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The R Word

The latest over at Momversation, inspired by the trifecta of Rahm Emmanuel, Sarah Palin, and Rush Limbaugh:

My whole thing is this: I don't like assigning value to inanimate objects. Words, guns, asparagus, whatever. It gives the person a free pass on responsibility and intent. Motives, actions, not the tools is where the scrutiny lies. Also, I hate political correctness. In an edited-out portion of what I recorded, I mentioned that the word "retard" was never intended to be used as a pejorative and how people should take back such words with benign beginnings instead of allowing cruel people to use them against others; rather than give up the right to use those words as they way in which the word was intended. Doing so sends a message to the community and it sends a message to those who would bully any community.

What I dislike even more than political correctness, though, is intentionally hurting someone else.  
The latest for Momversation at the bottom; it's all about slutty and gory kids' costumes. I wrote about this last year and still proclaim that the teen wolf costume is the best. It's taken a year, but Ewan is finally over his Grim Reaper phase. I am finally over my drunk clown hobo mail worker phase.

I blamed my parents. All their idea. 

My mother did it

I am wearing a Schlitz beer t-shirt, yes. Here's another shot. Parties offended: six - actual hobos, Schlitz employees, AB employees (did I mention that I dragged around a string of empty Budweiser cans?), clowns, postal workers, and the homeless. 

OH, and then there was THIS GEM:

Zombie in fashionable 80s tunic-dress

I'm not crafty like Giyen is; I could knit a costume I suppose but it would take several years and the finished product would look like a giant body sock with the arms all out of sorts, I'm positive. as you can see from the photo above, I always made my own costumes, which I still think is cool to do, it's just a bit easier when your kids are older, perhaps. My mother likes to get the kids their costumes and I'm sure would never dream of dressing them us as drunk hobos. 

The boys are going as Jango and Boba Fett, though Liam is careful to make the distinction: "He's my clone son, but only when the costumes are on."

This installment of Momversation is all about how the majority of Halloween costumes - kids' costumes - have lost all imagination. Seriously, put "dead" or "slutty" in front of something and voila! COSTUME. 


I know things have been light here a bit; things have been a bit weird at home. 

OK, a LOT weird. 

I'm dealing with a lot of things right now, like this, and when you get various threats simply for exercising your First Amendment rights, the last thing you want to do is put out a glimpse of what is going on in your private life right now. 

I'm feeling too many things at the moment to put into words. How weird it is to be a blogger and part-time radio host and have to have help with your security because people don't like dissent? It's messed up. I'm expected to not talk about such things here. On my own website. Because I get hatemail and it gives the folks who don't know me but like to gossip on their sites anyway more fuel. 

I'm accepted and liked by some not as a whole person but only as a part. It was fine until bits of another facet of me began to pop up here and there in things I'd written. It's all good so long as I deny a part of who I am for the comfort of those who profess diversity. There needs to be more open-mindedness in this country. 

This site cannot be a respite for me if I'm expected to act like everything that's gone on in the past several weeks hasn't happened. It can't be good reading, either, if I have to censor myself. 

These are weird times. 

(If some of my photos don't come up it's because I changed the permissions on them. Sorry.)

Diamoads are a girl's best friend

Diamoads are a girl's best friend

Taken somewhere along Interstate 44. I love motel signs. They remind me of the summer I spent with my parents in a cheap motel in Branson where we all crammed into one room under the window AC, the curtains were gold, the beds' headboards were flocked, and the little balcony overlooking the parking lot was barely a foot across and covered in cheap, Easter grass AstroTurf. One of the best summers ever.

 *A great email from Tom:


You're younger than me so I don't know if you remember the old Diamonds. It became the Tri County Truckstop. It is at the intersection of 100 West and Rt. 66. It was closed and abandoned about a year ago and sits lonely and quiet now. When I was a kid it and the new Diamonds were special. They meant ROADTRIP. Sitting in the backseat of my grandpa's big old Chrysler just shaking with excitement because we were going fishing at the farm in Stanton. Or going with Mom and Dad to Lake of the Ozarks or Branson. Just being on 66 with the tacky signs and the old beat up businesses with dancing chicken machines and junky toys to look at was as much fun as the place we were heading to. The whining we could do in hopes of somebody buying some piece of crap toy for us that would be broken by the time we got to wherever we were going. No AC in the car meant windows down and the smell of every farm we passed in. Dad sipping on a cold beer (because it wasn't socially irresponsible then, just part of being an American Dad), Mom wearing a scarf, maybe with curlers and my brother and I loving life in the backseat.

I live close to 66 and travel it nearly everyday. It still means freedom and opportunity. It still makes me feel like my America might be out there someplace. Just biding her time.


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Dana asks: "Thanksgiving Traditions: Yours or Your Mother's?"