I’m not very good with things ending. Or change. Or wrapping anything in bubble wrap, because, while many have suggested I attempt to live in a bubble, you can clearly see why this is not feasible for someone as “graceful” as I:

That was last night’s performance of “Why Becky Should Never Touch Anything, Ever.”

When I was pregnant with Alex, a new Mexican restaurant opened up nearby, much to my delight. Somehow, barfing up Mexican food was easier than, say, Italian, which meant that once I’d been there, I was hooked.

The next time we tried to go, the place was closed. Out of business? Afraid of scary pregnant ladies who want extra! salsa! and meat? I don’t know. But I do know that I spent the next few days SAD about it – it was good, nice family owned place (which I love) and the food was amazing. Chicago and the food we have, man, it’s incredible.

There’s just something about saying goodbye, or being unable to say goodbye to something I once really liked that makes me sad in the pants.

Watching the ash (ass) tree in front of my house be slowly killed by the Emerald Ash Borer (Ass Boner) was horrifying to someone like me. “Why can’t they put it out of it’s misery?” I’d sit out my window and wonder. If only I’d managed to start spraying for a bug I had no idea would be causing a plague on our (houses) trees back before they’d known the Ass Boner would be destroying the trees lining my street, maybe I could’ve saved it. Or, at the very least, I could’ve tried, and known that I’d done my level best to deal with the dying.

I didn’t because we can’t prepare for these sorts of things.

I grow roses, because I’m a nerd and, well, it runs in my blood. The roses, not the nerddom, although one could make a case for either, I suppose. I spend an inordinate amount of time preparing my roses for the plagues on THEIR houses, and still, I’ll go out and shake my fist at blackspot, before I wander back indoors – annoyed – to get my gardening tools and other sundries.

The tree is gone.

Last week, or perhaps it was the week before, the tree people came and took the branches, half-dead, down, chainsaws whirring, while I sat back in my chair, working on this or that, and felt a peace wash over me.

I’d said my goodbyes to the tree and I knew that it was time.

Time to move on.

The sadness I’d felt over the loss of my beloved tree, over the things that are over, they have been replaced by a new feeling, a reminder of sorts: while some things are put to bed, forever lost, others will go on. New places. New people. New experiences. New life.

I may never be the sort of person who celebrates the death of something I love. I may always find change to be overwhelming and scary. I may never be able to easily say goodbye without weeping. But that’s okay.

The things that are over are gone forever.

But others, so many others, they go on.

Even walls fall down.

Her: “Morning slore.”

Me: “Hey Girl.”

Her: “Hahahaha!. You just went all Ryan Gosling on me.”

Me: “Hey giirrrll – I’ll be the cheese to YOUR macaroni.”

(Pauses several seconds)

Me: “Ugh. Just grossed myself out. What are you up to?”

Her: “Oh Em Gee. I have the WORST headache.”

Me: “Dude. Headaches blow.”

Her: “YEAH they do.”

Me: “Sucks, man.”

Her: “Yup.”

Me: “Bet Ryan Gosling could help you with that shit.”

Her: “Doubt it.”

Me: “Shit. I just spilled scalding coffee on my nipple.”

Her: “Did you like it?”

Me: “Kinda.”

Her: “You’re a freak.”

Me: “Eh, Ryan Gosling wouldn’t think so. He’d make that shit into a lampshade.”

(uncomfortable silence)

Her: “Why are we friends?”

(pauses several seconds)

Me: “I have NO idea.”

————

I wrote this. Apparently? I need help. No, not that kind of help. I HAVE a therapist.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters! Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap. And everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

Play along below!

(If the linky thing isn’t being buggy, I mean.)

Shit I Read:

Don’t Dissect Your Friends – it’s a DAMN good reminder.

A Letter I Can’t Send: From The Ex Wife To The New Wife: Heartbreaking and true.

Shit I Wrote:

Puppy Love

Goodwill Shopping

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

Shit That’s Weird:

I’m in a BOOK, yo.

Shit That’s Hilarious (Because it’s TRUE):

Shit That’s Fucking Scary:

I’d kind of like it more if it made reference to MySpace, but you can’t have it all.

It may be hard some days, but everyday, I’m able wake up thrilled that I do not, in fact, own this.

Do these cause cramps or alleviate them? I JUST DON’T KNOW.

Shit I Watched That’s Pretty Fucking Depressing (Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You):

I WARNED YOU! SAD!

(depression is a lying liar who lies)

—————

So what rad shit did YOU do/see/find this week? I’m hoping this link-thing works. They’re so damn buggy.

“Losses can be real or perceived,” my perky psych nursing teacher told the class. While the rest of the class dutifully scribbled that statement down in their notebooks, I simply looked up from the back row, where I was playing my game of Bejeweled, shocked.

I’d never thought about losses like that before.

To me, losses implied the death of a person or animal or something was once living and now 6 feet under.

I’d never bothered to consider losses in any other manner.

That statement has been playing on my lips a lot lately, along with my I Hate Artichokes mantra, as I think about the new chapters I’m to write after this particularly dreary chapter of my life ends.

If I don’t like this ending, the story is far from over (and I decidedly do NOT like this ending). I must continue moving forward so that I can write the next chapter of my life.

I knew that with every major life change – birth, death, weddings – came a series of losses and gains. While I’d known that this was likely going to happen with the dissolution of my union, I was unprepared for the types of things that happen when one gets an “internet” divorce.

The rampant gossip and speculation about why my marriage was ending. The certainty that when a marriage ends, someone must be to blame. The friends, who once stood at my back, promising they’d catch me if I fell, turning their backs. The guilt of losing my home. The shame in asking for help. The loss of a dream. The shame that I somehow failed.

With the losses, though, I’ve found so much more than I’d have expected. I have several boxes that you, my Pranksters, have lovingly sent me, of items I can use in my new home, for my new life, because you know that starting over, that dissolving a nearly 9-year union, that comes with a lot of pain. And every little thing, every email, every comment, they all matter so much.

For every friend I’ve lost, I’ve gained two new friends who know me and love me anyway. For everything I must leave behind, I have something else to take – words, love, encouragement – to remind me I’m not alone. In the darkest of dark moments, when I honestly don’t know how I’ll survive – if I should bother trying – the next three seconds, there have been whole minutes in which I can see clearly that I’ll be able to thrive. Maybe not today or tomorrow, or even next week, but someday.

And that is enough to carry me through.

So thank you, my friends, who have steadfastly answered the phone when I call sobbing. Who don’t pass judgement because I do sometimes need help, and know I loathe asking for it. Who text me to make sure I’m okay, and stay up until all hours, driving around with me in silence, just to feel like I’m not alone in the world. Who have been so kind, so thoughtful as to send me things. Who have loved me in spite of me.

You’ve carried me through.

And I don’t know how to repay that kindness.

—————

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

The carpool lane in my high school consisted primarily of hand-me-down’s from parents, which makes sense – you want to give your old car to your kid so:

a) you can get a new one.

2) teenagers are terrible on cars.

The difference between my high school and others is that meant my best of friends drove things like the last model Lexus sports cars and the BMW 8 series that had phones built into it. Yep. Car phones. Back before we had cell phones glued to our ears, we had car phones and landlines, remember those, kids? Phones are the things you use to call people and have a conversation that doesn’t have to occur in abbreviated form.

It didn’t bother me – STC is a fairly affluent area and I’ve grown up here, so it’s not like it was a particular culture shock. Because my parents didn’t (rightly) trust me to own a car without somehow banging it up like I did the day after I got my license, I didn’t own a car of my own. Instead, because I lived in the center of town, it was fairly easy to glom rides off my friends so that we could drive co-centric circles around the school, smoking cigarettes and wondering if we should bother going to class or head downtown and make mischief.

When I graduated high school, the elaborate parties my friends had were intense. You know that horrifying Sweet Sixteen (and Pregnant? I can’t keep that stuff straight) show on MTV where kids are all, I WANT JUSTIN BEAVER AT MY PARTY DADDY AND A PONY AND A DIAMOND TIARA. It was like that, except there were ice sculptures and a hell of a lot less snot-nosed asshole kids – STC may be more affluent, but the people here are genuinely kind.

Rather than a pony on roller-skates or John C. Mayer crooning about my body being a wonderland to my throngs of teen friends, I had a backyard BBQ with some friends that lasted well into the wee hours of the night. Lots of debauchery and drinking occurred, but I wore jeans and a t-shirt and my Daddy didn’t drive into the backyard with a new Mercedes.

Which is good because I may have murdered him.

For my graduation gift, rather than a yacht named “Becky Rules,” which I spent an inordinate time scribbling on things that were not my own, I got a car. A used car. It was a car that had been used by my brother’s wife’s mother for many years. It may have been born before I was.

And while my high school boyfriend drove a Beemer – the kind you have to special order – that often contained gold bricks and wads of twenties stashed in the doors, I was pretty happy with my old Dodge Shadow. It may have been the color of baby poop (a guess – I’m colorblind), the doors may not have closed all the way, and shit, the oil was always leaking all over the damn place, but it was mine. All mine.

My boyfriend’s car was snazzier than mine and probably had more money in it than I’ll ever have, hands motherfucking DOWN, but my car was my own, which is why I loved it. Probably the ugliest car you ever saw, but I could, at the very least, jam my Tool tapes (yes tapes, not 8-tracks) into the boombox and sing along to Opiate – one of my favorite albums EVER, and go to all the places whenever I wanted to.

Driving has always been my best therapy. Full tank of gas and a half a pack of smokes? It’s time to get the Band Back Together, motherfuckers. I spent hours stupidly driving the thing (I say stupid because it tried to kill me) around town and back, exploring roads that I’d never been down before, and when I’d return home, it was like all my problems had vanished.

While my compatriots in the carpool had leather seats and built-in CD players, mine had chalk drawings on the ceiling and incense burning from the cup holder (the thing was unable to properly store tasty beverages).

On the driver’s side door, just above the window, I’d written this in neon green chalk:

“This is not an exit.”

And it never was.

——————-

What was your first car, Pranksters?

Really wish THIS had been my first car.

Dear Artichokes:

You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you, all using the word “heart” and “choke” in one fell swoop? Must be nice to have that sort of je ne se qua about you, while we mere mortals stand on the ground with boring names like, Becky, or Aunt Becky, or “fuck face.” Congrats, Artichokes, for outdoing those of us NOT named Max Power.

I have a problem with you, Artichokes, and I’m not willing to stand for it for very much longer – it’s time to wrangle the huddled masses and revolt against you, Artichokes, for being one sneaky-ass motherfucker. Sure, you Artichokes, you THISTLES, think it’s okay to be all look at me, I’m so damn pretty, I feel pretty, while the rest of us stand there, twiddling our thumbs, trying to hide our ridiculous hair, BUT I  – we – WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS ANY LONGER.

Oh, no.

By the power invested by the internet in me, I DENOUNCE YOU. I THUMB MY NOSE AT YOU ARTICHOKES. I don’t care HOW pretty you are, you can’t outrun Teh Internets! Especially MOMMY BLOGGERS with SO MUCH TIME ON OUR HANDS.

Sure, you may have fucking FRACTALS on your side (well played, you), but I have, well, *shuffles feet* I HAVE, uh *stares out the window* I HAVE ARMS. YOU DON’T HAVE ARMS ARTICHOKES. SO FUCKING THERE.

You think you’re so damn coy, don’t you, Artichokes, fucking making your way into my spinach dip, being all, HAI LOOKIT ME, I TASTE LIKE SATAN’S BUNG, while I’m all, YOU CAN’T BEAT ME, until you wind up in my mouth and I’m stuck wondering if I can create enough of a distraction to spit you out without spraying the rest of the table with my spittle. You think you’ve won, but you haven’t!

*raises fists*

I HAVE ARMS, ARTICHOKES.

AND YOU DON’T.

Lookit me all RAISING my ARMS and shit! Doesn’t THAT make you feel bad, Artichokes? Because it SHOULD. It really SHOULD.

So what if you have a “heart?” That’s just a worthless organ anyway – I mean, the Grinch lived without one and he was JUST fine, pumping his blood HIMSELF rather than relying on a useless ass heart. So what if your heart is pretty and shit? I HAVE ARMS. SO THERE.

*mutters*

useless fucking vegetable.

You don’t impress me, Artichokes. I don’t look at you and get all inspired like, I WANNA BE A FRACTAL or something, at least, most of the time, although I have to admit, being a fractal is the epitome of awesome.

WAIT A MINUTE.

I see you just SNUCK in there, Artichokes, like you do to all the damn things I love in this world. How did you manage that? Huh? How did you manage to worm your way into my life like this? What did I do to deserve ARTICHOKES in ANYTHING I’d put into my mouth EVER?

You’re officially ON NOTICE, Artichokes. This? This means WAR.

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

DOWN WITH ARTICHOKES!

*deep breath*

I need a nap. And a picket sign. And a couple of diet Cokes. Possibly a robot of some sort – I won’t be picky.

And then? You’re going DOWN Artichokes!

Once I finish playing this. DON’T YOU JUDGE ME ARTICHOKES, THIS IS DAMN FUN:

Love and Smootchies!

AB!

P.S. You can’t win, Artichokes. You’re a fucking THISTLE. SO THERE.

P.P.S. Wrote about my Goodwill Shopping Experience.

P.P.P.S. #BOYCOTTARTICHOKES

When my friend Stef passed away several years ago – cause of death: cirrhosis of the liver (PSA: DON’T DRINK, KIDS) – leaving behind her two young sons and a funeral so full that it was standing room only, I remember being completely rooted the spot, my grief making the decision “do I have to pee?” as challenging as “Can you repeat the Fibonacci sequence in under 10 seconds?” I couldn’t make a decision to save myself and I could barely function for weeks (if you can call what I do “functioning.” Her death was so sudden, so unexpected, a gigantic piece missing, I could hardly handle brushing my teeth without bursting into tears.

I’d like to say that it’s different now, that I don’t still think of her and tear up, but it’d be a lie: she’s gone and she’s not coming back. So why can’t I delete a phone number she’ll never again answer? I suppose my best guess would be that it’s too final, too real, and it closes a door that can never be reopened. If I deleted the number, I could put it back, but then I’d be the creepy chick putting my dead friend’s phone number in my phone.

I’ve been thinking about her death a lot lately, since the book in which I was a contributor was published. In it, I told the story of Stef in words I could barely choke out; words that weren’t enough because there will never be enough words to capture who she was.

After she died, someone said to me (Dr. Phil? Maury? Oprah? Jerry Springer?) that we don’t lose people in one fell swoop; we lose them over a long period of time, and pop-psych as it is, it’s true.

Maybe it’s a whiff of their deodorant caught on someone walking by in the store. Maybe it’s the way their hair is adorably mussed each morning before a shower. Maybe it’s that one restaurant you went to and laughed for hours over the absurdity of life. Maybe it’s a smile seen in the crowd, so similar, or a turn of phrase you both once used, an inside joke that kept you chortling for hours.

I thought a lot about grief and grieving this weekend.

It’s taken me awhile to began owning up to the idea that I’d soon be moving from my home, and as such, I’d need to find those small inconsequential items; the things I’d never considered needing yet again.

That would be why I found myself stuck in place at Goodwill, looking at silverware organizers, while people desperate for a bargain I! might! steal! from! them! pushed their carts into the back of my ankles trying (nearly successfully!) to mow me down.

I nearly cried, not out of pain or the indignity that someone would actually consider that I’d want a Precious Moments knock-off, standing there and holding someone’s old silverware container, examining scuff marks and wondering – for a good long while – if this was something I should purchase new or not. It was then that it hit me what I’d be losing.

Sometimes, a cheap silverware container is more than that. Sometimes, it’s a reminder of the doors we close and the doors that are closed for us – some shut for good, others left ajar. (go ahead make the joke, I’ll wait here)

….

….

….

That’s when a door isn’t a door.

(when it’s ajar)

I’ll wait while you groan and roll your eyes wildly at my awesome joke.

….

….

….

Done? Good. On to more of my pithy (and low-calorie!) tripe.

I’m sure I’m not the first or last person to burst into tears in Goodwill, which helps a little with the embarrassment of crying in public (being an ugly crier means that public crying makes passers-by look at my wrists for the restraint marks – as if I’ve escaped from the local mental hospital, if there were such a facility close by. Plenty of Pantera’s but no psych facilities. We yuppies need our deliciously overpriced sandwiches on ARTISAN motherfucking BREAD more than we need proper mental health care, but alas, once again, I digress), because if I want to wail on and on like a psychopath about Justin Beaver having a girlfriend, I’d prefer to do so in the privacy of my own home.

HE’S JUST SO DREAMY.

It was there in that dusty store, being jostled from all sides by bargain hunters looking for that perfect tchotchke (or used candle, as the case may be), that I felt the pieces of my old life gradually begin slipping away. I’m not mired in grief muck the way I was after Stef passed. Her death was sudden phone call interrupting an otherwise cold, beautiful February morning in Chicago, whereas I’d watched the slow disintegration of our union once we’d decided to separate over a year and a half ago. I was reminded, standing there holding someone’s grimy old fork holder of grief, of grieving, and of loss.

However right for both parties a situation like divorce is doesn’t make it easier.

I know (some of) the challenges that starting over will bring. The losses I won’t feel until I’m out of the house; an interloper in a life formerly known as mine, someone starting over again. There will be times I’ll have to talk myself through a single moment at a time, reminding myself that it will, in fact, be okay – maybe not this moment or the next, maybe not this year or the next, but someday, I’ll wake up and realize that it is okay.

Because it is. Or, I should properly say, it will be.

There’s not a doubt in my pea-brain that will take a long time to process the complicated emotions (turns out I have an emotion beyond: “I’m hungry.”) associated with the dissolution of a union, I know this. There will be reminders of the good times and the bad that hurt anywhere from:

<->being punched in the armpit<->prick<->wasp sting<->arm tattoo<->natural childbirth and back again, while raging confusion will wind from:

how can orange be a color and a flavor?<->what kind of cell phone plan should I buy?<->who the hell reads tea leaves anyway?<->how can I survive the next three minutes?<->is this REALLY my life?

There will be tears and triumphs in this new life of mine, of this I can be certain. There will be the things that blindside me and leave me gasping for breaths while other things, things I’ve feared, will be as smooth as a baby’s dimply ass. Such is the nature of grief

Such is the nature of life.

———–

Howdy Pranksters! How was your long weekend? Do you do shit for Labor Day? I want to be the person who’s all, I DID AWESOME SHIT, but really, it was a nice simple weekend with friends, antics and a healthy dose of debauchery.

Do please forgive these occasional things inside the posts – I’m simply trying something out (also kinda coveting those shoes)(I DON’T NEED MORE SHOES, BAD AB, BAD!), which I’ll explain sometime when we’re all very, VERY bored.

ALSO THIS:

(Um. I have a new addiction. It’s right there)

Shit I Found Saturdays is a weekly feature here at Mommy Wants Vodka, that’s more fun than a basket of kittens,  except that the Internet is mostly closed on Saturdays.

Whatever.

Who likes RULES anyway? 

So, let’s fuck that noise and get into cool shit we’ve found around the Internet and bring Saturday back.

It’s like bringing Sexy Back but awesomer.

Join in! We have donuts!

(that’s a lie)

Shit I Read:

Does The Internet Lack Social Etiquette Rules?

Craig’s List Conversations: The Trilogy

Bye-Bye Bacon

Shit I Wrote Other Places:

My Life On the Frugal Side blog has some neato posts (mostly from people smarter than me, but let’s face it – that’s most of the world). I started this blog as a way for me to keep track of ways to live on the cheap. Guest posts are always welcome.

(Barely) Surviving Parenthood – The comments are always a gas.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

Shit I Wish I Were Doing:

Intervention Convention: hosted by one of my very best friends on Teh Internetz, I spoke last year. This year? I gotta sit it out. So you go and tell me what it’s all about.

Shit I Watched ‘Til I Pissed Myself:

Shit People Need Help With:

Prankster Lindsey is going to lose her home. If’n you want to help, go here and help her keep her kids in her home.

Shit That Sounds Like Awesome:

I fucking love giving my opinion about things – I’m always fighting Dave to be the person to answer the phone. Internet surveys FTW!

Shit Around My Blog:

I’m on The Facebook.

And The Twitters.

————-

Now it’s YOUR turn, Pranksters?

What rad shit have you found this week?

It seems that every September, as the schools prepare to open, new reports about the state of America’s education are released and each seems more depressing than the next. Foundations, think tanks, politicians and professional organizations publish their papers and reports in which they basically tell us what we already know.

The numbers of American students who are equipped to compete with their peers from other areas of the world in many disciplines, including in technology, math and science, drops every year. Fewer students read and of those that do read, most are not familiar with the great classics and other high quality works of literature. Fewer students have the life skills that they will need to enter the work force after high school and a large percentage of high school students are lacking in basic general knowledge. The drop-out rate is high and fewer students are going on to college.

Figuring out the reasons for the decline in America’s educational system is the first challenge. Depending on whom you speak with you may hear that the education system is in trouble because there’s too much emphasis on testing or there’s too little emphasis on testing, because the teachers are incompetent or because the system won’t allow talented teachers to flourish, because the multi-cultural nature of the society prevents the system from functioning properly or because the system doesn’t properly harness the diversity of students, languages, cultures and ethnicities.

It’s easy to get caught up in the blame game but finding workable solutions is complex. New technologies and methodologies are being put to use in school districts throughout the country, oftentimes with good results. Teacher-training programs are relying on teacher-mentors to give teachers-in-training and new teachers the benefit of veteran teachers’ experience and knowledge.

One worrying statistic, however, comes from a recent study that was put out by the Rand Corporation, an education think tank. The study examines the outlook for American education in the 21st century and gives voice to the concern that the most talented and effective teachers — those with a high measured teaching ability — are more likely to leave their teaching positions for better-paying, less-stressful and more prestigious jobs. The study summarizes the situation, noting that while school districts differ in the extent in which their high-performing teachers are leaving the profession, all school districts are struggling with this problem. When less-experienced teachers remain in the classroom, it’s clear that the students’ don’t have the opportunity to advance at an optimal pace.

Figuring out how to encourage veteran, effective teachers to remain in the classroom is getting harder and harder. Class sizes are at an all-time high and teacher responsibilities are increasing at the same time that their salaries and benefits are decreasing. Some teacher-educators are involved in creating better teacher-training programs while other civic and governmental groups are working to raise teachers’ pay, bring community members into the schools as volunteers, improve teacher-administrator relations and provide more advancement opportunities for classroom teachers.

Public institutions are turning to private initiatives to help find a solution to this problem. One such initiative involves formally recognizing highly-effective teachers as a way to motivate these teachers as well as their colleagues to remain in the teaching profession. The Milken Family Foundation (MFF) has created a special award to address the issue of how the nation’s educational leadership can keep America’s best teachers in the classroom.

The Milken Educators Award is based on the idea that an effective teacher plays the most important role in a child’s education. Lowell Milken who created the Award, theorizes that when an exceptional teacher is recognized for his or her achievements, s/he is more likely to remain in the classroom.

MFF presents the Milken Educator Award annually to deserving teachers — our nation’s “unsung heroes” — who harness their vision and creativity to help shape their students’ successful integration into their post-school lives. Receipt of the Milken Educator Award has proven to encourage these outstanding teachers while generating enthusiasm among other educators as well.

The annual Milken Educator Awards honors highly effective K-12 teachers who teach in the public school system. Award recipients receive $25,000 that they can use for whatever they wish.

As of 2013 the Milken Family Foundation has invested over 135 million dollars in the Milken Education Award project.

This one time (…in band camp) I swore my bed was possessed. I had nightmares every night I slept in it, although, to be fair, none of them involved me spewing oatmeal or cottage cheese out of my mouth while levitating or turning my head around at a 360 degree turn, and my mom, having trouble sleeping one night, slept in it while I was off sleeping somewhere else (I can only surmise I was thoroughly up to no good). That night, she too, had a nightmare.

Clearly, the bed was possessed.

My mother and I decided that the best course of action was, naturally, to perform an exorcism. I mean, what else can you do when you have a (possibly) possessed bed? We burned some sage or incense or something and put up a crucifix that my brother had (allegedly) stolen from somewhere or another chanting, “The power of Christ compels you.”

It worked. The nightmares stopped.

I hadn’t thought about possession or The Exorcist until it dawned on me that they’d made an Exorcist Part II and then I was just plain annoyed – I mean, where can you go from there? (Answer: Egypt)

Last Wednesday, I was taking a gander at the snaps I’d taken of Alex’s first day of school on my mostly-broken iPhone and realized I should probably actually export the things to my computer. There were some pretty cute snaps in there and well, how else can I put together a long montage video to play at his high school prom? I mean, I do have a therapy fund set up for the kid – I may as well do as many horrifying things as I can while I can.

I sat all happy-crappy at my computer after plugging the glorified email machine into the back, waiting to see my gloriously bad photos get imported into iPhoto. This, of course, somehow made my computer extremely unhappy, so I had to sit there for upwards of 45 seconds while it flashed the circle button, which usually means I’ve got too many tabs open at once or have been looking at Internet porn so often that I’d managed to snag me a virus.

(better than an STD, I guess, but I’m unclear as to whether or not computers can catch those things)

Instead of my craptastic pictures taken through a broken lens, I got, well, these, which I promptly framed. Possessed iPhones don’t happen every day, y’know.

Amelia decided that the small kindergarten seats were bullshit and immediately found the teacher’s seat. At the time, she was NOT, in fact, possessed, although the doll behind her makes that statement questionable.

*shudders*

And my rose, which I’d been lovingly trimming blackspot from, well, it appears to have been overtaken by The Devil. Partially.

Howdy there, Half of Alex! Happy first day of school! Don’t kill anyone, okay?

Who knew the kid was divided so neatly down the line?

This is only marginally better than the time Dave’s old camera decided that all pictures forevermore would look as though they’d come from a lens dripping with Vasoline. It was quite good for the complexion, but made everything appear to have been shot in soft-core porn lighting.

I guess it’s time for another exorcism, Pranksters.

————-

Oh! And if you love music…

————

So dish! What kinds of weird crap have your electronics done over the years?