F16’s Don’t Kill People, 500 Lb. Bombs Kill People

To calm hepped-up binge drinkers leaving the pubs on weekends police will be handing out bottles of bubbles. Yep, that ought to work. The article cites a similar programme in Devon where women are provided flip-flop sandals to prevent injury associated with stumbling home pissed in a pair of heels.

It’s late, and the light in here wouldn’t do justice to the treasures I brought home today, but here’s an idea of what I found with photos to follow later:

The Salvation Army in Omaha had a half-price sale on everything in the store. They are cheap to begin with, so taking home .50 cent hardcovers and .25 cent children’s books encouraged me to load-up. Among the treasures? A frighteningly heavy-handed book of moralising "bedtime stories" (Sure, sweet dreams kiddo!) from the 1940’s that has children finding themselves in all manner of moral quandaries with some pretty gory consequences. I’m not currently shopping for a new religion but if I were, I’d have to at least consider them based only on the ability to scare the wits out of kids.

A pristine Tiki glass from Mt. Fuji Inn-a long time Omaha establishment. It cost a whopping .25 cents-made in Japan

Toys, toys, toys-oh heavens, the toys (all around a buck each)

Kids clothes-I never knew they made trench coats for pre-schoolers, but Danny now has one-fully lined in a warm fleece as well. It looks like a really well made thing that was hardly ever worn (I guess most kids in Omaha don’t really want to be seen in a trench coat). I totally need to find him a fedora.

A wooden duck

Christmas decorations galore

More books

More toys

A prefect condition cookie press from Denmark with a gazillion patterns. It looks to be from the 1950’s. I told the kid at the store if it works well I’m bring them cookies.

Videos (line dancing? Kukla Fran and Ollie, Little Lulu, Casper)

Some children’s books in Hebrew from the 1950’s (with really lovely illustrations as well). I glanced quickly through them and they don’t seem to be overly preachy which is kind of too bad, but then the Adventist book has that covered. I guess I’ll teach Danny Hebrew at some point-can’t just rely on your English and Gaelic in today’s multi-cultural world. I suppose I could teach him something useful like Spanish or Cantonese, but that won’t help if you’re on a bus in Wales and it is overtaken by angry guys named Llewellyn demanding someone speak Welsh or they’ll blow it up.  You can never have too many languages under your belt-that’s all I’m saying.

I finally got a copy of The Joy Of Cooking. I’ve never owned it (amazing, eh?). A quick look through does not have me racing off to the kitchen, but I think it might be useful should I ever find myself wanting to make rice rissoles.

Finally, a great plastic grocery cart that Danny can push around the house and use to put his toys away. I suspect some mother donated it after finding her child taking the family pet (or younger sibling) for a ride in it as the thing is really sturdy (Little Tykes, they make really great stuff for kids, don’t they?). We’ve discussed at length the consequences involved should I find old Alrgen The Poodle (yeah, I know, the poodle was his girlfriend, but the dog is a boy and you probably shouldn’t name your pets after literary figures anyway. Didn’t Fran Leibowitz have a gag about people who name their cats Ford Maddox Ford?). Anyway, Danny has been warned that the fantastic shopping cart toy will return to the thrift store if our elderly little dog goes for any rides.

I very nearly forgot-a coffee mug (bright orange) shaped like…wait for it…a stomach-complete with colon looping off his head. The stomach is smiling as well, which is kind of creepy and wonderful at the same time. I’ll post photos.

And as an unrelated aside-how the hell can anyone eat food at Burger King? Seriously, this isn’t a food snob rant because heaven knows I wouldn’t turn my nose up at fried food, but that stuff was not only awful, but it induced actual abdominal pain. I know it has been years since I’ve had more than a soda from those places but really-how can they sell food that bad? Even my kid had the sense not to eat it. How do you screw up a frozen fish patty? Blech. Oh dear God, blech. Never again-ever. Ever. Ever. Mind you, we split the fish sandwich between three people and I still managed to get sick from the small amount. My husband managed a hamburger as well, but really regretted it after the fact. I usually pack lunch when we go out for the day and you can be sure, following that disgusting waste of money I will do so in the future. Yuck-I wonder how long it will take to get the taste of rot out of my mouth?

Most years, giving "thanks" feels like a kind of automatic exercise-not quite meaningless, but pretty generalized nonetheless. This year, our town was hit by a tornado-two actually. Nothing makes a person thankful like seeing their town hit by a tornado and then finding out that everyone got through it alive and even more miraculously-uninjured. If that isn’t something to be thankful for, I don’t really know what it. Sometimes, I still can’t believe we got out of that alive. I try not to think about it too much (except when I find large pieces of glass still sticking up in the yard, or the dog drags in a piece of the now-gone barn) but I admit to feeling uneasy every time the sky gets yellow and weird, or heavy rains come in.

If you walk through our town, as we did on Halloween to go trick-or-treating, it is hard to believe it was devastated back in May. I can’t say enough nice things about all the volunteers that came to help, the Red Cross and even (incredible, I know) the response from FEMA. Every single power line was knocked down for a five mile stretch of the main county road through and out of town-like the funnel cloud(s) went along knocking them down like dominoes. Within days (five actually) power was restored which is kind of amazing when you think of how much work had to be done. They had crews out there day and night and the FEMA money came through almost immediately so other power companies could lend their workers to the task of getting the town re-wired.  Regular readers know that I’m not one to hold back with complaints and will happily point out inept government responses, but this time they got it right. I realise our tiny town is a whole lot less complicated than New Orleans, but I still never would have expected things to go as smoothly as they did. There’s something else to be thankful for.

I’m thankful for all of you as well –er, most of you

Raymond, Jenn, Helen and Harry, the mysterious reader from Calgary, the even more mysterious reader from Germany, Page, JK, Vanessa, the two mysterious readers from Lincoln, and all of the others I’ve probably forgotten to mention between the two blogs-I appreciate you bringing me into your lives and being a part of mine. Thank you so much for giving me a reason to maintain these two blogs and keep me from spending all my time playing video games and reading comics (ok, I still read the comics, but you know what I mean).

Happy Thanksgiving

If I still haven’t convinced you to take up canning for all the wonderful foods you can preserve (I made the most fantastic lingonberry preserves today…oh my God are they good-suck it, IKEA!) I should point out that running the canner does double duty as a humidifier as well. Honestly, I haven’t had a single electric shock or bit of static cling yet. What’s more, it keeps the back of the house nice and warm which is good because the bathroom is back there and let’s face it, no one likes to sit down on a cold toilet seat.

I have a pretty awful cold coming in-the sort where your sinuses are so painful it makes you think every tooth in your head is about to fall out. Believe it or not (but it is true) standing in the kitchen with the water-bath canner going full blast seems to help a bit. I’m still sick, but the moisture does seem to be doing me some good. Or maybe it was that extra large slug of schnapps… (no, not really, but hell an opportunity to hit the bottle of schnapps is always worth taking advantage of). You can always claim to be "testing" it before putting up cordials (not that anyone will believe you).

Anyway, I wanted to take the opportunity to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and to remind you that standing in front of a boiling canner slugging away at a bottle of cheap schnapps has medicinal value and I won’t rat you out if you have a little brandy while "moistening" the stored Christmas cakes. If that doesn’t make you thankful nothing will.

All right, have two drams, it’s a holiday.

I don’t normally post dreams, but even my husband agreed this one was so incredibly weird it deserved blog space.

I was living in my current house and I was home with Danny and my mother. All of a sudden, there was a bright flash-nuclear bomb style. My mother comes into the room and says it is OK because the radio said if you don’t look directly at the flashes you’ll be OK. Then, she lit up one of those strangely long cigarettes everyone smoked in the 70’s and 80’s, and handed me one "for later, in case the world ends." I went to toss it in the garbage but Danny retrieved it and handed the broken cigarette to me and I stuffed it in my pocket.

Then, my mother starts complaining that she wants me to move the car that is parked a few streets away. I tell her there’s no way I’m going out there to move her car, but she reiterates the news from the radio that the radiation is harmless unless you look at it-"like an x-ray." I still refuse to move the car. Anyone that knew my mother (and a few readers here did) know this is exactly the sort of thing she would do/say. Sure, there’s a nuclear war taking place but the car should be closer to the house in case she needed to go somewhere? Classic.

Danny comes running up telling me there are tanks in the driveway. I look out the window and see these massive tanks gathering in the drive. I figure that this is where they are going to start rounding up dissenters and I remember the cigarette in my pocket and think about smoking it. I try telling Danny quickly that I’m probably going to be taken away and my mother starts lecturing me about how I should have moved the car(!) and kept my mouth shut and now we’re all being rounded up. The knock at the door finally comes and we open it…

…and it’s Sara Palin! She has an entourage of photographers and news people and she’s clutching a gigantic bag of macaroni.

"I’m here givin’ away macaroni. Kids love it, ‘ya betcha!"

They snap photos and then all rush out the door. We all look at each other not understanding what just happened and my mother asks if this means I can go get the car, or was it a trick to make us not realise we’re being rounded up?

Then, I woke up. All right you dream analysis people-have at it.

The economy is so bad that the Governor has to show up for the opening of a new McDonalds and praise the franchise owners for contributing to the community. This is just so wrong, in so many ways that I don’t feel I can articulate it without resorting to sarcasm-so I won’t. I’ll present it here as the really pathetic example it is, and let you summon your own responses.

I do like the fact that he had to eat and run to get back to Lincoln in time to sign the amended Safe Haven law. There’s probably a joke in there, but all I could come up with was "Have it your way..hold the teenagers, hold the toddlers, we want them younger than 72 hours…" but I think that jingle was Burger King.

Although I understand they are trying to track outbreaks of the flu, I get uneasy with tracking people who have been vaccinated via wristbands. The potential for abuse of the information just seems too great.

They captured the "Butt Bandit of Valentine, Nebraska!" This fellow has been lubricating his behind in Vaseline and smearing it on storefront windows for a while now. Too bad there wasn’t a photograph (of his face…we all knowwhat his bottom looks like…). Bonus-it happened in Valentine. My Funny Valentine, indeed.

Here’s an interesting problem-the state run facility for the severely retarded is in trouble for letting a resident purchase pornography (he later raped another resident) and actually driving him 40 miles to Lincoln to buy it. But do we have the right to censor what the residents are permitted to read? Is it fair to say the pornography contributed to the rape? I don’t know, and apparently the state isn’t sure either. My immediate reaction is "Oh my gosh, this is an outrage", but it really isn’t that simple, is it?

Hard to tell who the bigger idiots are-the protesters or the counter protesters. Since when is chucking bottles and food at people considered "protest" anyway? Sure, the Westboro Church people are nuts, but letting these kids get away with violence (the cops chose to do nothing) isn’t exactly a good lesson either.  

Is anyone really shocked that immigrants are being murdered with all the hate being spewn about "illegals?"  

People are such schmucks. Case in point-a writer whose child is unable to eat enough to gain weight and develop properly is being given shit by idiots in blogtopia for having a gastric tube placed in her baby-her baby that can’t eat and gain weight. Yeah, you’re right, "shmucks" isn’t strong enough. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people? Do me a favour, go over to her blog and say something nice. She really does not need this kind of shit. I just cannot imagine. Good fucking grief-if you’re capable of being that sort of an asshole to a woman with a sick child…I just don’t know. Maybe we’re just doomed as a society. It was bad enough when the boobie brigade started confronting strangers about the way they feed their child, but this is really beyond the pale. The commenter who suggested she "get over it" because it was "just a baby"… *shakes head*

More people being idiots in need of a dope-slap. Besides, what sort of a sick world has a talented (very, very, talented) pastry chef making bloody molten lava cakes? Isn’t that something a four year old would eat? The absurdity of asking to "split" the dessert…I mean, for heaven’s sake, they aren’t dining at a goddamned Denny’s.

I don’t wear a size six-so why do clothing manufacturers insist I do? 

While you’re at my cooking blog, check out the jelly you can make with store-brand cranberry juice and cheap wine. 

These are the badass coupon clippers-worth having a look at with money so tight these days (funny, money was always tight around here). 

Speaking of stretching your money-THIS blogger feeds her large family on an absurdly small amount of money. She’s smart, and super-nice as well. 

Homeschooling on a budget. Believe me, it is not cheap.  

 The blog of unnecessary quotation marks.

Remember when flour and other kitchen staples were getting scarce and expensive? In the past week the price of a 5 lb. bag of Gold Medal all purpose flour has droped from $2.70 cents a bag to $1.49 at my market. They have plenty on hand. Rye is still expensive, but also plentiful. Strangely, it seems to be following the price of both a gallon of milk and a gallon of gasoline. I asked my super-smart husband what he thought of this since he sort of has a background in financial stuff and he laughed saying they teach that deflation can never happen again because of so many built-in protections. You know, like the Titanic.

By now everyone has heard about the great big Canadian meteorite so I won’t bore you with that-I will however link to THIS article because it is hilarious.

" The Canadian Fireball Reporting Centre". No fucking way. Really? That’s just so awesome. If I were Canadian, I’d do everything in my power to try and get a job at the Canadian Fireball Reporting Centre" because that must look totally badass on a business card. I’m sure Mr. Hildebrand uses it as a pick up line. I mean, who wouldn’t want to screw the co-ordinator of the Canadian Fireball Reporting Centre? I know I would. Alan Hildebrand, call me, you hot Canadian fireball you.

Who knew a flaming fireball sizzles like bacon? I’ll bet when it sails over the frozen prairies of Saskatchewan it sizzles like Back Bacon.

Seriously though, at least where I live (near STRATCOM) if I saw a giant flash and the house shook, I’d be thinking nukes. In 2001 we had a piece of space-junk go sailing through the evening sky in a sort of darting manner and I was sure, for about ten minutes, that we were all going to die. Canadians are probably a whole lot braver than we are-I hear they can take down polar bears with their "bear" (sorry) hands. Still, I can’t believe how calm people took this.

Now remember kids, if you find chunks of meteorites out there in the snow, use a Ziplock to pick it up so Mr. Hildebrand can stuff it in his pants…er…put it in the museum.

The very worst job I ever had was working at the Newsstand in Harvard Square. This morning I read that it is going to close and really, the only thought I could summon was, "good."

Oh, I understand-people love the place. Yeah, it’s an institution, I get that. But I still can’t un-do the months of hell that was working there before I finally turned in my name badge and left to get a "real" job. OK, that’s not true-I left for a job supervising telemarketers…but still.

It’s been many, many years so I guess it is OK to finally tell the story about how that bat-shit crazy manager had us polishing packages of candy and gum with paper towels and a bottle of Windex. Yeah, you read that right-Windex. You see, no one bought the candy and gum on the displays. Sometimes the homeless guy who was camped out across the street would come in and steal some while we all pretended not to see, but no one else was going to touch Clark bars that were still there collecting dust long after they stopped making them. Naturally, the wrappers got a little dusty and then over time, grimy-so out came the Windex and paper towels. That was my job-making the Doublemint sparkle-look, no streaks!

The customers were great too. At least a couple times a week I’d have someone come in and ask how to get to Harvard (study!), or where the "glass flowers" museum was (The Peabody, and they weren’t exactly flowers…I think "weeds" might have been more accurate. I always wondered how disappointed people were when they went to see the exhibit and realised they were very exacting botanical reproductions made of glass that all looked like shit you’d pull out of your plant beddings?). Then, there were the flat-out crazies like the woman who insisted I was giving her the evil eye and wanted me to "Change my face." Every single day was a parade of insanity from the guy that would buy three boxes of Tic Tacs every morning and then go out by the subway entrance and spit them out in a patterns to read his fortune like an I-Ching, to the embarrassed middle aged men tying their best to purchase their pornography from anyone but me (which really, if you’re buying something called "Barely Legal" you damn well ought to be embarrassed whether you are buying it from a woman or not).

Now, I’d like to go on record as saying I did not glue the newsstand shut, nor do I know who did it. I have a pretty good idea who did it, but it wasn’t I. I believe it happened a few times-two that I can remember for certain. I worked the early morning shift and remember waiting outside for Fred to show up with the key and then he realised someone had filled the lock with super-glue. We couldn’t laugh (aloud anyway) and when it became apparent that we’d have to wait for a locksmith, everyone (except Fred) went over to The Tasty and fell apart laughing. The second time was even better, though we got the hell out of there fast because we knew what was coming. I swear to God, I really don’t know who did it, but I admit to deriving a great deal of joy from it-so thank you, whoever you were with the super-glue. Thank you.

In a way, I’m glad I had the experience of working there, even though I hated working there-if that makes any sense. For every lunatic I had to deal with, there were really lovely people that made me look forward to getting out of bed each cold morning and getting to Harvard Square before the sun was up. Back then, certain sections of The New York Times came in early and it was always the same people showing up to get them. We’d hold copies for some people every week. It was interesting how the more "important" the person was in status, the better they treated the employees. While there were plenty of "new rich" assholes that felt justified treating employees as subhuman, I never experienced that from politicians, professors, or writers-and we saw quite a few of them. It was a good place to work as a young person, if for no other reason than seeing the difference between being dignified and a douchebag.

It was a good thing I quit when I did or I might have gained fifty pounds from my almost daily lunch of Brie with apples on a baguette from the deli/cheese shop across the street. The counterman liked me because I didn’t make him cut the rind off my cheese and I would hold magazines for him until he got paid. He made really generous sandwiches that often fed a couple co-workers as well (except one kid who called it "scary cheese", and couldn’t be persuaded to try it). I am actually feeling a weak, kind of sad wave come over me thinking about those sandwiches because no cheese and apples on French bread will ever taste as good as those did in a cold, damp autumn day in Harvard Square sitting atop a bundle of newspapers eating lunch. Except, I never got to finish lunch, because bat-shit-crazy manager would always come screaming up to you with some life or death situation that involved driving to the office down the street or polishing packages of chewing gum.

Yes, so it is the end of an era, as people like to say. A bit sad but hardly mournful. All the interesting places in Cambridge disappeared long ago, with Central Square meeting a similar fate. I guess I miss the Communist bookstore more than I’d ever miss Out Of Town News, but then, I never worked there or I might feel differently.

I was fortunate to spend the best years of my life in Boston/Cambridge at a time when rent was cheap, the city was safe and there were still some unique qualities to make it different from other American cities. Boston/Cambridge is really quite small and though people don’t like to admit it, provincial. You can’t ride the T without meeting someone you know, and years later in the course of conversation it sometimes comes up that I know the same people as my husband independently. That is not at all an unusual occurrence, particularly if you’ve worked in a place like Out Of Town News, as your circle tends to widen and include people that might not otherwise find their way into your life. Again, it was a good experience at the right time, but damnit, I sure hated working there.

And Richard H, if you’re reading this I hope you get in touch, I miss you.

Over the past couple days; I’ve baked a butt-load of fruitcakes. Great big booze laden fruitcakes, each one weighing in at close to five pounds. The steamed Christmas puddings are next.

Last year, I saved all my coupons from the containers of glaced cherries and citron to use this year (they have no expiration dates). I felt so smart going to the store clutching my coupons for a buck off two containers. I was pleased to note the price hadn’t gone up since last year. I reached for the container and realised the reason the price hadn’t gone up: The containers held exactly half the amount they did last year. Bastards.

 
 I like a good glaced cherry now and then, and a fruitcake without them is pretty much unimaginable, but using a couple cups of them in each cake, at that price is out of the question. My father. I remembered that the original recipe for the fruitcake I’ve adapted into my own over the years called for Maraschino cherries rather than glaced. I’d always turned my nose up at that and substituted the more expensive kind. I bought a few jars of store brand Maraschino cherries for .50 cents each and drained them well before dumping them into the cake. I still used a handful of the green glaced cherries for colour, but largely I made due with cheaper alternatives. I made my own candied orange peel as well, since we have oranges on hand anyway-no point in tossing out the peels. My mother.

What I ended up with were really beautiful fruitcakes that retained a bit more moisture from the cherries. That didn’t stop me from soaking them full of brandy, but for the one person on our list that does not drink, I think the cherries will keep the cake moist longer. I might give that cake an additional brushing with simple syrup just in case.My sister.

The best fruitcakes are baked and left to ripen for a month, which is why I am baking them now. Yes, I know there are people who preserve them for years, but that’s a bit much for me-besides, who can wait that long to tuck into cake? My grandmother.

It has been pointed out that there are people that do not care for fruitcake. Those people are freaks and should be treated as such. We can forgive them if they’ve only had store-bought varieties, as they tend to be a bit dry and lacking in alcohol. Then again, I’m one of those people that begin to panic if I only have three pounds of raisins on hand. We go through an awful lot of dried fruit year-round (chutney, cooked in oatmeal, in rice or cous cous), so tossing it into cake seems pretty natural to me. Most of the time the quality of the fruit isn’t all that important (you’re only going to cook it to death in chutney) but try to get the nicer ones for your fruitcake. I will splurge once a year to buy whole dates and chop them myself. The dried out, sugar coated dates you can buy in a bag are a pointless purchase. They won’t add any moisture or richness to the cake and at worst, you can break a damn tooth on them. Buy a bucket of dates and take your time chopping them and appreciating how lovely a fruit they are. You should hold out a couple whole ones for yourself and stuff them with cream cheese as a reward for standing on your feet all day baking fruitcakes for your family and friends. Go on, it’s OK, I won’t rat you out. You can have a nip of the brandy too-after all that exhausting chopping, it’s almost a medical necessity to keep up your stamina. I mean, they have St. Bernard’s carry it to avalanche survivors…or is that rum? Well it doesn’t matter, you get the idea. And as my better half just pointed out, if it’s not medicinal it is at least recreational. So there you go.

My nephew. 

Right, so you want my precious recipe. This is a very old recipe, southern in origin and really just so full of fruit and booze it’s amazing these things don’t spontaneously combust. They really need to bake until dry and they will look a bit crumbly coming out of the pan-but fear not-that’s what all that booze is for. The recipe calls for 1-½ cups of applesauce. I make my own because I know how and can do it economically-but if you’re not an avid canner, pick up a jar of good quality applesauce (chunky or smooth) and try to get an unsweetened one. With all the sugary fruit, you really don’t need to add any extra.

This recipe makes one very large round cake. If you use two smaller springform pans, adjust for time and keep a close eye on the cakes. They will get very dark on top-this is normal, but you don’t want them to burn. You can cover them with foil if they seem to be browning too quickly. The centre really must test clean, even if the edges seem to be drying out-again, you’re going to brush them with brandy so don’t worry too much about it. My niece.

You Will Need:

 1/2 cup unsalted butter

1 cup granulated sugar

2 large eggs

2 cups all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1/2 teaspoon mace

1/4 cup brandy (or port, or whisky)

1 1/2 cups applesauce

1/2 pound raisins

1/2 pound sultanas

1 cup diced citron

1 cup diced candied peel (I used orange, but mixed is OK)

1 cup drained Maraschino cherries

1/2 cup green glaced cherries

2 cups chopped dates

1/4 cup diced crystalised ginger

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Butter and flour a large (three quart) springform pan.

Cream together the butter and sugar until light. Add the eggs one at a time beating well after each addition. Sift together the spices, flour and baking soda. Remove 3 tablespoons and set aside. Add to the bowl alternating with the brandy. Stir in the applesauce.

Mix the fruit together and toss with the reserved flour. Add to the bowl and mix well until evenly incorporated. Pour into pan. Place pan on baking sheet and bake one and a half hours (or more) until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. Cool in pan 25 minutes on a rack. With a thin knife, cut around cake before removing ring to help loosen it. Remove carefully. Let cool another half hour before removing bottom (again, a long, thin knife is helpful). While cake is inverted, place a baking sheet beneath the rack to catch any drips. Use either a straw, or the round end of a chopstick to poke numerous holes in the bottom of the cake. Pour a bit of brandy down each hole. Pour out a bit more brandy into a bowl and with a pastry brush, give it a good brushing along the dry perimeter. Turn the cake over. Poke more holes and repeat. Then, generously brush the top of the cake. Let cool completely. Brush the top and sides generously again and wrap tightly in multiple layers of aluminum foil. Set in a cool place (but not the fridge unless you live in the tropics) and let it rest until Christmas.

You can give it an additional brushing of booze before serving too.

Happy Holidays!

And happy Goggle alerts and key word searches.  

Yesterday at the airport to see my sister-in-law off, Danny tried every possible argument he could devise to get her to stay. I’ve never actually seen him look quite so sad, and no amount of distracting him with views of planes helped. Finally, he let her go but not before grabbing her around the neck and hugging as tightly as I’ve ever seen that child hug. He gave her a kiss and stood there, tears welling in his eyes as she headed for the gate.

This morning Danny woke and quickly remembered his dear auntie had gone home. In his most pissed-off voice Danny let me know exactly what he was thinking:

"I want you to get run over by a car so I can go to New York and live with my yellow-haired auntie and her cat."

So there!

My in-laws are visiting this week. Danny was sitting on the floor with his granddad playing with a spinning top. After being frustrated by his inability to get the thing going, Danny screamed:

"I can’t get this goddamned top to spin!"

Ever just wish you could disappear?

Nebraska. Verb. Meaning to abandon a child (typically difficult teens) at a safe-haven facility in the state.

 Examples in sentences:

"Son, if you don’t behave I’m going to Nebraska you."

"Dude. my old man totally Nebraska’d me."

They are calling a special legislative session to change the law, but really it does show just how little help there is for parents of older children in this state. Jokes aside, you’d have to be pretty severely in need of help for your child to give up parental rights by dropping them off. I do wish we’d learn something from this and recognise the needs people have, but we won’t. The law will be changed and then the only children being Nebraska’d (or would it be Nebrasked?) will be three days old and younger. We love foetuses and newborns, but actual children? Forget it.