Maxim, to me, just now.
“Tell me when you’re done with the computer.
“Better yet, stand up, lift your shirt, show me your boobs, and then tell me you’re done with the computer.”
You can see why I would love such a person. Shit like that falls out of his mouth all the time.
Not that we care about these stupid elitist-bastard contests, but….
…my little theDane has been nominated in the Best Use of Multimedia on a (blog?)Site category for the second quarter 2004 over at Diarist.net.
Go tell theDane “WOO!” and “GOOD JOB!” and other exclaimy-type congratulatory things. But mostly, just go vote for him. Most especially if even one of his vidblogs has ever made you laugh like ass.
And I know one has, you fuckers. I know one has.
note to boyfriends past (& present & future?)
the only real benefit
to being dubbed ‘My Queen’
is that you are left with a
crown to hurl a(f)t(er) him when
he finally decides to turn and go
(crowns are, after all,
notoriously heavy and spike-laden
….this
is historically documented)
And the funny for today is…
“By the time you receive this, the Iraqi men’s Olympic soccer team (that’s
football to all of you foreigners who don’t know what actual football is)
may already have won the gold medal. You can credit it to hard work, and
determination, I credit the American military who went in and shot a lot of
their third string players; arrested their team captain; and replaced him
with David Beckham.”
Oh, T-Shirt Hell newsletter, how I would love to be back-to-back in a barfight with you.
Hey, Princess Bitchypoo, I eat people like you for a midday snack. Garnished with cilantro, of course, to heighten the taste.
Okay, this entry is to be filed under “Bullies Get A Knee To The Nards” or “Hey, Lookit, More Sheeple Are Being Churned Out Daily!!”
On Sunday I was scheduled to do a family visit for a child that lives a ways down the road. I happened to have my camera with me, and as there are some interesting Bammy Sights along the way, I figured I’d snap off a few photos for my own enjoyment while I was out. Blah, blah, you’ve all seen me do this before.
Plus, there is this really cool waterplay area in the park I was headed to; it has a huuuuge metal daisy (twenty feet tall or sommat) that spouts water and has bugs painted on the underside that I had a mind to photograph to publish on this here blog.
So we got there, and the kid’s family was a no-show (typical); I asked if he’d like to stay and play a bit anyway, as he’d brought his trunks and towel in anticipation. He voted yes, and I dumped all my work stuff and phone and camera on a table under a gazebo. I pulled the lens cap off the camera and shot the metal daisy, a couple signs, and I noticed this very cute, squishy-cheeked toddler playing in the water. She was wearing a yellow shirt and jeans and was stomping errant puddles with her bare feet. I asked the two adult women with her if they minded if I shot some frames with her in them before I ever raised my camera in her direction.
The women conversed actively with me as the children played and I tried to frame up a decent picture; difficult, as they were excitedly and happily zooming around the waterplay area.
I got three, maybe four shots of the baby and her older brother playing in the water before my batteries died. D’OH! I had neglected to bring spares, so I put the lens cap back on and told the woman if she had e-mail access, I’d be happy to send the photos to her once I got them offloaded from the camera. She did not, so she inquired of the other woman: Did she have e-mail access? She didn’t either, but the first woman volunteered that the child’s mother did and I offered to give her my e-mail address; she could give it to her daughter and the daughter could e-mail me for the photos.
I sat down at the table, did a little paperwork, then made a phone call. I was on the phone when the woman approached me for my e-mail addy, which I gladly gave her. She asked me what I was doing there in the park that day, and I told her that I could not go into a whole lot of detail, but I worked for social services and was presently working. She asked a couple more questions, which I declined politely and smilingly to answer, explaining that I was bound by confidentiality.
Then tonight, I opened my inbox to this shitty e-mail:
From: ******@*********.comDate: 2004/08/24 Tue PM 08:11:34 CDT
To: ************@*******.net
Subject: concerned parent about pictures in park
hello, i was informed upon my arrival from out of town reguarding sunday august 22 at ******** park. my mother was caring for my children in my absence and was enjoying a day at the park with her grandchildren whom she does not see often, and after this incidence she and i are very concerned! i was informed that my mother asked you what your purpose and job was and you told her that you were not able to let that information out, well let me tell you something i am very upset, you do not take pictures of someone else’s children for one thing , and another not offer explanation and comfort for the questions reguarding the purpose of these photos! with the world that we live in today, you of all people should know, being a social worker i believe that you told my mother that you were, that this type of action should not have even took place. i want those photos and your name and who you are and what those pictures are being used for. if not i will report this to the proper authorities with your email address and the other mother there that day will do the same. i just dont believe in this society today to ever let your guard down when it especially involves MY children, and as a mother i hope that YOU would feel the same, otherwise you are just one of them.
Just like that, one big rambly, threat-and accusation-filled paragraph with no sig. Bullshit. I did nothing wrong! I was in a public place shooting photos which I did not intend to publish (save for the aforementioned daisy) or use commercially; as a matter of fact, I didn’t even have to ask permission to shoot those kids, but I did it out of courtesy. It’s what I –as a mother– would want done were the situation reversed.
I sat, slack-jawed and shocked, for a couple minutes. Let me tell you, these are difficult reactions to pull from me. I was appalled at the shitty way this woman chose to handle a situation that she was ‘uncomfortable’ with. So, after that couple minutes-worth of consideration, I shot back a fancypants ‘fuck you‘:
From: ************@*******.net
Date: 2004/08/24 Tue PM 08:50:06 CDT
To: ******@*********.com
Subject: Re: concerned parent about pictures in park
WOW.
I was just out shooting some photos in the park, as I had taken a little boy there for a family visit. As a hobby, I often carry my digital with me and shoot my surroundings, with or without people.
I asked permission before I included ANYone in the photos, and was given clearance to do so by the accompanying adults. I even approached them after my batteries had died and offered to send copies of said photos if they liked. You say now that your mother is very concerned; she was not at all concerned that day. Allow me to repeat: NOT AT ALL. She gave me permission more than once, in fact.
If I did not tell your mother my job, then how do you know what I do? You are not making any sense. I am bound by certain confidentialities, so I cannot legally give details about my clients.
I offered (the operative word here is OFFERED) the photos and my e-mail address in good faith. I also asked permission before including those children in any pictures I was taking (which also included signs and landscapes and a myriad of other things withOUT people in them).
At this point, you have no legal leg to stand on. Plus, with your threatening, ugly tone in this e-mail, you sound like a raving psychotic. *I* can file charges for harassment based on your conduct and threats. Contact the authorities, I DARE YOU. I have every photo shot that day saved (I haven’t even had time to download them from the camera as of yet) and any authorities will see the digital date and timestamp of ALL the photos I shot that day, most of which had no people whatsoever in them.
I would have been happy to address your concerns civilly had you taken that approach. You have set the tone for this exchange, which will culminate in my laughing at your foolishness.
Ta-ta!
P.S. did you know it is a LEGAL OFFENSE to use e-mail to harass, intimidate and/or threaten people? Just so you know. Those cops you plan on contacting? I’ll have a copy of your e-mail –with full headers– to display to them if they come knocking. No sweat, report away! At this point, with your threats being what they are, I could even contact your ISP and have your account suspended. This isn’t the Wild West; you don’t have liberty to go about slinging grandiose threats at a whim. You might want to think about that in the future.
P.P.S. running your correspondence through a grammar- and spell-checker might lend your arguments more credence in the future. You sound like an illiterate fool.
I’ve yet to hear back from her, the doucheface, and it’s been three hours now. People like this should rot in hell.
And I should get to point and laugh.
Just a three-and-a-half foot Sack O’ Potential.
Those of you not-so-new (but every bit as sparkly!) readers will recall that my youngest son toes that very delicate line drawn between being an absolutely stunning genius and being a fella who drools on himself and has permanent Cheeto stains on his fingertips.
Maxim and I have moments where we fleetingly touch on this; mostly this is when he does something so appallingly strange that even we can’t easily stomach it. For the record, at these times we mimic the interaction between Steve Martin and Mary Steenburgen in ‘Parenthood‘ when they are discussing their bucket-wearing youngest and his future on the planet. Steve shouts something akin to
“I blame this on you!
You smoked all that POT!”
while shaking a finger –loaded with righteous indignation– at her. Only between me and Maxim, I play Steve Martin’s role and I substitute the phrase ’smoked all that POT’ with ‘dropped all that ACID’.
But Mathias is lanky and pretty, so he could make either one work. You know, like Jim Morrison before the whole Miami debacle.
He’s really, really fortunate to have gotten Maxim and me as parents, because we are both creative-exploration kinda peeps and not easily rattled. That, or so far in denial so as to render the whole issue invalid. Just as long as our kid doesn’t incorporate butcher knives, dildos and bloody sheep’s innards as props in his ‘performance art’ we just kind of roll with things.
Which is why, two weeks ago, when we were in the middle of Wal-Mart (yes, we do indeed–collectively– spend more time there than the employees) and Mathias began exuberantly cheering me, Sam and Scout in turns
“Mommy can do it,
YAAAAAAY, MOMMY!”
I was unruffled. He was doing jumps and kicks and stick-arms and jazz hands and landing on one knee, as well. What can I say, the boy is dedicated to his craft, whatever it may be at the given moment.
After a time, it grew boring for him what with only having three people to rah-rah to victory. He began cheering everyone that passed us: Little old ladies (“Memaws! *clap* Are! *clap* Great! *clap*”), other kids (“You can do-it-do-it-do-it, play with that toy, WOO!”) and employees (“AY! BEE! CUE! ELL! Count, count, COUNT your moneys!” Oh well, the kid can’t spell for shit yet. Let’s hope that’s a passing trend) alike. I bore all of this smilingly but with eyes averted. Some of the Random Public were enjoying it, after all. Plus, the kid was being genuinely enthusiastic. I ask you: Who the hell doesn’t need a cheerleader on a random, ass-dragging Tuesday afternoon?
He unexpectedly stopped all this when we hit the doors to head outside. Putting his hand dutifully on the basket as he has been taught in parking lot situations, weaving his fingers amidst the wires so as not to inadvertantly succumb to the five-year-old whimsy of running off, he looked up at me and said, “Mommy, I believe I’ll be a cheerleaderboy.”
I’m the cool mom, right? I am unruffled by this admission. Works for me! Besides, he canna truly help it, as he has a proud line of cheerleadery genes in our family history to glance back upon. Cheerleaderboy it is. It beats being a box or a cat or a weaf. Or any of the other nine-hundred things he has been in years previous.
A few days later, at a gathering of Maxim’s family, I goosed Mathias and said, “Go over there and tell your Uncle Scott what you want to be.”
Scott is really Maxim’s uncle and Mathias’ great, but he is a mere ten years older than us and has a (whiny, simpering, over-momma’ed, pusbag of a) son one year younger than our wee Mathias, so he’s more a peer than anything else.
“Uncle Scott,” Mathias said, “I want to be a cheerleaderboy!”
Scott got a fleeting look of disgust across his face, smiled kindly down at Mathias, patted him on the head with an exceptionally competent, meaty hand and said, “AWWWW, you’ll grow outta that, boy.” Then something about shoulder pads and cleats was mentioned.
Look, I’ve already tried to turn the kid out onta the gridiron. The boy ain’t having none-a that. It breaks my Southern-Momma heart, but I’ll never let on to Mathias. I will carry my grief close to me like the Wonderful Mothertm I can truly be, and thusly Mathias will be spared the knowledge that I hung my entire extended family’s hopes on him that Uncle Romey and Cousin Jerry would not be the last pro and college ballplayers in the family. I mean, Sam’s naturally gifted, but he’s lazy and I gave up that idea with regard to him long ago. My only purpose at the games was to shlep drinks and yell like an idiot for my kid; it was not to quietly, fervently pray that there was a scout in the stands…a scout that starts rooting through the farm teams when they are prepubescent and their families still call them ‘Bubba’ instead of their Christian names.
But I was okay with that, because I magically produced another boy-child from mine loins.
Wait, wherethefuck were we?
Oh yessss, family gathering. Hella rad but marginally disgusted uncle. I laughed in Scotty’s face after he’d said what he said.
“You’re kidding, right? My kid is wicked-smart. He gets to be on the sidelines, immersed in bouncy, in-their-physical-prime pretty women, his solid, long-fingered hands on their (second- or third most desired parts of their anatomy) delicate inner thighs, a.k.a. Legitimately All Up In Their Junk. Cheerleaders get the same scholarships as ballplayers. Plus, he won’t have blown out his knees and back by the time he’s twenty-eight. WOO!
“You should be encouraging that shit, Scott.”
The room was pretty silent by that point, until Auntie Brosh let fly a cackle and said, “I believe we all need more WINE!”
So yeah, Mathias: Heh, no wonder.
The Clash of the Killer Extremists
JETT: Did you know that feminists hate PeTA?
MAXIM: Why, because PeTA’s against fur?
You got to give it to the boy: He knows how to bring the funny.
That shit made me cackle for ten whole minutes.
