Happy 4th of July! Or, as my son likes to put it : Happy Birthday to America!
He picked out the picture.
This has always been my favorite holiday because it takes place in my favorite month, during my favorite season.
Not to mention the day honors my favorite place, my home, where I have grown up and lived pretty much my whole life.
What’s great is that the entire country starts celebrating a week in advance.
And I love celebrating.
Enjoy the fireworks, everyone!
Shit, it’s been a long week.
I recently completed a 48 hour school workathon, which is the only type of marathon you will ever find me participating in.
I can assure you, it was just as much of a bitch as the real thing.
Seriously, I think I’m applicable for the Guinness Book of World Records or something.
By the time I hit the last submit button, I was almost awash in tears of relief.
I am DONE DONE DONE with school for now. And I am ready for a vacation.
That’s why The View Through the Window is going to Florida!
Our vacations are usually on the shorter side. We take four day treks to a city within a few hours drive and get back home in just enough time to say mother eff, tomorrow’s Monday!
But this year we decided that a good vacation is a very important part of life. Everyone needs to exit the traffic circle of work, school, home, repeat once in a while.
And what can be a better destination than the happiest place on earth?
After that bitch school workathon, I needed to find a happy place.
I still have my concerns, though. The drive from Chicago to Florida is around 18 hours long. Add my kids to it and we might as well hire a donkey cart for our mode of transportation.
We’d probably get there just as fast.
Flying is completely out of the question. I swore I would never board an airplane with my boys again after my last plane ride, one of the many highlights of which was my very concerned son, a first time flier, asking things like why there were so many cops at the airport, was something wrong with the plane, would it crash and would we all die?
Loud and clear enough for everyone on board to hear. He apparently inherited my flying apprehensions.
This was me.
Everyone knows you don’t say crash when you’re on a plane, especially if you’re a Muslim. I couldn’t believe it, but most people just laughed when they heard him voice his concerns.
Me? I almost threw up all over my friendly fellow passenger from the stress, combined with plenty of air sickness.
I’d rather drive to and back from Florida ten times than go through that again. Any humiliation we experience will be confined to the privacy of our van.
I tried to persuade my husband to postpone the trip until our kids were older, but he was adamant that they were at just the right age to experience the magic that is Disney.
And because he’s paying for everything, I felt I should agree.
And when I did, he was all
So we are going. Suitcases have been packed, Florida relatives have been notified, and neighbors have been asked to keep an eye on our place for us until we return.
Wish us luck! I am sure one hour into the drive I will want to shoot myself, but I believe in living in the moment. And in miracles.
Last week was also my birthday. I am now 31 26 years old.
Here are some birthday dinner pictures.
My mom refused to eat the restaurant’s prized steaks because “they bleed when you slice into them”, so she ordered that enormous vegetable tagine instead.
Here comes the best part about birthdays.
It pays to be old.
It takes me a long time to get ready and out of the house. I take long showers, do my hair three different ways before I’m finally happy with the way it looks, and try to put together an outfit that doesn’t hug back fat or show cleavage.
That last one can take an hour in itself.
So sometimes I’m just not up to the challenge. Sometimes I just want to put on a comfy pair of pajamas, sprawl out onto the sofa, and enter into a coma of laziness.
Most people think that as a stay at home mom, I get plenty of rest during the weekdays and weekends should be reserved for chores and activities.
Eff that shit.
This describes it for me.
Here’s a snippet of a conversation my husband and I had recently :
Hey, want to go out to Menard’s or Home Depot?
– No.
I noticed the boys’ room needs new blinds. We could take a look and see what they have.
– I don’t want to.
Apparently he thinks “no” means I’m playing hard to get.
But we could get new blinds for the whole house.
– I don’t care. I like our house ugly.
What if the neighbors happen to look in and see you naked?
– Send them your condolences.
That last question was just plain silly. We have nice neighbors who pay way too much attention to their lawn and don’t really seem interested in a game of peek a boob.
Anyway, this past weekend I had to be productive, whether I wanted to or not, because my in laws were visiting.
And we had a wedding to attend.
And it was my mother in law’s birthday.
And my brother’s birthday.
And I had homework.
So on Friday I slept for a grand total of four and a half hours and got my ass up at the crack of Sheema, get up, your alarm has been going off for an hour already!
I washed, scrubbed, mopped, cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, swept, and cooked. Every time I thought I could rest, I remembered something else that had to be done.
By the afternoon, I was all
Then it was time to take my tired ass to the wedding. By that point, I just didn’t care anymore. I could’ve been sporting facial hair the size of a cat’s whiskers and I still wouldn’t do anything about it.
I put on the same thing I wore to the last wedding I attended, stuck a bobby pin in my hair, popped in some earrings and off we went.
And because I am tired of typing, here are some pictures.
Saturday we went to Lincoln Park Zoo, which meant five hours of constant walking. Yay.
Sure, they have great views, but apparently they decided it meant that they can short change on the animals.
The exhibits are small, the walking areas are cramped, and traffic/parking is a nightmare.
Everything got done over the weekend except for my homework, which I have been putting off in favor of the funner stuff in life.
Not that blogging is still fun. I’m actually getting pretty bored of not for profit writing.
But it beats having to deal with political science and anthropology.
At this rate, I will fail and remain education/degree less for the rest of my life.
I will be old and fat and working at Walmart until I die.
Oh well. At least I have a plan.
Head of Elgin Islamic School charged in sex abuse of former employee
Can’t say I’m shocked.
Sexual violence happens everywhere in the world and in every type of society. But few will admit that it is rampant in religious institutions where extreme sexual repression is practiced and endorsed.
It happens and it happens often. In secrecy, of course. Similar to the scandal that rocked the Catholic community.
What I am shocked about is that the perpetrator is facing charges. People who hold high, powerful positions are not brought down easily. Major respect to the young lady who had the courage to speak up for herself. Major respect for the family that supported her. Her bravery has led other women to come forward about being molested by the same sick bastard.
Laying allegations of sexual abuse against a figure such as Abdullah Saleem is no small feat. For the Chicago Muslim community, he might as well have been the Pope. That’s how revered he was, and still is, to some people who believe the victims are lying.
You might be thinking that I’m too quick to judge. That everyone is innocent until proven guilty.
True.
But I speak from personal experiences and observances that very often (but not always, of course), those who speak the loudest are mostly full of shit.
If you feel the need to sermonize and make a big tada about your actions, odds are you’re speaking from the mind and the wallet. Not the heart.
And if your actions are from the heart, you don’t need an audience or a spotlight to showcase you. The beauty of your deeds and your work will speak for itself and be satisfaction enough.
I am also well aware that a victim’s reputation is always at stake in cases of sexual abuse. To speak up is to be faced with questions and accusations against ones own ethics and principles, especially in a religious setting and against such a highly esteemed figure as Abdullah Saleem.
No woman or man would tackle something of this magnitude were it not for some major, MAJOR shit having gone down. No amount of money can equal the fight and the heartache of tackling the tsunami that is the backlash from a large religious community.
Salem Witch trials, anyone?
I can’t sum up in words exactly how awed I am by the young lady who has now given a voice to other victims.
She has more balls than the entire male staff of IIE put together.
This scandal brings to light how powerful a recruiting tool religion can be. I’m a sexual predator won’t sell, but religious school for the learning of Quran or Bible classes for young boys will have people lining up to patron your holy cause.
Put a supposedly divine stamp on it and it’s amazing what you can get away with.
A fantastic Indian movie I watched recently, PK (yeah, that’s the title, a P and a K), gives an account of how warped religion has become in the hands of man. It is religion seen through the eyes of an extraterrestrial. An alien. Awesome stuff. Please do give it a look. You’ll easily find a copy with subtitles if need be.
And no, I was not paid for the advertising of the movie.
As if.
Lastly, and most importantly, please listen to your children and create an environment in which they feel safe coming to you for any and all problems. Abdullah Saleem isn’t the only one, of course. There are plenty of sickos out there, some in guises of holy pillars of the community and many not. The trauma of living through sexual abuse is something that can easily break an adult.
Imagine what it has the potential to do to the fragility of a child.
We had just come home from a trip to the local grocery store. My husband was putting away our coats and the boys began running around in the living room.
Come on! son 1 shouted to son 2. Let’s play!
I don’t remember what game it was. Just assume something terrifyingly frenzy, that involved lots of running, shouting, messing up of my already quite messy home, and raising of my blood pressure.
Son 2 replied I don’t do that. I’m a girl. With an emphasis on the “don’t” and the “girl”.
I sighed a terribly frustrated sigh and thought grimly This kid is going to start kindergarten soon. It’s one thing if he marches around the house, demanding that his clothes and sippy cups be in shades of pink and purple only, and it’s another if he does the same in school.
They like to make big deals out of these kinds of things in institutions of the educational type. When son 2 was delayed in his speech, he was analyzed by six different child psychologists, therapists, and special education teachers. I try not to think about the conclusions they would reach and the questions they would have regarding my son’s flip flopping on his gender.
Because to me, and to his pediatrician, it isn’t a big deal. He’s four years old. Hardly the age where major life decisions are made. It’s probably a phase that he’ll eventually grow out of. And if he doesn’t, he doesn’t. If that’s how and what he chooses to be, then that’s how and what he is. We all know his behavior isn’t the work of the devil whispering bad things into his ear after we turn out the lights. I doubt even that spiky tailed mofo can get past the all seeing eye that is the ADT motion sensor.
I keep telling him he’s a boy that loves to do girl stuff, because he loves to do all the boy stuff, too. And that’s fine. Boys can love the colors pink and purple, dolls, pretty hair, etc. But he’s still a boy. And I can’t check both M and F on his school forms.
I said it gently the first 10 times or so, calmly explaining to him the whole boy with the likes and dislikes of a girl concept. He listened and said Okay.
Then came the situation mentioned at the beginning of the post.
Oh my Allah! Omg! Not again! Jesus! Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Stalin, John, Lennon, Yoko, Ono, Rinko, Star!
That’s how I vent my frustration. I spout nonsense.
We’ve been through this before, darling I said through clenched teeth. You’re a boy that likes girl stuff, remember?
All I got in response was a big, Cheshire cat like grin from Son 2. 
There had to be some way to get him to understand. I thought for a while about obvious differences between the sexes.
Hair length? No, that wouldn’t work.
Boobs? No, I wasn’t going to start that. The male fascination with the female chest is something they’ll have no problem figuring out once they hit puberty. The bigger, the better is pretty much self explanatory.
I really didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out You’re not a girl because girls don’t have wee wees.
From the corner of my eye, I could see my husband raise his eyebrows and smirk. I wanted to pinch him. He wasn’t helping. And why was he wearing that expression?
Because he knew what was coming up.
Often I tend to miss the obvious, like the time I thought I was reaching for the minty blue mouthwash and almost gargled with the stuff from the bottle clearly marked Windex.
My husband is a smart cookie. He knew what was coming next. He just sat there, arms crossed, and let me deal with what I had started.
Son 2’s eyes got big and round and Son 1 started to laugh. Bewildered and obviously anticipating something scandalous, they asked the question that I, quite foolishly, hadn’t anticipated.
If they don’t have wee wees, what do they pee out of ?!?!
And they haven’t stopped asking it. I tell them I will sit down and explain anatomical differences between males and females soon, when I know what to say and how to phrase it right.
It’s better than I don’t know how to tell you this boys, but I have no idea how to approach those kinds of topics with you. Your grandparents always chose the ‘no’ option when they sent the ‘would you like your child to participate in sex ed classes’ permission slip home. They were first generation fobs that were scandalized by such a notion because, in the old country, you found out where babies come from on your wedding night. No sooner.
I’ve got some prep work to do on the topic before I open up my big mouth again and start an avalanche of questions. Because kids ask a lot of questions. Their minds and voices don’t have the confines and restrictions of the adult thought process. And I really don’t want to say anything that might confuse the heck out of them.
I always prided myself on being the most knowledgeable on any topic that was parental, but apparently, mom and child specialist are sometimes two different things.
Who knew?
This is a picture of me as a baby. The person holding me is my uncle.
I don’t know why I look so angry. My husband says I still make that sour face. A lot.
Here’s another.
I’m with my mom in this one. Apparently I didn’t move a lot as a kid. Some things never change.
Excuse the quality of the pics. They’re pretty old.
No, I’m not old. Just the pics are.
My neighbor from across the street recently had her fifth child. She gets out of the house so infrequently that I found out she had been pregnant two weeks after she brought the baby home from the hospital.
She’s a little on the religious side. She likes to tell me that children are a blessing, birth control is a no no, and that we should have as many kids as God decides to give us.
Okay, Michelle Duggar. You do that. I’m going to hop on the first train back to the real world, where we have something called a condom.
As my boys get older, the question of So are you going to have any more? becomes inevitable. I’ve heard it quite a few times already. Everyone seems to think that we need a daughter.
My sister once asked me Wouldn’t you love to have a girl? to which I replied Not as much as I’d love to have a life.
If you listen closely, I’ll tell you a secret. Ready? Okay, here we go.
Kids. Are. A LOT. Of work.
Above is the picture of my eldest at around three months old. Isn’t he such a doll?
But behind those chubby cheeks and fat wrists lies a natural inclination to be hyper. And naughty.
Here is Child 2 at 1.5 months of age.
His story is the most famous post on this blog.
He’s the opposite of his brother. He loves to eat and to sleep. He also did this thing as a newborn where he would pull a fistful of his own hair and then scream at the top of his lungs. That was cute but I really hoped it didn’t reflect on his level of intelligence.
When you put the two of them together, you get 4 ounces of getting along, 3 ounces of fighting, and 1 ounce of He’s so stupid and annoying and I wish he was like Mini!
Mini is my brother’s deceased pet cat. He was also my kids’ first experience with the concepts of death and dying. I was hoping for some maturity and understanding from them when we mentioned Mini’s passing, but all they got out of it was that he had gone away and was never coming back and hey, that’s a good idea, let’s send my annoying brother there, too.
My kids are my world. They might drive me crazy, but they also make me laugh.
Like when my four year old comes up to me, points to my breasts, and asks Which one makes ice cream?
I’m guessing that’s some sort of reference to breast milk but I was laughing too hard to inquire.
As much as I love my kids, I’m not crazy about the idea of giving them more siblings. My experience with raising infants hasn’t been the greatest. It was challenging, to say the least.
While all the other new parents sailed smoothly, we hit iceberg after iceberg.
Smash. Acid reflux.
Crash. Inability to nurse.
Wham. Being blessed with the one baby in the world that didn’t seem to require any sleep whatsoever. His idea of nap time was an extra long blink.
The biggest problem of them all was my kids’ inability to put on weight. They would gain ounces, not pounds. Both were big babies at birth and in utero, thanks to my doing a really good job at the eating for two part, but my husband was a rail thin child and genetics eventually took over in full force.
Difficulty in gaining weight is a problem I never had. I can look at food and gain weight. Even embryonic me must’ve been on the heavier side.
Not my boys. They both eat like crazy and not one bit of it turns into baby fat. They have the metabolism of an Olympic gold medalist.
While it’s great for them as kids, as babies it was a nightmare. Infancy is the one and only time where fat equals cute. Kid one was diagnosed with failure to thrive and kid two with the audacity to completely fall of the charts.
I know now that children of Indian descent are naturally more petite. But as a new parent, any minor deviation from normal was the end of the world. And that’s what it felt like.
It’s tough to look back at their baby pictures and not remember a time when I felt like a total failure at the whole mothering thing.
An especially low point was when a cold ass bitch commented So are you feeding your kids at all or are you eating their food as well?
Apparently she meant it as a joke. I meant it as a joke, too, when I told her her husband’s tits were bigger than hers.
I’m in no hurry to flunk the test for the third time and neither is my husband. Sure, number 3 might be the charm, but higher powers seem to be agreeing with us on two being the magic number. Meaning my ob-gyn and my cardiologist. The only way I will be allowed to deliver any future child is through cesarean surgery and the pills I pop for my tachycardia are harmful to a growing fetus.
Let’s see. Stop taking potentially life saving medicine and be carved up like a Christmas turkey, or shut down the baby making factory and be a good mom to the kids I already have?
If anything I’d say God was telling me to keep my uterus to myself. Okay, God, I get your message. Sheesh. Now stop sending me those nightmares where I’m giving birth to the Antichrist.
I used to be a Bill Maher fan. I liked the way he approached his topics and discussions. Without fear and with no attempts at being diplomatic. He never seemed scared or intimidated by anything.
His body language was always of someone at ease, no matter what he was dealing with. He once wowed me with his ability to get Ann Coulter to shut up. I don’t know if you are familiar with the woman, but it’s quite the accomplishment.
Then this happened. 😯
What he said doesn’t surprise or shock me. I’ve heard it all before. He’s entitled to his views and opinions. Whatever people want to believe is up to them.
I’m just disappointed that Maher generalized. That’s such a Fox News thing to do. I thought he was better than that.
And I have just one question.
When the hell did Muslims ever agree on an issue enough to classify it as the mainstream view?
Muslims concurring? That’s news to me. That headline can definitely “break the internet.” It’s got even more potential than Kim K’s giant oily ass.
We can’t even agree on when to celebrate our two holidays. Yeah, just two. The Islamic calendar runs according to the lunar cycle, so classic discussions about when to hold the occasion of Eid have been Is the moon visible? Did <enter far off relative> in <enter farther off country> see it? Was it hiding behind a tree? It was?!
In that case, I think I’ll celebrate it the day after my third cousin’s great uncle’s daughter in law’s granny does. You know, just to be sure, in case Allah is watching and he gets mad that we missed the chance to argue over something.
My husband no longer calls it moon sighting. He says the correct term is now moon fighting.
Maher would like us to believe the majority of Muslims support the criminals that perpetrated the violence in France. That the extremist view is the dominant view. But what about the Muslim police officer that was one of the twelve victims? And the Muslim employee at the Kosher deli? What about Malala Yousafzai and her family? Abdul Sattar Edhi? Ahmed Aboutaleb?
Did these people just miss the memo or what?
As the actions of the crazy fucked up minority of the religion get more frequent, I am seeing more of the world calling for the peace loving ones of us to do something about it. I think they see it as sort of like asking parents why the eff they don’t do something about their delinquent kids. Except I don’t remember giving birth to evil monsters. Shudders.
That delivery would’ve been something. Forget the birth. Just consider the episiotomy.
My cousin is more religious than I am. She covers her hair and I don’t. She doesn’t gossip and I do. A lot. She’s involved with social work and I’m not. My contribution to the community is to keep my kids from fighting in public places.
We both follow the same book. She interprets verses one way while I interpret them another. I don’t say she’s right and she doesn’t say I’m wrong. We are both free to practice the religion as we see fit.
I don’t understand, then, why we are to blame, apologize, or take responsibility for someone who doesn’t follow her version or my version but chooses to espouse his own evil, perverted version. I fail to see what we have to do with that. Or what Buddhists have to do with this. Or Hindus have with this.
Say we followed the religion of shapes. I liked circles and you liked squares. And then some dumb ass mofo decides to bust out a triangle. Do we give up our love of geometry?
Am I getting anywhere with this, or is my circle story pointless? 😆
It might be for whom nothing we say is enough. We can condemn until the cows come home and make buttermilk. We can preach nonviolence, hold interfaith gatherings, give interviews, but they’ll still insist “Maybe most Moslems peaceful, but until they recognize and destroy their growing jihadist cancer they must be held responsible.”
Thanks, Rupert Murdoch. How the hell did you get where you are if you can’t even spell Muslim? What else would you like for us peaceful Moslems to do? Sit on the bombs ourselves? I’m all for making the world a better place, but how do I do that with my ass falling off of me?
The majority of us are just people simply trying to live our lives. I’m sure you don’t hear of us, though. How could you? “Muslim working, 9-5″ doesn’t make the news. Muslim dropping kids off at daycare doesn’t either, nor does Muslim enjoying company sponsored free seafood buffet. Muslim slowly realizing he’s allergic to shellfish might, though.
Before you know it, a whole lotta people are blamed for the actions of some.
That’s not to say Muslims or Islam is in any way near perfect. Far from it. We’ve got our problems, like any large, multiracial, and multicultural group would.
One complaint I always had was that Muslims should lighten up and be less judgmental of other Muslims. The liberal use of the word haram, meaning sinful, is another. Because haram is everywhere.
I’m haram. You’re haram. Is anyone out there not haram? Come on, people, save the judging for Allah and the afterlife.
Yup, we’ve got issues all right. And the fucked up, crazy minority is one of them. Sad that only the stupid ones are heard and spoken about. Such as this guy.
*Shaking my head in disbelief *
Forget sharing minute similarities of the same faith. Right now I’m embarrassed to be part of their species.
When I was in middle school, I made the mistake of making fun of the religion of a couple of classmates that had been teasing me. Yes, I went there. I regretted it almost immediately, though, and apologized soon after.
I saw the bewilderment and hurt in their eyes at the insult to their god and their religious practices. I decided that that was a level I never wanted to stoop to ever again. A person’s religion is beloved for him or her. It’s their way of life. And to ridicule something that important to someone else would truly be a callous thing to do.
In the words of Homer Simpson, “Jesus, Allah, Buddha! I love you all!”
But that’s just me and my way of doing things. I can’t shove that opinion onto someone else. If you want to draw cartoons, you should be able to draw cartoons, whether they offend people or not.
I remember watching a news special on the KKK once. The African American mayor of a large city was in charge of and had to provide the security for the rally that the group intended to host that day. And of course he didn’t agree with them in the least. But it was their right. And rights are and should be equal for all, bucktooth ignoramus included.
So you know that really really bad stomach thing my four year old had? Well, we realized he caught it from the hotbed of germs known as the kids play area at the mall during the busiest shopping season of the year. In the future we will have to consider exposing them to really shitty illness as a drawback to getting the kids out of the house and away from the TV.
Our son is doing much better now, thank god, and being his regular self again. But guess who caught it from him?
*Raising hand slowly*
And not just me. The rest of our little family, meaning my husband and my seven year old, were also not safe from its predatory ways.
This year’s strain of the stomach flu is not the stomach flu you are familiar with. No, not at all. This feels more like it should be called Ebola, Jr. I kid you not.
It leaves you feeling hot and cold at the same time. It sends its minions to gnaw on the inside of your abdomen. The best way I can describe the feeling is hot little dull knives poking at your innards. The pain was what kept us awake the most. I don’t remember dealing with so much of it during past stomach issues. It made my not so very religiously inclined seven year old ask if it was time to pray so that Allah could take away the hurt.
You don’t know whether to shit or to barf first, they’re both so overwhelmingly compelling. There’s an eye of the storm moment after every mad dash to the bathroom, where you think okay, that was the last one, I feel much better, until around 30-45 minutes later, when you’re doing it all over again and you realize the effing remote’s crapped out (no pun intended) and the repeat button is stuck.
The one and only good point about mutant stomach bug, version 2014 is that it moves fast. The little slut. The three of us caught it late Wednesday afternoon, and by early Thursday morning, we were able to give the hallway bathroom a break and get some rest. By Thursday afternoon, I was able to get up, walk around for a few minutes, and attempt to take care of my pretty much back to normal four year old. Yay for primary caretakers! Where being sick means you get to do all the stuff you normally do with the addition of being sick.
Protect yourself from this year’s strain of stomach flu as well as you can, internet peoples. You don’t want to catch this thing, believe me. Compared to it, the stomach bug you have dealt with in the past is the common household cockroach. This, my friends, is Godzilla.
If you think you can handle hours of shitting out all your body fluids, caressing your garbage can like it was your breastfeeding newborn, and having your ass make love to the toilet seat, then go ahead and give it a call. You’ll find its number scrawled on the walls of dirty public bathrooms everywhere.
Ha ha. That’s a funny one. Get it? Walls? Stomach bug? Dirty bathrooms?
You suck. 😐
It is now Friday afternoon and we are all on our way back to normal. Lingering side effects have been a constant state of mild nausea, a heightened sensitivity to smell, and an overall feeling of having a bad hangover. My nose is telling me there’s an open jar of sewer water somewhere in our house, but my husband is saying just stop complaining, will you? and that I’m overreacting. Okay, then.
Prayers for the innocent victims of the violence in Sydney and Peshawar and for their loved ones. Posting one of my favorite poems in their honor and memory. Poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
It’s been a sad week. Disturbing images of death and grief have kept me from wanting to do anything but just sit and hate the world. That doesn’t do anyone any good, especially not me. Too much sitting negatively affects my slower than the turning rate of a dead gerbil’s spinning wheel metabolism. I realized I needed to get off my ass and just do something, so I decided to blog, even though I have no idea what to blog about. If this post make any sense, it’ll have the good fortune of being published. If not, then why should you care. You don’t even know about it.
Now that you’ve read the last paragraph, you can see what the title is implying.
I’ve attempted to blog three times this week and all three times I fell asleep with the laptop warming my thighs and the light from the screen reflecting off my face. Once I woke up from a nightmare where I was being fondled by a giant i-pad. I kid you not. That shit cray cray. I think my laptop conned its electronic brethren into sending me a subliminal message. Do this for me or I’ll tell Apple you’re sleeping with Motorola.
If it could talk I’m sure my laptop would say either fucking write something or get the eff off of me. Being upset really messes with your blogging mojo. I don’t write very well in dramatic. When I try to, my stories come out sounding less like The Fault in Our Stars and more like the script of a bad episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. That’s not really narrowing it down, though, since they’re all pretty shitty. Pick one of your choice. There. That’s how bad my drama is.
And please don’t say it. Don’t. Believe me, it’s scripted. All that botox can’t emote on its own.
Sarcastic smart ass is more my dialect. But there was nothing to be sarcastic or smart ass about within the past week. There was only sadness. So I stayed away.
What’s on my mind right now is that a whole group of people will be judged for the actions of the few or the one. While things have been bad in the past, they’ve never been this bad. We’ve had to change what we wear. Alter our plans for the weekend. Take well lit and more populated roads home at night. That’s right, folks. That’s right. There’s a long, hard road ahead for us Bears fans.
Wait, what? What did you think I was talking about?
Oh, that. Pshaw. I have a cousin in Sydney whose husband is a police officer. When they visited us a few summers ago, he would go on and on about how everything’s better in Australia, from the food to the weather. Even the pots and pans. And we’d get irritated, because while Australia is awesome, you know everything in the US is the bestest. Including the people.
With the weekend just around the corner, this suck ass week will come to an end, thank god. This weekend means watching the football game where Jay Interception Cutler will be warming his ass on the bench it’ll be perched on. Nice to see that he’s working hard for the salary that Chicago will have to, I don’t know, sell the fucking Willis Tower for?
I don’t want to pick on the guy. He’s not the only player on the team that sucks ass. But when you’re being paid one of the highest salaries in the NFL, if not the highest, it’d be nice if you did something other than help the other team win.
I’m not a big football fan. I only got into it because my husband likes it. I understand precisely half the game and less than that of the terminology, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what it means when you throw the ball and a player from the other team catches it. You can always count on me to get excited for the local team, but not this season. No. Not this season. *Shudders*
Now for some The View Through The Window household news. That’s the “diamond” my son got me as a present from his school’s holiday gift shop. He was excited when he handed it to me but said I can always take it back! when I punished him for being naughty later on in the day. I tried to explain to him that gifts should come from the heart and aren’t conditional, to which he made a quacking duck sort of movement with his right hand and replied blah blah blah.
This is the same child who answered eat more salad when he overheard me asking my husband what my husband would tell me if he could be completely honest. It’s a measure of how much I love the kid that the remark only got him a time out. More than being a gift, the fake giant diamond is proof that he has a softer side to him somewhere in his utterly spoiled and sarcastically rude self. He does love me, I just know it.
Last week we accidentally left the front door to our house wide open on our way out to run some errands around town. So basically for over an hour our house’s welcome mat stood for my owners are sleep deprived idiots, please come rob them. When we got back and saw what we had (or hadn’t) done, the accusations went flying even faster than the ones racking up against Bill Cosby. I blamed my husband, he blamed me, and we both blamed the kids even though we didn’t say it. Some shit had gone down in the van where they had dropped water on the seats and in the ensuing confusion, I guess we forgot to lock up.
I might have been sleep deprived before, but that night I was a freaking insomniac. Even with the alarm system on I couldn’t close my eyes for more than a split second. Behind every corner I thought I saw an axe murderer with a passion for hacking off people’s heads while they slumbered. Luckily nothing happened, except that the next night I was so tired that I dozed off while putting my son to bed and instead of telling him a bedtime story, I started sleep talking the plot line to While You Were Sleeping.
I kid you not. You can’t make this stuff up. This shit cray cray.
Poem retrieved from http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-stand-by-my-grave-and-weep. Throwback Thursday pic from everywhere you look, because woah, Chicago is pissed.
The Christmas tree our son wanted is now up in our living room! It’s a cute little addition. We know nothing about tree selection and yes, this is the one you saw on sale in your Big Lots catalog. It gets the job done. My kids are giddy with excitement and the little one wants to check the chimney to make sure Santa isn’t stuck up there. The man has to be the only celebrated fat person on the planet.
Yesterday we went to see some lovely Christmas lights at a park near my husband’s office. The only bad thing that happened was that we got honked at for a full two minutes by some jerk who apparently was going to shit his pants or have a reindeer crash land into his car. I felt guilty about giving him the finger, in light of the holiday season and all, but come on mofo, get into the Christmas spirit. Take the candy cane outta your ass.
Here’s to some more peace and harmony in the world. And much less snow. I know people like a white Christmas and all but I really really hate the stuff. You can’t blame me because I live in Chicago, a beautiful city where a white Fourth of July is within the realm of possibility. I’ll wrap it up here with a little joke about how Chicago has two seasons, winter and construction. Thanks to the effects of global inequality we have now added corruption and violence. You know what they say. Come to Chicago for the fun and stay because you got shot. I don’t know who says that but it’s pretty funny. I love you, my frozen little icecap of a hometown.
The View Through The Window 