Listen up, Blogosphere. This is part 1 of a 3 part series.
That’s right. What I have to say is so important, I am going to do it in three installments. This? Is number one.
Here is a short post on how to not write like a douche.
Its is possessive. The book is torn and its page is wrinkled.
It’s is a contraction of it and is. It’s about to rain.
You’re vs Your
Editors note: This one makes my tongue curl to the back of my throat and sputter strange noises only gophers understand, so listen up.
You’re is a contraction of YOU and ARE. You’re going to DIE when I tell you this!
Your is possessive. Your husband is getting you beer.
(Maybe you’re still confused? Go here.)
Their, There, They’re
Their is possessive. Their dog just pooped on the floor. Their shoes are moldy.
There is a location. You can find the cup over there.
They’re is a contraction of THEY and ARE. They’re going to catch a plane.
Here vs Hear
Here is location. (Similar to THERE. In fact, this is how I remember this. THERE and HERE are locations - both abstract and real.) We have the best coffee here
Hear is what you do with your ears. In fact, EAR is in the word HEAR. Did you hear that? You can remember now!
People? THAT IS WRONG.
Apostrophes are for showing possession (or contraction). It is NOT for plural.
:: taps glass to computer screen ::
Apostrophes are not for plural.
So, let’s say (oh! see what I did? LET US = let’s) we want to tell everyone we have a moms club.
It is not a Mom’s Club. That is one mom’s club (perhaps she’s a cave-woman or a police-woman.)
We have WOMEN’S RIGHTS.
We own cats. We have a cat’s kennel. I hate cats.
Who the fuck cares? That’s what spell check is for.
This is your brain.
This is your brain completely consumed on the dream house you are still waiting to hear about while playing cat - n - mouse with the Dept. of Ed.
(Your brain is the fleshy delicious goodness of pig fat in this scenario.)
Update: If this goes much longer my pig fat will be grilled and buttered before I have the chance to pick out colors for the new living room.
The professional translation of that statement as told to me by my broker? “We’re getting closer.”
I hear: Your brain tastes great around green beans OMNOMNOM
*************** Now back to our story ************
We, like everyone else on the first-world-commercial-industrialized-planet (even, though questionable, the Vice President) saw Avatar a few weeks back. We loved it. LOVED IT. It was enough to make me want to chain myself to a tree. Almost seriously.
I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, I am switzerland. I am so mid-ground it’s dumb. To a conservative I’m a crazy lib. To a democrat I’m a tightass repubilcan.
In reality, I just sit back and laugh that HAHA You’re an Ass and You’re a huge mofo. Why, peeps, why the animals?
If I had to pick an animal to be, I’d probably pick this hodgepodge:
I think one can possess both strong views on each side of the fence. I think it’s possible to not run down party lines. I think it’s possible to listen to Rush Limbaugh because he reminds you of your dad and listening to him is a little like being home without the 4 hour flight and 300 dollar ticket while simultaneously believing it’s good to do what you can for the environment.
I call this LOGIC.
I’ve recently had the opportunity to review my beliefs. It’s nice to take time to re-evaluate where you are in your beliefs and how you’re prioritizing your life. It comes down to this:
I know we sometimes get off-balance in our house. We’re a little “off” right now. But in general, even if we do not go to church (someone in the back! FAN MY MOTHER BEFORE SHE FAINTS) we still take to heart the family values and believe in building each other up. We spend quality time together. I work to provide healthy, clean, good meals. We give the kids love, consequences, structure and more love.
In general, I’m just not a fan of Big Brother. No matter what He looks like. Government, Taxes, Policies, or The Department Of Ed. In my experiences I’ve found the more layers of “stuff” there is before you can get to a decision maker, the harder it is to feel connected as a person, to have the power to make changes, and the confidence to stand up on your own two feet.
Which is why I’m a Rush Limbaugh avatar living in a tree feeling connected to the earth while yelling, “NO MORE TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION” and telling people to help each other but for the love of GOD if you can stand up and help DO IT or I will come spank you.
In a nutshell.
For a few weeks now The Little Man O screams in the car. We’re talking ear-piercing, high decibal, painfully loud, “taking others down with me” screaming.
I’m sure you can imagine.
It finally hit me last night. The car seat! Oh Mah GAWD, it’s the Car Seat.
I looked back at him pulling at the straps screaming. I went through my memories of him somehow managing to squirm out of those same straps, of him standing on the seat as I drove down the highway, and of him arching his back in defiance, which I thought was purely that, definace, when I placed him in the car.
Until I remembered the manual for the seat. Maybe it was page 12 or something but it said (and I paraphrase):
So today I pulled that little magic lever and VIOLA! Behold! The bucket seat transformed in to the properly adjusted forward facing seat it was intended to be.
And all was well.
Today’s Parenting Tip Filed Under “read the fucking manual.”
Be warned, Internet. I am ticked. Ticked, tired, and in charge of tiny tiny children who have no respect for “get off the floor and stop licking that stranger’s shoes fortheloveofgodI’mnottellingyouagain.”
monkeys to the DMV. Having every forseen document I could think of, title of car, insurance, bank account information, birth certificate, passport, photos of my children. a letter from my teacher in fourth grade and my checkbook, I figured 2pm on a Wednesday was a pretty good time to try to get our cars licensed in the Evergreen State.
It’s never a good time to go to the DMV. Trust me. Never.
I walk in with the baby strapped to me and toting the three year old by the arm. Three meltdowns and twenty minutes later, we get to the counter. “WE DO NOT ACCEPT VISA OR DEBIT DO NOT PASS GO.” I politely ask the lady at the counter if I can keep my place in line and run out to my car for the checkbook which I dropped in the car while getting the kids out. “No.”
Twenty more minutes later and four more meltdowns we’re back up to the counter. “Here’s a letter of reference from my Biology professor in college, a passport, a drivers licensed and a cookie. I’d like to get my car licensed.” She looks over my papers and shakes her head. “Where’s your EPA paper?” “My whu?” “Your EEE PEEEE AYYYY paper.”
Apparently you have to visit another government agency about three miles south to have your car tested, pay 15 bucks and come back with an EPA paper.
So, an hour later I shlep the monkeys back to the counter (remembered my checkbook! YEY!) and get everything up to the same gal. “Hi again,” I’m out of breath now. “I have my EPA paper.” She’s quite, nodding, looking over everything and eating that cookie. “Hrm. No. You need to go to the Department of Revenue.”
“Yes, see, blahblahblahdyblah title blahblahblah I’m going to charge you 800 dollars unless you go prove bladbloahblahablahhh”
I stare. LB licks the floor. Baby O scratches me.
“The department of revenue is 7 miles up the highway on the left. You’ll need to see them.”
Here’s where I get pissed. “YOU MEAN TO TELL ME….” there is a long string of words I’m not really sure of that came pouring out of my mouth. I may or may not have cussed. I may or may not have spoke in tongues. I may, or may not, have wet my pants and I may, or may not, have been talking a wee bit too loud.
The lady doesn’t budge. LB continues to lick the floor. Baby O scratches me again.
I sigh deeply, heavily, and with every fiber in my very tired mom body. I kick my daughter in the foot and tell her to “getoffthefloorrightnoworelse” and then grab her arm. With angry tears stinging my tired eyes, I walk out of the DMV shaking my head.
I know you have this story. It’s something we can all relate to. But still we’ve somehow managed to pass out drivers licenses to most people, residents or not. But bygod, if you’re a mom with two small children trying to obey the law? Fuckyou.
I shiver in my soccer-mom shoes at the thought of the ever-so-efficient government being in charge of our medical care. Because the first time I go to the ER with my child having an asthma attack and some bitch behind the counter tells me I need such-and-such approval from the President to seek care? It will not be pretty. For any of us.
As long as people keep getting stupid, there will be a Mother F.U.C.K.E.R movement. So people? Here’s installment #2:
Apparently, get this, You aren’t supposed to eat your iphone. Right. Wanna hear that again?
Don’t. Eat. Your. iPhone.
“SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: Ingesting or inhaling your iPhone or iPod earbuds may be hazardous to your health.”
Ok, I get that people are in to burning things or sniffing things or whatever. But since when is eating your iPhone worthy of CNN reporting? Isn’t there, like, a war going on? Global warming to report about? Socialized medicine? Anything? Beuhler? No? Eating your iPhone it is, then.
Good choice, CNN Chief Medical Correspondent Dr. Sanjay Gupta. Here, this is for you:
Take this and stick it to your forehead and repeat to yourself several times a day “Mother for using common knowledge everywhere. Mother for using common knowledge everywhere…”
In the mean time, I’ll keep reminding my five month old not to put his iPhone in his mouth. The rest of the family, though, is pretty much up to speed on this. Apparently your viewers are at the level of a five month old. God bless this country if this is the future of our nation. We need it.
Seriously? As in ... Seriously? You’re kidding, right?
These are the first thoughts that ran through my head upon hearing about the Bumbo Seat Recall. I have a Bumbo Seat. We love the Bumbo Seat. Baby O sits up in his Bumbo Seat. It’s a blue, soft, squishy seat of wonderfulness.
Baby O give it a thumb up. Or down. He’s really not sure what those things are on the end of his hands yet…
Here’s the thing. Apparently if you place a child on top of a table or other high surface and leave them THEY MIGHT FALL OFF.
Let me say that again.
If you leave a child on top of something high? THEY MIGHT FALL OFF.
Dude. That’s news? Shit. Really?
What’s next? BEDS?
(I can read it now… Mother leaves infant on bed. She leaves him unattended to have a beer in the bar downstairs. During this time the infant falls OFF the bed. Beds are now being recalled. Please proceed to turn in all mattress and bedding to your local government agency.)
Let’s address the issue here, shall we?
If you buy hot coffee? It will burn your crotch if you slosh it out of the cup. Do not sue McDonalds or Starbucks or whomever. All we end up with are really dumb warning on coffee cups. “Content is Hot” Fuckme. Yathink?
If you leave your child alone on top of a high surface (in a rocker? A bumbo? A Car seat?) he or she may fall off. It’s called gravity. Do not sue gravity.
If you give your child a small object to play with, they will eat it. Or put it up their nose. Or butt. Please do not sue the toy. Sue your child for causing you all that stress and gray hair.
Or! I know!
Use your common sense!
I’m a Mother For Using Common Knowledge EverywheRe
Join me in this movement, won’t you?
Together, we can make a difference.
(And, for the record, I do set my child on the table. I just take pictures of him up there and make sure I’m totally drunk and stoned when I’m the only one home.)
(And if you believe that, please come buy my pony.)
(Just don’t sue it when it shits in your yard.)
17 guests here now.