Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose. Duh.

Is her little sister helping me out, with a nudge, or a shove? No. She is observing, amused, because SHE is intelligent to see the futility of my behavior, but not the danger, until I turn back to face the windshield and turn the wheel back so that we’re back on OUR side of the highway, thank you very much.

I am SO funny.

I remembered. Mothers can’t be human beings. It’s just not possible, not allowed; it would turn the whole universe into a huge, sucking black hole – worse than middle school already is. Mothers can’t be cool, they can’t be funny, they can’t be – oh, ew, gross – sexy, and they sure as hell can’t have any feelings.

What’s My Item?

Harm includes: rain, snow, sleet, ice, sunburn, disease, random cartoon safes falling from the sky, hangnails, paper cuts, broken bones, hurt feelings (commenters, beware), and a host of other ills that plague her soul daily.

A Rampage of Minor Atrocities

My 12-year-old is on a Rampage of Minor Atrocities.

Little Patience with Loser from Liverpool.

Loser from Liverpool. I’m sure it’s a nice little place, although the Beatles were sure delighted to shake the dust of that place from their sandals as quickly as they could. You didn’t see any of them racing home to build their mansions there, did you?

The Trouble with Vincent

Everyone in the entire universe has seen VanGogh’s work by now, which is interesting, considering the man was considered – and actually, he kind of was – a total flake during his lifetime. He never sold a single painting, although now they’re worth zillions. Not to him, of course. Now he’s dead as a doornail, poor earless thing.