Squeak’s Squeals

Generally speaking, I try to avoid discussing politics here at the ol’ blog, but in my advancing age, I’ve become compelled to start forcing my opinions on others as well.  Please bear in mind, any flaming comments will be declared spam and my mad little Akismet baby will never let you post again.  Anyway… on with it!

Today, I would like you all to bow your heads and observe a moment of silence in memory of the die-hard, tie-dye clad, poetry-writing, wannabe hippie, liberal who once lived within me (back in my college days, when I thought it cool that the President was getting his strange).  For, this morning, I am publicly confessing that come November, my vote shall be cast for the McCain/Palin ticket.*

“But why, Squeaky, why!?” I hear you cry through your sobbing, looking at me with those giant, tear-filled, anime eyes.  “Do you really feel that John McCain can effectively lead this great nation?”

No, my children.  I think John McCain is an embalmed corpse being kept alive by some radioactive, intergalactic technology emitted by Dick Cheney’s brainwaves.

“Then, why, Squeaky!?” I hear you plead.

Because I think Sarah Palin is a member of the Alaskan Eskimo Society of Gubernatorial Ninjas.  I think this woman kicks some serious ass.  And I’d be willing to bet if she accidentally shoots someone in the face on a drunken hunting trip, they won’t live to joke about it.

Honestly, any woman who can survive five pregnancies, five deliveries, a household with five children, run an entire state AND thrive in the barren wasteland that is Alaska, can certainly accomplish as much on a bad day as the ol’ Dick-n-Bush have accomplished, in a combined effort, in the last eight years.

A comment was made to me earlier this week… something to the effect of ‘Do we really want a menopausal woman with her finger on a button that could annihilate half the globe?’  My answer: Hell, yes!  What’s more frightening than a middle-aged woman having a hot flash on a bad hair day with baby vomit on her clothing, standing on a bear skin rug she shot, skinned and tanned herself?  Catch her on the wrong day and some little, previously unheard of country suddenly disappears from the face of the planet as a warning to the others to keep their asses in line.  Besides which, the woman JUST had a baby.  She’s not menopausal yet.

“But, Squeaky, do you agree with her viewpoints on the issues?” I hear you inquire.

No, young Jedi, aside from her opinions on the death penalty, I do not agree with her stance on much else.

“Then why, Squeaky?” You ask again.  And put away those anime eyes.  They’re getting annoying.

Because she has opinions.  That’s it.  Simple as that.  This woman actually has hard and fast opinions.  There seems to be no one behind her, pulling a string, with a hand in her ass, or floating above her in a spaceship telling her what to say and when to say it.  She very simply states exactly what she believes.

Example:

Is she pro-choice or pro-life?  Pro-life.  Even if her own child will ride a short bus.  Abortion is not an option.  She states it.  And she lives it.  And I respect that.  Even if I dont’ agree with it.

“But, Squeaky,” I hear you say, “what about the feminists who think she should stay home with her children?”

HAHAHAHAHA!  My dear, gentle readers, these people are not feminists at all!  These are poor, misguided souls who aren’t sure who they are or what they believe.  “Women should not have to stay in the home and take care of the children!  Women should be able to venture out of the kitchen and into the workforce!  Having children should not hinder a woman’s right to grow and develop and become who and what she wants to be!  Women can do whatever a man can do!”….. but apparently ONLY if that woman is a liberal.  What a crock of bullshit.  Anyone subscribing to this philosophy and calling themselves a feminist, is nothing more than a hypocrite.

“But what’s wrong with Barrack Obama?” I hear you whisper among yourselves.

He is the devil, my sweet babies, nothing more than Lucifer himself.

And is it just me, or does Governor Palin look an awful lot like Detective Benson?

*This statement is subject to change at a moment’s notice anytime between now and November.

Want more political nonsense?  Head on over to humor-blogs.com.

I have been sick the last few days. Yesterday, my temperature peaked at 103(F). This morning, it was still at 102. The bottom line: I feel poopy.

But life must go on and since I was not spewing forth nastiness from any of my orifices, I went about my daily routine as usual.

• Feed kids: Check.

• Everyone dressed: Check.

• Kids on the bus: Check.

• Car keys: Check.

• Four fully-inflated tires: um… well…

I had a flat. Not just a low-on-air flat. A pancake-on-a-rim flat. In my driveway.

I started digging through the car. I pulled out the dummy tire. I pulled out the pathetic looking little jack from the secret Subaru jack compartment. I looked it over. I put it down. WTF!? I don’t know how to use it. I’ve never seen one like it.

I went inside and called the office. “Boys, I’m gonna be late. I don’t know how late. Just late. Really, really late.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bull, our resident tech.

“I’m stuck in a catch 22 at the moment. I have a flat tire and a jack I don’t know how to use. I can’t afford to pay someone to change my tire until I get my paycheck and I can’t get my paycheck until I get the tire changed so I can get to the office.”

“No problem,” my savior replied. “I have an appointment out your way in half an hour, I’ll swing by and change that tire for you when I’m done.”

“You, sir, are my freakin’ hero!” I replied.

I wandered around the house, straightening and tidying for about an hour, but there was no sign of Bull. I called his cell… his appointment was taking longer than expected, he had no clue how soon he’d get to my place.

Time for Plan B. The Internet. (Now, I realize with every blog post I write, I prove myself more and more the dumb blond I try NOT to be, but if it didn’t end with me doing something completely bizarre or utterly stupid it wouldn’t make much of a story, now would it?) So, I hopped on the internet and looked up instructions on how to use my weird little car jack contraption.

I changed my tire. All by myself. I was so proud! And all while running a fever that could fry an egg.  Now, if I could just get the grease monkey marks off my hands…..

Humor-blogs.com: More tales of personal achievement from short bus riders.

The condensed story:

Men suck and I am outraged.

The back story:

Yesterday, I completed a site for a local, high-ranking political figure which included information on a special task police team.  For the site, I was responsible for the full design, full code and full back-end CMS development.  A link to the completed work was forwarded to the officer in charge of said special task police team, we’ll call him “Officer Sludge.”  Officer Sludge called my office this morning.  As luck would have it, I - ironically - answered the phone.

Little known - and apparently surprising - facts:

1. I am 100% female.

2. I write code for a living.

3. Roget’s defines “sludge” as ‘a viscous, usually offensively dirty substance.’

The call:

Sludge: “Hiya, sweetie, I was looking at this website and they asked me to look over the section about my special task team.  I can’t find a link to my team anywhere.”

Me: “At the very top of the screen, there is a menu.  It should say Home, About, Enforcement, Assistance and Education.”

Sludge: “All mine says is Education with a blue box behind it.”

Me: “Is the link on the far right side of the screen?”

Sludge: “No.  It’s the first thing on the left.”

Me: “What internet browser are you using?”

Sludge: “Sweetheart, I’m a cop.  I don’t sit in front of a computer all day.  I have no idea what you just said.”

Me: “If you look at the very top of the window, there should be a little picture.  Does it look like a blue E?  Or is it more of a blue circle with orange around the bottom?  Or is it something else entirely?”

Sludge: “Honey, I don’t know what a ‘window’ is.  Where do I find it?”

Me: “Are you in front of the computer now?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Are you looking at the website?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Okay.  You know the box where you type in the website address you want to go to?”

Sludge: “Yeah.  The one that says ‘http://www….’?”

Me: “That would be the one.  Either just above it or just below it, you should see a line of menu options: File, Edit, History, Tools, Help and so on….”

Sludge: “Yeah.  I see em.”

Me: “Good.  Click on ‘Help’.”

Sludge: “Okay.”

Me: “There should be a little menu that drops down.  What does the LAST line on that menu say?”

Sludge: “It says ‘About Internet Explorer.”

Me: “Great!  Your internet browser is Internet Explorer!  Now, click on the words ‘About Internet Explorer’ for me.”

Sludge: “Okay.  It gave me a little box.”

Me: “Good.  Somewhere in that box, it should give you a version number.  Can you read it off for me?”

Sludge: “It says ‘Version: 5.0. ……..”

Me: “Okay.  That would explain why the site is not displaying properly.  It was designed for use in Internet Explorer 7.”

Sludge: “Look, sweet cheeks, I have no idea what you are rattling on for.  My problem is I can’t see what I need to see on the website.  What I need is to talk to the guy who’s working on it.”

Me: “You got him.”

Sludge: “What!?  You’re a woman!  Jeezus!  [short pause] How about this: I’ll find out how to get my hands on this number 7 you’re talking about, then I’ll call you back.  I don’t want to makes things too hard for you to understand.”

Me: “You do that, sir.  Might I suggest you start your quest for the number 7 at microsoft.com?  Although, I could go back and modify the code to make it compliant with your current version.”

Sludge: “No!  No.  Dont’ do that.  No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”

The commentary:

Hmm…. where to begin?  Do I dare begin?  Do I make light of the situation?  Or do I go on a full-fledged feminazi rant about how men need to have their wankers firmly attached to their thighs via heavy-duty carpet staples and undergo involuntary estrogen infusions?

Now, don’t go getting your frilly, lace thongs in a bunch, fellas.  I know full well that not ALL men feel the way Sludge feels.  And I truly, TRULY appreciate those men.  My outrage here comes from the knowledge that men like Sludge STILL exist.

Honestly, WTF!?  Is this 1952?  Am I supposed to be donning a house dress and curlers while baking bread and planning a rummage sale for the PTA?  Give me a freaking break!  The simple fact that I have tits is NOT a reason to treat me like an uneducated, incompetent moron!

My absolute favorite part of the conversation (aside from being called a multitude of pet names)?  “No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”  That’s my favorite part.  Cuz, y’know, I’m only the SAME woman who went in and made it work in the first place.  But that was alright because it was assumed I had a nutsack.

Start YOUR search for the number 7 at humor-blogs.com.

My children. Oh, my children. I love them. I do. Very much. More than life itself, even. But the bottom line: I really don’t like them much at all. Except when they’re sleeping. Then they’re angels.

For those of you who have not yet experienced the joys of child rearing… well…. buyer beware. For those of you that have…. it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I believe Denis Leary said it best, “…immediately, when they hit age five, your life becomes about peace and quiet. You just want the fighting to stop.  Can’t we all just get along!?…” Can I get an ‘Amen!’ for Brother Leary?

I am pretty much convinced at this point that my children are indeed trying to see just how far they can take things before someone dies - them, me, the neighbor, a random groundhog - doesn’t matter who or what… so long as someone or something is dead when it’s over.

It’s as if I tucked them in one night - all cute and sweet and innocent and wonderful - and I awoke the following morning to find my house in the midst of a hostile takeover by a race of bipolar, mutant midgets.

Honestly, how many times should I really have to repeat the line, “No, you can’t have scissors,” before it sinks in?? Two, you might say. Perhaps five. Or ten. Or twenty-five. Oh, nay nay, my friends. It is a line that must be spoken, like a broken record in an abandoned building, one hundred and seventy times - elevating vocal volume every five repeats until finally you start to feel your skull crack (for I firmly believe arguing with children causes your skull to crack, which in turn allows tiny amounts of brain matter to seep out under your skin where it congeals and forms the lumps and lines that society perceives as ‘wrinkles’ while simultaneously making one utterly, ridiculously stupid). At this point, you just scream it, “NO! YOU CAN’T HAVE SCISSORS!” Just a note to those non-parental types out there: If the neighbors couldn’t hear it, you didn’t yell it loud enough.

Oft have my dreams wandered to a magical place in my head where the walls are all covered in massive pads of Velcro… and all children’s clothing is covered in opposing pads… where anytime, anywhere… you can stop, bend down, pick them up, stick them to the wall… and walk away. And they have mute buttons - hidden where they can’t reach them. And when they are whining, crying, kicking, screaming… throwing tantrums enough to make a colicky newborn stop and go, “Damn! What the f*%k’s HER problem!?”….. you can push the magic button and silence prevails. Ah, yes…. to dream…. though fleeting it may be…. And so it goes… that we live in our little dorky, parental bubbles where life is happy and quiet… and children are well-mannered, well-behaved and always clean…..

But alas, the time has come for me to leave the safety and security of my personal kid-free bubble and start the screaming over again…. this time it’s, “No, you can’t use super glue!” Let the fun begin! Whee!

Yeah... they're funnier than me over at humor-blogs.com.