Kaleidoscopic Eclat

Honestly, I believe…

…that if you can dish it out, but not take it, you should stop reading here, because

…I am about to piss off a whole bunch of people.

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Seriously! (clearly - too much Grays Anatomy for me. Seriously.)

Alright - so, ready to cackle?

See, I have a TV/DVD/VCR combo, right? Love it. Cept it’s a single tuner, which means in order to video tape something you’re not actively watching, you have to have another VCR. Heh. So I’ve been bemoaning this fact, and wishing I had DVR (since up here? no tivo!) and stuff. Then! I found out our cable company? Has DVR now! Color me happy! I rearranged some stuff, and found the extra couple of bucks it’d cost to have that instead of the digital box I already had, and gleefully went to exchange it.

Can you imagine! Watching something, while RECORDING SOMETHING ELSE! I was estatic! I was BOUNCY! I was….

….denied!  See, we DO have DVRs available here now, however? They are not dual tuners either! Which means, to record something, I have to be WATCHING IT. (Or, of course, asleep. this does have an easier ‘timed record’ function for times I’m sleeping and gone and shit, so there’s a bonus there.)  Man. shit like this only happens to me, you know? *L*

I do have it on good authority, however, that the dual tuners are coming soonish, and all I’ll have to do then is switch out the box, because my account is already set up for it. Cool! And also? Local phone service! That means compitition for the monolith that is our phone service now and maybe, just maybe, lower prices! hurray! As it is my cell phone, the kids cell, Long Distance, cable tv and cable modem are all with the same company. Switching over the phone too would be nice -specially as I get Airline miles on all of’em. Heh.

So, playing with the new DVR is fun. Testing to see if I can record a PPV movie and watch it agian later without having to pay again, now. Heh.

~~

In other news: Family Drama. (no, Nana and Ladybug, not ya’ll. the OTHER family.) And I have just told them that I’m done. I do not have the emotional stability in myself right now to take on a whole buncha drama whore bullshit. While it breaks my heart that I probably won’t see the little guy again for a good long while, I cannot condone going back into a relationship where there’s even the suspicion of his hurting that baby. If I had a single leg to stand on…

And the fact she decided to drag Kevin’s name into it and through the mud caused me no end of fury and grief and irritation and resentment. So. She’s on her own. I’m done. D.O.N.E. done. Fuck’em all. It’s time she grew the fuck up anyway.

(And any posts here by her, or about her, will be deleted. This is my goddamn space. I reserve the right to block anyone I deem fit.)

Some folks take themselves WAY to seriously.

Writer’s write because we cannot ‘not write’.

Note: Writer’s don’t write for the money. That’s an added benefit for those who get such deals, but I don’t see how that could ever be a main consideration. Sure, i’d love to get paid millions for my drival, but I’m a realist. I write because I love (and hate!) it.

And the millions of bloggers who do that too are not hurting the writers that want the cash first. Bitch at the editors and publishers who favor the little guy who has an opinon sometimes over the big wig who thinks too highly of his own opinion…

I mean. Seriously.

Seriously!

/PSA.

Crap fuckityfuckin’ CRAP!

It’s all my mother’s fault. She insisted. So finally, because I AM A GOOD DAUGHTER who lives to MAKE MY MOM HAPPY, I succumbed to her desires and wishes and pleadings and demandings and it’s ALL HER FAULT BECAUSE MY MOMMY MADE ME DO IT!

What is her fault? I entered the local Library’s Writer’s Night writing contest. Which would be fine, except that the winners of said contest are chosen and expected to attend the Writer’s Night and READ THEIR WINNING PEICES OUTLOUD. In front of people. WITH A MICROPHONE. In. Front. Of. People!

You see where this is going, right? My mother, who is a better public speaker then I could ever hope to be, as well as a fantastic writer, wasn’t chosen. I - the sucky writer who cannot speak in front of people without getting sick and shakey and freaking the fuck out - had a piece chosen. A piece that is THREE PAGES LONG and must be read OUT LOUD in a room FULL OF PEOPLE.

FUCK!

It’s so my mother’s fault. She’s said she’ll read for me if I chicken out - and I an hear her making clucking noises and stuff already and omg people - freaking. the hell. out. I get SICK! SICK, I say! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

Wonder how many times I can say “FUCK!” in my bio I have to write and submit asap…

(and yup - it’s an honor to be chosen (i won i won i won!) and YAY and all that stuff too! But really- CRAP!)

I won’t name you here, because hello - not stupid. However, I’ve a few things to say, and since I’ve been all lax on the ranting around here lately? I’ma say them.

How dare you? How dare you, with your bowlegged stance, your 70s reject stache, your untrimmed hair and unwashed body, your patched and repatched dirty jeans, your shitkickers, your flannel shirt and your oh so prized posession janitor keys jangling all redneck like off your belt…

How dare you come into my house, take a look around at the well lived in look - which, for the record, was practically spotless for around here - and stick your nose in the air and tell your daughter she’s never to see mine again until you foist your friends on my house and give it a ‘right good cleaning because oh my god!”

Let’s look at this realistically. From your vantage point, you could see the dining room and the kitchen. You could see dishes on the counter, and a garbage can that needed (and GOT, you stupid bastard) emptying. You also saw the cupboard that’s falling off the wall and unusable, and the full counters that result from that unuse. You saw an old desk that is cluttered and a table with a couple pizza boxes on it. From your high and mighty vantage point, you also saw some coats piled on a large dog crate, vacuumed floors, and couches draped with teenage boys watching tv.

That’s it.

So - just so you can feel vindicated in telling your daughter to tell mine, to tell me of your disgust and ire - let’s go into what you didn’t see. 3 dirty bedrooms, a garage so full of stuff you walk from door to door along a path of laundry, and a straightened up but unfinished bathroom.

What you also missed were three happy kids, content to live in our ordered disorder, who care more about what kind of kids they are, rather then what kind of house they live in. You missed the fact that they are popular with their group of friends, friends that also don’t judge them on their house, where they live, what clothes they wear.

You missed my daughter’s look when she heard this shit you pedaled, the indignation, and the frustration when she told me of your idiocy, as well as the determination to remain your daughters friend despite your small minded and petty comments. What you missed, is the beauty of a friendship that goes beyond the outer appearance, and concentrates on what is important: inner beauty.

Our daughters are beautiful. They are fun, and funny, smart and articulate, giggling messes of adolecent joy. I wouldn’t change either of them for the world.

And I won’t change me for you. So take your judgemental short sighted stupidity and shove it up your bowlegged ass. I’ve five more words for you:

Martha Stewart Don’t Live Here.

So fuck off, dickwad.

Sincerely, and with much aggression,

~L