EW. And Other Stuff

Yannow, when I titled the post about same sex couples parenting, I was going for something that would grab the attention of the reader. Maybe even shock them. I thought it was an important topic and I wanted people to read what I had to say.

But then one of my commenters had to go and bust the sparkling irridescent bubble of my Google innocence by remaking that the title of my post was sure to result in some interesting search terms on my statcounter.

Of course, she was right, and I've had many folks, both foreign and domestic, but oddly mostly from far flung foreign locales, (is everyone from Malaysia a pervert and where the hell is Ljubljana?) land on my blog searching for content about Mom's kitty kat.

That's gross, but it doesn't necessarily surprise me. I've been around the net. I know what's out there.

But clearly Freud's detractors, who declared his theory about the Oedipus complex to be poppycock, would be dismayed by the savagery and depravity of the human jungle that is the world wide web.

I doubt their Victorian sensibilities could have withstood the shock.

Savvy and jaded as I am, however, the search term "child p*ssy love" gave me a bit of a lurch in the stomachal region.

So even though my boy's do not posess the proper anatomy to gratify this particular brand of pervert, there are plenty of predators that do prefer little boys.

That is why I don't put pictures of my children on my blog. And that is why I will, in the future, be more judicious about my use of gratutious sexual slang in my post titles.

Ew.

In other news, my oldest child and my spouse are in man heaven. They are playing Guitar Hero on our new 50 inch television. They are practically ejaculating.

Currently, they are fumbling through rocking "Barracuda". I simply cannot take it. I have a low tolerance for noise anyway, and whining guitars are like fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

You know that bit at the end of Freebird? I know, I know, it's one of the greatest pieces of musical artistry ever perpetrated by a guitarist. But it makes me suicidal. And right now, the continual discordance of wrong notes is making me want to jam a fork in my ears until they bleed.

Seriously, as we speak, I am rummaging in my side table drawer for an implement to hasten my descent in to blissfull silence. Yathink an emory board would suffice?

Karen Carpenter crooning "We've Only Just Begun" is much more my speed. I really do dig The Carepenters.

For those who asked, I think June is going to go above my bed. This will necessitate some painting, for our room is currently a sickly shade of 1957 mint green, and June simply cannot reside upon a wall that is not painted some suitably warm and citrusy hue.

I know you are waiting to hear the results of my Strike experiment. I will sit down and write about it for you when my brain is not addled by sleep deprivation. Diminutive One is ill and I've been up all night watching his toss and turn in a feverish frenzy.

Even when they're big, it's distressing to see them flushed and lethargic. And even when they're big, the doctor debate still occurs. Do I take him? Do I not take him? He feels rotten and I hate to subject him to a long wait in the emergency room or an immediate care clinic unnecessarily. On the other hand...well, I don't like the other hand, but we Moms always have to consider it don't we?

To whomever it was who recommended Pat Conroy as a Southern Writer worth reading...thank you. I'm currently reading "Prince Of Tides" and his writing is absolutely delicious.

To those of you who recommended I give "Fountainhead" a try...well, I did try. I couldn't read it. Perhaps I'm not intellectual enough, but I was bored to tears. That happened with Madame Bovary and Wuthering Heights as well. I found Heathcliff not to be tragically and romantically truculent, but rather, a churlish boor.

Still, I'm going to try "Atlas Shrugged" and see if I can muddle through it. I have some pathological need to say that I read Ayn Rand and loved it.

Happy Weekend to you all.