I Sense You Are Looking For Something

me: grrrrrrrwaaarrrrrmmmmmmblllllphlat.

What is that? What does that mean? Is that Jen without makeup? Or hair products? Or coffee? Zombies, possibly? Dead sea monkeys?

No.

That's Jen p*ssed off at uninsured motorists. Did I say the parents were really concerned and willing to work with us? I take that back - tenfold.

That's all I really have to say right now about that.

******************

A couple hours after cooling off. . .

Addendum: yeah. I know. I knew this would happen. I did. I was just thinking (hoping beyond all hopes & dreams) that maybe; just maybe someone in this world during the age we live in would not be a jackhole for once. How very wrong I am. Sooner or later I'm going to turn cynical. And evil.


Addendum to the Addendum: Here's what I know so far - our insurance company will cover the damages and a rental car.

We have to pay the deductible.

Since the parents of the twins that hit us do not plan on putting them on their own insurance within the 30-day time allotment, as mentioned previously, our company will cover it. To use the the mothers' words, "They're on their own. I told them that if they bought this car it was up to them to take care of it. . . .blah, blah, blah"

What she doesn't seem to understand is that our insurance company will turn around and sue them. Though I'm not here to educate the masses, 'cos, you know, that's not my jobbie-job; it makes sense, at least to me, to put their children on their insurance to cover the damages therefore avoiding any law suit(s). Since these twins are students and thus considered dependents of their parental units. Put. The. Kids. On. Your. Insurance. I'm not going to sue you - my insurance company with a building full of one thousand-and-two lawyers will.

Make sense?

Broken

They are not so much in the family anymore. It has been chosen by them – not the family. Thoughts run on why it cannot be fixed. This is up to them. Regrettable, as they are not the only one involved. Another that cannot be given away, but can be taken without regard. It makes no sense. Another might have no chance. They will either make it or not. Of course there are pictures and memories, but they are making sure such things will be erased. Loose ends will not be tied up. Anything personal will exist no more, because they made a choice.

What will happen? Can the family see the extended part of them? Can they hope? Will those who have chosen to rip themselves from the ones who care, clean up their life before it is over? Narcissism. Then again, that is they and how they have grown them self up. Something that is non-treatable. Overly inflated with self-love. Unfortunately, it is not just they anymore.

This is the hurt. Blackmailing with a person is grossly erroneous, but then they always fight to harm; to be triumphant over those who would be concerned. To make others cry. Selfishness prevails once more. Always has. Continuously a matter of money and who made the most. Forgetting that worldly possessions are of no matter. What is right, is right does.

They do not care. In the end it is not between they and the family – it’s between they and God. They must answer for themselves. The family has done what can be. They have grown. It is up to they now.

Finally, the family will go on. Hurt is predominant, but will be replaced with speculation, questions, conjecture and then, eventually (hopefully), maybe some smiles and laughter. Even if these are not real. Starting to realize that they have faded into their own memories. That death is permanent. Only life is temporary. Maybe they need to realize this. This choice does not have to be for life. But it can.

The Last Smegma

what I would want to say if I ever speak to you again: your millipede overly-exaggerated. So much so, that I know your millipede is dishonest to even you. He does not have 750 legs. That's rare. More likely he only has 400, but he is a creature who is known to be lying to you. However, I'm not in the business of breaking anthropods' legs, especially since he's your anthropod and not mine. This is why I understand you would believe him. He told us your glacial and, yet, he prefers slimy dirt, well. . . as you once said to me, and I quote, "that's your problem between your millipede and you." Hateful, isn't it? Anyone who knows me would know that I would not speak such things and if you had given me the chance you would also know that I would never speak what the millipede said I did. Millipede's a liar. You threw without even asking if that was really me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go hang out with the birds that are my friends - who eat millipedes like you for breakfast.


what I would really say if I ever speak to you again: *nothing*

I Used to Be Angry Every Day, Then Every Other Day, Now Only Every Third Or Fourth Day. . . Today Is The Day I Am Angry.

I'd like to start out by mentioning [once again] the husband has the uncanny ability to be right most of the time. So, for the past year, let it be known that the husband was once again uncannily correct.

The husband and I have decided to build a fence, in our Longhorn city, around the entire yard - not just the back as is our current situation. The husband has mentioned wanting to "fortress our home" to me more than once throughout the year we have lived here. He wanted a fence. He wanted to keep people out. He wanted safety. He wanted quiet. He wanted seclusion. I objected. Strongly objected, if you will. I wanted beauty. I wanted openness. I wanted a friendly place where all were welcomed. I wanted a pretty yard that everyone could enjoy including us. I have spent a lot of time in our front yard trying to make pretty this spring and summer. The husband, on occasion, has joined me in this effort. The front yard was turning around nicely, so much so, that the former owners of our house left us a note to tell us that they "love what we are doing to the yard!" Yes, with an exclamation point! Which we all know means something more than just something if you put an exclamation point at the end.

The point is that our front yard does look decent and if given a few years it will look fabulous, if I do say so myself. I've always wanted a yard with gardens and lots and lots of flowers as well as shiny pretty things. I was on my way to attaining that dream . . . .

Now want an 8-foot fence. Immediately. With crushed glass and barbed wire decorating the top ever so nicely. I want it to look nasty and in turn make our house look like a prison yard. I. Don't. Care. I want it as high and as deathly as humanely possible.

You see, some b*st*rd low-life cretin stole my hanging planters off of my double-shepherds hook not even 10-yards from our front door sometime between Monday and today. I only had them for two-weeks before they were swiped. They were beautiful with pink, red and white impatients adorning the wire English baskets. Each of the planters were worth just over $50.00. (Yeah. I paid a lot of money for those flowers & baskets, I wanted the front door to look nice.) So the thief made off pretty well. They weren't light either since they were big and weighed between 15-20 pounds each. I hope the sniveling-weenie pulled a muscle in each their fingers. Or the wet-smelly dirt spilled all over their vehicles and it won't come up. Or the plants died during transfer. Or they got worms. Karma has it's way of coming around and we all know you don't mess with karma. Just ask, Earl Hickey.

Yeah. I'm bitter. And not too pleased. I want a fence. I seriously cannot believe that someone drove up in our circle drive and stole our flowers. Who does that? And why? And, why us? Do you know how many people have yard art in their lawns, but ours was the only one hit? Why? For God's sake, they're flowers. Go grow your own. The husband is surprised that I am surprised, but I so firmly believe in "do unto others as you would have done unto you" that I think the world is a genuinely good place. Or has good intentions. But as I am becoming old and decrepit I am finding that it may be I who is warped. People aren't always good. And many only care about themselves. It's a sad state of affairs when someone steals your flowers.

Shame on you, you sniveling-snot-nosed-cold-hearted-rat-coward-ugly-jerk-face-piece-of-poo- weenie! In the end it is you who has to face the Reaper.

So, I leave you now, because I must go grab my front-yard tree hanging basket, my plant stool as well as its potted flowers from underneath my empty shepherds hook and move it to our fenced-in backyard. Come to think of it, I should pull up the shepherds hook too. . . . The low-life petty thieves could be back for more - I guess you just never know.

In the end, it'll be me with the last laugh. And a fence.

To use the words of Joy Turner, "Karma this, you dummy!"

Laugh and the Whole World Laughs With You, Cry and You Have to Blow Your Nose

I have to ask, what does a girl do when her "girl claws" come out (but in this instance these claws have absolutely nothing to do with being territorial)? 'Cos, ladies, if you ever lay your hands on the husband, I will eradicate you like you've never seen Rambo before. Plain and simple. No problems there. But what if you're just angry? How does a girl deal with that? What does she do?

Generally, I consider myself a pretty decent human being. At times, I tease the husband more than I should (and put it in writing on the world-wide-net for the entire heavenly body to view), but that just means we have a solid relationship. If we didn't I could not write some of the things I do. He understands this. I respect this. And I love him all the more for him letting me be me. Everybody knows I am far from perfect myself. Even if I am a delicate flower.

However, I have even been known as a pushover. Some of my friends have said and continue to say I'm too nice as well as too forgiving and they've tried to help me with that. Most of their counsel has not been in vain - some of it has worked. And I believe am a better person for it. Though I'll never forget that an ex once said to me, "God, it must be nice to be you. I'd love to be ignorant. Ignorance is bliss." And then laughed at me. It hurt, but I forgave him for that. Eventually (and thank all the Gods in this universe), he became the ex. So, I can and will get there. In this day and age, be forewarned that the time line for me to achieve this is getting far shorter, especially since I'm becoming antiquated, primeval and in general just more crotchety. Or maybe it's just my dementia. Either way, I have a much shorter tolerance these days for people who steal my Godiva.

My point is, that I can and will turn into the devil incarnate if I am pushed far enough. It's not pretty either. And the husband, family as well as close friends will hear about it through my 90-mile-an-hour-machine-gun-mouth (or AK-47; whichever the kids find coolest these days). I pretty well sound like, "tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat, tat, tat (reload), tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat. . . . "

How to make me angry: To summarize, go ahead and tell me that I am insensitive, irrational, selfish, insult my marriage and tell me I lack empathy.

So, how am I to deal with that without landing myself in the federal penitentiary system for the rest of my life? What is a girl to do? The girl claws are extended and waiting . . . .