Lydia Aswolf

I figured I’d put my lil New Year’s list in writing, so I don’t forget…as long as it doesn’t have geography involved, I probably won’t, but just in case…

1. Keep smoking.

Fuck it, I work in a hothouse environment people. Potential clients ring me up in chat where I can’t see them, can’t hear them, and then I have to perform, Johnny on the spot. Not only do I have to perform, but I have to be absolutely 100% RIGHT…no pressure, my ass! Hence, my back porch respiratory treatments shall continue. After all I know we have more than one live to live, heh heh.

2. Keep cursing, online only if possible.

Hey, when you have five sons who don’t have potty mouths like you do, you have to have a outlet. Therefore, as often as possible I shall continue to curse liberally in this blog, on im, board posts, and with clients..most of them enjoy doing the same thing, as they have kids too. Let sailor mouth rule in 2009!

3. No exercise.

Listen, I’ve lost 50lbs, working my way to 60lbs. Most of this was through exercise, but now I’m going with a diet where I can eat shit food when I like, if only within a certain calorie window. If I want a goddamn snicker bar, I’m gonna eat it, even if I starve the rest of the day, dammit! Exercise only contributed to me screaming in the middle of the night as cramps ripped through my calves. Face it, that disrupted my household. I intend to die with a hershey’s with almonds in one hand, and a pepsi in the other…well I might drop the pepsi when the heart attack hits, but I’ll go out with a chocolate smeared smile on my face!

4. No tact allowed…ever.

I’m not known for my tact, if I have any, which my family and friends seriously doubt. When I say I don’t fucking sugarcoat, I mean it. Therefore, if your beloved is a total asshole, I’ll be the first to call it. So, on the radio show, with clients, in daily life…if you even suspect your ass looks huge in those pants, avoid me like the plague I can be, even if I gave birth to you….no, especially if I gave birth to you.

5. Keep talking to dead people.

Face it, lots of people who are alive are boring as hell, whereas the dead always have something cool to show me or say. They do have a weird tendency to pile up coins in my house, fill my washer with water, and you know, the whole lights flickering, shit falling stuff, but that makes life interesting, and I like life to be interesting. So, dead chick wants to talk while I’m taking a dump…I’m all outta magazines, talk away!

6. Make oldest son listen.

It’s amazing how often I’ve been proven 100% correct with regards to my 20 year old’s love life, and his life in general. The little shit still doesn’t listen. Therefore, as his ass is MINE now, having moved back into my house after a messy trip away from the nest, I shall browbeat his ass at every opportunity. If I have to shove his visually impaired face into my laptop screen so he can see my ratings and feedback, well then…that’s just a added little bonus, isn’t it?

7. Announce on my blog I’m not a pregnancy test.

I can’t tell when you are going to conceive, because then I would have to watch you have sex….and that’s something I’m just not kinky enough to like. I often wonder if male psychics who have remote viewing abilities forgo porn to watch ppl screwing…hmmm, will have to find someone and ask. Speaking of kinky, I don’t function as a pregnancy test, so don’t piss on me when I can’t tell you when your little bundle of joy will head your way, it won’t help.

8. Make Suzanne and/or David James piss themselves laughing..preferably on air.

I’ve gotten very close to making my co host Suzanne on Psychically Correct piss herself. I need to increase my stamina so I can continue barraging her with hilarious and very sick images til she finally does the deed. Lucky for me, Suzanne is spunky enough to admit when it finally happens, and that shall be a day that lives in infamy, for me at least. David James of psychic-wisdom.net is a stoic Scot who will be appearing on January 13th’s show, and I shall do my damndest to make him crack up on air. I’ll settle for a little anal leakage, if he can’t manage to piss himself. Whether he would admit such a thing is up in the air, but I’m going to hope for the best in 09, so don’t let me down, David.

9. Have more guests on Psychically Correct.

This one’s simple. There is nothing I love better than seeing people who nurture and support other people get down and dirty with me on air. There is something perverse in that, I’m sure, but I don’t care….it only goes to show some of us psychics have potty mouths, and killer senses of humor..which gee, means we are actual people, instead of the freaks we are purported to be (ok, I am a freak, but I enjoy it immensely because I’ve got no tact, see resolution 4).

10. Force my husband to get a goddamn pedicure.

Look, it’s cute when you first get married to clip your man’s toenails and give him little foot massages, but by year ten or so, it gets really old. Maybe because his toenails, while soft and supple in the beginning, are now more like bullets propelled out of a gun when I clip them, which has turned me into a paranoid chick who ducks whenever I hear something sharp crack. I also duct tape my mouth and one nostril closed, while keeping one eye closed and averting my face when I clip his toenails. That I have to file the cracks that have appeared in his heels over the years down has started to affect my mental health. I really don’t care if I have to rent a forklift, strap him to it, and drive him in for a pedicure, I just know I need to get there before my mind, like his heels, is totally cracked.

My friend.

Oh my friend, if you could see.

The life you will lead.

The joy, friendship, and love you will have surrounding you.

But you cannot see that now.

The loneliness, the isolation, and the exclusion.

That is all you can see now.

Everyone seems to care only for themselves.

But you remain alone.

You always have been alone.

As are we all.

For some, it strikes earlier than others.

To you, perhaps, it appears that some it never strikes at all.

You see people surrounded by other people, laughing, friendly, happy.

You want to join them.

But they won’t let you.

Acceptance carries with it a price to pay.

What price are you willing to pay?

Look around you.

Are they worth it?

Laughter has it’s own price.

It comes often at the expense of another.

With friendship comes sacrifice.

Be aware of those who truly deserve your sacrifice.

Happiness in the moment is a fleeting thing.

Easily obtained, but often not lasting.

What sort of happiness, do you wish for?

Is it within yourself, or to be obtained in the presence of others?

Others will come and go, and yet you shall remain.

Is it not wise, my friend, to be happy with yourself?

One person.

One person to connect with.

That is what you pine for.

But there are so few worthy.

You can see this, and you despair of ever finding that one.

How will the one make you feel more at ease with yourself?

If you are not comfortable with who you are.

Or is it the perception that others are not comfortable with who you are, that troubles you?

What would make you happy, my friend?

The one is not around you now.

This you know.

What would complete you, when all is incomplete and ill fashioned in your perception?

I fear these words will not reach you, my friend.

I fear there is little I can do or say that will make this journey easier.

I fear not being able to reach you, and I know others share this fear.

Words are cheap, and easily uttered.

I know this better than most.

Don’t I use words for a living?

Yet I find that words have some power, if wielded correctly and uttered sincerely.

I have never been more sincere.

And you know I am not one given to a outpouring of emotion.

Would that I could take the burden from your shoulders.

But I cannot.

And I would not.

You could not learn should I take this opportunity from you.

Why were you even born, you say.

To experience.

To learn.

To evolve.

The best lessons are not learned quickly, nor easily.

The most profound lessons are not learned with others.

It is in the dark of night when you cry because there is no one else.

No one else at all to whom you feel connected.

With whom you can share.

With whom you can be your true self.

But you were born alone, my friend.

This journey is yours alone to lead.

There will be others who are there with you, in this mist that contains your future.

Those who will share, grieve, and laugh with you.

But that is for later.

For now, you must learn to separate the wheat from the chaff.

The wheat, you see, provides nourishment.

The chaff blows away in the wind, easily forgotten.

You can see only chaff from your precarious perch on life right now.

It surrounds everything, getting in your eyes, making it difficult to see.

After the chaff clears, so will the wheat become visible.

You have but to hold on.

Hold on.

I cannot tell you that time will heal all wounds.

For that is never true.

But I can tell you that with time comes a fading.

The pain and hurt you experience now will fade.

Like a cheap, brightly colored washcloth run under hot water.

I will not lie.

It will not fade tomorrow, nor next week.

In real life, there are no easy fixes.

To learn, to grow, to evolve, you must experience the worst.

It is the only way to prepare for the best.

I have lain awake at night and worried about you, my friend.

Did you know that?

I composed this blog dedicated to you in my head a million times.

I still worry about you.

Because I know, you see.

I know not what it is like to walk in your shoes, day by day.

But I know what lies ahead of you.

In the long nights where I’ve longed for sleep that would not come.

I’ve worried, and I’ve watched over you, my friend.

I know your future.

Hell, in some small way, I will be part of your future.

I will witness your rebirth.

Not only will I see what a truly brilliant human being you stand to become.

I will hear of your success in career and finances (btw I accept all major credit cards, bday is Nov 1st)

I will prescreen your lovers, and eventually, your spouse.

I’m telling you now, I want pictures of your little ones as they come along.

I’m not asking, mind you.

I’m ordering.

These things in your future are the easy things.

They are the good things.

Are they worth the price you are paying now?

Only you can answer that.

To answer it, you must live it.

Therein lies the catch, and eventually, redemption.

Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house

Every creature was stirring, including that goddamn mouse.

The stockings hung by the chimney were on the floor.

Contents brutally ripped out, there was no more.

The hopes that Santa would stuff them to the brim.

Come to fruition, the kids parents looked grim.

The children were not nestled snug in their bed.

They were running and screaming.

Mom and Dad were not beaming.

Mom and Dad would love to settle down to a warm winter’s nap.

But knowing this won’t happen, instead they want to snap.

Suddenly, all look up, to a terrible clatter.

There’s a high wind advisory, and the ceiling sounds as if it will shatter.

Dad ran to the window, his heart all a flutter.

He looked in dismay, as the wind banged the shutters.

What, to his wondering eyes should appear.

Boxes, garbage cans, and was that a deer?

He watched flushed with glee, as a neighbor did dart.

Off of his porch to do his small part.

The neighbor was battered with twigs and branches.

His color was high, then his face blanches.

A tree hits his roof.

Our neighbor no longer looks aloof.

We laughed when we saw him, in spite of ourselves.

At the moment, we appeared as jolly as elves.

We spoke not a word, no word needed said.

We had wished before for a bounty on this neighbors head.

So, the day after Christmas, which looked so bleak from the start.

Ended with our smiling countenances and glad hearts.

I find it amazing how many other people feel exactly the way I do regarding Christmas this year.

In a word.

Blah.

Of course, as I’ve grown older as have my dear friends, I realize that part of this is due to the very nature of Christmas as it is celebrated today.

I know of no one who does not shop for Christmas, and therein lies part of the blah inherent this year.

For one thing, the economy is in the shitter, making gift buying rather perilous to your pocketbook.

For another thing, other shoppers out there have the same “Oh God, why me” looks pasted on their faces.

Sure, the stores are supposed to be handing out amazing deals this year, but I haven’t seen any so compelling I just have to take advantage of them, nor has anyone I know.

Unfortunately, I and those close to me are out shopping last minute, and that makes things hectic, but on occasion amusing.

When out, for instance, you can always tell who is just starting out by the terrified expressions on their face as they peruse lackluster sales, or find that what they wanted is gone.

My co host on Psychically Correct (may her children not stumble across this blog) could not find the Green Machine her son Ryan was lusting after with a vengeance, and so had to order it late, as she couldn’t find it in any store.

Day before yesterday saw her fidgeting and praying to the good Lord to deliver that package a) where Ryan could not see it delivered b) before Christmas, c) cursing the shipping costs associated with the package being delivered.

Luckily for her, it got there yesterday, but the antsy dread creeping through her veins beforehand didn’t exactly serve to put her in the Christmas spirit.

It looks to be the same experience for a lot of us out there, waiting for the last minute great deals, only to find the stores have definitely gone bah humbug on our asses.

Let us not forget what else last minute holiday shopping entails.

Huge, angry, panicking crowds milling around at stores with either clueless looks on their faces, or snarling countenances due to the last minute nature of getting that must have item for their family or friends.

If you like to observe people, as I do, it’s a very fun time of year to go shopping.

You know, except for not being able to maneuver in any aisle, in having your personal space invaded, and wanting to kick the ass of every person who stops abruptly in front of you, perusing some ill placed display.

I often wonder if the displays themselves aren’t designed to back up traffic just for the employees enjoyment.

After all, I’m a frequent shopper at Walmart, and we’ve all heard how the employees are treated, so I have little question it’s a nice little bonus for the employees to see the mass of irate, twitchy shoppers descend upon their stores.

Mind you, there are some nice people at the store.

Why, just yesterday, my husband was one of them.

As he stands 6′2, he can reach things most vertically challenged people cannot.

So he did his good deed by fetching something on a higher shelf for a lady.

Considering Brian tends to like to ram people with carts, or shove his way through with no apparent concern for the maimed and dying he leaves behind him, his actions probably put him on Santa’s good list, for once.

Alas, shopping isn’t really the end of it, is it?

You have to manage to get the gifts home without your kids or assorted family members discovering what you bought.

Having kids ranging in age from 6-20, this can be a bit of a trick.

Of course, I realize it wouldn’t be as much of a trick if I didn’t put all my shopping off til the last minute, but I guess it gives me a adrenaline rush I need to get through the damn holidays at all.

So, I sneak them in, then I am confronted with another challenge.

Hiding the shit.

It’s one thing to sneak the stuff in the door, quite another to be able to hide it, then pull it back out to wrap it without being observed by very, very watchful eyes doing regular patrols around your home.

I manage though, exhausted and trembling from the experience at the store.

No one who knows me expects much from me in the wrapping department, if only because it must be done in extreme haste lest I be discovered, and it’s usually done in the wee hours of the morning.

Because I am a moron, and do shop at last minute, all the kids are on Christmas Break by the time I even get close to finishing my shopping.

I have to barricade myself in a room and wrap, all while making sure the teens who stay up too goddamn late, and the kids who can’t sleep because Santa is coming, are not hovering near hoping to surprise me.

Every year, I wait for someone to fling open the door, giving me a heart attack, and what a Christmas that would be!

I could lie in a bed, and have nurses and (hopefully) handsome doctors tend to me.

I could watch whatever I wanted on tv (no Spongebob, no gunfire).

The kids would visit, but they’d have to go home at some point.

My hubby could stay with me while the teens watched the younger kids, and we could have “quality time” together.

My hubby could also go grab me whatever I wanted to eat.

Yeah, I know, I just had a heart attack, but it’s Christmas bitch, I want a Big Mac and LARGE fries!

I wouldn’t have to take pictures of anyone.

I wouldn’t have to clean up all that damn wrapping paper my kids throw aside.

I wouldn’t have to snarl at the kids about at least TRYING some of the food we have for Christmas dinner.

I could wear a comfy gown the whole day.

I could use ALL the hot water I wanted, in the shower.

Alas, instead of a restful hospital stay, I get to finish wrapping, hide the damn presents AGAIN lest pokey fingers rip holes in what I’ve just wrapped, and wait.

I’m not sure everyone has the tradition our family does.

We open gifts we purchased for one another on Christmas Eve.

Then Santa arrives for our youngest two on Christmas Day.

So that means twice the fun for hubby and I.

We try to be patient.

We try not to scream or rip our hair out.

But Christmas Eve is something of a chore, as the kids anxiously await us wakening.

On Christmas Eve we get to sleep in, that’s one of our gifts from our teens, who are well old enough to feed and care for the youngest at least one day of the year.

So, when we awake, we are ambushed by bright faces and high expectations.

I am not a morning person, so I grunt Merry Christmas, and scratch my ass on the way to take my morning piss.

That kids are anxiously following me and wishing me a Happy Holiday, generally doesn’t penetrate my morning gloom…but I guess it is kinda nice.

Then it’s deciding when they can open.

We generally just let them go at it, then numbly pick up paper and shove it in the nearest wastebasket while they exclaim, hug our unfeeling bodies, and try to grin through our sleep deprived faces as their delight.

After that, they could care less that we have gifts to open.

Of course, that waits, as various batteries have to be put in toys, assembly has to be performed, and who doesn’t love wrestling with the various cords and wires that hold the aforementioned toys in immovable positions?

But at least when all is said and done we DO get to enjoy opening gifts amidst the whir, screams, bustle, and hustle as toys march, beep, and roar around us.

Christmas Day is a bit nicer.

We don’t wrap those gifts, though we do have to repeat the steps of the day before, in wrestling toys out of their armor proof wrapping, assembly, and inserting batteries.

I guess one detractor is we have to be up at the light of dawn if we want to grab a good picture of the kids reactions.

So my actions are a little different from Christmas Eve.

I put off scratching my ass until after my morning piss, and do it whilst holding the camera tightly on my way downstairs.

The kids ooh and ahh, my husband and I smile blearily at one another for their reaction, and every single year, we mention to one another that we can grab a nap later in the day.

We never do, but it sure sounds nice every year when we say it.

With all the joy and happiness I experience every holiday season.

It only remains to me to wish YOU and YOURS the same joys that we experience every year.

Happy Holidays, indeed….

My father is a unique man.

By diagnosis, he is dyslexic and mildly retarded.

He is also a equal opportunity abuser and trisexual (if it moves, he’ll probably have a go at it).

My intent here is not at all to slam my sire.

No, indeed.

My intent is to showcase his more bizarre adventures in his own youth.

His diagnosis and personality have to play a part.

Mind you, I haven’t figured out how yet, but they MUST play a part, right?

As a child, I sat and listened to him reminiscing about the good times.

I’m not quite sure what was good about them, but I suppose you must judge for yourself.

One incident he fondly recalled involved a prostitute, a car door, and his dick.

He and his buddies decided to visit a whorehouse as he put it.

Nothing better going on that night, so they decided to make something happen.

Something happened alright.

Upon arriving, his buddies wandered off to lock and load, so to speak.

My father chose a whore (his words, not mine) and settled down to business.

Only one problem.

His little soldier wouldn’t stand at attention.

Irate, he tried to…rectify the situation.

Sadly enough, this was one situation that alas, was not going to be rectified.

His friends finished locking and loading, he decided to leave, in a terrible temper.

It was entering the car my father decided to take his anger out on the manhood that betrayed him.

He pulled said manhood out.

And in front of his stunned friends, slammed it repeatedly in a car door.

Yes, I too wonder how the hell I was conceived.

Then there was the tale of the hoover vacuum and his penis.

A tale he told often, smiling while he did so.

His mother was out shopping, and his father, who was a professor of bacteriology, was at work.

The innocent hoover was sitting in the middle of the room he walked into.

I would like to say a light bulb went on over his head at that moment.

But that would be a sane thing to say, and what he did, as you have surmised by now, was not sane.

Turning the hoover on, he stuck his crooked manhood (from car incident) into the hoover.

My father had his share of trouble during his youth.

This time was no exception.

He got stuck.

No matter what he did, or where he went, trailing the vacuum behind him, he could not break free.

Of course his mother walked in.

A word about my grandmother seems appropriate at this point.

A nice, sweet woman who would give the clothes off her back to someone else if they needed it.

I’m purported in my family to look just like her, and even act like her.

Which is to say, I would willingly give you the clothing off my back and even endure your screams of terror at the stretchmarks thus revealed.

Unless you were a idiot.

Then my grandmother and myself would tear you a new asshole verbally.

That we have in common.

So it was my grandmother walked into her home with the grocery shopping in her arms.

She called to my father to help assist her in bringing in the rest of the shopping.

Perhaps she thought upon hearing the vacuum running my father was assisting her with the housework.

I wouldn’t know, she died when I was three months old.

Whatever thoughts she might have had, the reality was far, far worse than anything she would have willingly come up with.

When my father didn’t answer, she went towards the sound.

Upon discovering his dilemma, my father says she was able to er, set him free.

Turning off the vacuum in this case simply would not work.

Because my father put his…member in soft, and then it arose to the occasion.

Therefore, with the hoover stuck at the base of his…member, the blood had nowhere to escape, hence him being stuck.

His mother was able to set him free, because she was his MOTHER.

If your mother walked into the room when you had your dick shoved into a vacuum cleaner, I would think the shame alone would leech the blood out of you, too.

According to my father, my grandmother didn’t mention the incident again.

But she did throw out the vacuum cleaner.

There is one last tale of my father’s unfortunate misadventures with his penis.

While I’d like to end on a positive note, I’m afraid my father has made it impossible.

He was with my stepmother at the time…or rather his first wife.

I counted her as my stepmother because she was one of the most intelligent, yet kind women I’ve ever had the privilege to know, and I wanted to call her mother.

A professor of Mathematics and Science, she taught doctors, and later in life, high school students…of whom I was one.

I know.

Why she hooked up with my father is beyond me.

But that’s another tale.

On this memorable occasion, my father and stepmother were at a particularly intimate moment.

As sometimes occurs, a little extra lubrication was needed.

My father, ever the gallant one, decided he would apply the lube to himself, and save my stepmother the trouble.

I did mention my father was dyslexic, correct?

Good.

He picked up a carelessly placed tube of Ben Gay.

Yes, you know what’s coming next.

He applied it liberally.

Luckily for my stepmother, he did not leap upon her directly after applying.

I find it comforting to know that someone was spared.

And particularly comforting my father was not.

It took a few minutes to gain strength, but as it did, my father was begging for the Good Lord to take him home.

Had my stepmother realized at that point what sort of man my father really was.

I’m sure she would’ve cheerfully volunteered to assist the Good Lord.

As things stood, however, she cleaned him off as best she could.

I’m sure you will understand he wasn’t really in a frame of mind to be moving about.

Not only did my father enjoy relaying this tale, but I must admit, my stepmother enjoyed telling it even more.

By the time I was born and of a age she deemed appropriate.

She had reason to tell it.

This is my gag Christmas gift for David James…..you have to first understand that David is number one psychic to come up on liveperson if you look at the spirituality section, he has his own amazing site psychic-wisdom.net, he hosts his own radio show on ask1radio.com, he’s been interviewed by the New York Post, and God knows what else he’s done and is up to at this very moment.

Honestly, there are many of my colleagues and many clients out there who really DO look up to David with something like awe…and since I am a huge smart ass, in case you’ve not noticed on this blog, I just HAD to take advantage of the awe I often encounter when hearing about David from other sources, and make my own little digital shrine in which to worship him.

Therefore, not only did Suzanne and I whip this little number up, but we also sent it to David as his Christmas gift, instructing him to save it, print it out, and last but not least, frame it.

As a added bonus, I vowed to David to post it on my blog so the world could see my adoration and dedication of the divine David James….

I hope YOU get as much of a giggle out of it as David, Suzanne, and I do!

Tomorrow night at 9pmEST, I will be making a guest appearance on ask1radio.com, so tune in and give us a call!

At risk of being repetitive, I’m going to be appearing on David Jame’s show, Psychic Wisdom, and we are going to be talking about signs, omens, and dream interpretation, along with taking your calls…I hope I get some good dreams to interpret, I love that shit!

Anyhoo, tune in if you wanna hear about interesting signs, omens, or what your dreams mean concerning your life…and for the love of God, call in!

Just a reminder, Suzanne and I will be back on Psychically Correct starting Tuesday, January 6th at 10pm EST, on the mix talk, don’t miss it, if for nothing else than to wonder what the hell can possibly come outta my mouth next!

What would you do if you had a badly cracked foundation in your home?

Would you decide to fix it?

Or would you decide to put on a new roof, instead?

The roof might look unstable.

It might creak a bit, and groan in high winds.

But there are no apparent leaks.

So which is more important?

The foundation, which keeps the home stable, on solid footing?

Or the roof, which prevents water, wind, and snow from getting in?

Which is more important, and to whom?

I think the vast majority of the American people would tend to the foundation first.

However, in their great wisdom, those whom we have elected to represent us want to fix the roof.

I’m not quite sure what reasoning is in place there.

To be sure, there is a great deal of hot air up on the roof.

We see the hot air, the flash, the rot taking place at the top.

But at the bottom, there is just the cracked foundation.

Working harder every day as it’s structure becomes weaker.

To us, those who work hard, pay taxes, and are affected every time we go to the grocery store.

Every time we get gas.

Every time we pay our bills.

Every single time we shake our heads sadly as we pay higher taxes, so the government can earn revenue.

Our foundation becomes no longer cracked, but torn.

We become uncertain how much more we can support before collapse becomes imminent.

We watch in dismay as our tax dollars we struggle to pay go to companies who arrive in corporate jets to beg for more money.

We gasp as we hear that our hard earned and honestly paid in taxes fund a combined $700,000 trip for AIG executives to some ritzy retreat few of us could ever dream of, much less afford.

We shake our heads in disgust as UAW members on top.

Elected to speak for the many.

Refuse to concede their high wages so that millions of their brethren can keep their jobs.

Consider for a moment, if you will.

What passing out the 700 billion bailout package would have meant had each taxpayer gotten the roughly $160,000 of their dollars paid to them.

What would we have done?

I cannot help but think we would’ve have paid on our mortgages, troubled or otherwise, in essence helping the banks.

I’m sure some would do some much needed home renovations, adding to the construction trade, as well as the need for materials involved in home repair.

I also feel we most likely would have either fixed our present vehicles, paying struggling mechanics.

Or bought new vehicles, keeping the auto industry a bit better afloat.

Grocery and department stores would have gotten more than their fair share of money, as the bail out took place shortly before the holiday season.

No doubt some of us would have bought stocks while they are selling cheap.

Apparently those who govern us are as bad at logical thinking as they are at math.

After all, the 700 billion has not fully been accounted for.

As the foreclosures increase, the great minds in our government who claimed to be working to assist troubled mortgage holders, abandoned that plan.

They decided instead to shore up banks, with the intent that banks would lend more money.

In return for their investment, Bank of America refused to extend lending to a Chicago door and window factory, leaving the workers nothing to do but stage a sit in.

They even sent some money to credit card companies….predatory lenders at best, soul sucking nightmares at worst.

In return for that investment, credit card holders saw their limits shrink, and their late payments increase.

The rest of the money has not been accounted for to those of us footing the bill.

Some rather grand talk on Capitol Hill has been bandied about.

Making sure the taxpayers are repaid at some future date, and with no firm plans in place on how to do so.

I just wonder.

What will happen when the crack in the foundation is beyond repair?

When those of us who bear the burden can bear no more.

When the foundation gives way and the home tumbles.

Who will be left among us?

Will those left endeavor to build the roof first?

Or make a solid and lasting foundation that will not crack as the years pass?

The clock is ticking.

What remains to be seen is if time will tell our tale.

I’m truly appreciative for teachers.

Really, I am.

I’ve had experiences as a student, and then 15 years and still going strong with my own children.

My major issue is the money the school system seem to suck out of me every year.

I was not aware, as a child, how much my parents paid, any more than my own children are cognizent of it.

But oh, how I pay.

Suzanne and I were talking about it the other day.

She happened to mention that her daughter has no less than five teachers she is buying for.

Incredulous, I inquired WHY she was buying them gifts.

After all, nowadays it seems to me that we are asked to contribute towards gifts for teachers by their various assistants and sycophants, so it seemed a useless gesture to me.

Then again, perhaps I’ve just absorbed my husband’s tendency to be cheap over the years.

All I know is that throughout the year, now I am not only asked to contribute financially to field trips.

But this year, I have been inundated at every field trip opportunity with requests to donate or contribute more money.

I understand some students might be in need, and their parents might not have the funds necessary to contribute.

Isn’t that why I pay various taxes which tack on a handy school fee, which increases every year?

Isn’t that why I pay school fees others do not have to pay, owing to their financial status?

Are there not government education funds available to assist those in need, so that they might enjoy the same opportunities their classmates enjoy?

Holidays are the worst,  in my humble opinion.

I have received requests for money, food, drinks, art supplies, and other miscellaneous things no less than twice a week since November, and it’s getting old fast.

It’s to the point my husband and myself are throwing our change in a jar.

As soon as we throw it in, we know we will be parceling it out for yet another field trip.

I hope using change irritates those receiving it as much as it irritates me to pay it.

I really do.

Then there are fundraisers.

Endless fundraisers, held every other month of the school year.

I have received these sell candy/gifts/magazines fund raising ventures for a solid fifteen years.

I’m sure you are aware there are always prizes your child cannot live without offered in exchange for a vast amount of orders.

I played the game, and brought my son’s candy sale sheet to my workplace.

At the time, I was a operator, and many people signed up to help my son win a big enough prize to shut him up.

When it came time to submit payment for goods sold, I had one colleague who was a little short, and so waited one day past the deadline to submit that person’s funds to the sum total.

Only to reel in shock when my son came home and told me that his prize was forfeit because he was a day late.

Not a dollar short, mind.

A day late.

From that moment on, I didn’t quite spit upon these fund raising schemes, but I most certainly have never given into another child’s pleading to do it again.

The materials for fund raising literally come out of my son’s backpacks, and into the trash, without so much as a glance.

My peeve here, of course, is that if you are raising so many funds, why is it I continue to pay more and more as the years go on?

The materials needed are not that much more expensive.

So I guess I would have to deem it schoolflation.

Not to mention the total annoyance involved when all the children on your block get the same fund raising materials and you know and dread them coming to ask if you want to buy something.

I never do.

I used to feel guilty about that, but I don’t anymore.

It’s the strangers that bother me the most.

Big, brawny high school guys peddling magazines so they can win a trip to fornicate all they want on Spring Break.

Pretty, unbelievably thin teenage girls who want you to make their entire LIFE by purchasing stationary.

The latter is worse than the former.

I can BURY a high school guy who gets any ideas about robbery or assault.

The cute cheerleader types only remind me of my age and plumpness.

My neighbors actually assist these strange high schoolers,  patrolling my neighborhood.

In fact, they send these kids on a mission over to my home immediately.

Why they think I’m a soft touch is beyond me.

After all, I have on occasion called them and their children pieces of shit to their faces.

On one particular occasion, my neighbor, Splat sent a girl over.

Perkiest little thing I’ve ever seen.

I agreed to purchase a couple magazines after commenting I could subscribe myself and save a great deal.

Upon that comment, I was told what good it would do the school, where the money was going, and all in the most chirpy presentation I myself have ever encountered.

I signed the check and turned it over.

Then I ushered her politely to the door, replying to her chirping all the way.

As soon as she was out of the door, I looked at the purchase I had made.

I located the refund section.

Without one qualm of guilt, I filled out the refund form, and sent it in.

The girl had, upon my completing my check, given me a tag to put on my door to prevent other kids schilling the same magazines from visiting me.

I cheerfully put that up.

Then I got on the phone to my neighbor.

I warned Splat in the direst of terms not to ever send kids over to my house again.

As luck would have it my kids were arriving off the bus at the same time.

I sorted through the requests for money, construction paper, and cheese crackers.

I won’t lie.

I had a smile on my face the whole time.

I finally got my chance to stick it to the school system.

I sure hope they liked it as much as we do…

I am often approached by young gals and guys, eager to know if they are about to get into a committed relationship.

It is with them in mind I post this blog regarding what true commitment often entails.

True commitment isn’t about being cute together, everlasting happiness, or gazing into one another’s eyes for eternity.

True commitment means staying up and holding her hair when she’s puking her guts out, be it drunk or down with a bout of flu, then administering the pepto bismo yourself to help her.

True committment means picking up and even using the applicator when his hemorrhoids are acting up. As a added bonus, you get to clean the applicator after you are done.

True committment means knowing when she says “Nothing” is wrong, something is wrong. Unfortunately, you are going to have to take it like a man and “talk it out.”

True commitment means giving oral when your partner hasn’t showered recently.

True commitment means knowing you can provide your kid’s Christmas, while you and your partner go without.

True committment means you pick up her tampons while visiting the store alone. Even if there is a price check on the damn things.

True committment is watching your partner give birth and shit while she does so. Months later, you’ll go down on that. Of your own free will.

True commitment is having a raging bladder infection, and putting out anyhow. When your partner notes how hot your hoo ha is, you smile and take it like the true woman you are.

True commitment is picking up whatever your wife craves, whenever she craves it, no matter how fucked up it might be…or at what hour it’s demanded.

True commitment is turning to one another in the midst of a financial crisis, not knowing how you will make it, only that you will make it. Together.

True commitment is waking up together, and smiling secretly as your nude wife heads towards the bathroom, scratching her ass on the way. Yeah, you hit that…and are happy you do.

True commitment means you get used to your partner scratching his balls when the urge strikes. Be it with guests present, while out grocery shopping, or at your mother’s house.

True commitment means you watch shows with a lot of gunfire with your man, cringing as you do so.

True commitment means you watch nauseating romances with your woman, wincing as you do so.

True commitment is threatening to beat the shit out of someone else’s wife…because she insulted your wife.

True commitment is knowing your partner hates sorting socks. So you sort socks so they don’t have to, even though you secretly hate those little fuckers, too.

True commitment means telling her that outfit makes her ass looks bigger than a elephant’s.

True commitment is thanking him when he tells you your ass looks bigger than a elephant’s.

True commitment means exercising and dieting together. Even though you would willingly rip out a random guy’s throat for a snicker’s bar, you refrain from verbally or physically assaulting your partner.

True commitment is NOT withholding sex for power. On that path lies danger.

True commitment is your partner telling you his mother’s cookies taste better than your’s do. Instead of being insulted, you try harder, and come up with the superior cookie. Eternal smugness ensues.

True commitment means going to your partner’s family reunion.

True commitment means hating blue cheese dressing, which your partner loves. After he eats it, you kiss him anyway.

True commitment is listening all year for your impossible to buy for partner, then scrimping and saving to get that ONE thing they mentioned they wanted, just to see the surprise on their face.

True commitment means on a sweltering night when the air conditioner busts, you give him a sponge bath with a cool cloth to keep him comfortable. If you do a good job, you might get lucky.

True commitment means when your partner faints and pukes on your hands, you catch her anyway. Then you help wash her hair, if that’s what you caught her by.

True commitment means cutting his toenails. Even if they seem to leap of free will into your mouth, eyes, or other vulnerable orifices.

True commitment is finally trying the swedish meatball recipe he makes that you avoided for literally years. You love it, and your partner doesn’t hold it against you…except for that really weird gleam in his eye’s every time he makes it….hmmm, eternal smugness ensues.

True commitment means not faking orgasms. Ever.

True commitment is sincerely wanting to know when he comes home silent and taciturn, and seeking to find out. Not for curiosity, but simply because you love him enough to find out and make him feel better in whatever way you can.

True commitment means matching the indentations and cuts on your lower leg with his toenails to prove he kicked the shit out of you in bed the night before. Helpless giggles on both sides ensue.

True committment is dozing off into a peaceful night’s rest. Only to be jerked awake when your partner decides she wants to talk. Instead of taking the end table and beating her unconscious, you say yes in all the right places til she shuts the hell up, and you can finally get to sleep.

True commitment dictates through the years, you will each tell one another the same story roughly ten thousand times. Neither of you mind, and in some cases, encourage the retelling.

True commitment really does dictate you will see your partner lose a loved one. You will cradle their head in your arms while they cry. You will drop everything, spend your last penny, get a loan if you have to, to make sure they won’t miss the funeral, the final good bye.

True commitment is seeing your partner age and suffer through the indignities time places upon us all. You will turn your partner, if you must, every two hours to prevent bedsores. You will read to your beloved with Alzheimer’s and remind them of the good times, the bad times, anything to keep just a little bit of them with you.

True commitment is knowing one will outlive the other. How you face that truth is up to you.

In truth, true commitment is when the honeymoon ends.

When real life begins, so do responsibilities.

There are prices to be paid with the beginning of real life and responsibilities.

The same is true of real commitment.

So to those young guys and gals out there looking for ‘true’ commitment.

What price are you willing to pay?