RedHead Confetti

Trigger Warning: More ranting about christians and their requisite hypocrisy. I ranted a little, got a little annoyed, and demanded information... which I didn't get. I have this thing about hypocrisy... rarely will anything piss me off faster, so I decided to rant and rave. I do that. As per usual, if profanity, calling out christians and generally being demanding and calling people to account offends you-- well, honestly you'd be better off finding another blog to follow, probably. First, the background, and then I'll discuss it. I end up in these kinds of conversations all the time. Yes, some times I'm a little shit about it, and some times I  am nicer. In this case I was nicer and didn't get smarty-pants pissy until this morning (Monday, April 30). A woman I went to high school with friended me on Facebook a couple years ago. She was awesome back in high school; however since then (and yes, in all fairness it's been almost 20 years) she married a man fr

Warning: This blog contains a sports rant. This means there is copious profanity. [For the record, no self-respecting Penguins fan can write or say the word Philadelphia without adding "fucking Flyers". It's impossible. I'm sorry if this offends you. I can't help it! Well, I was hoping to be writing this blog with elation and in celebration as we went into the second round; but alas, I'm writing it after my team has ended their play off run. This year, the Pittsburgh Penguins were tossed out of the play-offs in 6 games by the Philadelphia Flyers [fucking Flyers]. The rounds are "best of seven" so they got to four wins before we did. Frankly, the games weren't all the fun to watch, or listen to. I love love love my radio guy, Mike Lange; he is a hugely entertaining play-by-play announcer. Our "colour commentator" is Phil Bourque, and I love him too, especially the little thing he does before every game: Two Minutes with the Old Two

I originally wrote the basis for this blog post a few years ago. It started out as an English Lit assignment for our daily journaling, and grew into a funny thought exercise. I've cleaned it up, expanded it some and present it here. It's still an interesting thought experiment, I think. If I can give away a cat, dog, car or movie collection, "free to a good home", why can't I give away myself? Oh, I know I'm worth more than a cat, or dog, or collection of stuff; but the idea remains. We don't, technically, "free to a good home" infants or children in our foster care system; we don't give kids away from "orphanages". There is no "parents, please form a queue and we'll hand out your children" at hospitals. But, what if we could. What if you could place an advertisement in the newspaper for yourself, or your partner. What would you ask for? What way would you describe yourself? How would you describe yourself? All of

Trigger Warning: This blog discusses the Oklahoma City Bombing, touches on Waco and Ruby Ridge and includes a sorta vulgar rant against christians using their gawd as a reason to be terrorists. I also call out christians, or co-called christians on their own terrorism. It meanders a bit, but I didn't clean that up; I left the blog in its original, organic form. If that sort of thing bothers you, you'll want to skip today's' blog. Thank you.  April 19, 1995 The Bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, in Oklahoma City, OK. I read Addicting Information, and it's a hellava good site if you're curious about the entire world, and a flaming liberal like I am. Thursday I followed a link , and I sat silently, remembering. I was 17 years old, a senior in high school. We didn't hear about it until after lunch, when the principle announced there had been an accident in Oklahoma. Now, OK City is a long way from po-dunk, red-neck Bangor, Michig

I was reading a Slate article this morning, and it got me to thinking, again, about abstinence only sex-ed. I promise, however that this rant will be different from the last one I wrote about thsi topic. A couple years ago, my oldest child brought home a permission slip. I blogged about it on the blog I kept back then. I dug up that old blog, so I could get the next bit right. Please indulge me, as I quote myself: “ ...I received a so-called passive permission slip. This means “if you don't sign it, we can do it; if you do sign, we can't”. This passive slip would allow my son to receive mandated abstinence only sex-education. In a state that rounded out the top five states for teen pregnancy, I am being asked to passively give permission to NOT teach my son how not to knock up some girl by the time they get to high school I am being asked NOT to ask why, not to question the intelligence of this programme. Instead, I am being made to feel like a terrible person...

I've already established that I'm an average mother. I have good days, and I have bad days; mostly, I'm mediocre. It's not because I don't care, or because I'm unable-- it's because being a so-called "good mother" means removing every part of myself that isn't a parent, and becoming only Super Mommy! I don't have it in me to do that. I can't forget that I do like to write, and that I love to paint (although I can't paint for shit, I do love water colours and tempera). I can't remove my love of reading and cooking, my adoration of a good beer can't just *poof* gone just because I gave birth. I can't cut out the live I have for my husband and friends, just because I love my children, too. That's "too", as defined: In Addition to something else-- not "To the detriment of all others". I'm not banking on my kids taking care of me in retirement, and frankly I have no plans to crash at their

I wasn't a typical child, by any stretch. I've heard the phrase "born grown" or "born raised" and frankly those fit me quite well. I didn't need to be told what not to do, or to brush my teeth before bed, or to rinse my plate before putting it in the dishwasher. I helped with the washing up, and setting the table, and all those things, no problem. I also didn't need my parents to amuse me. From a very early age I was a voracious reader-- still am. I am a born and bred bibliophile; however, while my parents tend to read sparingly-- I can't think of another way to put that, they read maybe one book a month, or one every two-- I can rip through a thousand page omnibus in a week. I devour books, words quenching my thirst for the story like a perfectly chilled glass of lemonade. I never laughed at "poop jokes", never thought the words penis or vagina or butt were hilarious. I never told Knock, Knock jokes or laughed at someone passing ga