And today...

And today real life intervenes, meaning laundry, dishes, cutting 60 nails that are not my own. I'm not complaining. I really enjoy doing the mundane things. As long as my hands are busy, my mind can work overtime. As a child, I used to bounce a tennis ball for hours while thinking up complex storylines involving bizarre characters. Nothing like a tennis ball to open up the lines for contemplation and reflection. This was a welcome change from all of those hours sitting in the closet with my uncle's "Savage Sword of Conan" comic, wondering why parts of me throbbed during the admittedly tame hot parts. I kept the hobby of ball-bouncing well into my teens; the SSOC habit was dropped much earlier, I'm afraid.

Now that I think back on it, I was a pretty weird young 'un. I would go into black study for a few minutes, simply staring into space with a depressed look on my face. My favorite uncle (who is 7 years older than I) would give me a shake and tell me to wake up. He later admitted that this scared him, especially since I was only about 3 when it started. Perhaps this was my early attempt at the ball-bouncing thing.

Anyway, this is relevant because today I found an old tennis ball belonging to the aforementioned uncle. Somehow the tennis ball ended up under the sofa. Guess what happened next? I hid it, just in case.

Somebody, please, tell me why.

Lately, quite a few questions have been running through my mind. Anyway, because I like to make lists, here they are:

1. Who was the Einstein who put out the rumor that twins love each other? I'm personally related to four sets of twins not including my own sons, and none of them can be in the same room without attempting to poke each others' eyes out. Since my grandfather and his sister are one of these sets, it makes for some amazing Geritol-chugging action at family reunions, let me tell you.

2. What is the appeal of watching televised Nascar? I can understand why football, baseball, and basketball are fun to watch. I watch them myself. I can even sort-of see the point to watching golf on TV. But men driving around and around in goofy-looking cars?

3. Why are men waxing their chests and backs? I'm sorry, but that hair is fun to rub against. Please, guys, leave it be. Also, there's something decidedly perturbing about smooth-chested men. It's too adolescent for me.

4. Can't we revamp how divorces are handled? So much court time is wasted on stupid divorce motions (Can we share custody of the dog? Who gets poor dead Aunt Dolores' old worthless nicknacks?) I've personally seen cases where things as asinine as a small set of Tupperware needed 20 minutes of court time. This is getting ridiculous. Perhaps we should enact some laws that make stupid divorce motions punishable by a day of picking up roadside trash. And I don't mean that just the client would be doing that, either. I think the attorney should be right out there picking up trash beside him.

5. Why did Mr. Sulu wait 800 years to announce that he was gay? Does he have a new movie coming out or something?

Family Pride

As previously noted here in my ramblins, I'm an illegitimate child. This doesn't mean, though, that I don't have a perfectly wonderful maternal family history filled with interesting and, uh, scary characters.

For instance, my great-aunt's husband committed suicide. With a rifle. While lying in bed with her. And she didn't discover it till the next morning. Yeah.

Her sister ran one of the most succesful brothels in this area. My great-grandmother, their other sister, refused to have anything to do with either of them. She was the "good" one.

Both of my maternal great-grandfathers were decapitated. One was murdered by a crazy man who first chopped out his intestines. When great-grandpa was still alive four hours later, Mr. Crazy Man cut his head off.

The other, whose real name we will never know (he changed his name after spending quite a bit of time in a penitentiary up north), was decapitated in a freak car accident.

Most males in my bunch seem to die violently at a younger age rather than quietly in their beds. This doesn't bode well for men in my family, does it? Perhaps we just have bad luck or something.

Perhaps my favorite family story: During the Depression, Uncle Charlie (my great-uncle) had a horse of whom he was especially fond, meaning that he taught it how to count. He wasn't into bestiality or anything, you nasty thing, you. Anyway, he'd say, "Hans, how many is five?" Hans would oblige him by pawing the ground five times with his hoof. Clever stuff, really. Hans had better teeth than Uncle Charlie, too. *sigh*

Anyway, Charlie was drunk on moonshine one night and decided to visit the local church. The doors were open, since it was summertime and rather toasty inside. The church didn't have electricity at that time and no air conditioner, of course. Heck, it didn't even have an indoor bathroom, either. Times were hard.

Rather than tying his horse to the post outside, Charlie simply rode Hans into the church directly up to the pulpit, turned around, and flipped off the congregation. Yup, he gave the entire bunch, including his mother and sisters, the ol' middle finger salute. He then laid the crop to Hans and rode back out and back home.

There was hell to pay the next morning. Charlie's mother gave him a taste of the willow switch, even though he was a 20-year-old man at that time. That's the rule in my family: You're never too old for your momma to tell you what to do. I'm proud to say that this rule has saved my bacon many times, along with my mother's other favorite: "If you do something that you know is wrong, whatever happens to you after is your own fault." God bless family tradition.

Testicular Fortitude and the Female

It's a fairly common to see it used in phrases: He's got balls. His wife must have his balls in her pocket. It can also be formed as a question, usually derisively: Do you have the balls for it? Don't you have any balls? I've been thinking about the tendency to equate bravery and guts with having testicles.

When you think about it, this is a strange quirk that we have, singling out the male genitalia as our symbol of determination and drive. This area that tends to resemble a hairy sock with two large marbles inside has taken on an importance of unbelievable magnitude. Not that I'm complaining about testicles; I actually am quite fond of the glorious pair attached to that man o' mine. After all, a miracle really is born in these testicles. However, this miracle can be duplicated by most men, from the lowest mud-crawling male up to the greatest of kings. Also, there is a duplicate miracle going on in the female ovaries, and I have yet to hear anyone say, "Boy, to carry that off, he had a pair of ovaries on him, I tell ya." Strange.

I don't envy men and their balls. It seems that the bullcrap that men have to put up with simply to maintain their manhood is something that we females should be glad we don't have to endure, just as men, deep down in their souls, should thank the powers that be that they don't have to give birth, have periods, or go through menopause. My conclusion? Life is hard on both fronts. There's no need to worry about who has the balls, or how big they are. If those balls can get done the only job that they really do, then God bless 'em, every round, hairy one of 'em.

"He's Just Not That Into You" - but am I into this stupid book?

Yes, I finally read it. Had to force myself, really, because I usually run away from that which has become a cultural phenomenon. It has saved me a lot of grief, especially since I missed out on the macarena, jelly shoes, and heroin addiction. Seems like everyone I've been talking to eventually brings it up and quotes from it excessively, married women included. So, now I have joined the ranks of those who have indulged in this guilty pleasure.

Unfortunately, I have nothing good to report except that every point brought up in this book is common sense. For instance: Married guys aren't that into you. If he breaks up and makes up with you constantly, he's not that into you. If he wants to have sex with you but doesn't want to be your boyfriend, he's just not that into you. Oh, come on now. For those of us too intelligent to fall for the bullcrap, this is not news. I fear that the women that this book was meant to help are beyond its help already. If she's "dating" married men, then she doesn't care what this book has to say. She's already locked into her own dreamworld. If she's allowing her boyfriend to yo-yo back into and back out of her life, she's not going to care.

Of course, this isn't set in stone, since some people do change stupid behaviors when they hear a wakeup call. Some might even hear that clarion call in the pages of this book. I must say, though, that I doubt it's more than a trendy conversation piece. The author was merely a writer for Sex and the City with no therapy degree, and he's already married himself. After reading his credentials, I wondered, why does this guy feel that he has the power to advise anyone? Of course, I'm doing the same here on my lil blog. ;)

Herman's Gone

Herman wasn't family. He was, simply, a great friend. He was full of life, just about the funniest human I've ever encountered. And intelligent? Why, as an attorney, Herman Lester won many cases for the little guy, taking on big coal mining companies and multinational corporations. When our firms worked together on one such case, Herman and I got to know each other and appreciated each other's bizarre sense of humor. When Mac and I were getting ready to get married, Herman bought us an expensive bottle of champagne and laughed when I asked if I would get arrested for giving liquor to a 19-year-old. Whenever a photo op presented itself, Mr. Lester made certain that I was waved into it as well. We laughed together, ate lunch together, traveled together in the very plane that he died in. Unfortunately, after a trip to his 17-year-old son's golf tournament, Herman, his wife, and his son crashed while trying to land in inclement weather.

I'm going to miss you, Herman. You were one of the good ones. We will all miss you, and society as a whole has lost.

Not many ramblins lately, huh?

There's actually a good excuse. My daughter has been in the hospital (the croup) and I've been sick as well. I'll resume normal posting practices as soon as possible.

Nipsey Russell is dead

Seems like lately there has been a run on celebrity deaths. Gilligan was a shock, mainly because I didn't know he was still alive. Now, Nipsey is gone. I actually enjoyed Nipsey's brand of comedy quite a bit. So, I'll keep this ramblin short as my way of giving a moment of silence to those who made us laugh and have gone on to the other side.