I Bet it Loses Something in the Translation

Dear Commentor from last week,

I hope you won't mind my sharing this with the rest of my readers, but I couldn't resist because, honestly, this might be the nicest and most thoughtful thing anyone has ever said to me.


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Of course, it might also be the most shocking and despicable thing anyone has ever said to me, too. Without my Chinese to English dictionary, I'm really lost. Did you miss that part in my profile that said I am from Chicago and not Hong Kong? I once bought the Rosetta Stone Learn to Speak Chinese software, but my ADHD totally prevented me from opening the box for the longest time. Once I finally did open the box, I was distracted by all the crinkly cellophane-y wrapping stuff and the shiny CDs in there, so by the time I remembered what I was doing, I had changed my mind and decided to learn Swahili instead.

I'm sure you didn't realize that I would have absolutely no idea what it is you intended to say to me, but since I'm really working hard to assume positive intent behind every asshatted comment or post I read in my travels around the blogosphere, I'm going to assume you meant to say that you really like me and you think I'm pretty, and that you want to take me to see a show with you. And so to you, I say, "Why, thank you! How nice of you to think of me." Or, said another way, ":-)" and (((huge hugs))).

xo,
blognut

I'd Like a Muffin and a Tank of Gas With That

Dear Starbucks,

I just wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know how much I appreciated the free coffee this morning. I know you felt it was something you had to do since you made me wait about five frickin’ hours for a large, black coffee. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. In your language, that would be a venti bold black, with room. I’ll try to be more respectful of your chosen language.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or anything, but next time you make me wait five frickin’ hours for a venti bold black, with room, could you maybe give me something else for free in addition to the $2.27 coffee? How 'bout a nice muffin with that? Or maybe you could save making me wait five frickin’ hours for the days that I order a $32 item, like a venti triple-shot, Mocha-Jamocha-Bananarama-Ding-Ding with whipped cream and a cinnamon sprinkle.

Thanks,
blognut

PS Maybe you could install a gas pump in your drive-thru, too? That would really save me the stress of watching my gas gauge drop to nothing while I wait five frickin’ hours for my coffee.

If You Don't Like What You See, Don't Look!

I have another important life lesson for you, dear readers. It is one of those things that should be quite simple, and yet it is a lesson often overlooked.

See, the day started as it normally does with your round, blue friend struggling to get out of bed and then dragging herself to the shower with only one googly eye open. Once in the shower, she filled her one open googly eye with shampoo, nicked herself twice with the razor, stubbed her toe getting out of the shower, and wrapped herself in her warm, fuzzy, towelly-wrappy-thingy that is really just a bath sheet with Velcro at the top. A normal day in the making.

Then, having pried open that googly eye that wouldn’t open before, and closed the one that was still on fire from an unhealthy dose of shampoo, she made her way down the stairs, still wrapped in her towelly-wrappy-thingy and did what she always does - grabbed a cigarette and a Diet Pepsi and headed for the garage.

(Don’t judge. I don’t smoke that much and I don’t smoke in the house.)

(Okay.)

(I SAID OKAY!)

(I’LL QUIT TOMORROW... DAMMIT!)

So… out into the garage she goes, wearing only a towelly-wrappy-thingy, a cigarette, and a Diet Pepsi, bringing the two blognutian hound dogs with her.

WHO LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN?!!!

There was a landscaper’s truck parked right at the end of the driveway. There were three men RIGHT there.

The hounds? Called attention to us and ran to the three men. The hounds? Would not stop jumping on the three men and barking as though they aimed to make a lunch of them. The hounds? Had to be gathered by Blognut, still wearing only a towelly-wrappy-thingy, a cigarette, and a Diet Pepsi.

The lesson: While some might think the obvious lesson here is put some damn clothes on before you go outside, even if you think the garage door that should be closed is closed, ‘cause you have three kids and it could be open, that is not the case. No, the lesson is DON’T PARK YOUR DAMN TRUCK AT THE END OF MY DRIVEWAY AND THEN ACT LIKE A SCARED SCHOOLGIRL WHEN THE BLOGNUTIAN HOUND DOGS BARK AT YOU THEREBY FORCING BLOGNUT TO COME ALL THE WAY TO THE END OF THE DRIVEWAY TO POLICE UP THE HOUNDS WEARING ONLY A TOWELLY-WRAPPY-THINGY, A CIGARETTE, AND A DIET PEPSI.

That is all.

In Her Shoes

If we as a society understand that 1/3 of us have been or will be sexually assaulted in our lifetime, and that, as uncomfortable as it may make us to talk about it, we really can’t avoid having these conversations any longer, we can work to bring about a change that protects our children. This is a problem that belongs to all of us.

Many of you have been hearing or reading about Chelsea King in the news lately. What happened to her is a tragic story about a teenage girl who was attacked and murdered while out jogging near her home in California. As it turns out, the man charged with the crime in this case is a convicted sex-offender named John Albert Gardner III, who was pled out on a lesser crime for molesting and beating a 13-year-old girl back in 2000. Gardner is also the suspect in the attack and murder of another little girl by the name of Amber Dubois.

Through the use of careless words and/or direct finger-pointing, some people in the media and a few in Blogland, have effectively blamed the 13-year-old, her parents, and the prosecutors for reportedly “sparing” the child the trauma of testifying at a criminal trial by allowing Gardner to enter into a plea agreement that included five years in prison and three more on parole. Some people make it sound like the victim’s role after-the-fact is simple: testify against the attacker and everything will be fine. Make the victims understand that they have a responsibility to testify, get their parents to make them, don’t let the prosecutors plead out the case. I wish it were that simple, but I know it is not.

On one particular blog, this conversation sparked a passionate debate about placing blame on victims and whether or not victims have a responsibility to testify. Above everything else, there was one line in one comment that stuck with me, “…we all have our opinions. Opinions are not facts.” In fairness to the commenter, I don’t know what she meant by that or what is her opinion, I just know that my thoughts on this are more than opinion; for me, they are absolute facts. Although my situation was different, I was just this girl’s age when it happened to me and I’m pretty familiar with what it’s like to walk in her shoes.

Let me help you to really see that 13-year-old girl. She’s just been violently attacked and had things happen to her that she has no way of understanding. There is fear now where there wasn’t before. She’s only thirteen. Her whole world has been turned upside-down, she’s humiliated, degraded, and feeling feelings she cannot even name. She’s been robbed of her right to explore her sexuality on her own terms at her own pace. School dances and first kisses? Not the same. She feels different now; like she’s being judged by everyone and they can all see right into her soul, so she builds a wall around it. Any shot she had at having a normal adolescence is out the window. And did I mention the fear? It’s worth mentioning again. She doesn’t feel safe anymore and it’ll be a long time before she gets that back, if ever.

Can you see her? Now put yourself in her place and imagine how this conversation would go if they actually told her the truth:

Honey, we want you to get up in front of a crowd of strangers, and the man who did this to you, and tell everyone exactly what happened. Will you do it?

I won’t know what to say. Do I have to tell everything?

Yes, everything. Just the way it happened.

They’ll think it’s all my fault. They’ll think I’m bad for skipping school and going over to his house. They’ll say I should have stopped him if I didn’t like it.

Some people might think that, but not everyone will. You still need to tell them what he did.

I don’t know if I can. Will he be able to see me?

Yes, he will be in the courtroom, but so will a lot of other people so he won’t be able to hurt you. (In some jurisdictions today the answer will be): You can testify in front of a video camera in another room. You won’t have to look at him, but he will be able to see you on a television screen, and so will all of the people who have to be in the courtroom, and later anyone else who is working on this case.

So he will know that I told what happened?

Yes.

What’s going to happen to him if I tell?

Not much. We’re going to put him in jail for a little while, but he’ll be out shortly after you graduate from high school.

He’ll be mad. What if he comes back? Will he be able to find me?

I can’t promise he won’t.

And if I don’t testify?

Well, he’ll be out around the time you graduate from high school.

Do you see the problem? It isn’t whether or not she goes through with the horror of testifying; it’s the fact that the outcome is nearly the same either way. Our laws do not offer us long-term protection or a sense of safety. This is what we must fix first.

Think about it. John Albert Gardner III was sentenced to five years in prison and three more years of parole. What do you think he’d have gotten if the 13-year-old child had testified at his criminal trial? I did a little research on this and found that, on average, the sentences range from seven to eleven years; that’s just a short time longer than Gardner served without her testimony at trial. It would be naïve to think an additional couple of years behind bars would have rehabilitated him. The recidivism rates for these crimes are staggering and the more violent the crime, the higher the number. It’s been reported that sexual offenders often have as many as 200 victims during their lifetime. They do not stop.

If a victim knows that testifying against her attacker will keep her safe from him for the rest of her life, she may still say no. She may be unable to re-live the nightmare that she has been through, and God help us if we judge her for that decision, for it is hers and only hers to make. However, if she is considering testifying, don’t you think she’d be more likely to go through with it if we have one-strike sentencing laws for violent sexual offenders and she knows she never has to see him again?

We need to make it count when a victim tells her story. If we do, there will be far fewer stories to tell.

Can I Still Be Bitchy Without Damaging the Universe?

I know that I recently told all of you I was turning over a new leaf and taking a more positive outlook on things. I even said I was going to avoid throwing negativity out into the universe just in case that whole butterfly theory thing is true.

Also? I may have led you all to believe that I wasn’t going to rant anymore.

Heh.

Psych!

Honestly, I tried turning over a new leaf but I found a bug underneath it and, well, you know how I feel about those things. I dropped that leaf like a hot potato and fled the scene.

And the universe? Well, really, is it MY job to worry about a butterfly flapping its wings in Africa and causing an avalanche in Florida? Okay, maybe Florida is a bad example, but you know what I meant.

Anyhow, I have a story to tell you because it’s frustrating and just plain nuts.

No, it’s not about leaves. Geez! Get over the leaf thing and try to follow along, will ya’? (And you all say I have Attention Deficit Disorder?) (Ooh, shiney!)

I had someone I work with in the car with me yesterday when we passed a man holding up a sign that read, Homeless, will work for food! near a busy intersection.

This co-worker person? Said, “I wish those guys would just stay home instead of running around begging for food all the time.” Now I hate to be the pointer-outer of the bloody obvious, but I felt compelled to notify my heartless and apparently daft co-worker that homeless people may have a difficult time staying home, and that the majority of them probably wouldn’t be asking for help if they didn’t need it. I told her that she didn’t have to give them anything if she didn’t want to, but that they weren’t really bothering anyone by standing on that corner.

To this? She replied, “I have nothing against homeless people in general, they are fine in their place.”

After giving my head a severe beating on the steering wheel, I once again felt compelled to remind her that if they had a place they probably wouldn’t be homeless.

And then I rolled down my window and gave the guy a few bucks just to annoy her, and because it was the same few bucks I owed her for the coffee she had just bought for me.

When the guy took the money and thanked me, I pointed to my co-worker and said, “Don’t thank me, thank her. It’s her money.”

And then I chuckled for about half an hour.

Blognut, Blognut, Blognut, POOF!

We are now entering spring sports hell here at Blognut Manor. This is the time of year when I wonder why the miracle makers of modern science haven’t yet figured out how I can split myself into multiple blognuts and be everywhere at one time.

And they call themselves scientists?

Frankly I don’t know how they can sleep at night? Is there no end to the failures we will put up with from this sorry lot?

We can put men on the moon but we can’t put them there at the same time we can put them at a blognutian's soccer or baseball game? Or at their other blognutian's track meet?

WTF, man? What have these scientists been doing? It’s not like they are that busy doing anything else, is it? I mean, they’re dorks, right? How much time does it take them to get up in the morning, put on their big giant glasses, forget to brush their hair, and report to the laboratory?

They don’t have social lives, they hire people to cut their lawns, and they do most of their shopping online at mismatched-argyle.com.

By my ciphering, they have at least 20 hours a day to spend finding solutions to my problems. How hard can this be?

I’m even willing to work with them. I will settle for not being in two places at once as long as they can teleport me from one obligatory event to another and back again as often as I need to go. What? I AM REASONABLE!

I have just one thing to say to these scientific smart heads: Willy Wonka figured it out, so why can’t you?

The Easter Bunny Hates Me

I always thought the Easter Bunny was a little on the evil side.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m a little “out there” to be making such an accusatory statement about the Easter Bunny because, after all, he likes everybody. But he doesn’t like me and I think the sooner we all accept that, the better off we’ll be.

If you remember what happened to me last year, you’ll understand that Easter can get me a little stressed out because I tend to wait ‘til the last minute and then freak the hell out at the garbage that is left when I finally go out shopping. It wasn’t as bad this year because I shopped Thursday instead of Saturday, but it was close.

It started with me stressing out because Girl #1 wanted a new Twilight series movie in her Easter basket, something about a new moon and a bite in the neck, along with a whiny teenager who pines after her pasty-faced vampire of a boyfriend who should just hurry and up and bite her if you ask me. Now Girl #1 couldn’t text me the title of the movie she wanted so I’d have a record of it. Oh, no! That would be far too easy. Instead she told me when I was only half-listening and I heard something like, “Yadda, yadda, bite me, with previously deleted vampire scenes, blah, blah, three disc set, it has to come from Target, and if I don’t get it from the Easter Bunny, I will need to borrow $30 or I WILL DIE.”

Girl #2 wanted Harry Potter movies. Note the “s” in movies. She said something like, “I have movies 1, 4, and 6, so any or all of the rest will be fine.” Pffft. Who said anything about getting more than one?

And The Boy? Well, he wanted a pogo stick. Naturally. A pogo stick. YES, I’m quite serious! Where does one find a pogo stick, I ask? Does the Easter Bunny really have access to such things?

So my quest began. On Thursday. Just a few days before Easter and really the only day I had available to do any shopping at all. I went to Target and found out that Harry Potter movies are not actually numbered anywhere and you have to be familiar with the series in order to know which ones are 2, 3, and 5. There was a sea of Harry Potter movies, but I had no idea if they were the right ones or not, so I figured I’d come back to that challenge after I found the movie Girl #1 wanted.

They did NOT have a 3-disc set. Did NOT. They had a 1-disc set and they had a 2-disc set, but not the coveted, life-giving 3-disc set that simply had to be there or all teenage existence would come to a screeching halt, 3-disc set.

Christ on a pogo stick! (But not The Boy’s pogo stick, because Target didn’t have that either.)

So I went to another Target. Things were looking up at the other Target because they had the 3-disc Bite Me! Movie and they had a helpful boy at the camera counter who knew which Harry Potter movies to tell me to buy. They did not have a pogo stick. Not a single pogo stick.

I went to 2 toy stores, 3 sporting goods stores, and dared to cross the threshold at my local “other” store that may or may not be part of the evil empire of big box stores destroying America. No one had a pogo stick.

Apparently the Easter Bunny doesn’t have one either because one did not miraculously appear in The Boy’s Easter basket this morning. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m pretty sure there was bunny poop in my coffee this morning, I’d begin to wonder if the damn bunny was even real.