You guys suck

I know, it's not a title most likely to keep people reading, but really...

The readers that had their pretty/handsome noses shoved way far up my ample bottom have abandoned me. If I'm not writing about penises or making fun of socially retarded people, I have no audience. Only one dear man continued contact briefly, and he was a newbie here.

What does that say about you? Huh?

Boogers.

We're mostly back

We miss vacation already.


Twelve hours ago, we were all barefoot and sandy. The reality of being back here has hit us all pretty hard, especially since where we were was so much more like HOME than where we live.

We're all a bit glum right now. The dog and I are having the hardest time, I think. I've never visited such a wonderfully friendly and free place in my life. Mayberry surrounded by sea.

I didn't miss reality in the smallest amount. I worried about work, of course, but I can't say that I really missed anything. I didn't miss blogging at all. For even a tiny second.

I think I'm done here, folks. Those of you that know my email from the previous blog, feel free to contact me there. I'll also have the email for this one up for a while longer: enigmataco@gmail.com.

I hope you all had a wonderful week. I KNOW I did.

Neener. Neener.

I need a geeky hero!

I can NOT find a *free* photoblog template for Blogger that actually works. Does anyone know where I can get one?

Frankly, I'm lazy and an hour of Googling is a bit much for me. I've got bags to pack, y'know!

Farts is funny

Sigh. Have nothing going on but kid stuff and preparations for vacation. I'm not a mommy blogger and detailing what I'm packing is boring. I got nothing.

Unless you wanted to hear about the old woman who peeked under my bathroom stall today and then cut some of the nastiest farts I've ever heard in my life. After each one she said, "Whoopsies!"

I might have told everyone on the 7th floor of my building, so I may as well tell the internet. I just wish I knew which old lady it was, so I could giggle every time I see her from now on.

Fishes and wishes

In less than 5 days, I will be tooling down the interstate towards relaxation. Sand. Sun. Air that does not reek of sewage treatment plants and humanity...just salt and fish and the diesel moving the fishing boats. That's perfume as far as I'm concerned.

We opted for a seaside vacation away from the tourist traps, this year. Two miles of island, inhabited by mostly year-round residents. A post office, marina, and a grocery/bait shop/convenience store/diner, surrounded by homes and water. No souvenir shops and no mini-golf. No overpriced pizza parlors that use ass for ingredients. Quiet. Bliss.

No telephone in the house that is less than five joyful leaps from the water that meets our front yard. A view of both a distant lighthouse and another island inhabited by wild ponies, through my bedroom window. The porch faces west and I will no doubt spend every evening in the hammock, snapping pictures of the sunset show. I will drink many frozen alcoholic drinks and cook many meals over charcoal.

Now if I could only convince the other seven people on the trip roster to stay home....it would be damn near perfect.

Wuv, twue wuv*

I think the John Edwards Humpgate** has been on everyone's minds lately, bringing with it the feeling of insecurity about people in general. He was revered by scores as a family man, bravely and devotedly standing by his poor, ailing wife, while pursuing a seemingly straightforward political career.

Wicked bad fail.

Far be it from me to trust ANYONE who works in politics, but he flew low on my bullshit radar and was I truly surprised to hear about his affair. Mostly because I thought he was smarter, not necessary good. How could someone who had millions of eyes on him and thousands of noses in his business believe that he could get away with such a thing? This is not the 1950's, and these are not your father's reporters. They WILL find the dirt.

On a much wider level, though, it brought me back to pondering the point of devoting your life to someone who will most likely fuck you over. AKA: Marriage.

As I've aged matured, I've come to appreciate longevity in relationships. Not that I know anything about them. To be honest, it's hard to find non-fiction examples of such things.

My best friend and his wife have been married for seven years - together for twelve. They honestly enjoy and adore each other. However, he had an affair four years ago that lasted for six months. It didn't change how he felt about his wife or where their lives were headed, but it happened. How? There was no strife at home...he's honestly one of the kindest people I've ever known...it just doesn't compute.

That's what's so damn scary to someone like me, who has a hard time turning it all over to another person in the first place.

Another long-time friend of mine has been with her husband for ten years now, and they have three children. Before their first child was born, she had an affair with an old boyfriend and spent the next year doubting her marriage because of it. Again, no love lost and no problems in the marriage.

In my mind, it's very hard to accept 'commitment' and 'vow' as tangible words when I know very few married couples have practiced them according to their definitions. I have a hard time committing to a cell phone contract and I have never seen the same hair dresser more than twice, so you might say that I'm not a steady-as-a-rock type of chick...unless it comes to what or who I love. Therefore, it may come as no surprise to some of you that I have been single for quite a while, with all of this fear tucked into my hatband.

I'm fairly certain that I won't marry again, but I don't rule it out. I'm just honestly terrified, because in order for me to commit to another person again, I will have to trust, respect, and love that person 100%. But there are two people in that equation, and one person giving 100% does not mean that the other person doesn't phone it in with 20% sometimes. The examples I gave above prove (to me, at least) that even a good person can break a bond. Even a person totally in love with their spouse can forget their vows.

So, is marriage something that can even exist as it was intended anymore? Has it become a negotiable contract instead of a beautiful testament to love and family? What do you think?



*Best. Movie. Ever.

**Copyright, bitches

Arguing with myself in the dark

In the darkened theater, I was very aware that I was the only female over the age of 18 in the place. The giggles, cell phone glows, and over-sprayed pungent perfume were a dead giveaway. Beside me, my 13 year old daughter was staring at the screen and trying to keep her elbow from touching mine, which rested on the armrest between us.

Stay cool, I told myself. Do not do anything remotely embarrassing. This may very well be one of the last times she allows you to accompany her to a teen flick in public. Just watch the movie.

****

Oh HELL. A PG-13 love scene. Look away. Do NOT look at her.

****

If those little shits behind us don't shut up....no, I have to just pretend I'm not a mean old lady who wants to pull them out by their ears. Stay calm.

****

Look at her, completely caught up in the story. I'm so lucky that she still wants to hang out with me at all. She looks so happy and beautiful. How the heck did I make a human that gorgeous? Oh shit!...she caught me looking at her. Abort abort!

****

Great, a sad scene. I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry...well, crap. Now I'm crying. Can't let her see. My eye itches...but I can't scratch it because then she'll think I'm wiping a tear away, and she'll never want to see another movie with me ever. My eye does not itch My eye does not itch My eye does not itch. Why did I think that would work?

****

Roll credits. I made it out alive, without making my daughter pretend she didn't know me. I think I might just have a shot and not sucking all of the time. Score.

I'm not wearing the friggin' nose

I found out a few days ago that my co-workers and I are much closer to being "outsourced" than we initially thought. It sucks, yes, but it's also sort of exciting for a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants chick, like myself. I know I should be freaked out and cultivating a killer ulcer, but I can't help looking forward to a new chapter. I've spent six miserable, hellish, rotten years with my employer, and I am ready to not work there anymore.

I know, I'm not 19 anymore and I should be more responsible. Shutty.

So anyway, my work-husband and I were discussing what I would do if the inevitable happens sooner rather than later, and we were trying to decide what my talents are, via work email (take that corporate shit heads!). Hilarity ensues:

Taco: I think I'd be a very good clown. Except, without the make up and unicycling.

WH: Well duh, you don't own make up and you can't even walk a straight line, much less ride a unicycle. I think you're better suited for singing telegrams....for deaf people.

Taco: Bite me. I am EXTREMELY talented and you're just jealous. You jealous fart face, you.

WH: You should be a preschooler. You're really good at acting four. Oh, and by the way....BURN.

Taco: I know you are but what am I?

WH: I'm rubber - you're glue.

Taco: No fair...

WH: You're really good with the comebacks, too. Maybe you should be a comedy writer...or a smart ass consultant. You would excel in the field of smart assyness.

Taco: I think you should take a job as a STINKY BUTT HEAD!!

WH: See, you're a natural.

Taco: ....I'm also very good at shooting rubber bands. I almost always hit my target.

WH: That's it!!! You are the world's first Smartass Rubber Band Clown Assassin!

Taco: ....

WH: Tah dah.

The day Garfield warned me about

It almost never fails.

You manage to get through the morning smoothly, arrive to work on time and in good spirits, and proceed to kick the crap out of the stacks of work waiting on your desk. Before you know it, it's midday and your mood has actually improved ,thanks to good music and background blocking ear buds. It is going to be a good day, indeed.

Then.

It's always on Mondays when a child gets ill; When your bosses assume you're nursing a hangover or just don't want to be there. Out the door you fly to rescue your poopy-feeling offspring, noting that you'll have to go in to the office on Saturday to make up the hours missed. (Side note: American corporations needs to get a frikken clue about sick days. A parent can not possibly handle all doctor/dentists appointments plus days that a child has to stay home sick or when school is closed, on THREE measly sick days.)

After picking up the sick child, you realize that he's not sick and only had a bit of yucky belly after breakfast. However, you're required to sign something about the "incident" (aka: el poopoo rapido) and told not to bring him back for at least 24 hours. No fever, no lethargic behavior, no more ick. But those are the rules. You have no more sick time at work. And the "ill" child is trying to do back flips by running up the side of your body.

In desperation, you contact the child's father to beg him to take care of his spawn the next day; The same man who has not taken a day off for anything in almost five years. He is, of course, too busy at work to help. But, he's really bummed that he can't help. Then you mentally curse him with scabies and male pattern baldness as you slam the cell phone shut. Guilt about being worried about work when your child needs you sets in and clamps down on your heart like an industrial vice.

Hey, since you're having such a great day, why don't you start cooking dinner in 95 degree heat while four dogs compete for first position UP YOUR BUTT, and then serve said dinner to invisible people? Because the only ones eating it will be you and your non-sick child. The other adults in the house will forget to tell you that they're not getting home until well past dinner, even though you're expected to cook for their fat rumps every day at the same time.

Take a breath. Have half a beer in an icy mug. Relax. It's almost over and it could most definitely be worse.

Just when you find your Zen buried under the fury, you realize that your not really sick child is looking a little puny. You stick a thermometer in his mouth and lo, it reads 100 degrees in the shade. You kick yourself for being such a whiner and administer orange juice, Tylenol, and favorite stuffed animals.

Then you collapse into a heap in front of the computer to do a few hours of work after the poor tot has faded off to sleep, and mentally prepare yourself for the dead of night awakenings that are sure to occur because of fever nightmares. Then you feel guilty for dreading them.

Sigh. Monday.

Everyone has a enviable talent

On the way to work today, I saw a hooker do a cartwheel on the sidewalk in front of a Chinese-American-Seafood-Fried Chicken eatery. She was wearing a blue and silver sequined mini-dress and black high-top sneakers, and she (no pun intended) nailed it.

I don't want to be a hooker or anything, but I found myself a little jealous and thinking, "Damn. I wish I could still do cartwheel."

My mind worries me sometimes.

Outraged!

From the Star Tribune, Minnesota-St. Paul:

Minneapolis police: A mistake, an apology and then medals
By RODRIGO ZAMITH, Star Tribune
July 30, 2008

First, the city apologized. Then it gave awards.

Eight Minneapolis officers received medals in City Hall Monday for their valor in a botched raid that the city apologized for last year. That isn't sitting well with the family shot at multiple times by the officers.

"I'm shocked that they're receiving awards for that night," said Yee Moua. "My family is a mess right now. My [9-year-old] son, who saw the shooting, still has nightmares and has needed therapy. They've ruined a life, and I don't understand why they would get rewarded for that."

The awards stemmed from a high-risk search in December. The eight officers -- who had SWAT training -- entered the house expecting to find a violent gang member. Instead, they found Vang Khang, a 35-year-old homeowner who thought he was being robbed. Khang shot through his bedroom door at the officers until he understood who they were.

In the midst of the shootout were Moua, who is Khang's wife, and their six children, who range in age from 3 to 15. Moua said her family has since abandoned the house and can no longer afford to keep it.

Minneapolis police spokesman Sgt. William Palmer said Tuesday the department has acknowledged the raid was a mistake and has apologized to the family. But he said the officers "performed very bravely under gunfire and made smart decisions."

Minneapolis Police Chief Tim Dolan said that he knew giving the award might get negative attention but that "we've never not recognized an officer shot in the line of duty."

Three officers received shrapnel damage to body armor and their ballistic helmets, Palmer said.

Dolan said he did not speak with the family prior to the award ceremony, but he did speak with Hmong community leaders in north Minneapolis who were "mostly understanding."

"I can understand [Moua's] feelings, but the officers didn't make any mistakes and they were able to stop things from getting worse," Dolan said. "Like the old maxim says, 'You don't punish your officers for the mistake of the general.'"

'We almost died that night'

Police said they acted on bad information from an informant, who reportedly was a victim of a crime at a house in the 1300 block of Logan Avenue N. Police said they had no reason to believe the information was inaccurate and they had the right address on the warrant, but the house wasn't occupied by anybody they wanted.

The raid was part of an investigation by the department's Violent Offender Task Force, which typically goes after the most violent gang members and drug dealers. Officers had retrieved guns in searches connected with the case before the raid.

According to police, officers entered the home without knocking -- a standard procedure in cases where officers expected to find weapons -- and called out, "Police!" as they searched the home's first floor. They didn't find anybody, so went to the second floor. At a small landing at the top of the stairs, they again shouted, "Police!"

Shots then came through the walls and doors as officers searched two bedrooms, police said. It was Khang shooting from a third bedroom.

Authorities said there were children in the other bedrooms, and the officers quickly realized there was a language barrier. The older children were able to communicate to their father that police were in the house and to stop shooting.

"As soon as they started taking fire, [officers] got in front of the kids and used their body as a shield," Palmer said. "They used great restraint and shot precisely at where the bullets were coming back from."

Moua disputed the police account.

"They never identified themselves; we thought they were a whole bunch of drunk, crazy guys," she said. "We didn't know anything until my oldest son yelled, 'Dad, it's the police!'"
She also said the officers did not try to protect her children, but rather hid themselves behind furniture and shot back indiscriminately. She said officers treated her and her husband roughly, and did not explain the situation after the two surrendered.

"They stepped on my husband, and we kept asking, 'Where are the bad guys?'" she said. "We were just trying to protect ours kids. We almost died that night."

Lawsuit against the city

Sgt. Jesse Garcia said the city conducted an internal affairs investigation after the raid and the SWAT team was cleared of any wrongdoing. He said no other details were available because the investigation was still open.

Casper Hill, a spokesman for the city of Minneapolis, said the city has reimbursed the Khang family $7,500 for "miscellaneous expenses."

The family's lawyer, Thomas Heffelfinger, said that he has had ongoing conversations with the city attorney's office and that there will be a lawsuit if they cannot reach a resolution.

"They fired 22 rounds with 9 millimeter automatic weapons into a room with two adults and four children," Heffelfinger said. "That's not protecting kids. They were firing at a room they couldn't see into. They fired with the intent to kill the person on the other side of the door.

"To give these men awards for that behavior is nothing more than an attempt to sanitize their conduct."

Heffelfinger also said the family had lived at the house for four years and had no history of wrongdoing. He said police "failed to do their homework" and "acted outrageously once they got there."

Officers receiving medals of commendation included Sgt. Nicholas Torborg and officers Steven Blackwell, Matthew Kaminski, Ricardo Muro and Craig Taylor. Sgt. Michael Young and officers John Sheneman and Alan Williams received medals of valor.

"We knew there might be political implications with this," Palmer said. "We're not passing judgment today on the rest of what happened there. But those officers were shot in the line of duty, and there isn't an appropriate level of award for that."

**********

First, somebody needs to tell the writer that he does not necessarily need a new paragraph for EVERY sentence.

Second, OH MY GOD. How stupid does a person have to give awards to men who made what could have been a fatal mistake? I'm just so frikken mad right now about this.

Must go throw a rock at something. Maybe if I hit someone with it and then apologize, they'll give me $20 or a big blue ribbon for accuracy.

Stupid fucks.

Just one question

At what point is a mother allowed to break, without being considered selfish?

A sad day

R.I.P. Butch.

You fought a valiant fight. We hope there was no pain.

Update on Butch

Butch has survived three nights with us now, and he appears to have super powers. He's withstood multiple force-feedings, chill, transport through pothole-filled neighborhoods, and excessive handling. All of those things on top of being in an environment completely alien and unnatural for him, filled with sounds, smells, and light that he should have never been subjected to. Every article I have read gave him a 90% chance of survival (he was younger when we found him than I first thought - maybe 2 days), but the little fighter is still here - proving me wrong at every turn and making me love him.

Dammit.

I took Butch to work with me today and promised my daughter - his primary caregiver - that I wouldn't KILL him. I didn't. Unfortunately, he was discovered by the cat later in the evening (thanks to a door that was left open - NOT BY ME), and he was carried around for who knows how long, suffering several tiny punctures and a loss of body heat. For a creature with no fur and paper-thin skin, this is a big deal. She didn't mean him any harm, but treated him as a kitten - he just didn't have the fur a kitten would have to protect him from mama kitty love.

He has, however, continued to crawl around in his blind way and eat.

I am completely dumbfounded and amazed.

Due to his incredible will to be, I have decided that he is allowed to sleep in his soft human-made nest for as long as he will tolerate it. I had previously decided that he would go to another licensed rehabber as soon as possible, but he has earned his place here. At least now he can be released into his family group.

Stupid tiny hairless freaky thing. I wuv himz.

A recurring epidemic

I have a relatively serious and probably unanswerable question:

How in the world does an adult human logically justify looking down on someone because of their skin color or what language they speak? What has to happen in a person's brain (stroke? acid flashback?) for them to see a complete stranger and determine them unworthy for basic kindness? Judging someone or something based on skin pigment is just the most ridiculous thing I've ever encountered.

Now, I personally know people of all races who make me want to stick forks in their eyes on a daily basis - but that's because they're douche bags, not because they're soft outer layer is a certain color. There is no color when it comes to douche bags.

I recently had a conversation with a relatively intelligent woman in her 50's, concerning a house that I'm looking into. After revealing the location (which is great, by the way) she said, "Isn't that in Shantytown?"

"Shantytown? What are you talking about?"

"You know," she answered, "where all the black people live in those run down houses. I wouldn't live there if you paid me."

And I was completely flabbergasted. This woman preaches incessantly about how she loves everybody, no matter what race or sexual-orientation they may be. Yet, driving by a house with a black gentleman working in his yard sends her right back into the 1950's, when people were afraid of other people based on COLOR. NOTHING.

You know, I know a lot of really awful men. Is it fair for me to then lump all men into the same category and declare them evil and not to be associated with? No, it would not be fair. But I guarantee you that a man spewing race hate would become transformed into the indignant victim if I did. The concept of not blaming a group for the sins of others in that group is lost on so many people, and it really saddens me. Especially when I see wonderful people taking it in the chin day after day after day, without so much as a flinch.

People, go find the nearest child and talk to him or her about how fantastic this world is BECAUSE we get to experience diversity. Teach them compassion and love for humankind.

Except for the douche bags.

They're GREAT...for other people

The chick that sits in the ceiling-less box next to me at work had a baby. She did not have it at work, and it was six weeks ago. (Maybe I should have led with that) At approximately 3pm this afternoon, she brought the little bundle by for a visit and the entire 7th floor of my building shut down so that every woman within baby head smelling distance could ooh and ahh and grasp at tiny baby toes.

I swear, you could hear the ovaries throbbing in that crowd.

New Mommy fielded questions from her audience about sleeping habits, quantities of nutrition ingested, and general baby ooey gooey-ness. All the while, the little angel was sleeping peacefully in my arms while I rocked back and forth, gazing at her perfect little nose and impossibly long eyelashes. In my own little world with the baby, I thought to myself:

"Thank the sweet baby jesus that I never have to wipe feces off of my children ever again."

Then I handed the baby to the next woman and told New Mommy how wonderful having a baby that age is. And I didn't lie even a little bit.

I'm just glad as HELL that I never have to go through it again.

Then I came home and kissed my rotten kids (ignoring their screams of terror) because they don't make me wash bottles, smell like formula puke, or turn my eyes red from lack of sleep. God bless 'em.

Amen.

What a difference a year makes

My big old droolin' shadow/protector/dish pre-washer/bed mate survived 365 whole days. I think I'll keep him.

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

This is Butch. He is NOT the dog's birthday present, no matter what he tells you. He lies a lot.

Butch fell out of his nest and was not retrieved by his mother before the storms came in, so we brought him in to pass away in a warm box, instead of on cold, wet concrete. However, the little fucker is eating and moving around, so it looks like I just got another new job: Squirrel Baby Nursemaid!

I can't be irritated, though. He's too darn delicate right now. I'll get irritated if we manage to keep him alive for a day or so.

Why I should never be allowed to own a taser

"Can I take your order?"

"Yes, I want a number eight with only mayo and...."

"Hold on. (Yelling to someone else inside the building) Hey! Did you put everything on those burgers? - Ok, can you repeat that?"

"A number eight. Only mayo. And a c-..."

"What do you want for your drink?"

"...coke. I also want a..."

"Coke?"

"Yes. Coke. I also want a 4 piece chicken kids' meal with a chocolate shake."

"You want 4 kids' meals?? Four??"

"No. I want ONE four piece kids meal. ONE. With a chocolate shake."

"Ok, chocolate milk."

"Chocolate shake."

"Ok, I got it. Is that it?"

"Just one more....wait. The screen says chocolate milk. I want a milkSHAKE, not milk."

"You said milk."

"No, I really didn't. I said shake three times. Would you like me to order at the window instead?"

"Hold on. I gotta fix this now. *SIGH* What else you want?"

"A medium fry."

"What size?"

"What? I said MEDIUM fry."

"So you don't want the pie?"

"WHAT? Um, no."

"Are you done?"

"That's it, thank you."

"Uh-huh."

Head bang to the disco

I have pictures to edit and post, somewhat thoughtful topics to explore, and many many peevish comments....yet.....


...I can't stop downloading music.


(Disclaimer: The following paragraph includes links to YouTube. If you detest YouTube and prefer not to visit, do not click. If you don't give a crap, click away and witness my musical schizophrenia. Amen.)


I LOVE THE INTERNET. Except for the viruses and stuff. And spam for penis enlargement cream. And stupid people who get their feelings hurt on forums about Atari. But the music!!!! Where else can I download several dozen songs in one place of all different genres, without having to buy the entire album that probably has some stupid spoken word intro songs wasting space? I now have Metallica right before Paul Simon, followed by Chuck Mangione and Flogging Molly. Only a little bit of Ray Stevens. Maybe. It is most definitely a beautiful thing.


My co-workers might not think so tomorrow, though. Teehee.



PS - If anyone reading this is headed to the Norfolk, VA Flogging Molly show in September, and you want to carpool...let me know. Go green, people.

Also PS - Yes, I do know how old I am. I can still listen to hard stuff. Shut up.

Ignore the woman behind the curtain

I'm having a hard time coming up with posts for this new blog.

Trying to hide myself from the spies equates to not being able really talk about anything personal, and that's not what I set out to do when I started blogging, two years ago. This is an interesting predicament.

When I was very young, I remember a night when my uncle was driving me to my father's house for a visit around Christmastime. We were traveling through a rural area that, at that hour, consisted of lots of pitch black topped by stars, broken up by the occasional home. My uncle and I were playing a game to see who could spot the most Christmas trees through the front windows of the houses. Imagine closing your eyes for three minutes and opening them in a brightly lit room for 3 seconds - it was pretty cool.

I bring that memory up because blogging is sort of like that - showing the sparkly best of your decor for everybody, but keeping the ugly green armchair that smells like cat in the back room. Something like that. Except, I didn't want to do that. On my old blog, I put most of my ugly, smelly furniture right on the front porch for every passer-by to see and judge, and it was cathartic for me. Now, I'm hiding behind the anonymity and I sort of resent it.

I sort of resent it a lot.

Stupid spies.

Welcome to Enigma Taco. If you're wondering what sense the title of this blog makes, take comfort in the fact that handfuls of other readers and the writer also have no friggin idea. It's fun though, right?

Today is Friday, and that means that absolutely no seriousness will be allowed here on the blog that makes no sense. I'm "working" now, so a long and hardly thought out post is not possible. Instead, you get to enjoy linkys!! El yay!!!

I need you people to like what I like.

**

First, there's Things You Never Knew Existed. I especially covet the Frank Farter Dog, complete with white briefs. Again, not understanding it....but fun!

**

I keep uploading different pictures to My Heritage to see if I can get a different answer, but it appears that I most resemble Kristen Davis on the celebrity face recognition. I was hoping for Lucille Ball, but whatever.

**

I don't care who you are, NOBODY can read this post by Daniel Evans at Dad Gone Mad and not laugh out loud. If you succeed, you're a freak and you should move to France. The smelly part of the country.

**

I was going to post some more of my favorite internet things, but I've actually got to work now. Stupid job.

I hope you're all having a romping Friday! Romp a little bit for me too.

Are you here?

I'm not either.