Well Shut My Mouth

Have you ever seen something that just plain stunned you into silence because you had so much to say and it was trying so very hard to all come out of your mouth at the same time?

Yeah.


See that white rectangle on dude's window? It's a bumper sticker.

Know what it says?

"We the people demand that you DRILL OIL NOW!"

I swear.

Is it me, or can you maybe think of some other options that Mr. Compensation has to save on his fueling costs?

Ah, but, then, how would he prove what a big man he was?

Such a dilemma...


By the way... There's a new poll up - go vote! And don't forget to respond to the Hypothetical Friday post. There are some great answers so far... What's yours?

An Open Letter to Oprah Winfrey

Dear Oprah,

You should be ashamed of yourself.

It has been a long time since I have seen an article so filled with thin-is-in, fat-phobic propaganda penned by someone I believed to be an intelligent, self-assured woman.

You have spent your entire life battling a "weight problem", for what?

Because you cannot believe that anyone will see you as beautiful if you don't weight 125 pounds?

Please don't tell me it was for your health, because yo-yo dieting is much more hazardous to your health than being overweight.

And you know we know you've spent years yo-yo dieting.

Every time anything has worked you have sold that system like nobody's business.

"If it can make me thin & beautiful, it can work for anyone!"

Right?

Right.

Now you're blaming it on your thyroid and medications and depression.

Come on.

You, me and the rest of America know why you have a weight problem.

You don't exercise enough, you eat too many of the wrong things, and you are (most likely) genetically predisposed to be heavy.

Quit making excuses!

More importantly, quit promoting fat-phobic propaganda!

How many American women look up to you and consider you a role model?

Here you are talking to them like they, too, should feel like utter failures if they can't lose the weight and keep it off.

You are suggesting that they, too, should make "many trips to various doctors" until they get a diagnosis they can blame their "weight problem" on.

Please stop suggesting that women cannot be beautiful, healthy and fat.

Please stop focusing entire shows, magazine articles, series, interviews on how uncool it is to be fat.

You are no longer a young cub-reporter who has to look "just so" in order to stay on the air.

Seriously.

Of all people, you are in the best position ever to be able to help women feel better about being normal sized instead of super-model sized.

Please, please learn to let go of your personal demons and accept who you are, so that you can begin to help other American women accept who they are.

Remember: Health is important. Size is not.

Much Love,
A Fat, Fierce, Fabulous Femme

Black Friday - Consumerism's Ugly on Display

What can one even say about this? Three people dead in separate Black Friday shopping incidents, including a temporary Wal-Mart worker who was just trying to open the doors for anxious greedy shoppers.

I'm sure y'all have figured out by now that it's not often that I don't have something to say, but this just renders me speechless.

WTF?

Seriously.

I cannot even imagine.

The mob mentality at work?

Years of people being led to believe that it's ok to put themselves ahead of the best interests of "the pack"?

Merchants encouraging and inflaming the Black Friday madness?

Merchants being completely unprepared to control the Black Friday madness?

All of that, surely, and more.

Like I said, I'm a little at a loss for words. Good thing she's hot.

PS: If you're on my Christmas shopping list, you'll probably be getting something handmade. No, not by me. I'm not actually in third grade anymore.

An Actual Update! What?

Oh, what a long, strange week it's been.

First, let me apologize for the blog pretty much going offline. Maybe I needed a break. Most assuredly I was having some issues formulating thoughts in such a manner as made them postable in a public venue. I mean, one should only use the term "cockwhore" so many times on a "family" blog.

Heh.

On Friday we went out on what was supposed to be a group adventure. Ghost Hunter had invited a friend that she thought might dig Chief. That alone was no big deal. What turned into a big deal was when Ghost Hunter shanghaied the attentions of both Neighbor and Chief and turned our group adventure into a double date. With staff. Which I thought was totally uncool on multiple levels, and SweetPea and I ended up heading home pretty early that night.

For Saturday, we had multiple event possibilities. Chief had invited us rafting on the river and Ghost Hunter was having a bbq and had invited us along. I was on the rag, and figured that cloth pads + sitting in water = not a good time. SweetPea really wanted to go rafting, though, so I insisted she go. I got everything ready for her and kicked her ass out the door in plenty of time to meet up with Chief and her crew of miscreants kids and their friends. SweetPea took the only running vehicle to do this, which was fine by me. I planned on spending the entire day being lazy, less than sober, and not even kind of leaving the house.

This, of course, meant that not one of us was heading to Ghost Hunter's bbq. I got a text message from Neighbor about it at one point, and I told her that SweetPea was on the river with Chief, and I had no intention on leaving the house. From that point, I didn't hear anything from either Neighbor or Ghost Hunter, and I don't think anyone else did, either. At least not until Tuesday, when I think they both realized that nobody had been in contact with them for days. So they started text messaging SweetPea and Chief, trying to get the scoop. From what I understand, both were asking question after question, but not answering any. Ooh, bad form!

Of course, neither had the nads to try me. SweetPea says it's because they both know that I'm not afraid of confrontation. SweetPea and Chief would both rather avoid it as much as possible. Now, I really don't think there's anything there that needs confronting or causing an argument. I think we just feel that, right now, Neighbor and Ghost Hunter need some space to get their relationship going and to get it on an even keel. Once things have smoothed out, the things between the group should get closer to back to normal. And, also, friendships are two-way streets. If you miss someone, or haven't seen them in a few days when you ordinarily see them every day, you can call to check in, see what's up, how ya doing, I miss you. That's part of friendship. Not maintaining radio silence and then launching an assault on the people least likely to tell you that you've been an asshole and that's why nobody's talking to you.

In still other other news, I am totally not looking forward to back to school night tomorrow, wherein I get to spend 45 minutes sitting in a classroom with the reason I resigned from PTA. Much like Neighbor and Ghost Hunter, though, I'm pretty damn sure she's too chicken shit to try to start shit with me. She prefers talking about me behind my back, because then I can't tell her to her face what a two-faced, backstabbing, controlling, martyr bitch she is.

Woops!

There I go with the cussing again.

An Open Letter to a Local Tattoo Artist

Dear Local Tattoo Artist (who shall remain nameless),

You have a website, which is awesome. Nobody in the field should be without one. Go you!

Most of the pertinent information pertaining to your shop and yourself is available on the myspace.com page for the shop and the one for yourself.

Um. Kay.

You have an email address on your website as contact information. Which is super awesome. I am so much better at the email, sometimes.

Unfortunately, there is only one email for the entire shop. Not specific email addresses for each artist.

Because I am not interested in contacting one of the random people that work in your shop, I feel it would be a little awkward to begin the message all "I'm sure you're cool and all, but I really only want to talk to Person A." I totally think that would be rude.

The only contact information I have that links directly to you, the artist with which I would like to work, is your myspace page.

So I send you a message.

Which you read.

But don't reply to.

That's not even the end of the story, esteemed tattoo artist! Because even with my practically worthless memory I remember that this is the second time we've done this song and dance.

I send you a message all about the hi! I'd love to give you some money for doing that thing you love to do and you're all "who is this crazy person and why does she think I want to talk to her?"

So I did what any relatively sane person would do. I researched the other shops and artists in our area.

Do you have any idea how many that is?

Like, a lot.

And you know what? I think I found a shop and an artist that I like a lot better.

See what happened there?

Just a little snippet of rude and you've lost my business.

Sure, I only need a little something something right now. But do you realize that I have an aim of at least 60% coverage? Do you realize that my wife and I know a lot of people who are into body modifications and consider us experts in the field and would totally take our word for it if we directed them to a specific shop or artist?

Are you starting to do the math in your head?

Good.

Next time, maybe you should try hitting "reply" when you get an inquiry regarding your work.

Just a suggestion.

Don't Snap Back!

Mostly the pictures didn't really turn out the way I'd hoped. Does this mean I'll have to try again next week? Oy!

Here's one of the parents, circling by to check in. He didn't get too low - probably didn't want them to know he was spying!

And for your daily What The Fuck?I saw this in the second floor lobby at work. Seriously, who the fuck draws on a potted plant?

Saving Green

I love thrift stores, and thrift store shopping. My favorite sections are clothes and books, but I've been known to wander the whole store.

The clothes section is great for kids. We can get a wider variety of clothes for much cheaper than we ever could at a regular store. Given our budget, our kids would probably end up decked out in a whole lot of circo if it weren't for thrift stores. We've found a lot of really great items and some awesome deals over the years. All it takes is careful shopping to make sure you're not getting something that was thrown out for a reason.

There's a thrift store not far from us that has a special on Wednesday - half off all kids' items! SweetPea and the kids went last week with SweetPea's mom. Since MonkeyDo has Horse Camp this week, she was in need of some new long pants. The ones we get her for winter almost never make it through the full school year, between holey knees and growth spurts. Usually by the time the weather warms up, we're thankful we can put her in shorts and be done with it.

SweetPea picked out and had MonkeyDo try on a grand total of 75 pairs of pants and sixtysome shirts. Three at a time (because that's what was allowed in the dressing room). She whittled it down a lot, but still came home with three bags full of clothes.

Because Horse Camp starts today, I had to make sure that they all get into the wash. Which means I spent over half an hour this morning de-tagging everything.

It seems like every thrift store has its own pricing and tagging system. Some, like Goodwill, price based on what the item is (i.e. "women's top", "kids shorts", etc.) and attach a colored plastic tag to the item. Some tag items with little price tags that attach to those plastic loops like in regular stores.

ECO Thrift is one of the thrift stores that staples little chunks of construction paper to the item, and then mark the price on the paper in grease pen. I have no idea who thought this particular idea up, but I would love to smack them upside the head.

First off, how many households have a staple remover lying around? So you're relegating people to either mar the item getting the tag off or use some other tool and hope it works.

As if that weren't enough, they can't just use one staple. Frequently, it's two staples, but I saw configurations that included three crammed together and one separate and multiple instances of two pairs of staples. There was one pair of jeans with two pairs of staples through the store's price tag, and another pair through the jeans' original manufacturer's tag, which still had both of its own attachments keeping it on the pants. A grand total of eight things I had to bust through to be able to get one damn pair of jeans into the wash.

That's crazy!

And that's not even getting into the way household items or books get priced. All too frequently, there is no getting the price off the item.

Like I said, I love shopping and buying at thrift stores, but there has got to be a better way to do this.

I've got today off to take the Monkey to Horse Camp. Hopefully I'll have lots of cool pictures tonight. I guess that depends on whether or not I fall down and die from The Hot. I will actually be breaking out of my box and wearing shorts today, instead of jeans.

Yes, I'm sure it's not actually one of the signs of the apocalypse.

Random and Capricious

I was skimming through various news feeds this morning and came across a headline indicating that obesity in middle age has the affect of aging your brain more quickly, thus increasing your risk of Alzheimer's. The article it linked to was barely a paragraph, so I did a little googling and came up with this. While I should probably be concerned, I'm having a hard time taking seriously an article that cannot get "to, too, two" usage correct twice in the same sentence (and the headline, no less!).

If you follow dooce, you will know that she recently started a 21-day cleanse. Following her blog and her twitter, it sounds like it is doing good things for her, and the way she feels, and her energy levels (energy? what's that like?). Intrigued, I checked out the book she was using as her guide, Quantum Wellness. "A Practical and Spiritual Guide to Health and Wellness".

Mmmkay.

Maybe it's because I went to Christian school for junior high and was obliged to go to mass once a week (at least) for two years, but I just have a problem with someone assuming they can dictate my spirituality, even if it is just the practice of it and not the nature of it.

Add to that the program's blessing by Oprah (who may be many things, but a health guru, in my opinion, is not one of them), and, to me, this sounds more and more like the next quack diet.

I've seen a lot of information, in passing, on various cleansing diets, mostly good. I imagine it probably would be good for me, especially considering the crap I load into my body.

This program, however, I don't think would be a good fit.

In Other News:

MonkeyDo has been feverishly creating comics this weekend. She's very excited about her little comic. I haven't actually looked at it, yet, even though she gave me the first set. I'm thinking that maybe it would be fun to have a family project and create a "'zine" to mail out to friends and family.

The Damn Volvo:

I had a talk with dad last night, and he brought up some very good points about the Volvo. Not the least of which is that probably the reason we have so much trouble getting her back on the road when something goes wrong is because we're not taking her to a Volvo mechanic. He suggested that the issue may be as simple as our mechanic's inexperience with Volvo. He has also offered to pay for the diagnostic to find out what the heck is really going on with her (thanks, dad!).

When SweetPea was making the calls a couple of weeks ago to Volvo mechanics, one suggested what he thought might be the issue. He said that he saw that problem all the time in Volvos of similar mileage. Everyone else she talked to just quoted her for a diagnostic.

Personally, I've always preferred mechanics who can feel a problem out just by what you're telling them, especially if it is a fairly common problem. I know that it's not always that easy, but I guess it makes me feel more like I can take her in, tell the mechanic that "she's just not riding right" and he's not going to go "riiiight" and assume I'm overreacting.

Because I'm sure y'all have heard about my particular brand of vehicular hypochondria. And, also, about how I'm infrequently wrong.

Maybe it is time for a new mechanic, all the way around.

Up for Today:

The magic of family. We've been borrowing SweetPea's mom's car. Which means SweetPea has been doing the driving for both families. Today, we are taking SweetPea's mom out to SweetPea's grandpa's house in El Dorado Hills so that mom can pick up grandpa's van.

So mom will be borrowing grandpa's van while we're borrowing her car.

Heh.

Next Weekend:

Pride weekend in San Francisco. I have never been to the Pride Parade, but have been to Dyke March a couple of times. Huh. And, now that I'm thinking on it, every time I've stayed the night at a friend's house in Antioch. A friend I lost contact with (more than less voluntarily) a couple of years ago. Every time, we went to bed Saturday with the intention of "discussing" heading back into The City on Sunday for the parade. And every time waking up Sunday feeling like "oh, hell no" we're not doing that.

I have no idea what's going on for next weekend, but I do know a group of recently dejected dykes who could probably use some eye candy. Not to mention snubbing their collectively cute noses at a particularly underhanded woman who everyone considered a friend.

Ooh, ooh! Can I get more vague?

For bonus points: Neighbor was having a discussion with one of them and mentioned that "those two down the street" (meaning us) had pegged the ex-friend for what she was the very first time we met her.

Score!

I told y'all our bullshit detectors were way strong.

Did You Feel a Bump?

Imagine the following:

You go to work, thinking it's just another normal day. You park your car in the parking lot, just like any other day. You don't think anything of it, because what could happen? Just as your wrapping up your day and getting ready to get back in your car to go home, someone comes running up to you. There's a problem.

Funny, that's not where you remember parking your car.Turns out the driver of this car had a little problem. While trying to turn left from a side street onto a four lane thoroughfare, she had a little navigational malfunction. She managed to whip her car up the sidewalk, over the embankment/grassy knoll dividing the parking lot from the sidewalk, through the parking lot and into your parking space, slamming into your car with enough force to knock your car from it's space, through the adjoining parking space, across the parking lot lane, and almost into a truck on the other side of the parking lot lane. When the car finally came to a rest, its front end was sitting on top of the ass of your car.

The offending vehicle is sitting on the flatbed approximately where your car was parked.

Did I forget to mention the part about how the car also flew over this divider, including through a tree before hitting your car?



On the plus side, you weren't in the car at the time, even though you were almost in the car, and nobody was seriously injured. And lots of people had a really good story to tell afterwards. Unfortunately for you, your story-telling had to include an insurance company.

By the way, I really like my camera phone.

PS: I'd also like to clarify that the only involvement I had here is that SweetPea and I were having lunch at a restaurant attached to the parking lot.

There Are No "Buts" in Unconditional

I guess the best thing I can say is how fortunate we are to have a largely loving and supportive family. While there has certainly been friction and conflict over the years in various ways, things have, for the most part, worked themselves out over time. We may not always like each other, but we do always love each other and stand by each other. SweetPea and I are learning more and more each day about how true that is.

This is, unfortunately, not an entirely common thing among homosexuals. Too often, family members are not as loving and supportive of their gay relatives as our families have been.

We are well and truly blessed, on many levels.

Which is not to say, unfortunately, that every member of our family is as unconditionally accepting as all of that.

We have been having a problem with one particular family member that came to something of a head last night.

When we got married in 2005 2004* (you know... the real wedding), SweetPea's father said blatantly that he wouldn't be going. At the time, we chalked it up to his wife, thinking that he was deferring the decision to her.

Now, three four* years later, her father has, again, blatantly said he wouldn't be going.

You see, even though he loves her, and loves me, and loves our children, and accepts our relationship and the family that we've built together, he does not believe in gay marriage and, therefore, cannot see clear to supporting his daughter when she gets married.

Maybe it's the way I'm wired, but I just don't understand that train of thinking. I do not understand how you can love someone and love their partner and see that the relationship is good and that it makes the people you love happy but then believe, honestly believe, that these people whom you love are somehow less deserving of basic civil rights based on no reason other than the gender of the person they love.

Last night, in MonkeySee's school parking lot, after most everyone had loaded up and gone, SweetPea and her father had it out.

I have no idea what all was said. What I do know is what her father had the brass tacks to tell her last night.

SweetPea's father, the man that she refers to as her hero, the man the Monkeys call Opah, told his daughter that he believes that the fact that she and her brother are gay are his punishment for his sins and turning his back on god.

SweetPea and her brother, his only children, are, in his mind, the plague of locusts inflicted upon him for his sins.

Nice.

I have to remind myself that I shouldn't be that surprised.

As much as I love him and respect him, I should not be surprised.

When you love someone, though, or, at least, when I love someone, I find it easier to overlook the negative. The things that maybe you should see and understand and accept as part of the package. It's easier to just think that some of those negative things are a fluke, or misinterpreted, or a product of a much younger and less mature person.

Like when he told his twelve year old daughter and nine year old son that it was their fault he and their mother were getting a divorce because the siblings fought too much.

And then all I can think is that this is a man who is unworthy of the love, respect and hero-worship that has been bestowed upon him by my wife.

This is a man that, I'm disappointed to have to say, I would rather my children not look up to or emulate.

I don't even know what to say about the fact that he would tell children that it was their fault their parents were divorcing or the fact that he views his children as a punishment, a cross to bear.

What I do know is that SweetPea and I are, otherwise, blessed and loved and supported in spades. There are so many people who love and support us, including a fair few who previously held negative ideas about homosexual relationships, that I don't even think I can count high enough to count them all.

If SweetPea's father prefers to allow himself to be blinded by his close-minded bigotry and hatred then that is his loss. It's his "hard cheese" to swallow.

Not ours.

I will mourn the loss of our relationship with him the way we believed that it was, and I will certainly miss that. But I, personally, am not interested in maintaining the same relationship with someone who has made it clear that he feels belittled by it.

And, to the best of my ability, I refuse to allow him any further opportunity for breaking my wife's heart.



* I am so good at remembering dates it's scary. < /sarcasm >

This guy

Parks like an asshole. But at least it didn't take him six tries.

Thank You, Daddy, May I Have Another? - The Not Safe for Work Post

**all links are at your own risk & not work safe**

Every week, without fail, I read PostSecret (the only mostly work safe link here). It's my little Sunday tradition, and, I have to say, that on the (very rare) weeks when Frank takes a break, I have kind of a hard time because, hello!, the weekend can't be over yet if there's no PostSecret!

Y'all may not know this, but it's possible that I'm mildly compulsive.

Last week, a secret was posted that really burned me up.

This one:

Now, I am totally going to admit that I'm really not up on the "feminism" movement or where it's at. At this point in my life, if I'm going to be discriminated against, it's going to be about a whole lot more than what's between my legs. Frankly, I'd rather be able to legally marry my wife than spend my time trying to explain to someone that I can, honest, wear makeup without pandering to the patriarchal regime.

Seriously, though. Has it really come to this?

Are we really in a place where a sexually satisfied, consensual, grown woman is an abhorrence, even to feminism?

Really?

How are we not ashamed of ourselves?

A consenting adult woman asking for something, sexually, that she enjoys is anti-feminism?

Why? Because she's asking for something that allows her male partner to dominate her?

Has the feminist movement really become so black and white that it can't even allow a woman to decide for herself what she wants and what she enjoys? Is it really that hard to look below surface language to gain an understanding of what is really going on before making a judgement on a particular act or action?

To take this a step further, what if what she was asking her boyfriend to do was more than just spank her? What then?

I understand that there are a lot of people out there who don't want to climb out of their little "vanilla" bubble to make the effort of understanding the things that others enjoy sexually. That's not even, necessarily, a bad thing. But how can you go about making a judgement call on something without first taking the time to learn even the most basic fundamentals about it?

yeah, I know... we totally do it all the freaking time. shutup.

The point I'm trying to make here is that it pisses me off when people act like women can't think for themselves. That's exactly what this is. Someone impressed on her this judgement call that there must be something wrong with her because she's allowing her boyfriend to dominate her in this manner.

Why can't a woman just enjoy sex?

Why can't a woman just enjoy sex that involves being dominated and/or abused?

Does that have to mean that she can't think for herself or that she must have been abused previously and not know any better or that she's so brainwashed by the patriarchy that she thinks this is "normal"?

*News*Flash*

Women can enjoy sex. Women are capable of deciding what kind of sex they enjoy. Further, women are even capable of asking for and negotiating for the kind of sex they enjoy.

If you're a woman and you're not doing that, that doesn't make you more or less of a "feminist". But it probably means you're not enjoying sex nearly as much as you should.

PS:

WineDog, to answer your algebra question, it appears Monkey See may just not be mathematically inclined.

"It doesn't make any sense to me. If you take the percentage for one-third and multiply it by three, you get .999, but the calculator says 1. But that's not correct."

Monkey See is, however, appearing to be very summer school inclined.

Spam Fun

There's an email in my spam box. I think it's from something I signed up for at some point & they send me health tips that end up in the junk drawer. The subject line cracks me up, though.

"Could you have a hidden behavioral disorder?"

Well, hell, I don't think I'm hiding it that well, but if you can't tell, then maybe I'm doing ok!

Dumbasses.

Dog Rant

So today we took Gomi with us and went to Butch & Nellie's (which I remembered as being dog friendly, but, apparently, isn't so much anymore), and then she waited nicely in the truck while we had lunch at Hooter's, and then we took her to PetsMart, since they are very dog friendly.

Everything went fine in PetsMart, and Gomi got to meet new people, and sniff at some dogs. There were no issues, because we paid attention to what she was doing, and who was around us, including canines. We got some dog food, and a waistband treat sack for all those moist and yummy treats we're going to be using to train both dogs, and we got a couple different varieties of treats. We got three bags of soft cat treats, and two soft dog food chubs for cutting up into chunks and dishing out. These are what our trainer was using, and the dogs (well, Tatiana, anyway, Gomi was with SweetPea, so I don't know) just went nuts over them.

Everything was going just fine until we went to check out. I checked out, and SweetPea took Gomi to stand off to the side, out of the way.

Well, here comes this lady with a Golden Retriever who just wanted to get at Gomi. Sure, just to play and say hi, like dogs do. And Gomi, because she's a puppy and doesn't exactly have great manners yet was all about playing and saying hi.

Only we try to keep our dog under control and don't really let her go after other dogs like that because she doesn't have the best of manners and hasn't been socialized a lot with other dogs yet and is still very mouthy and nips when she plays. Sure, she's a pup, pups do that, and it's not like she's nipping hard enough to break the skin or even hurt. But all it takes is one little nip and one yelping dog for Gomi to become the Evil Vicious Pit Bull That Shouldn't Be Allowed Out in Public.

Because the breed has become so demonized that even normal puppy behaviour can't just be normal puppy behaviour.

Anyway, so here is this lady with her dog that just won't leave Gomi alone and she can't get her dog to get away from her so she starts saying things like "oh, they want to play" and "it's ok, they can play" and "let them play".

And all the time, all I really wanted to say was:

"Look, bitch, just because you can't control your dog does not mean that it is ok for your dog to act that way around my dog. Now back your fucking dog off because I do not want my dog learning that this is acceptable behaviour."

Oh.

And when we were down at B&N's, having our coffee outside, this dude walks by with his two dogs. Of course, SweetPea strikes up a chat. He's got a small white female pit, and a larger, brown male pit & lab mix. Guess what? Neither of them are fixed, because he plans on breeding them.

WTF?

Are there not enough mutts in the world, already? Get a fucking job, dude! Don't try to make a living off your poor dog's uterus. Leave the bitch alone. There are enough mutts being slaughtered everyday without your dumb ass intentionally making more.

I'm torn between whether I need to just keep on keeping my mouth shut about things, or if I need to learn how to tactfully tell someone they're a dumb ass. Although I do know I need to learn how to tactfully tell someone they need to get their dog back away from my dog.

Then again, maybe just telling someone that my dog's "playing" can potentially snap their dog's neck might work pretty well, too.

Starbucks' Tip Jar

So I'm surfing cnn.com while drinking my morning coffee (purely by happenstance, y'all, I actually don't get coffee every morning, I swear!), and I ran accross this article.

I don't know how it works in other states, but California state law says that supervisors and managers don't share employee tips. It's one of the easier ways of making sure that a dishonest supervisor isn't hustling the wait staff for tips. To me, it makes perfect sense. Yes, a good supervisor or manager is worth their weight in tips. They keep things flowing, keep the customers happy, fix problems, deal with the bad eggs and do countless other things that help the wait staff earn good tips. You pay a supervisor or manager to do that awesome job and do it well. They're not doing it for tips, they're doing it for the extra salary. OK, a lot of them are doing it because they're good at it and they enjoy it, but the money's good, too. Your management staff shouldn't need tips because they should be getting paid enough to not require tips.

Your wait staff does need tips, because wage laws are set so that you can pay your wait staff less if they receive tips. Those tips are part of their salary, essentially, and a lot of wait staff count on those tips to make ends meet. Maybe that's sucky, but that's how the law is set up.

So y'all need to take that money you're saving by paying your wait staff less, and give it to your management staff. Do not take the tips that are being given to your wait staff and pay your management staff with them. That's not cool.

Now I know I've talked before about my Starbucks and the reason that it's my Starbucks is because of the manager. Every time I've been there that she's been working, she's taking orders, making coffee, doing all the things the regular staff do and, frankly, she's earning being tipped. Because she's manager, however, she's doing all those extra things that managers do that regular staff don't have to do. Like listening to me bitch about the new blonde girl and, seriously, why is she still here? Because she's manager, her employer has the duty and responsibility to pay her a wage that is comensurate with her experience, training, and level of service to the company. It's their responsibility to make sure she is being rewarded financially for the work she does.

Valerie O'Neil, spokeswoman for Starbucks, said "This case was filed by a single former barista and, despite Starbucks request, the interests of the sift supervisors were not represented in litigation."

What this says to me is that Starbucks clearly  has no concept of California law or the reason behind it. Laura Ho, the attorney who represented the baristas, summed it up succinctly: "Starbucks illegally took a huge amount of money from the tip pool to pay shift supervisors, rather than paying them out of its own pocket. The court's verdict rightfully restores that money to the baristas."

Natomas IHOP is The Suck

Our waitress was cute and sweet and friendly but, y'all, that just didn't help matters at all. She was slow as hell. I had to tell her three times that I wanted a diet Coke, even though I was looking her in the eye the other two times I asked. Hello! I'm the one that can't hear, not you. We ordered these Horton Hears a Who drinks that they had - red and blue jello in sprite. That's what the Monkeys were sucking down in that picture. That one was SweetPea's, but she was too chicken to try it.

Food took forever to come out. It is a bad sign, y'all, when not one but two other tables are eating before you when they arrived after you. She brought out our appetizers with our dinner. When the food did come out, all the plates were hot, but not fresh from the dishwasher or a warmer hot. It was way hot. Like they'd been sitting in an oven or under a heat lamp long enough to heat the plates up real good. Uh. Nice, good to know. None of us had whipped cream on what was supposed to have whipped cream on it. And she only brought out half of my order.

Here's a free tip for all of you IHOP waitresses:

IHOP does not sell pancakes, by themselves, in plates of two pancakes. If you order just pancakes, no eggs and whatnot, that comes in a plate of four pancakes. If there is a plate of two pancakes, there is, by default, another plate that goes with it. So, when you're checking the oven for the order because you're finally done with your cigarette break and feel like serving your customers? Get both plates.

My eggs, which I had ordered over medium, were rubber on the top and on the bottom, and runny as hell/practically raw on the inside. My pancakes were burnt and cold.

I understand that my lack of hearing was fortunate given the dinner conversation going on at the table behind us. IHOP can't really help that, so I guess I'm not going to hold it against them, but it certainly didn't assist our experience much.

Also, I just have to say this: Miss Stripper Lady? Why is a hotass African American woman trying so hard to look like LiLo? I don't know if you draw those freckles on or what, but that spray of country-girl freckles? Seriously. Fucking. Hot. You really need to rethink your dating choices, though. As hot as you are, you should be dating people that will take you some place nice. Not the "airport" IHOP.

All in all, I have to say that I have a more enjoyable time and get better food when SweetPea and I go down to the KMart Diner. Even the time when that one toothless old lady looked like she wanted to throw down because that poor baby was trapped at a table with all the Damn Dykes (*gasp*!).

Yeah. Even that time.

If You Pay My Salary, Shouldn't You Already Know What It Is?

On March 4^th, the Sacramento Bee published, in conjunction with a series of articles detailing salaries paid to certain high-level civil service employees, the salary of every single person employed by the state of California.

Including me. ($39,900)

The database created by the Sacramento Bee was, in its original form, searchable only by the department or the name of the employee. Not by classification. Not by salary amount. Not by length of service. Not by office location. Not by office.

While the information is public record, the fact that the Sacramento Bee made the database searchable primarily by name brought the database out of the realm of public information and dropped it squarely in the realm of snooping.

Could you search to find out what others in your classification were earning? No.

Could you find out what your old boss was currently earning? Yup.

Could you search to find out how many state employees are earning less than the poverty level? Nope.

Could you find out what your ex is making? Absolutely.

Could you search to find out what other employees are making with similar length of service? No.

Could you find out what that jerk that works in that office that is totally inept earns? Oh, yes.

On top of this, there is the added issue of privacy and safety that the Sacramento Bee fails to consider. I have heard numerous stories of people who left violent relationships or were witnesses to violent crime who had managed to gain some degree of anonymity, even as civil service employees, only to see what many consider to be personal information exposed online. Simply plug in a last name and you have direct and immediate access to information that can put you in touch with a person (where they work), and information that will let you know if it might be worth it to seek civil action against someone. Or steal their identity.

The Sacramento Bee has since updated its database to include the ability to search by base salary and by job title. However, the instructions indicate that you still need to include a last name or a department when making your search. While I appreciate the Sacramento Bee’s efforts at making the database remotely less like a witch-hunt, the changes don’t do very much to open the database up for meaningful searches. If I want to search by base salary, I can only search within a department or agency, or for people with a certain last name.

The release of the information led to a flood of comments on the Sacramento Bee’s website, which prompted a response from the editor. The response included the following gems:

“The Bee did not set out to embarrass anyone or to invade anyone's privacy -- government pay is public record, not private information.” It’s good to know that the Sacramento Bee did not intent to embarrass me by releasing my salary to the public. It’s also good to know that the Sacramento Bee has no problem reminding me of my place as a civil servant. And that place is, apparently, to bend over and take it whenever the Sacramento Bee decides it’s time.

“The pay database does not include addresses, social security numbers, email addresses, telephone numbers or other personal information. We do not believe names and pay levels are adequate information for identity theft. Simple internet searches might show you that your address and phone number, for instance, are available online through other sources.” Personally, I love how the Sacramento Bee points out that it has left out key information that would be required to steal someone’s identity, and then goes on to point out ways in which a person could access that particular information. It’s good to know that the Sacramento Bee is looking out for my best interests.

Look, I understand that the state of California is facing a big ass budget crisis. I also understand that the easy and popular choice for dealing with the crisis is by pointing fingers at all of us lazy state workers. I can tell y’all right here and now that you are not going to find the answer to the deficit in my monthly pay warrant. It ain’t there.

I know you’d also just love to point fingers at all of those state employees who are earning big bucks. It’s easy to pick on civil servants, isn’t it? Everything’s just right out there. Consider, though, that these people are doing jobs that would earn them, in the private sector, two to three times what they’re making as civil servants. Even though they are making what you consider to be offensive salaries now. These are people doing jobs that earn that money. Maybe you don’t consider that a state employee is capable of earning money, but there it is.

The number one thing you need to remember about civil service employees, love them or hate them, is that not a damn one of them is in it for the money. Because that would be stupid.

Love them or hate them, I can tell you that state workers work damn hard for the money we receive. Work loads are going up, staffing levels are going down or staying the same, and even getting a cost of living salary increase is like pulling teeth. By the way, when we do get one, it's eaten almost entirely by increases in tax rates, benefit premiums, and increases in union dues.

I know the Sacramento Bee is looking for an easy way to increase readership and incite controversy and make it look like it's a Big, Bad Newspaper that's going to Solve the State Budget Crisis Single Handed! But maybe y'all should try some real reporting.

You might be surprised by what a pleasant change it is.

That Thing About the Gym Membership

OK, so the main point of me looking into a gym membership is that, really, the only time I have free to do anything remotely fitness related is in the morning, during my "quiet time". I'd just go for a walk, except that it's pitch freaking dark and, as you may have noticed, it's not like we live in the safest neighborhood. I figured that there was no way I'd feel safe enough to go frolicking through the 'hood at oh-dark-thirty in the morning, so a gym membership was my only hope for getting some movement in.

Too bad there isn't any way for me to able to just go for a walk and not worry about what may be lurking out there in the dark.

Too bad I don't have something like a giant, intimidating-looking dog that could go on walkies with me.

Yeah.

So the other morning it occurred to me that I was, quite possibly, a complete and total dumb shit for not realizing that, if I wanted to walk in the mornings, I could just bring Tatiana, and we'd probably be fine. Sometimes, my brain just doesn't make connections like that.

Thursday afternoon while SweetPea and I were bumming around PetsMart, waiting for it to be time to check Gomi out of lock-up, I bought Tatiana a reflective dog collar. I think my next step is going to be getting one of those big ass Maglite flashlights. That way, I have a light to see by, as well as something to clock someone on the head with, if necessary.

Hey, if it comes down to it, and one of us has to go to jail for assault, I'd feel much better if it was me.

With the Lights Out, It's Less Dangerous

Pet Peeve of the Morning:

Technically, this is the pet peeve of dinner last night. I tried to post about it from the restaurant via email using my cell phone (because, y'all, I am like that), but then I went to backspace over a word, held the stupid button down too long and lost the entire freaking thing.

Y'all. I am like that, too.

We went to Mel's for dinner after some discussion as to how I am still Mr. Pickle'd out and not even kind of interested in going there.

They sat us in a booth, which had an added bonus feature - the ass of one of the children in the adjoining booth planted firmly on my daughter's head (or the seat back. whatever).

Even after we sat down, the parents did not see anything wrong with allowing the rodent their daughter to sit on the shared seat back. We actually had to ask the server to ask them to have their daughter sit down.

The exact phrasing of this request was (and I quote paraphrase): Is it possible for us to get a booth where there's not an ass on our daughter's head?

Our lovely server (actually, the gal that seated us and got our drinks) brought it up to the manager, who advised the parents that it was inappropriate for their daughter to be seated there, and that we were not paying for the pleasure of having her ass next to our heads.

Yes way.

So they put the younger daughter on our side and the older daughter on the other side, which had no adjoining booth. Which was good, I guess, because she sat on the seat back throughout dinner. Meanwhile, the little rodent girl was standing on the seat and facing us through most of our dinner.

If it had been a different situation, SweetPea would have proceeded to spend the meal making faces at and entertaining the rodent wee one. Because that's how she is.

However, given that they had already set a precedent for being oblivious to the inappropriateness of their rodent's daughter's behavior, instead, we spent the meal repressing the urge to ask the parents just what the hell was wrong with them that they thought it was ok to allow their children to behave in this manner in a public eatery around perfect strangers.

After they were gone, I asked SweetPea what their problem was. She was facing their booth, so she had a view of what was happening at their table.

"Bohemian parenting."

"So they want to be their kids' buddies?"

"Yup."

Y'all.

That creature you squirted out from between your legs is

NOT

YOUR

FRIEND.

That is your child. You are responsible for housing it, feeding it, clothing it, teaching it and (this one is important, so pay attention) disciplining it.

You are responsible for instructing your child on how to behave in public, which does, I swear, include consideration for others. Children need discipline. They need limits, they need consequences, and they need to understand where they fit in with the larger picture. I'm not (just) saying this from the viewpoint of someone who doesn't want to put up with crap from other people's kids. Ask a child psychologist, this is what they will tell you.

Parenting in such a manner where you're trying to be their friend is doing them no favors.

You are not their friend.

You are their parent. Protector. Guardian. Teacher. Provider. Disciplinarian.

I'm sorry if you had them with the intention of having a built-in buddy, but that's not how it works. Your children do not become anything remotely resembling "friends" until they're grown.

If you're lucky.

And you don't screw up now.

Pet Peeve of the Night:

Really less of a pet peeve and more of a complete and total freak out. I'll begin with a little back info.

Our dog is a good dog. She's an outdoor dog (and, yes, I know that makes us horrible, and I'm working on it, but the clutterfuck that is our house is just not prepared for her giant ass), and she's not a barker. She will literally and seriously only bark if there's something wrong.

A few months ago, she woke me up at three-some-odd in the morning on a weekend. Barking. I got up, went to the bathroom window and called her, let her know it was ok, I hear her. That totally shuts her up. Every time. She's letting us know, now we know, so her job is done. Then I sat down on the potty and had a think. I was debating calling the cops and asking for a neighborhood buzz-through, because our dog just does not bark like that. After I was done having my think, I went to the front door, to see if I could peep anything untoward going on the neighborhood.

You mean like the five cop cars parked out front of my house?

Yeah.

Like that.

So I thought to myself "Huh. I guess they're on it," and went back to bed.

< /back story>

At three-some-odd this morning, I get drug out of a dead sleep by my barking dog. I am laying on my side and SuperFat is laying on top of me. I try to get up but he won't move. So I drop his ass and get up. I head to the bathroom window and look out into the yard. I make the kissy noise. I call her name. I call her name again and tell her to come here. Now, I'm parched as fuck, so I'm probably not being very loud with any of this. But she's still barking. And then I notice it.

She's hoarse.

My good dog that doesn't bark unless something is wrong has barked herself hoarse at three-some-odd in the morning.

Between that and the stories we've heard about theiving and attempted break-ins on the street behind us, I fly into full alert mode. I'm fumbling around in the dark trying to figure out where I left my clothes, where the hell my sandals are, where the fuck is my phone.

Then I realize that I've actually watched a horror movie in my life. Once or twice. I know that there is no way in hell I should be flying out into the pitch black backyard in the dead of night with nobody the wiser as to where I am.

So I get SweetPea up.

Now we're both up and dressed and we've each got a cell phone and a flashlight and we head into the yard. Tatiana charges at us like she's just won the Super Bowl and now she's going to Disneyland. We check things out and everything appears ok in our world, but dogs on the street behind us are going nuts, too.

Mind you, the main house with the issues backs up to our next door neighbor's house.

SweetPea locks me in the house with both sets of keys, the flashlight and the dog and takes off in the car to cruise the neighborhood. She cruises up the street behind us and notices that the house in question is pitch dark. Except for the garage, which is not only lit up, but the garage door is open about a foot.

She calls me up on the phone and tells me this and that she's seen some guy walking up the street.

It's now four-some-odd in the morning, and, probably, some guy shouldn't be walking up the street.

I tell her to call Emergency, and to call Emergency now.

When she gets off the phone, she comes home and we both go stand out front.

Picture if you will:

Two fat dykes standing in the front yard of a pitch dark house in the middle of the pitch dark night with a big ass Akita, a bat, and a pack of cloves. On the plus side, we're both clothed, so that's a bonus.

After a while, the cops came cruising through and declared the all-clear, and told us we'd be better off in the house.

Which is all well and good, except now we're both strung out on nerves.

SweetPea is finally asleep again, but - Hi! Here I am because, y'all, I may not be sleeping any day real soon.

Further... Clutterfuck or not, that dog is sleeping in the house from here on in. If SweetPea's real lucky, Tatiana will be sleeping on the floor, instead of in the bed.

The sky is finally getting brighter, and hopefully Neighbor will be up soon so that I can go down and have a(nother) smoke. Because I've been forbade going outside until it's full bright, and only if Neighbor goes with me.