she stood there with her little stub of a tail wagging like crazy like we were playing some kind of game by looking closely at the floor, turning circles to make sure they weren’t coming up behind me.  This isn’t a game, dog.  It’s NOT.  I controlled my vigilance to keep from creeping out the Rottweiler.  No need to over-react.

I let her out and got the flashlight to check the corners of the room.  There was number three.  Staring at me from the far corner of the room.  His beady eyes staring at me.  He wasn’t hard to spot when I looked in the right place.  Hell, he was bigger than Tuesday and cast a frickin’ shadow!

He took about 10 sheets of paper towels.  Okay maybe give or take ten more.  I’m not really sure.  Counting wasn’t important.  Containing the kill took precedence.  Besides, what’s a roll of paper towels.  It’s not going to break me.

I admit I was a little uncomfortable putting it in the trash bag.  I kind of shoved it towards the bottom.  Had to drink three bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade to throw on top of the body and weight it down.  I was planning on going to bed, but instead I got on the internet, convinced that something else was at play here.  What kind of things were these guys?  Why were they invading my space? 

Let’s just say that surfing the web for pictures of these guys does not make for a peaceful night of rest.

So on Thursday, I went to let the dog out and I’m thinking about them invading my space.  I go out into the sunroom cautiously, carefully watching each step.  The dog is prancing around me thinking we’re going to play.

We’re not.

I look all around the ground.  I see nothing.  Hell, I even laughed at myself for being stupid and paranoid.  I let the dog out.  Turned around.

He was there!  On the wall.  Just sitting there like he owned the place.

Thursday was bigger than Wednesday.  Unacceptably big.  Scary big.  You know size does seem to matter and this thing was big enough that I wasn’t getting anywhere near it.  I found some spray.  I sprayed it, until the sunroom got kind of foggy.  It shrunk up immediately and fell limp to the floor.

Still, I wasn’t sure it was dead.  I didn’t want to get close to the body.  And I really couldn’t trust just one sheet of paper towel, because my vision was kind of blurry.  I used up a whole roll of paper towels.  I took the trash out to the garage.  I double bagged.  I showered.  Twice.  I had strange dreams.

I went into work this morning and told my brother that my sunroom might be infested.

He looked at me and said, “One a night does not make an infestation.  For that, you’d need THOUSANDS.”  There’s a smirk on his lips when he says this and a gleam in his eye.  He’s a bastard.  I should have smothered him when my parents brought him home from the hospital.  It’s almost like he knows, that in my mind’s eye, I’ve just imagined the walls of my sunroom FILLED with THOUSANDS of these guys.

I called the exterminator.  He says “Well, I can’t really spray yet.  It still might get too cold out.  The stuff won’t do any good.”

I explain that they keep getting bigger every day.  I’m not sure if I can wait much longer.  I mean, with this trend, a week is going to make a hell of a lot of difference.

I think he laughed.  Perhaps it was static on the line.

“I understand you’re sensitive to this—“

“Oh, I don’t think you understand, Sir!  I’m telling you, Thursday was HUGE.  I barely survived.  I’m still having dizzy spells.  By Monday, they might not even fit in my sunroom at all.”

More static on the line.  “I’ll put you at the top of my list, JoAnn.  I promise.”

That was it.

So, it’s Friday night and the dog needs to go out.  I am left to my own devices.  I have taken out a second mortgage on my house—it’s amazing how much paper towels, trash bags, and spray cost these days.  It’s remarkable the quantity of these things one can get into a two-door Ford Focus.

If you don’t hear from me, you know what happened.  I’ll leave this as a record.

Today's word is Mo-ron

             So, I promised to try to write a blog every day, but I find that my life isn’t exciting enough to keep that promise.  Seriously, I knew this, but I thought I could keep up the illusion for those who didn’t know with wild exaggeration and some twisted facts.  I was wrong.

But you know, I learn something new everyday.  That’s what I’ve been doing too.  Learning stuff.  About myself.  About other people.  About the way things work and what makes things happen.  I’m big on learning things. 

I guess that’s why stupidity is my biggest pet peeve.

Recently I started an argument online.  I know, big surprise, Jo starting an argument.  But you know, I was bored and I was in one of those moods where I just like to be annoying.  However, it’s really hard to have an argument with a stupid person.  It’s more like an exercise in frustration.

Here is the “conversation” which were comments on local news story about two brothers who got in an argument and hit each other over the head with baseballs bats.  Both charged with assault….both taken to the hospital for treatment.  The italics are my added commentary not in the original stream.  I kept all the original spelling for your amusement.

Idiot #1:  ghetto at it's finest

An actual intelligence:  Sorry BUT this has nothing to do with being "ghetto"... More like it has everything to do with these people just being plain old stupid.... (Some people I tell ya.. just need to watch the kind of words they use, OR rather use them in the proper context..)

JO:  ghetto is actually a noun...

Idiot #1:  freadom of speech, I can say whatever I want, so can you, so can anybody, which they choose to.  (OMG, this is just too easy!!!)

JO:  apparently we also have the freedom to misspell things and misplace modifiers and dangle our participles in public  Nice line that…dangle our participles in public.  Quite proud of that one
An actual intelligence:  [Idiot #1],  first of all why are you being so defensive? All I said is that what those two men did to each other has NOTHING to do with being "Ghetto", it only has to do with them being stupid. Obviously you are one of those types that THINK that all black people are “Ghetto”…Now, here’s a question.  If this had been two white men who were brothers who got into an altercation would you have made the same comment you did?  Yea, I think not.  So take your “freedom of speech”  B.S. and shove it seriously…
Idiot #1:  [actual intelligence]  i'm not being defensive.  (uh, actually you are being defensive just by denying it)  It's just a comment, you don't know the reasoning behind it. It's just a word, what about someone saying oh that cracker or someone saying the n word. Someone is going to get mad or offended by what someone else says no matter what it is. It is FREEDOM of speech. You think all the capital letters were just so I could see she had her spell check turned on this time?

Actual Intelligence:  Well... stop being ignorant and try using your freedom of speech for good and not to downgrade people... That's what grown, educated people do...

Idiot #1:  [actual] didn't know I would get jumped on by a comment. Lady, you’re on facebook.  I'll take my educated self somewhere else instead of defending what I write on wall because two people decided to be stupid and seriously hurt themselves with a baseball bat

JO:  [actual]  that was well said. I don't know about you, but I'd like to know the "reasoning" behind the comment. Apparently, there is some reasoning which would make it an okay statement? I would like some clarification on that.  Yeah, I know, I can be a real bitch
I still must insist that no one can “be ghetto” although one could possibly live “in a ghetto”.  However Sandusky doesn’t have a ghetto so that statement in and of itself is a fallacy worth mentioning.  Educated people do not spew vitriol in the form of slang and then defend themselves with vague innuendos and poor grammar.  [Idiot #1] perhaps a dictionary would be in order.

Idiot#1:  foolish people makeing a big deaL over a comment neither of them had any reasoning behind the comment or the wording. Gett over yourselves someone call the frickin’ grammar police before my English teachers of years past rise up from their graves.

Jo:  ‎*Making doesn't have an "e"
*get only has one "T"
I just asked for the reasoning, so you can "educate" me on when it's okay to use a noun as an adjective to disparage an ethnic group you know nothing about
If you're paying for an education, you should copy this discussion and take it in to your educators to demand a refund  I checked out her facebook profile.  She’s a criminal justice major…nice use of ghetto in that case.  Hope her future employers don’t see this.you should copy this and bring that in to your educators to ask for a refund.

[Actual]:  We are foolish, yet you still can not answer my question. If the story would have been about two white men getting into an altercation would you have made the SAME comment? You are the one who seems quite foolish. For the fact that you used the word "ghetto" when speaking of these two men, why exactly are they ghetto? A ghetto is a place, so maybe if you were educated you would know that to use the word "ghetto" to describe people is quite ignorant. LoL...

Idiot #1:  yes I would have I would have called them ghetto as well, everyone can act the same way  oh, I hate when they start to back track, I smell the blood and I get all craaaazzzzzyyyyy

Idiot #2:  I used to work with both of these gentlemen and they are both very nice men. I think that situations such as these can happen in ANY family. You never know when you may snap and lose your temper or do or say something we may regret. So while we can maybe chuckle at this story for a hot second (now that we know they are ok) We must remember the real tragedy here is that these men are brothers. Let's just pray they can hug it out.   Yep, completely normal behavior to be fighting over laundry and someone gets a bat.  Glad I’m not in this one’s family…just saying

Dangerous Idiot: OMG...ladies ! I am sure there are both black and white people living in the ghetto, and as for names..I am Italian, and they call us Dago's, and wop's, and whatever else they can think of lol....I don't care, I am proud of my Italian heritage, so I just laugh and go on That seems to be nothing other then slang, as you hear "thats ghetto" everywhere, especially on TV, and right or wrong, it is just whatever you make of it, as it is not going to stop...just slang, like every other slang word...

Idiot with two cents too much:  Our Constitution does NOT grant us the privilege of saying anything we want any time we want. You cannot yell "Fire" in public if there is no fire. But that is only the tip of the iceberg. Think about it!  there's always one in every crowd isn't there?  One of these people?

Dangerous Idiot:  You're right, but, like I said, unless you want to fight everytime someone says something you don't like, you will be fighting all the time. Evidently, there is nothing anybody can do to stop it, or it wouldn't still be happening, so, it is just a fact of life, and slang will be around a long time after we are gone. I don't choose to spend the rest of my life fighting over something someone else says, I have much better things to do then worry about words..like they say, STICKS, AND STONES WILL BREAK .....ETC.

Jo:  The idea that someone should just accept an ethnically derisive comment without saying that she's offended, and then to be called a fool for saying so is quite repulsive to me. Actually, it's akin to suggesting that a rape victim just lie back and enjoy it because rape is going to happen no matter what.
Also we’d probably be a lot smarter if we stopped using the television as an authority on grammatical correctness and the bastion of morality.  Sticks and stones will break bones but words will never hurt me—so I better just shut up when someone insults me?  And it’s normal in any family to go get a baseball bat and bash someone upside the head to settle an argument?  What are you people smoking?
Frankly I’m offended by someone who can’t argue without making a personal attack.  But I suppose I’ll just sit back and take it like a good little morally bankrupted, brainwashed television whore.

Jo:  And ghetto remains a noun.

Dangerous idiot:  I am not saying you hhave to accept it, I am saying do you have a solution to the problem? You can't compare a rape victim with a name. Arape victim has a lot of thing she can do, like report it, go to hospital, police called... blah blah blah….What’s with the baseball bat? Where did that come from? …blah blah blah…I’m a well-educated nurse…blah blah blah…You are reading things into what I say.  I never called you a brainwashed television whore.  I never attacked anyone personally.  To be honest I’m rather stunned by just this…the stuff I edited out was a long diatribe about being proud of your heritage and just letting people say whatever they want cuz it happens in every country…ahhh!  Even paraphrasing the stupidity irritates me!

Dangerous idiot:  I don't want to argue about this all night, I have a life, and I am sure you do, too, but, those people that say things to offend others, have a lot to learn, and if they say something like that, that might offend me, why should I drag myself down to their level? I know they are wrong, but, if there is nothing I can do, except keep it going, and making more trouble, I am to consider the source, and probably laugh at them. Not because it is funny, but because some people just don't know any better, and I am better than that! It’s easy to laugh when you have no clue what in the hell is going on.  This is why I am deeply suspicious of happy people---ooh!  Another blog topic!

Jo:  where did the baseball bat come from? seriously? I did not compare a rape victim to a name. I said telling someone they should accept being wronged and not speak out is akin to telling a rape victim that they can't do anything. It's an analogy.  Analogies compare two things.  In this case, I compared the pain of a verbal violation to the pain of a physical violation and suggested victim reactions to that pain.    (did my own blah blah’s against her blah blahs because the frustration was clearly setting in.  mostly it was about her comment how everyone acted like this all over the world and how I was certain that she’d gotten this impression from watching too much television since I’m sure she’s never been out of Ohio)…which brings us to the brainwashed television whore comment.  That was sarcasm.  Another high-browed concept.

Dangerous Idiot: I compared the rape victim to the word ghetto. AHHHHHHHHH!!!  I misunderstood you about the bat. Of course you can speak out, but what's that going to solve? People get shot over less than that these days, and is it really worth it?   Blah blah blah   Oh, sarcasm is bad, too.  Yeah, but it lets me call you a whore without you really getting that I called you one.  So it’s actually more fun then bad.

Jo:  you compared nothing, you commented on my analogy  seriously, I now have to explain to her what she did because she doesn’t understand that she didn’t compare anything merely commented on something she didn’t understand, which is actually my entire point....actually, nevermind. you have nothing to apologize for. You didn't insult me. Everything is rainbows and puppy dogs. Thought I’d add in a little more sarcasm.

Dangerous Idiot:  Well, that is kind of bittersweet~~but everyone has their own opinion, and that was mine, whether it be right or wrong, I feel that would be my decision, if the occassion should ever arise. I just think two wrongs never make a right, but, again, that is my opinion. Peace... you know, we don't even know each other, we might have been good friends?  She’s right about one thing, this is why people get guns and shoot.  But not other people.  In this case, this is why someone would shoot themselves.  And friends?  Really?  Not only is she an idiot, she's delusional.
Jo: you're opinion of yourself reaffirms my opinion of humanity.   Finishing with some more sarcasm.  I’m on a roll.

Dangerous Idiot ‎:)  

A smiley face?  I call her a whore and tell her that she’s reaffirmed my opinion that humanity is getting stupider with each passing second and she offers up a smiley face.   Sigh.  The worst kind of idiot is one who has an education and thinks that just because they know one thing, they know everything.
“The more I learn, the more I learn how little I know.” – Socrates