This is a post that is a link to a link.

Which I apologize for.

We've all heard about the girl who wanted to take her girlfriend to the prom. No, I didn't stutter. Girl, girlfriend. She is- gasp- a teenage lesbian. And her school said, "no". And the court said, "uh uh, motherfuckers, that's not allowed." And her school threw a pissy-fit and said, "FINE then! We didn't want to have a prom anyway, you big meanies! That is unless any one of our discriminatory disgusting asshole fine upstanding citizens would like to hold a private party for our select un-embarrassing students that we don't have to hide in the basement. Then we're totally into it."

Yeah, well. It's gone further. The Bloggess was upset by this. Read it. Follow the link.

The Bloggess was upset. She was hurt in her heart. I'm just pissed off. Listen up, state of Mississippi. Stand up and be counted as being against Itawamba Agricultural High School (yes, I am calling you fucking morons out by name), lest ye be painted with the same brush. This maliciousness is what is representing your state right now. Loud and clear, assert yourself.

This goes for everyone else, too. As I have always told my children, when you silently stand by when an atrocity is committed, you are supporting those who are inflicting it. Got it? Your silence is support to those that would do wrong.

Stand up. Speak up.

And there you have peek number three into my brain- just in time for my dialogue with myself.

This morning, the first thing I typed to Cassie was, "i'm going to investigate a noise. if i'm not back in five minutes, call the police." She responded with, "will do".

I'm not entirely sure this was the most logical way for me to go about things.

In situations like this, I always debate my under-reaction and my over-reaction. I refuse to be the chick who calls the police over a noise at her window that ends up being a bird flapping around. But I'm also not going to be the one who is killed in her home because she startled a burglar. So how do I appropriate-level-react?

If I had called Sam, I figured he'd have said, "There's no one in the house... No, there's not... Honey, stop... Fine! What's it sound like?... What the hell does "two spoons" sound like?... I don't have any spoons to test it out, just tell me... Well, where's the noise coming from?... What do you mean you don't know? Find out... Find out... By walking around!... Listen, I don't have time for this. If you're really worried, call the police. If you're not, then just go!... Well what if it's the furnace exploding?"

See? He'd be no help at all.

But I figured at least someone should know that I was going to go all bad-ass investigator. I wasn't entirely clear on how Cassie would react to my request- had I not returned. Possibly, I put her in an awkward position. If it were me, I'd try calling her first. Although I'd wait longer. And then I'd get no answer and I'd call again frantically and still no answer and then I'd call the police and they'd balk at me and I'd demand they react and then she'd be dead, all because I'm a horrible person.

And now you've had your second peek into the running stories I have going on inside my head.

Alright, I just asked her what she'd have done.

me: okay, i have an important question
what would you have done if i hadn't come back in five minutes?
Flutterby: i was debating that, actually
prob at the 5 min mark, i would've msg'd you while digging through my chats, etc to find your address
i estimated it would take me an add'l 5 min to come up with your address and the number for your localish PD
and then I prob would've called bc better safe than sorry
i figured if you said 5 and you weren't back in the add'l 5, that was reasonable to make a phone call
then i would've played spider solitaire or something :P

She is apparently a better person than I. Better at keeping other people alive, anyway.

So back to the noise. I leave that message with Cassie, and I slowly walk into the front hallway to try to pinpoint the noise. The noise stops. Of course. I head toward the upstairs. The noise starts up again. Dammit! It's coming from the basement. (We all know how much I love the basement.) I open the door, peek down there, realize I can see nothing, and then belly-down on the floor to get a better view. Yes, yes I really do. I am about to go down the stairs when I realize, as I'm saying in my head, "this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid this-is-so-stupid". Is it so stupid that I'm afraid to go downstairs? No. It's stupid to go down there without a weapon. So I turn around and search the living room. Connor's lunch bag- what the hell is that doing here instead of at school with him? Whatever, not a good weapon. Where's the bat? (Why did I think there's going to be a bat in my living room? I have no idea.) Crap. Weapon, weapon, weapon. There is nothing bludgeoningable in this room! I know, a knife! I tippy-toe into the kitchen, find a pointy knife. Wait. Would I be able to stab someone if it came down to it?... Yes, yes I could. Okay, down the stairs. Slowly, slowly. (Because someone who is hiding in my basement- playing with spoons- isn't going to have noticed me opening the door and sneaking down.) I squat down on the landing halfway down the stairs and rotate on the spot, searching the noise out. I'm not turning the lights on- better to be blind than to let the psycho-spoon-playing-killer get a better view of me. Ah! What the hell is that?! Oh, the ping-pong table. (Why was this more threatening than all the other crap piled up in the basement? I have no idea. Because psycho-spoon-playing-killers are actually big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killers, I guess.) The noise kicks in again. Alright, that's it. The lights are going on because... because the sudden light will blind the big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer and I'll get the jump on him! (I watch entirely too much police-drama television.) The noise is coming from... there! Crap. The furnace. Why is the furnace playing spoons? Dammit, I hate it when Sam's right- wait, wasn't that in my head?

This was the point when the furnace turned off altogether. I couldn't therefore solve the mystery, but that was fine because it meant it wasn't a big-flat-psycho-spoon-playing-killer. Screw it. Sam can solve the furnace issue when he gets home. So long as it doesn't blow up in the meantime.

And this is just the stuff I remember because I dug through my old chats with Cassie. Probably I should get a diary.

Most of the time, in this house, I am not involved in the better conversations. Sometimes, sometimes I am blessed enough to be a witness. Frankly, even when I'm part of the the conversation, I'm still usually just a witness.

Rule number one: Ethan is always a participant.
Rule number two: The conversation is always just two people.
Rule number three: Usually, the second party in the conversation has to be doing something completely unrelated to anything, especially whatever Ethan is doing at the time.
Rule number four: It must be quiet.
This is because these are the conditions in which the true Ethan emerges.

Connor is drawing a monster. Ethan is creating his own... whatever. Probably a diorama. That's how he rolls.
Ethan: Is it a man-eater?
Connor: Yes.
Ethan: Good. I'm a boy.

Sam, short on time and temper: Now you guys get out in this hallway and pick up your clean clothes and fold them and put them away!
Ethan: Good morning!
Sam: Good morning!
Ethan: Guten Tag!
Sam: Bonjour!

Ethan: Oh, Daddy, you're wearing your wedding ring!
Sam: Yep.
Ethan: Do you always wear your wedding ring?
Sam: Sometimes.
Ethan: You sometimes always wear your wedding ring? That doesn't make any sense.

Ethan: Mommy! While I was going to the bathroom, I figured out there are 22 letters in my name!

Emily: Pohtahto is just a stupid, fake way of saying potato.
Ethan: Nuh uh! The guy on Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares says it that way!

Sam: Hoohoo! Hoo hoo hoohoo!
Ethan: Raaawwwwrrrrr!
Sam: No! I'm making bird noises.
Ethan, deadpan: Tweet. Tweet. I tawt I taw a puddy-tat.

Ethan, eying a banana suspiciously: Bananas don't deserve to have stickers on them. ^rip^

Ethan: (Uncle) Jason asked me to get him a soda.
Me: Okay.
Ethan: And I did.
Me: That's good.
Ethan: Connor told me I should shake it.
Me: What'd you do?
Ethan: I didn't shake it.
Me: Good decision.
Ethan: Because it's not good to put soda on the ceiling. Or Jason's face.

Ethan: When is Father's Day?
Sam:Next weekend. But Father's Day isn't as important as Mother's Day.
Ethan: Why?
Sam: Moms are just more important.
Ethan: Well, you're special to me, Daddy!

From upstairs: BAM!
Me: What was that?!
Ethan: Nothing!
Me: Did you break some-
Ethan: NO!
Me: Whatnow?
Ethan: Why would you think I broke something?

Emily: I promise.
Ethan: Right hand to god with your left hand in front. And don't cross your toes. And don't cross your eyes and don't cross your arms and don't cross anything!

Ethan's playing with a batman colorform set. Connor comes over, peels one off, re-affixes it.
Ethan: What are you doing!?!?
Connor: Fixing it. He was upside down.
Ethan: I know! I put him upside down! He hit his head!

And this sampling doesn't even include times when he manages to debate an adult into a puddle or when a conversation is going on around him, him seemingly completely ignoring everything but what he's super-concentrating on, then suddenly pipes up with an opinion that he truly shouldn't have.

You want to know what really went down at any given time? Ask Ethan.

But only the beers you serve with lime. The regular kind of beer is full of uck.

Sam and I stopped by a quick-stop-and-go-gas-station place for beer. I set it at the register and sort of stepped away so Sam could pay. Okay, what I really did was turn away and stare longingly at the enormous candy display behind me, reciting (In my head, only, thanks. I'm not completely insane.), and this sounds like The Little Train That Shouldn't, "I don't need candy. I don't need candy. I don't need candy."

And as I'm standing there, trying to ignore the Whatchamacallit, I sort of sense... the woman behind the counter is doing... nothing?

I look at her curiously. "Hi," I say, trying to prompt her ass to just ring up my beer, already.

But because I am obsessive about the candy (and also, to get some, I must choose one before the bitch hits "total"), I turned back to the display.

Yet there is still no beepy-beepy meaning she's ringing up. But there is, "Uhm, do you have any ID?" So I turned and smirked (okay, and snorted) at Sam because, seriously? Neither of us will ever again pass for traditional college students. But he handed over his license, and she studied it. And studied it. Then she handed it back to him (I assume, because at this point I was still obsessing with the SweeTarts), and I hear, "I'm going to need your ID, too."

...

Aren't we being a tiny protective of the beer?

But I held my tongue (mostly) and handed over my license so we could just get the hell out of there. Seriously. Bitch. Wrap up the beer. Oh. Mygod.

It wasn't until I was climbing back into the car that it occurred to me. Okay, so maybe my obsession with the candy display, the awkward ignoring of the activity at the cash register, my continuous back-turning to her. Maybe it looked a little bit like me turning away to hide my face? And that dude, the one who was obviously old enough to buy booze, but he's with that chick who isn't making eye-contact, who's acting kinda sneaky? And who isn't, for whatever reason, making the purchase herself. Huh. Maybe someone needs to call the cops.

Ethan is Already Planning Out His Own Time in Fatherhood

I had on the 19 Kids and Counting show this morning.

Shut up.

And, forewarning, I've got another post about the show in edit right at this moment, so I should think you'd be best served by learning to deal now.

So I was playing a DVR'd episode of the show this morning- yes, I not only watch the show, I record it.

For anyone who is not currently sneering at their screen, I'll give a brief description of the show. Super religious couple, they have 19 children. Nope, none adopted. Her poor uterus. The oldest child, Josh, is married to Anna, and they have a baby.

That's all you need to know to appreciate this.

So we're watching this episode- that is, Ethan is sitting on the sofa with me, Sam is in the room- I'm pretty sure he'll claim he wasn't watching. This bit of the episode is focused on Josh and Anna and baby, getting baby ready, taking baby on trip, hoping baby will be good on the plane, blah blah blah. Ethan is kind of absorbing this, seemingly not paying too much attention. He wrinkles up his nose, squints up his beautiful blues... "*scoff* They're penguins."

Eh? I raise an eyebrow to Sam. He shrugs. Back to Ethan. "What?"

Ethan rolls his eyes, gets up to walk out of the room. "They. Are penguins."

"What does that meeaann?" I whine after him.

He turns back around, flings a hand toward the television. "They never put that baby down."

Wow. Apparently Ethan, at seven, has already decided he's not a fan of attachment parenting. I probably shouldn't mention to him that he spent his first eight months of life sleeping in a co-sleeper.

Remember when I told you about that good friend I lost?

Except not that for-serious post. This one. Which was the follow up to this one. They were all about a particular spam email that really pleased me. I was checking my spam folder again for blog fodder anything sent there by mistake, and noticed it had reached a personal high for spam count. Thirteen! Let's discuss.

To begin, I just don't think anything official would have a from line of "loteryclaimsoffice2009". Now, of course I have previous dealings with, er... "JAPANESE WORLD CYBER GAMES" (What the hell, spellcheck? "Cyber" isn't a word? And neither is "spellcheck"???), but the real people know how to spell their own from line. Der.

Up next! As I would never subject an email I wrote as "DEAR SARAH" (besides the fact that I never give any of my emails a subject) (you're welcome, people with whom I correspond), I would therefore never receive back an "RE :DEAR SARAH". However! The beginning of the email is apparently, "Dear SARAH Good day and God bless you. I feel quite safe..."; me, too, rechelleyton. Me, too. And thanks!

Then mary_wong is harping on the "Japan Lottery" again. Can't trick me! You are not my contact with them, bitch!

What I don't get about this next one is why itunes is concerned with ((((Percocet-Aderall-Viagra-Vicodin)))) usage. I've already had my intervention, thankyouverymuch.

iborilucky wants to know, "CAN YOU SUPPLY OIL MATERIAL?" What. the. fuck. Please, no one explain this to me.

And THEN someone is trying to get me with the New Zealand lotto. Well fool me once, folks! I only play the JAPAN CYBER LOTTO. Morons.

And then there're a couple more people all up in my business about my drug use again. Bastards. Although the "Love love pill Offer Pack" has admittedly got me curious. The pill so nice they named it twice. But no capitalization for you, asshole. "Offer" and "Pack" are mucho mas importante. (Imagine the accent marks there. I'm not searching out those keystrokes.)

Let's see... another JAPAN LOTTERY faker. This one used "TOYOTA". Apparently spammers don't read the news... itunes is up in my craw about my drug use again... "noreply" doubled up! One email offering me drugs followed closely by one offering me online gaming. Wow. noreply is spreading himself thin, these days...

Oh. My. GOONIE. (as Connor says)

This one is for real, y'all! It's from a barrister! (A foreign one, obviously.) barristerbrwn12 says, "Re: Dear Sarah"... fuck. Okay, we'll just ignore that. "My name is brown Liam, a Malaysian national and personal At...". "At" what??? "Attache"??? Oh, wait. Probably "Attorney". I'm kind of insulted that brown Liam felt the need to translate it for me. Also, you'd think a lawyer wouldn't put up with shit like being called "brown Liam". Unless this nickname keeps him from getting mixed up with "douchebag Liam" or "bigamist Liam" in the office. Who am I to judge? All I know is goddamned gmail screwed up once again and deposited non-spam email into the spam folder! What if I had not decided to mock the spam folder and had missed this?

Anyone know if I can sue gmail? Hang on, I bet brown Liam knows. I've got an email to respond to.

I just paid eighty bucks for the doctor to tell me to put my daughter on the BRAT diet.

Because apparently letting her eat fried chicken and grapefruit with an upset stomach is a bad idea.

Apparently.

Go me.

I'm an awe-inspiring mother.