Political Correctness or Lack Thereof: Part 2 (Oklahoma Edition)

I wonder how many have heard of the incredibly disgusting display of "college pride" yet. No? Really? Because it is all over the damn place. I'm not going to bother with putting down anymore links because I am not a deejay for the emotionally stunted but I will go on ahead and add my two cents.

1.) It isn't just about you.

If you read the comments section on any news page that is reporting on this giant mess, you will see a large group of people who I'd like to refer to as the, "I-Have-a-Black/Gay/Handicapped-Friend-So-It's-Totally-Okay-For-Me-To-Say-That" group. I think in a situation where people can get offended, we should follow the lead of the ones who are offended. It is very short-sighted to assume that because you are not affected by an objectionable statement, that no one else will be. In fact, I would think anyone who knows something is discourteous to an entire group of people and doesn't care is not "politically incorrect." No, we call those people assholes. Don't believe me? Let me give an example.

Ladies, let's say that you are walking along the street and a guy from your work comes up and says that he would like to play your breasts like they are a pair of bongos. You point out that the statement is offensive and quite frankly, a little disgusting and he responds with, "Don't be so sensitive! I have female friends and THEY weren't offended by it." I guarantee that you would be giving him the side-eye from then until the end of time and if the scenario took place at work, you'd put a call in to Human Resources.

So why are people allowed a pass in this situation?

2.) Because "it happened forever ago!"

Forever and 175 years ago, are not the same thing. 

History lesson for the unlearned: The Trail of Tears was a forced massacre of the Native American people. Five tribes (at least) were forcibly removed from the Southeast thanks to President Andrew Jackson and marched to present day Oklahoma. Thousands upon thousands of people died; men, women and children. 

When the Third Reich started to slaughter the Jewish people in gas chambers and concentration camps, the American people got involved. Granted our military involvement increased mainly after Pearl Harbor but regardless, Hitler's genocide was not tolerated by most civilized people on the globe. Why is our own personal annihilation of the Five Civilized Tribes not also seen with the same disdain? 

Oh, right. We're Americans. The mistakes that we make are white-washed over (pun slightly intended) because, "The Native Americans/African Americans should have known that we would come after them/their land and therefore, not our fault!" I'd like to clarify that while our entire country isn't guilty of this kind of professional victim-blaming, there is a large division of the population who actually believes this crock of shit. Granted they are often also the people who think rape culture exists mainly to poison young women's minds and target innocent boys. 

I am positive that these two forms of victim-blaming can absolutely be compared. In one, you are suggesting that a group of people shouldn't be offended because they "got what was coming to them." And in the other, you are suggesting that a group of people shouldn't be offended because they, in a way, "got what was coming to them." They are both suggesting that the fault doesn't lie in the aggressor but in the one that should have remained vigilant of the aggressor's potential actions. We can't just say, "Don't rape" or in this case, "Don't pillage and walk to death several tribes of people." We have to also say, "And don't let yourself be raped" or "don't let yourself be walked to death by those with technology far outweighing yours, numbers far outweighing yours and resources far outweighing yours." If you still can't see a connection after that walk-through of it, I can't help you.

So where is the disconnect? Why won't anyone see that their words can be so much more than they intend for them to be? That minimizing these problems doesn't help but hinders the people that are speaking out against it. 

3.) We are just plain lazy.

Every time I read the comments on a news page or a friend's post on Facebook regarding this kind of thing, there are a hundred people out there screaming of their "tiring of political correctness." I don't know about the rest of you but I never tire of being respectful of other human beings. Except maybe the human beings that tire of being respectful of other human beings. (Ha! See what I did there?) But seriously, every single link I find suggesting that learning more appropriate terminology to approach political correctness is merely a Band-Aid to cover-up the problem as a whole makes me want to bash my head into something.   

Maybe the blatant racism/sexism/etc. that exists in our society today is the bigger problem. The bleeding pustule of a problem, no less. But to keep this wound metaphor rolling, what do you do when you have a wound that is infected and needs to be treated by a doctor? You clean it and cover it with a bandage of some kind until the problem can be properly addressed. Yes, political correctness will not solve the problems of the world but it will definitely set a guideline to what is acceptable in our society. If racist jokes and sexist remarks are acceptable in our society, then we are promoting a society of racism and sexism. We are saying it is copacetic to slight millions of people and their everyday struggles. And that is not okay.

Saying things like "that's gay" or "totally retarded" is a great example of this problem. Sure, you can say those phrases. Chances are you are going to offend someone, since there are both gay and mentally handicapped people at large in our world. Instead of using them though, how about you use better and more descriptive vocabulary words that don't provoke others? Is it too difficult to find an alternative? I haven't found that to be so.

Now for story time, where I also share how I have also been part of this sad blight on humanity: A year ago (maybe longer) I was having a conversation with my friend on the phone when I said how I had been "gypped" by the telephone company. He immediately stopped my story and asked me if I knew what "gypped" meant. I knew what the definition was but I had no clue what the origin of the word was. I was absolutely humiliated when I realized what it meant and that I was propagating a stereotype. I do believe at that moment though, I immediately went on the defensive. That is also normal. It is normal to feel embarrassed once you are made aware of distasteful phrases that you use. What is not normal is being advised about it and ignoring it entirely. It is okay to make mistakes. It is okay to learn. We are human beings and will spend the rest of our lives learning and growing. Don't let one of your mistakes be that you refuse to change an existing problem when you have the power to do so. 

Political Correctness, or Lack Thereof: Part 2 (Oklahoma Edition)

We Get By With a Little Help From Our Friends... Who are a Thousand Miles Away

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.” --Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

Sometimes, despite my best efforts, I can't get past the lack of motivation that comes with being depressed. I know last entry, I wrote a lot about the irrational thoughts and the severe fatigue but I didn't get a chance to write about exactly how much of my life the lack of motivation affects. How much guilt it manifests.

I used to have a lot of friends. I used to be extroverted... or more accurately, I used to be something resembling extroverted because that is what was expected of me in order for people to like me. As I've grown older, I've come to realize that I have to take care of my own wants and needs. However, the line between my wants and needs becomes blurred once the depression settles in. 

When does the line cross from need to want? I have no idea. But I do know that often I find that I'm at war within myself over something as insignificant as a trip out with my friend. I have the feeling that once I am with my friend I would find amusement and comfort in their company but in the few hours before I go to meet with them, all I feel is dread. I cast my eyes longingly at my office chair or the ever so captivating sheets of my bed and wonder why I ever made the appointment in the first place. I don't want to talk. I don't want to laugh. Well, that's not entirely true, I want to laugh but I don't want to put effort into making them laugh and that makes me feel guilty. How can I call myself a friend when I am using this person for the sole purpose of making me feel better? That isn't how friends work. I start to ask myself if I can pull it together long enough to get in a few witty quips for them. No, I don't think I can. After this conversation in my head, I feel even less motivated and even more sad. 

So one of two things will happen: First, I will go and be relatively miserable for the entire trip. I might laugh a few times. I might make them laugh a few times. Overall, I will feel overwhelming guilt because I don't want to be there in the first place. I will feel a secondary guilt for being out with my friend when I am sure that I won't be able to muster enough energy to spend on my family when I get home. The second scenario is the more likely of the two. I will call and cancel. Again, I will feel tremendous amounts of guilt for being "flaky" and cancelling on my friend.

What is truly sad about this (as many of you with depression are well aware of) is that those so-called friends of yours will probably exacerbate that guilt tenfold. At some point in the trip out, if you go that is, they will comment on your lack of interest or ask "why are you yawning so much?" or "why do you keep zoning out?" If you cancel, you may get the new friend title of "Flake." There is not much understanding that comes with depression beyond the professional field and even then, psychiatry is still a tween compared to other medical research. The requirement to "will yourself out of it" even if it is just temporary and for their benefit is way more settled in our society than the need for others to understand our needs to be the fuck alone.

 You can't force someone out of a depression and sometimes, the mere attempt to do so is more damaging than one would expect. To require someone to pretend to be something they are not, is telling them that they aren't good enough for you unless they are perfectly normal. They can't be damaged or unorthodox in any way. They can't be a "buzzkill" or "party pooper" or "enter your own insult here" because that makes us uncomfortable. We can't be bothered to look beyond our own little bubbles and see that an entire species of people exists with differences and needs. 

So the next time your friend cancels on you for the third or fourth or fifth time, instead of calling them rude and/or flaky, why don't you look beyond your own little world. Could they perhaps be suffering from depression? Could they perhaps be lacking the motivation? Could they just need something more low-key than you are willing to give them? Can you not put aside your expectations for one evening for them and maybe curl up on the couch in comfortable clothing and watch a movie or play a game or just... sit... do something for your friend that you wouldn't normally do? Because I guarantee you this, if you are willing to go the extra mile for me once in a while (and this is something that I have not experienced yet at all) then I would gladly, albeit with much effort, try very hard to put aside my feelings and distracting thoughts for one evening to give you the same treatment. I would come out of MY comfortable little bubble if you would do the same for me. Think about it and look at this cartoon for inspiration.

Living My Life, One Day At A Time

"The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere." (spoken by Elrond in The Fellowship of the Ring.)

It is easy, as an outside observer, to make the claim that depression is due to nothing more than a lack of willpower. It is also easy and accurate to describe those outside observers as delusional or total assholes. Here's why:

My oldest son, little Korben, is a Juvenile Myelomonocytic Leukemia survivor. He was put into a medically induced coma as a sick but otherwise perfectly normal two year old. Two months later, his muscles were the victims of atrophy, his sides were impaled with two chest tubes and his throat had been sliced open to make way for a tracheostomy. Despite having just mastered the skills of walking and talking, he was required to learn how to do them all over again. His tiny body was ravaged by adult doses of chemotherapy and full body radiation, turning his skin into what can only be described as the worst sunburn that I've ever seen. As is usual when they are irradiating the body, he had sores completely covering the inside of his mouth and the top of his tongue; during this time, we discovered that he was the third person in the entire world to be allergic, dangerously so, to T.P.N, the nutrition that they give patients intravenously when they are unable to process solid foods without pain or distress. Most of the friends that he made up on the tenth floor of O.U. Children's, the other patients similar in age to him, passed away within a year of his diagnosis and treatment. By the age of three, he had had more surgeries and more life experience than most people ten times his age. He's managed to work his way through it with counseling and understanding from his family.

Tobe, well, he was the most complicated of the pregnancies. A mere five days after his birth, I called my husband with severe shortness of breath and edema. We rushed to the hospital to discover that I was suffering from a peripartum cardiomyopathy, also known as heart failure due to the increased pressure on the heart from pregnancy. I was also diagnosed with severe pneumonia. My primary care physician insisted that I be admitted into the hospital to be treated but I was emotionally fragile and couldn't stand to be away from my newborn and four year old. Heavy doses of Lasix and nebulizer treatments got me through the major hump but I still occasionally experience heart palpitations and shortness of breath. I began seeing a cardiologist who dropped the bomb on my husband and I that having another baby, would likely kill me. We struggled with this news for weeks and I constantly battled back and forth between wanting to have the tubal ligation to prevent future pregnancies or continuing birth control. 

Before we could make a decision one way or the other, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. I cried myself to sleep for weeks, WEEKS, trying to decide whether to continue with the pregnancy and possibly killing myself in the process and/or terminating the pregnancy right then and there. After weeks of grueling pros and cons, I decided that the only way I could live with myself was to try to carry the pregnancy to term. If I had to terminate the pregnancy or die, I would terminate the pregnancy. We luckily made it to full-term, even survived nearly two weeks of passive labor, and now have a beautiful baby girl.

We've lost a house. Were kicked out of our apartment because we had already given our notice. We lived in a hotel suite for two weeks but not before living with my grandmother. 

We've acquired normalcy, in the face of near financial ruin when I was laid off from my job after taking out a large loan to purchase a larger family vehicle, our now paid off minivan.

We've managed through the death of my grandfather and Zach's oldest sister, who we attempted to honor by passing on her middle name to our daughter, Skyler.

It has not been an easy life. It has been a grueling, demanding and heart-breaking life. Obviously, it has not all been downs but there have been a lot and within short succession of one another. How could anyone, after looking at this long line of painful memories, how could anyone honestly believe that the only reason we still trudge through a river of crap is due to my refusal to will myself out of this black hole? Willpower will not get rid of depression. Willpower does have something to do with depression but it has absolutely nothing to do with getting rid of it altogether. In fact, because I am feeling generous, I will tell you what willpower has to do with depression.

Every morning, I wake up and fight to get out of bed. I use all of my energy just to toss my legs over the side, set them on the carpet and walk the four feet to the bathroom sink to brush my morning breath away. I stare blankly at the mirror, trying to figure out what my husband sees in me and why he continuously puts himself through the trauma that is dealing with me and my disorder(s). Then my irrational brain begins to wonder if he does love me and if he only manages to make it through his days because he has someone else on the side. Someone who loves him and holds him and lets him ... just be. It becomes so overwhelming that I have to get away from the mirror and the reflection of that awful person that is standing in front of me. Even if it is me. By this point, I'm completely drained. I'm completely drained and it's only 6:35 in the morning. I'm completely drained and I still have to feed my son breakfast before school and get him to the bus stop. I have to give him snuggles and hugs good-bye, even though my irrational brain has taken over again and I am terrified that I'm sending him off to his school bus of doom or that a mass shooter is going to target his school. After that, I try to get an hour or two of sleep. Anything to recharge my brain just a little bit before I have to get up again for work. More often than not, I don't get any sleep. I just sit there and feel the exhaustion course through my veins. I desperately want to sleep... for days or weeks... whatever it takes just to reorganize the chaos in my head. Then I feel guilty, because I am a mother and a wife and a friend and I can't just lay in bed and be useless. 

By the time work rolls around, I am on the verge of a breakdown. Not because I hate my job. I don't. I love my job. But depression has taken anything and everything of value to me and made it cumbersome. Work is cumbersome. My kids, whom I love dearly, are cumbersome. My husband is cumbersome. And I hate myself and I hate my brain for that. Even if it isn't my fault, I hate myself for it. I can logically know that it isn't my fault and still wish that I weren't here, so that my family wouldn't have to go through the rigorous schedule of helping me recuperate from this disease. But then there are two things that keep me from just "selfishly" offing myself: the people that care about me and fear. The first is the fear. I am afraid to die. I am afraid of what will or will not come when the light leaves my eyes. I am afraid of that nothingness. The second are those people that care about me. Those that will feel my loss. That will grieve the future without me. As the depression's severity increases, I slowly care less and less about those people. The one thing that doesn't change is my fear of death. If that fear of death were to change, I don't know where I would be... or wouldn't be for that matter. It is a very sharp, fine blade that I am teetering on. One wrong move and I either fall off or slice myself in half or hell, maybe I'll swing out of there with nothing but a paper-cut small incision but either way, I don't feel like I will ever get out of this unharmed. 

After faking my way through work and patient's homes, smiling and laughing and ignoring the knot in my throat that has taken refuge there, I have been drained to the negatives. I have nothing left to give. I have a few snuggles that I can bear to pass out to my family. I can pretend to smile just a few more times. But the lure of my bed and the cool sheets are just too much to ignore. My body will sink into the bed, comforting and quiet, but I go right back to feeling awful and guilty again because I can't will even a little bit more energy for the ones that I love. Before I know it, the little bit of sleep I've managed to get is over and I have to start the new day over again, often with an energy deficit. 

I am not in my right mind. But even if I was, who would willingly put their family through such a troublesome existence? You say depression is weakness. That suicide is selfish? If this disease were to physically manifest as something else, would anyone be quick to judge and force the diseased to live as if they are normal? Is it just because it is invisible... silent... that you all can ignore the pain and suffering of those affected? Or have those of you that feel you have the experience to say what you do, just not lived the life of someone who either has had or has dealt with someone who has had depression? Depression is not weakness. It is a very strong individual that tries and fails to fight a disease such as this every single day but tries again over and over. That is admirable. And all of the ignorant, chair quarterbacks out there would be well to recognize that that strength is also beautiful. That uplifting the fallen is a worthy cause because some of these lost souls may have so much to give, they just need the strength to give it. 

Law and Order: Juvenile Edition, "The Case of Misplaced Water"

The Victim was found distressed and wet. The Suspect was repeatedly saying, "It was an accident." Witness A was yelling streams of information regarding the events in question. Witness B said, "Pffftt!" Witness C seemed shifty-eyed and disinterested; he was jumping on the couch. Officer Z and I attempted to piece together enough of the events to create a cohesive crime scene. It was apparent we would have to separate the Suspect, Victim and Witnesses to see if we could get the story to add up.

Officer Z and I started in Interrogation Room A with "The Suspect." When I entered the room, he was blubbering incoherently about needing a glass of a water. I used the deep breathing technique I used after many years on the beat, forcing the Suspect to calm himself. For clarity, I will refer to myself, Officer R, as O.R. from this moment on.

O.R: So, tell me what happened.
The Suspect begins to blubber again.
O.R: I'd really like to help you, son, but I can't understand you when you speak that way. I'm going to need you to take a few more breaths and tell me the story from beginning to end. No crying this time.
Suspect: Okay... I went to get a glass of water.
O.R: In the kitchen?
Suspect: Yes.
O.R: Was the Victim in there with you?
Suspect: Yes, he was.
O.R: Okay, continue.
Suspect: After I filled up my glass, the Victim tipped it over, spilling it all over the floor and counter.
O.R: Okay.
Suspect: I filled it up again and the Victim went for it one more time, so I poured the glass of water over him.
Officer Zach (now referred to as O.Z. for clarity): Are you suggesting that this act was in self-defense?
Suspect: Yes.
O.Z: Alright, son, stay put until we speak to the other witnesses.

We closed the door to Interrogation Room A. Since the other rooms were filled, we were forced to use the lobby for our questioning. Witness A was concerned for the Victim, who had since been put in a pair of dry clothes, and wished to be by the Victim's side. Due to overcrowding, we were forced to comply with the witness's request. It became apparent that the other two witnesses were in no condition to be of any use to us and were released, pending further investigation. The Victim will be thus referred to as Mr. V, for clarity.

O.R: Mr. V?
Mr. V: Yes?
O.R: We have spoken with the Suspect, who has given us more information regarding the incident. I am going to ask you some questions, I would like for you to keep in mind that I have been trained to know when someone is lying. It would be within your best interests to be up front and honest with me.
Mr. V: Okay.
O.R: Before the events in question, did you approach the Suspect in any way?
Mr. V: No.
O.Z: You didn't reach for the glass, tip it over, rush at him, or any other action that could be construed as aggressive?
Mr. V: No.
O.R: Mr. V, I am going to give you one more chance to divulge any information to us that could be misunderstood.
Witness A: Mr. V didn't do anything! I saw'l it! 
(Witness A will now be referred to as Wah, for clarity.)
O.Z: Okay, Wah, what did you see?
Wah: Well, neither of them were directly in my line of sight but I distinctly remember the Suspect pouring the glass of water on Mr. V, with no provocation.
O.Z: Did you see the events leading up to the incident?
Wah: No, I was sitting with Witness B, trying to give her a kiss.
O.Z: So, you can neither confirm nor deny that the splash was provoked?
Wah: I suppose not.
O.R: Mr. V, where was the Suspect when he splashed you? 
Mr. V: By the sink.
O.R: Where were you?
Mr. V: I was standing by the gate leading towards the sink.
O.R: Were you at anytime anywhere other than where you have suggested?
Mr. V: No.

O.Z. and I both surveyed the area of the incident, confirming that there was only a pattern of water that suggested the pouring incident occurred and no signs of a struggle, such as was indicated by the Suspect. We again went to clarify the Suspect's story.

O.Z: Alright, son. O.R. and I have surveyed the area and it is clear that the chain of events that you offered could not have been possible. In which case this is clear cut assault and battery.

(The Suspect immediately flushes and begins to squeeze out a few more tears.)

Suspect: I am telling the truth.
O.R: If that is the case, how come the crime scene has no other splash pattern beyond the incident in question?
Suspect: The original splash was further into the kitchen area. There was a tray sitting on the other side of the sink, it's filled with water. I promise you, there is no other way that the tray could have filled up.

O.Z. and I both investigated the tray and confirmed that there was water filling the tray. No other possible investigated avenue could have filled the tray. We decided at this time that the situation was clear and moved both Mr. V and the Suspect into the same room, in the lobby.

O.Z: We have taken into consideration all sides and have discovered that neither of you is telling the whole truth. Mr. V, we've come to the conclusion that you did show an act of aggression before the Suspect tipped the glass of water on you, as is apparent by the splash patterns of the tray next to the sink.

O.R, turning to the victim: Now, son, we know you were also lying. This was not an accident but an act of defiance after an attempt at play gone wrong.

O.Z: Our decision it that both of you will spend 30 minutes, hard time, in separate cells. You should be lucky that we aren't petitioning for a restraining order. Son, you can go into Interrogation Room A for now. We'll bring you a blanket and pillow.

The Suspect: Can I convince you to bring my dog?

O.Z: We will think about it.

O.R: And Mr. V; you will be spending the rest of your time here in Lockup B with two other cellmates.

Wah: What about me?

O.Z: You, Wah, can do whatever you want. Want to watch a movie?

The Suspect and Mr. V groan in unison, being escorted to their separate cells. 

((Basically, here is what happened. My six year old and his six year old friend had an altercation with a glass of water today. I started to just write about the story when the creative bug bit me in the ass (ouch!) and I just had to elaborate and exaggerate. Now, this little jewel is roaming around, cracking my friends up. It's nice to feel like you've contributed something to the artistic world. Even if it is amateur, stupid, etc. I'm pretty proud of it. Enjoy!))

Books, books and more BOOKS!

Somedays, I think it would be wonderful to get paid to read. Then I realize that no one in their right mind would pay me to read books that have already been published. Oh, well, I guess I am forced to read them in my off time.

Now for my assessment of the following series: The Hunger Games and Divergent. If you have not read either of them and/or are just planning on watching them as they come out in the movies, I'd stop reading now because I am going to spoil the shit out of them.

I am on the second book of the Divergent series. I was hesitant to read it because I am such a huge Hunger Games fan and was worried that maybe it would turn me off to that franchise. It didn't turn me off, per se, but I have spent some time comparing the two internally.

While I will always have a special place in my heart for The Hunger Games (as it was the first dystopian series that I ever picked up) I think that Divergent has weaseled it's way into first place. While they are both written for the Young Adult audience (which, let's face it, I'm not a young adult anymore) The Hunger Games and Divergent are well executed. The difference is that The Hunger Games I would be comfortable with sharing with my gifted six year old now and Divergent would need to wait a few years. Divergent is more likely to hit you where it hurts while the Hunger Games, in a way, sugar coats the effects of war. Yes, it destroyed District 12. Yes, Gale was flogged in the middle of the town square. But not until the very last book (and stop reading NOW to avoid previously mentioned spoilers) does it do any major damage by killing Katniss's sister, Prim. Don't get me wrong, the Hunger Games themselves are brutal but even they scoot around Katniss ever having to do any major killing herself.

Divergent, on the other hand, is brutal from the get go. The Dauntless initiation alone is full of inter-faction maiming, as Edward is stabbed in the eye with a butter knife by Peter and Tris is attacked by the same guy plus her supposed friend, Al. Not only were they intending on killing her (as I'm sure Peter has no conscience and would do just that) they groped her in the process. The fear simulations are terrifying and this is before the war between the factions even starts. Even though they give Tris the ability to overcome the affects of the fear simulation (meaning she can manipulate it to get out of whatever situation arises) the affect is still clear when she has to kill her family. (Although again, she bypasses that by shooting herself.) When the simulation to control the Dauntless begins (which has no power over the Divergent, Tris and Four/Tobias) the emotional toll on the reader quadruples. Tris is powerless to stop the simulation, forced to kill her friend, and eventually watch her mother and father's murders. The only time it gets a little "sugar-coated" (and let's face it, everyone would have been pissed if this hadn't happened) is when she encounters Four under the affects of an injection which held a stronger, Divergent friendly, simulation. She refuses to kill him, he wakes up and they both run off to Amity.

I'm reading the second book now, Insurgent, and it's even more brutal than the first.

Again, sometimes I wish I could give my assessment of these books as a profession. Not that anyone would care, nor listen, but I think I would just love to read all day long. But for now, my children are calling me and I guess I have to go be human for a while.

Why I Like Having My Own Blog

I don't really have a good reason.

You ever have one of those moments where you feel like if you don't write down something profound that you are going to miss one of the most important thoughts of your life? I am currently having one and I have no idea what it could possibly be about.

Today was my middle child's second birthday. (I'm working real hard on that middle child complex, if you hadn't noticed.) We didn't do anything special as his birthday party was in May (doubled up with the cousin for a pool party) until this evening. I baked (something I am terrible at) but ended up with some divine Funfetti cupcakes. We popped a couple of candles in, turned out the lights and sang happy birthday. He chose that moment to look at us expectantly, wondering why we hadn't blown out the hot fire in front of his face. Finally, we caved and blew it out for him when he started to whine and cringe away from the flame. Then, after we removed them and turned the lights back on, he decided the cupcake was still warm and blew on it. Little punk.

Then, we continued playing some Nazi Zombies (World at War, delish!) and got the kids corralled in bed. This is where I inappropriately add my romp in the sack with my husband directly after a story about my son's cupcake. Since we had finally decided the two babies could room together last night (meaning we finally, after two years have reclaimed our territory) we whipped out some Oriental Body Slide and went to town.  Now, I know this isn't exactly "blog" material and that I should probably leave this for close friends and maybe my father when he's pissed me off and I want to over-share what his son-in-law does to his daughter... but I have to let you guys know that this stuff is fantastic!

Here's what this miracle from the world of eroticism brings us... well, beyond that uncannily similar smell of Tarantula alcoholic drink mix. First, it comes with a flamboyantly gold tarp that you are supposed to set down before you get to work. Then you mix together the two bottles in four liters of warm water. Now, we are some rebellious folk so we didn't listen to the box when it said not to set up the tarp on our bed. Do not set it up on your bed. As fun as the product is, it is insanely messy and the tarp is not going to stay put when you get excited and start banging like you're having a duet on the bongos. Make sure that the kids are gone (or the dogs are put away) and set that shit up in your living room. You can always rent a steam cleaner. Anyways, strip down and begin pouring this weird (VERY weird) mixture on your partner and yourself. Then it's like you have Astroglide over your entire body. It's warm. It's wet. It's AWESOME. And the best part is that although your entire body is slippery, your, ahem, nether regions are perfectly capable of manufacturing friction. I honestly think we would have kept going had the tarp not continued to move beneath us and threaten our very new and very expensive king sized mattress. (This is why normal people read the directions.)

Anyways, that is your friendly neighborhood Rach's assessment of the erotic massage gel of doom. Enjoy it. And it really is nice to finally reacquire the ol' libido. Man, that thing has been screwing me around (or not, as the case may be) for well over two years today. Now, it's time to get some more gaming in. TGIF! (Don't judge me, I'm stoned... the romp hurt my junk.)