Sing it! Ding, Dong...

All over Oz, tiny people are dancing jigs around their televisions, Dick Cheney is hanging up his flying monkey suit...

Let's hope the people give the new wizard time to work with what's left, because he's got serious damage to repair, and the flying monkey brigade are not known for their patience...

Okay, I swore no more facebook.

There is this cousin of my father's, though. She is so unhappy about Obama being elected. I have other friends on Facebook that are, too. But this lady joins every freaking group that is protesting his election, his inauguration, his choice of towels for the white house. I have this overwhelming urge to tell her to suck it up, we let Dubya play with the football for eight long bloody years, and it's our turn again.

But she's old, and she just friended me because she's doing a family tree thing, and I guess it's not a bad thing to remember they are out there, and they re-elected Dubya even after he fucked it all up. She'll be my own little alarm clock reminding me to stay politically active. It makes me want to join stupid groups every day just so Obama's picture will show up on her profile--every day.

questionable names

You know I always enjoy reading the names of the colors on nail polish. They get so CREATIVE.

I think Febreze brought someone over from the nail polish industry over to name their new fragrances, but I have to be honest. I know when they named it Moroccan Bazaar, they were thinking exotic spices, a grand adventure kind of vibe. But I picture Sweaty North Africa, crowded bazaar, and third world plumbing.

You?

Again with the Facebook, Jennifer?

I know it's a cop out to not blog in forever, and then blog about Facebook. It's like trying to talk through your relationship issues with the other woman, no?

But it's such an interesting phenomenon! I've always used my bloggy blog to track my life, my REAL life, and it's public, so anyone could stumble upon it, but no one is really interested, and that works out for me. My brother knows it exists and stops by once in a blue moon, but I showed it to my folks, and they didn't really express an interest. I'm okay with that, it's kind of freeing. The Honey knows it's here, and he could read it at any time, but I am not a big secret keeper, so I'm okay there.

I type my thoughts to vent, and to keep my brain from atrophying because trash is just not that stimulating. But I also don't shy away from the suckier aspects of my life. I'm always a little taken aback when I go back a re-read my blog posts because I seem to be a bitter and ranting girl, which is not my day to day REAL life nature.

What I find funny is the nature of Facebook, which is a little more like the family Christmas letter. Everything's sunny and happy on Facebook. Former classmates have fabulous black and white photos, looking sleek and urbane, living the cocktail party existence... OR black and white and funkadelic, cool in that hipster way I never did pull off (Yes, Kris, that's YOU!).

I wanna put a photo of me with piles of laundry, hair still as frizzy and UNstyled as ever, maybe throw Little O hanging off of one arm as I cry at Big O's report card.

What a horrifying thought--am I like the Roseanne of Facebook?

Mexican food is trying to kill me.

Remember the habanero eye?

Now I have Posole Thumb.

At the Brother in law's last night, fishing in a pot that was, I kid you not, three feet tall, sitting on top of the stove, using a ladle that was about ten inches long. Terrified I was going to pull up a snout or a big hairy ear.

I'm scooping up hominy, and fire engine red broth, hominy and broth. Getting full, looking for a way to set the ladle down on my left without spilling the soup in my left hand. Turns out, I don't need to work about it, because the stupid styrofoam bowl folded in half, and scalding posole starts running steadily over my thumb, down my palm, and back into the pot. It's nice to be efficient. I kept thinking it was over, because the bowl would stabilize, but then it would cave in again.

I stand out at these family affairs no matter what, but I stood there torn, because while I really wanted to scream and just drop the bowl, my sister in law spent all frigging day cleaning her kitchen to a spotless--sterile--environment. That shit, in addition to never ever coming out of my clothes, would be all OVER her kitchen.

If I dropped the bowl into the soup, the soup was hot enough that I could envision it melting away before I got it back out, thereby ruining the SIL's pot of soup large enough to feed many third world countries, and the entire menu for her par-tay. So in the end, I very carefully poured the hominy back into the pot and ran cold water over my hand. Which felt delicious, until it occurred to me that I really couldn't stand at the sink all night. As soon as I stopped the water, my thumb was throbbing again. I am proud that I didn't cry, even when I went to the bathroom so I could run water over it some more in private. Today I have a lovely blister/callus that runs from the tip of my thumb to the first knuckle, covering about a quarter of the surface of the thumb. Under the thumbnail is kinda tender, too.

Last night was kind of a sucky throbbing thumb, but I did find someone to play Scrabble with at the other sister in law's house (where fucking posole was also served).

How was your New Year's Eve?