For a start, I have incredible contempt for high-maintenance lies.
Sing it. Also? I am just always boggled at the work that goes into them. It's much easier to take your lumps, I think. Then it's over.
As for that farm, I think I would have rather read a story about cruelty to animals.
No animals were harmed in the making of that story. A great deal of racist humiliation was involved, though.
And really, humiliation was the tip of the iceberg. The article said the cafeteria lacked heat, running water, proper toilets, refrigeration and many other amenities. Amenities? Amenities?!? I find the use of
amenities
there more anger-making than I probably should, but I don't think running water, heat, and propert toilets should be considered amenties in the U.S. and Canada anymore, and certainly not when talking about workplace conditions, particularly for workers who handle food. WTF?!?
They would have their farm taken from them under the you-suck-hard law I'll be establishing, right after I establish my more-naps and more-cookies law, when I'm recognized as supreme ruler.
I only just realized the runaway bride shares our last name--I get all my news from blogs, TDS, and the occasional bit of NPR these days. Which means she's probably a very distant cousin (to DH and Annabel, anyway)--distant because we've never heard of her and have no ties to a Georgia branch of the family.
I was wondering about that when I read the story, Susan.
You must be under tremendous stress to do something like that.
I've not watched any of the coverage, but that was my first reaction. I don't actually know if she is a total bitch bridezilla, or a stressed out scared beyond nervous breakdown woman. Of course what she did to her family and community is horrible, but I still feel very sorry for her.
Now if I get a chance to read anything about this, or watch the television coverage I may start hating her, but right now I feel for her.
Not reading the farm link. It sounds very upsetting.
Working hard here, blah.
I know my impatience with actions like the fake kidnapping is heightened by two factors: my reaction to the perpetual expectation of me (as older sister) to excuse behaviour in others that I'm not to excuse in myself, nor expect to be excused for (and even the exhortation to not be me, so that other people can be themselves), and of having had the luxury to never have found myself in such a twisty position (with the result that I doubt they happen
that
often).
Well, I've tackled my backlog of voicemail. Billing is next. I think I'll save my e-mail backlog for if I get bored to the point of insanity.
One of my former roommates pulled a milder form of that sort of disappearance as a practical joke on me and our other (sane) roommate. He had his ex-girlfriend call us one evening when he and a friend were supposed to be visiting her, and tell us they'd never showed up, were hours late, and that she was really worried. The "joke" fell apart when we called his mom to find out if he'd stopped there unexpectedly, and he called us back—angry that we'd worried her unnecessarily—just before we were going to get the highway patrol involved.
Sane roommate had to talk me down from moving him out of the apartment in absentia. And might not have been able to do so if a 400 lb. waterbed hadn't been involved.
I think I've finally found a way to rearrange my furniture to maximize space and fit in the new loveseat.
I need extension cords and a strong boy.
