flightless hag

A chronicle of the adventures of birdwoman: a lonely, talentless freak who wanders the internet in search of entertainment.

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Location: Philly

I'm a 40-something married white female, survivor of weight watchers, avid reader of pulp. Dogs (not cats), extreme right (handed, not politics), ENTJ, alto, wanna-be knitter.

May 26, 2010

Random Thoughts

When I was in sixth grade, I threw up on Miss Poder. Right on her. Didn't feel bad about it, either.

Today, one of my students threw up all over... my doorway. Can't get in or out of the room without squelches, though they did throw cat litter on it. I guess that's a saving grace, since there's supposed to be some major water balloon fights up here today. Maybe they'll leave my wing alone.


Sixteen more days.


My clothes are mostly pre-Moth, who just turned 7 Saturday. I decided I needed some new shirts. I've avoided buying shirts for a few years because I have a huge gut. Muffin Top Is Me. Shirts in the last five years have been belly shirts or high waist shirts. Lo and behold, the new shirt length is mid-hip. Yipee! I bought four! (ugly colors, but at least they're long!)

And WHY didn't the sixties/seventies crap stay back there? Polyester and puke colors are gross, no matter what the presentation. Sheesh.


Stinky has become quite the mumbler. Whenever he disagrees with mom or dad, he starts muttering under his breath. Yesterday, he bought a combination lock, and he couldn't figure out how to get it to work. I was trying to help him and he took this "I just can't do it!" position. I said "Well, you're going to."

After a little bit, I gave an instruction and he talked back.

I smacked him.

His eyes teared up. His jaw firmed. But no talking back.

Three minutes later, he's mumbling something, and I said, "Just shut up and do it!" He muttered, "you shut up!"

I flipped him over and paddled him.

I have all assurances that he hates me and will hate me the rest of his life. I don't give a rat's patootie. If he shuts up, it's worth it.


Moth man did not get a lot of presents for his birthday. A big part was a new bike that he keeps leaving out in the rain. He was warned if he didn't take care of his toys, he wouldn't be getting any more.

Granny and Poppy got him two lego sets. I built him the first one with him, showing him how to keep the pieces in the right piles and how to follow the directions. It was, of course, a pain in the ass. I told him to take care of it, because I wasn't fixing it. Less than one day later, he smashed it. Tears. Recriminations. Yet I was not moved. I built it once, and you broke it in less than 12 hours.

I told him I would not build the second one. He asked if he could. I said, why, sure! So he took it up to his bed, promptly lost half the pieces, and came crying to me. I shrugged. Sorry, kid, not helping you.

He got a speedometer for his bike and messed with it til it broke the first afternoon he had it.

He got a whoopee cushion from his Aunt and Uncle (thanks for that) that he blew up til it popped, even though he'd been warned a lot to be careful.

Please note that every present, except for the bike, was destroyed within 24 hours of Moth ownership.

Moths are destructive.

I guess the name is appropriate.


Well, that's the news. The boys are all getting anxious for their camping trip away from Mom. It should be interesting. I get the dogs by myself for 10 days. Poor Titus and Loki. You know, the last time John took the boys overnight, it was for some Cub Scout thing. He called me from some big battleship and asked for some other parents number. "Why are you asking me?" I pondered aloud. "JUST FIND IT" he replied, paniced.

John does not panic.

"What's wrong?" I asked

"I can't find Sean. I think he's with this other parent."

"What Happened??!!??"

"Well, I lost Tim this morning, and Sean went off to find him. Now I can't find Sean."

If he calls me from the OkeeFenokee swamp - or whatever that is - asking for the number for the Ranger station, I'm gonna slip exlax powder in his fiber shakes.


One final surreal note... the Metro - a free paper available in most major cities - had a really strange letters to the editor section today/ (That's on the same page as sudoku and crosswords.)
Every single letter was pro-conservative. I can't figure out if they're trying to get their readers angry or if they're just trying to highlight what they consider "freaks" (they're MSM, no way are there conservatives on that staff). It was downright weird.

Later, gators!

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May 17, 2010

So, what do I do...

When we last saw our heroes, Mothman was in Big Deep Trouble. He was doing bad things in school and out. He was smokin in the boys room and sportin tats. Well, maybe not that bad, but the first grade equivalent.

In the last 3 weeks, he has had a sea-change. He gets stickers every day in school. His teacher has written a note saying that he is, once again, the best in class, doing all his work and helping others' do theirs.

Thing is, back when he got punished for being bad, he had 2 things taken away. The first was a birthday party. When he missed that, he wrote himself a poster "How to be good in school". He looks at it every morning, just to remind himself.

Now, he's excellent again, and he asked if he could earn back the second thing he got taken away - namely, the boyscouts white water rafting trip.

What should I do?



May 03, 2010

The Toothbrush Incident

Our boys. They fight. And fight. And Fight.

If they are in the same room, they fight.

If they are in different rooms, they fight.

We were visiting John's relatives on the weekend. We sent the boys to brush their teeth for bed. At the same time.


Apparently, Stinky took this opportunity to drop off a load, Stinkying up the bathroom for Moth while he was brushing his teeth.

This got Moth all a-flutter.

Words were spoken. Insults exchanged. Fisticuffs couldn't be managed, as Stinky was taking a dump. But Moth hurled a weapon at Stinky - Moth's toothbrush.

It landed in the polluted toilet.

I made him remove it with his hand. I told him, after I got him to do it (man, can that boy scream!) that it would all wash off his hands. We washed his hands three times, while I told him of when I worked in the bookstore and had to scrub feces off the wall - some crazy dude had written in his own poop.

Somehow, my misery made Tim feel all better.

Do they ever stop fighting?