Saturday, November 21, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Worst. Mother. Ever.
I am very behind in reading the newspaper (about ten days behind), so I just read today an article about the two boys who died in a house fire. They were living with their mother, who was already under investigation from CPS for failing multiple drug tests, neglecting her children, and for allowing a boyfriend to sexually abuse one of the children. The house that burned was, according to the Houston Chronicle “well-known” to the Houston Police Department. “This year alone, there have been nine calls to HPD for everything from domestic disturbance to guns being fired to assault.” This being the tenth month, that averages to about one call per month. Oh, and did I include that all characters in this drama, including Prashawna White (the mother), Pamela Bell (the grandmother), Bell’s boyfriend, and White’s multiple boyfriends, are convicted drug dealers?
What can be said about Child Protective Services? One could argue that this is one of those cases where everything that can go wrong actually does go wrong and results in a tragedy. Every mistake was 100% avoidable, but someone along the way dropped the proverbial ball and never recovered from the fumble. Really, though, it’s a case of people not following through on their duties as public servants. The CPS case workers cannot play the “overworked” card because the history of neglect and abuse coupled with the mother’s history of drug abuse, plus the fact of the children’s home being a known crack house should have tipped off even the most overworked and underpaid caseworker that something was amiss in the White home.
Incidentally, this 2009 winner of Worst Mother of the Year Award was working at a day care center at the time of the fire. Did I mention she was under CPS investigation for neglecting her children and that she was a drug addict? According to the newspaper, Keywood Kiddie Corner is “reviewing its hiring practices as a result of the fire.” I sure hope so!
On a side note, the children were named Bri'Vion, Javunte, and Briaiona. Excuse me now while I go throw up.
What can be said about Child Protective Services? One could argue that this is one of those cases where everything that can go wrong actually does go wrong and results in a tragedy. Every mistake was 100% avoidable, but someone along the way dropped the proverbial ball and never recovered from the fumble. Really, though, it’s a case of people not following through on their duties as public servants. The CPS case workers cannot play the “overworked” card because the history of neglect and abuse coupled with the mother’s history of drug abuse, plus the fact of the children’s home being a known crack house should have tipped off even the most overworked and underpaid caseworker that something was amiss in the White home.
Incidentally, this 2009 winner of Worst Mother of the Year Award was working at a day care center at the time of the fire. Did I mention she was under CPS investigation for neglecting her children and that she was a drug addict? According to the newspaper, Keywood Kiddie Corner is “reviewing its hiring practices as a result of the fire.” I sure hope so!
On a side note, the children were named Bri'Vion, Javunte, and Briaiona. Excuse me now while I go throw up.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Ants are eating my brain, WHAT?
I went to a bachelorette party because I'm just one of the girls like that. So, Katie was telling me about this co-worker of hers...it seems his sister, whose legs fell off a few years back, woke up covered in ant bites. The ants were, from best we can gather, eating her flesh during the night. She subsequentally went insane because as it was discovered, the amount of venom was so great, it actually poisoned her brain. Did I make this up? NO! For real!
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Bears
So as you know, I'm single again. I'm feeling a bit down about this and looking for a nice leather daddy to take me on. Tonight while out to dinner with Evn, I found myself seated near a table of grizzlies. Now, two of the three looked like extras in a late 90's porn, but they were okay. But the third grizzly, oh my. I wanted to splay myself on the table right then and there. But I digress....so, as they got up to leave, Evn grabbed Big Sexy Grizzly and said, "My friend thinks you're hot." Oh my, I turned red and then Big Sexy Grizzly held his hand out and said, "I'm Dave" and all I could do was mumble something and stare at the floor. Oh my, is it really all that bad for me to want to put his penis in my mouth?
Friday, September 4, 2009
Drunk Times in Finland, part 3
Adventures in Finland, part 3: Vomiting across Europe
So, you know, I usually have a very strong stomach. I’ve been known to eat combinations of food that would horrify even the most finicky pregnant woman. I purposely bring to parties foods that no one else will eat, just so that I will have it all to myself. Well, sometimes. So, here I was, on this flight from London to Finland. It was the last leg of my journey before arriving in Helsinki. I’d just spent a 12 hour flight from the US to London smashed against the window by a 400 pound man who drooled and was pleased to find this Swedish airlines flight both clean and full of petite, well mannered people. So as soon as I sat down, the woman beside me offered me a cheese sandwich. What? Okay, well thanks, I said. How kind! How kind indeed---except that being vegan has rendered me entirely lactose intolerant. But what was I to do? I could tell by the look on the woman’s face that it would devastate her universe if I refused her sandwich, so I rapidly ate the sandwich. I mean…well, processed cheese isn’t real, right? Ahem...
So about ten minutes later, that poor woman was flat on her ass in that airplane aisle, with me climbing over and hitting people, fighting my way to the bathroom, and then barfing so explosively that even the pilot thought we were under terrorist attack. Lordy!
Okay, so now, flash forward by 2 days. Irene and I were on the obligatory “Booze Cruise” to Tallinn, Estonia. The day went well, there were, you know, all kinds of old castles and other crumbling things, and on the way back there was a buffet. I love me some good buffets, especially the kind with shrimp. Because did I tell you? Shrimp is vegan in georges-land. Anyway, so I’d had a great meal and was digesting it nicely when I just HAD to try the licorice syrup for the ice cream. I mean, you would too if you saw something so bizarre. But since it’s weird to just get a bowl of syrup, I got the tiniest amount of ice cream for the syrup to sit on and then proceeded to eat this tiny bit…and of course immediately ran into the bathroom for a toilet session. It was all okay until I realized that the toilet would not flush. And, a line was forming. Now, in Finland, the stall walls go from the floor to the ceiling, so no one can see who is inside. It’s very cozy that way. And so I was frantically trying to pull apart plumbing and figure out some way to get rid of the embarrassing mess of paper towels and licorice barf while a gypsy man screamed at me and pounded on the door. Then I noticed that it was one of those “sensor” toilets and all I had to do was move to the right a little and the toilet would flush. Oh my, well, my bad!
Now, let’s move into the next week. Irene and I decided to return to Tallinn. But, her dad had funded our first trip and we had to be a bit more frugal in our own vacation planning, so we chose a “Linda Lines” pre-soviet era renovated battleship to get us over. And of course, the boat was rusted, and of course the waves were choppy, and of course it was the captain’s first voyage, and of course I monopolized the bathroom for the three hour trip. I mean, I could not even stand! I’d mistakenly eaten a “shrimp” salad (Estonian word for “rancid crap we’ve had for seven months") and drank some kind of Eastern European cat piss passing itself off as beer (Irene told me later that the crew members were so fascinated that someone had actually left an unfinished can of beer that they framed it in a novelty museum). So, of course, these Russian women showed up, banging on that damn door, screeching for me to move it, and with my reserve strength, I swung open the door, trash can in hand, and vomit down my shirt, and screeched “WHATTT???” and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t as gratifying as I’d hoped for, but what can you do with plastic walls and doors. Anyway, so that’s enough about my vomiting stories.
So, you know, I usually have a very strong stomach. I’ve been known to eat combinations of food that would horrify even the most finicky pregnant woman. I purposely bring to parties foods that no one else will eat, just so that I will have it all to myself. Well, sometimes. So, here I was, on this flight from London to Finland. It was the last leg of my journey before arriving in Helsinki. I’d just spent a 12 hour flight from the US to London smashed against the window by a 400 pound man who drooled and was pleased to find this Swedish airlines flight both clean and full of petite, well mannered people. So as soon as I sat down, the woman beside me offered me a cheese sandwich. What? Okay, well thanks, I said. How kind! How kind indeed---except that being vegan has rendered me entirely lactose intolerant. But what was I to do? I could tell by the look on the woman’s face that it would devastate her universe if I refused her sandwich, so I rapidly ate the sandwich. I mean…well, processed cheese isn’t real, right? Ahem...
So about ten minutes later, that poor woman was flat on her ass in that airplane aisle, with me climbing over and hitting people, fighting my way to the bathroom, and then barfing so explosively that even the pilot thought we were under terrorist attack. Lordy!
Okay, so now, flash forward by 2 days. Irene and I were on the obligatory “Booze Cruise” to Tallinn, Estonia. The day went well, there were, you know, all kinds of old castles and other crumbling things, and on the way back there was a buffet. I love me some good buffets, especially the kind with shrimp. Because did I tell you? Shrimp is vegan in georges-land. Anyway, so I’d had a great meal and was digesting it nicely when I just HAD to try the licorice syrup for the ice cream. I mean, you would too if you saw something so bizarre. But since it’s weird to just get a bowl of syrup, I got the tiniest amount of ice cream for the syrup to sit on and then proceeded to eat this tiny bit…and of course immediately ran into the bathroom for a toilet session. It was all okay until I realized that the toilet would not flush. And, a line was forming. Now, in Finland, the stall walls go from the floor to the ceiling, so no one can see who is inside. It’s very cozy that way. And so I was frantically trying to pull apart plumbing and figure out some way to get rid of the embarrassing mess of paper towels and licorice barf while a gypsy man screamed at me and pounded on the door. Then I noticed that it was one of those “sensor” toilets and all I had to do was move to the right a little and the toilet would flush. Oh my, well, my bad!
Now, let’s move into the next week. Irene and I decided to return to Tallinn. But, her dad had funded our first trip and we had to be a bit more frugal in our own vacation planning, so we chose a “Linda Lines” pre-soviet era renovated battleship to get us over. And of course, the boat was rusted, and of course the waves were choppy, and of course it was the captain’s first voyage, and of course I monopolized the bathroom for the three hour trip. I mean, I could not even stand! I’d mistakenly eaten a “shrimp” salad (Estonian word for “rancid crap we’ve had for seven months") and drank some kind of Eastern European cat piss passing itself off as beer (Irene told me later that the crew members were so fascinated that someone had actually left an unfinished can of beer that they framed it in a novelty museum). So, of course, these Russian women showed up, banging on that damn door, screeching for me to move it, and with my reserve strength, I swung open the door, trash can in hand, and vomit down my shirt, and screeched “WHATTT???” and slammed the door shut. It wasn’t as gratifying as I’d hoped for, but what can you do with plastic walls and doors. Anyway, so that’s enough about my vomiting stories.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Drunk times in Finland, part 2
Did you know:
Not only does Finland have the European Union's highest rate of alcohol related deaths---it also has an actual word to describe when a person goes on a bender and rolls their R's improperly. It is called Oresta, which is pronounced "ooooooorrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeesta." Now, I'm not so concerned about the drunkness and the fact that there is a word to describe it. I think, rather, that it's out of this world that a country has such an impossible language that it cannot be spoken unless one is bone dry sober. Tragic indeed.
Not only does Finland have the European Union's highest rate of alcohol related deaths---it also has an actual word to describe when a person goes on a bender and rolls their R's improperly. It is called Oresta, which is pronounced "ooooooorrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeesta." Now, I'm not so concerned about the drunkness and the fact that there is a word to describe it. I think, rather, that it's out of this world that a country has such an impossible language that it cannot be spoken unless one is bone dry sober. Tragic indeed.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Drunk times in Finland
In my desire to immerse myself in authentic Finnish culture, I went out drinking with Irene. We went to the famous gay karoake bar, "Mann's Street" where Malcolm said we could spot some mens. So, we went inside after taking the obligatory tourist photos of the bar's famous entry way. After unsuccessfully trying to instruct the inebriated bartender in the art of mixed drinks, we ordered a couple of bottled somthing or others and sat down to an evening of bad karoake and disturbingly quiet dancing queens (as I discovered, the Finns are known for their silent composure except when entirely shit-faced).
We set our bear traps and one by one, they ambled into my range of sight--large, sexy men with flat tops, goatees, and thick arms. It was lovely until up from the shadows slithered a straw haired strap of brown leather named Villay. His pick up line, translated from drunken Finnish was, "I see you in magazine somewhere? Young and hung, yes?" Irene's ingrained politeness doomed us to listening to Villay's attempts to impress us with his broken English--"Tablay, fingerrrrrrr, Obama," and so on. So at once, Irene became my girlfriend, the cell phone rang, "beep boop beep, Yes, Villay, my ring tone does come from my mouth!" and our house caught on fire, prompting us to run out the door into the 11pm sunlight.
Undeterred, we returned to the bar the following week, on a Monday night, as it was unlikely that Villay would return, unless he was a total lush-----which of course, he was. "My frrrrrriends!!" he shouted! But I had a plan--you see, on the ride to the bar, I threatened to slash Irene's tires if she so much as breathed a word of Finnish. "Poor Villay," I said, "English only, my frrrriend." And so Villay, too drunk to remember last week's conversation in his native tongue, tried to teach us Finnish. Oh damn. "Kahlia-- beer. Kassi--hand." So the cell phone rang, Irene and I awkwardly touched hands, and the house caught on fire once more. And so we left, to do our drinking at home like decent folks.
We set our bear traps and one by one, they ambled into my range of sight--large, sexy men with flat tops, goatees, and thick arms. It was lovely until up from the shadows slithered a straw haired strap of brown leather named Villay. His pick up line, translated from drunken Finnish was, "I see you in magazine somewhere? Young and hung, yes?" Irene's ingrained politeness doomed us to listening to Villay's attempts to impress us with his broken English--"Tablay, fingerrrrrrr, Obama," and so on. So at once, Irene became my girlfriend, the cell phone rang, "beep boop beep, Yes, Villay, my ring tone does come from my mouth!" and our house caught on fire, prompting us to run out the door into the 11pm sunlight.
Undeterred, we returned to the bar the following week, on a Monday night, as it was unlikely that Villay would return, unless he was a total lush-----which of course, he was. "My frrrrrriends!!" he shouted! But I had a plan--you see, on the ride to the bar, I threatened to slash Irene's tires if she so much as breathed a word of Finnish. "Poor Villay," I said, "English only, my frrrriend." And so Villay, too drunk to remember last week's conversation in his native tongue, tried to teach us Finnish. Oh damn. "Kahlia-- beer. Kassi--hand." So the cell phone rang, Irene and I awkwardly touched hands, and the house caught on fire once more. And so we left, to do our drinking at home like decent folks.
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