Who says irony is dead?

Tommyrot:

"PUBLIC SPLIT ON WHETHER BUSH IS A DIVIDER"
- CNN Scrolling Banner, 15 Oct 2004.

The betting heats up in the miracleborn baby pool:

brenda m - Put me down for the 27th. 7lbs 4 oz. And no tentacles.

lexine - Well, we do know the baby is a girl.

I can't believe one COMM'd this already.

Trudy Booth: Hello muskrat my old friend...

Topic!Cindy: I've come to smell your musk again

Trudy Booth: Because a rodent softly-y creeping

Topic!Cindy: Left its musk while I was sleeping

-t: Oh the words of the muskrats are written on the subway walls

Cindy in Bitches:

Now, you must understand, I don't *stay* up. It's a thing. If you see me here at 3 or 4 in the morning, I have not stayed up, but rather, have gotten up, and have a decent amount of sleep under my belt. And yet? I am not nearly the woman I used to be.

I used to stay up all night, without--I might add--the aid of any illicit chemical enhancement (although I did not eschew caffeine, it wasn't necessary). Until Benjamin was born, I could stay up later than any of you, and outperform you the next day, to boot. Sleep--like a balanced diet and smoke-free air--was for babies, the ill, and the elderly...and sissies.

Even then--even once Benjamin was born--heck even through my pregnancy with, and the delivery of, recovery from, and 2/3s of the infancy of Julia--I was Night!Woman. As long as I napped when they napped, I could handle anything that happened during the day. And if my husband took the first post-dawn feeding, nothing could even slow me down, never mind stop me. When darkness fell, my super powers could not be contained!

Then, when Julia was just about eight months old, Christopher was conceived. I am fairly convinced that if we were allowed to peer deep in the depths of his stocky little frame, we would find...kryptonite.

Now, just between you and me, and as you may well have expected, all Red Sox fans are born with a little red kryptonite, somewhere deep inside. It lies dormant from November until Spring training, and slowly grows more and more powerful, reaching its peak in Oct*ber. That's really all there is to the secret of our sad, sad loyalty. Parenthood only compounds this poison's seemingly seasonal side-effects. Lack of sleep doesn't help one withstand the taint of the red kryptonite, but I could still survive on a couple of hours, and have Lex Luthor in lock-up by lunch. I was just a little crankier about it, than before.

It's a well known fact that the New York Yankees have some custom made mix of blue kryptonite stirred into the dye that gives their pinstripes color. Before as many big games as not, George Steinbrenner works some sort of dark mojo on the time-space continuum, and turns opposing teams (and usually their fans--you can tell by the Man-In-the-Street interviews) into Bizarro creatures. This is the secret to the Yankees success.

And I myself, like my mother before me, have a whit of white kryptonite, in place of any green thumb due us from our forebears (although now that I think about it, most of our family surnames are occupational names like Hunter, Stuart, etc., so it is possible our more traceable ancestors were similarly affected).

All children possess dormant gold kryptonite, and it is up to the child, or perhaps forces beyond his control, whether or not it is activated. If you've been paying any attention at all to Deena's posts, I'm not telling you anything new. At most, I am confirming your suspicions.

But, as sad as I am to be making this confession, I must tell you that my darling Christopher has, somewhere inside his beautiful little person, classic green kryptonite. Now my old friend Kal-El may think, and may want you to think, that he is the only superhero affected by this scourge, but don't believe the hype.

Look back, if you will, at my account of Christopher sneaking out of the house, and scaring me half to death. Did I recover upon finding him? I think not. In fact, after I (continued...)

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Topic!Cindy - Oct 18, 2004 8:01:39 am PDT #2455 of 2842 Does my ass look big enough in these jeans? --lisah

( continues...) found him, and hugged him as if to never let him go (split infinitives be damned), I was as weak as a proverbial kitten.

Now, Christopher is a very sweet boy. I do not think he is aware of this damnably dastardly dynamism deep down in his depths. Either someone else is controlling the emission of the evil emerald essence which envenoms my environment, or it is the result some natural, bio-chemical reaction (continued...)

( continues...) beyond his control. But a year+ later, I still have dreams about losing him, and when I wake and run to his room to make sure he is still there, I am nearly slain.

Even on the best days, Christopher releases trace amounts of the green kryptonite into the atmosphere. I can get through the days, even start them early, but since his birth, Night!Woman has been nigh catatonic.

Last night, working with only the faintest sense-memory of my lost super powers, I at first, resisted even watching the game. I surfed the internet for a little while, stopping at my usual haunts. The Sox were far enough behind that my poor old husband was more than willing to bid this season goodbye, and watch Jack and Bobby. And we didn't start watching Jack and Bobby, until Jack and Bobby was well over. We'd recorded it on TiVo, and only tuned into it, we'd done all of our nightly chores, such that we could go to bed earlyish, knowing we were well rested, and ready to face Monday, and once my poor old husband *thought* he had the '04 Red Sox out of his system.

When we finished watching the recording of Jack and Bobby, Scott turned the channel, thinking he'd find the final score, or happen on the last couple of minutes of mourning. Oh, you can say nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, or nobody expects the apocalypse, but c'mon, that's just hyperbole. What nobody expects--really--is that nine consecutive innings of baseball will take four hours and twenty minutes. And nobody expects an ACLS play-off game to go five hours and two minutes, total. Nobody expects Lowe, Timlin, Foulke, Embree, and Leskanic (!) to keep the Evil Empire at bay for so long, either.

I would say that after hours facing the seemingly invincible Mariano Rivera, what absolutely nobody expects any of the Sox--even David Ortiz--to send a Paul Quantrill pitch sailing into the Yankee bullpen, driving himself and Manny Ramirez before him, home, for a win. In game four. After losing the first three. Since I didn't see it myself, I'd say it was a media trick, and I was vulnerable because of my long-term exposure to green kryptonite, but...

But.

But.

If I'd said that, I'd either be lying, or out of Red Kryptonite Kool-Aid. Because we do--expect it, that is. We hope against hope, and believe in the face of improbable odds and three consective humiliations.

I'd say more, but five o'clock fast approaches, and I've got to refill my cup.

ita makes me giggle.

From Movies:

Gandalfe: Do you know they released a Showgirls Special Edition? Boggles the mind . . . .

Lilty: I think it comes with pasties, too.

ita: Mmm. Good eating.

shrift in Natter:

I'm too busy arguing with clients to argue with the blinvisible people on the Interbunny.

Them: "You sent the wrong thing!"

Me: "No, I didn't."

Them: "Yes! Yes, you did!"

Me: "You actually didn't specify. What I sent fits the description of what you requested."

Them: "But you should have known what I meant!"

Me: "You'll have to take it up with my employers, then, since 'psychic' wasn't listed as a job requirement."

Them: "Fine! Just send me the right thing!"

Me: "Certainly. As soon as you tell me what it was you actually wanted."

Them: "..." (sends same description as before)

Me: "I wish I could think that you're fucking with me. I really do."

Them: "So when can I expect the files?"

(edited for reading clarity)

ita slays me in Natter:

I just took part in a deliciously actionable discussion. We were discussing krav, and a co-worker assured another that instructors weren't allowed to kick beginning students in the balls.

"Don't say balls."
"Nut sac?"
"Stop it!"
"How about testicles?" I offer helpfully.
"NO. Just call it below the belt. No 'balls.' No 'nut sac.'" We all collapse in giggles as someone walks by, but he struggles on valiantly. "And no 'testicles.""
"Scrotum?" I try again.
"NO!"
"Hmm. Those two round objects behind my dick?" suggests the other co-worker.

I haven't been that twelve on company time in FOREVER. It was kinda fun.

Jesse in Natter, on the Red Sox:

They almost never get this far without choking! It's an honor just to be here!

Heather, bringing it home in Natter:

I love where I'm from. I love my culture. I love my accent. I love having a down to earth, beer in the back of the truck, above ground pool by the trailer with self-installed add-ons, watching football on Saturday while shelling peas family and upbringing.

You know what I don't love? The thought of my grandmother not being able to afford her medication for her hip or not being able to get to the hospital in Shreveport should something bad happen. I don't love the thought of my cousin not having a choice because she made a mistake when she was in a bad place. I don't love my dad's school having temporary buildings and not enough desks for students, and I don't love my step-dad having to lay off bus drivers because public transportation isn't as much as a priority as attracting businesses with tax breaks. I don't love that people may not be able to get to the jobs those businesses bring in, or if they do, they have to decide between that and decent housing.

Most of all, and I can't stress this enough, I don't love, in fact I can't stand, one might even say I hate being told how I or anyone else feels based on where I live.