Summer Re-Runs

It's been really crazy at Chez Quinn, so I figured I'd think like a network executive, which is never a very good idea. Yet seeing as I have the lazy option in mind, it's quite appropriate.

Re-runs.

Here's the very first Tongue In Cheek posting. Enjoy the flashback.

The Nonsense of This Woman's Psyche in the Name of Motorcycle Riding

Back to the Nonsense

Alright, I've (mostly) gotten the seriousness off my chest. Here's a band who records good songs and makes awesome videos. A few months back, I posted the huge Rube Goldberg machine video they made. This one is just as ingenious, if not a little more so. You'll need to click through to YouTube to see it full screen. Seriously worth it. Enjoy!

OK Go - Here It Goes Again

Nothing to Joke About

I know the name up there says Tongue in Cheek, but today I just couldn't find the humor. I read a blog post yesterday that still is striking a chord in me. The arrogance and narrow view point of the author just boggled my mind. I have many similarities with the author. We are both white, suburban stay at home moms living in the United States. But though our demographics are strikingly similar, our world view is not.

This woman, with her condescending tone, preached to her choir about the horrors of . . . sending your child to daycare. She called it "child abandonment" and pulled observations out of her ass and passed them off as gospel.

Woman, I don't even know where to begin. Not all people who put their children in child care do it so they can "have the second income to be able to afford a second luxury car." They do it out of necessity. Secondly, abandonment means you leave and never come back. Not you leave, and pick them up in a few hours. It's been done for ages.

America survived and built itself during the "children should be seen, but not heard" era.

Just because you were raised during the "Baby on Board" generation where everyone gets a participation trophy and there are never any losers, doesn't mean that sending your child to preschool makes that parent the spawn of Lucifer.

Get a fricking world view. If the evils of dropping off at daycare are throwing shivers of horror down your spine, you need to expand your horizons.

Check into some of these real issues:
June's death toll for Afghanistan coalition forces were the highest of the entire war.

Stoning to death of female victims of rape

FGM still occurs today to millions of little girls.

Children conscripted into armies.



So, lady, before I jump down off my soap box and return to my regularly scheduled blog full of nonsense, remember this. Not every parent in the U.S. has the financial choice to stay at home with their children. Not only that, but most children, under the tutelage of caring professionals thrive and flourish in that environment, picking up new learning paths and social skills. Not every child should be exposed to only one point of view all day long. If they do, they'll end up as narrow minded and stunted in the knowledge of real world problems as you are and will never become a productive member of our free thinking society.

I Wore My Farmer Tan With Pride

So, I'm back. Back from vacation. To the beach. In the camper. I don't know if I'll ever be the same.

To begin with, I'm not a beach person. And then to have to rough it at a place that doesn't even make my top ten of happy destinations? You can imagine my mood. But it was all for the urchins, and even though I am a super villain in training, the little minions-to-be get indulged.

Now, I have bruises on my hips from sleeping on a sheet of plywood covered with a layer of foam that was laughingly referred to as a bed, enough sand in my house, clothing and washer to make my own beach, and a monstrous pile of laundry in league with the rampant sea monkey colony in my bathtub. Yet despite all that, Chez Quinn is almost back to normal.

At the beach I was the only woman to sport a farmer tan, and I did so with aplomb. I worked it like the hick that I've become. It's almost disappeared entirely and I might even be a little sad about that.

I also had a small bathing suit wardrobe malfunction. Suffice it to say, I may not be allowed back on that particular stretch of beach for a few years. So as an added little torture, I had to go bathing suit shopping with a next day deadline. The store that I chose had very little in my size. Every size was picked over. I was a bit surprised by the lack of choice at a beach. I finally had to settle for a very matronly suit that has so much extra fabric it could easily cover a battleship. Which was just the teeniest bit depressing. I've never worn such a conservative suit in my life.

So, that's it. Vacation is done for another year. I hope to God next year is better. It wasn't too terrible, but really; I paid for that experience? I must have a masochistic streak in me somewhere.

So let's hear it. Worst vacations ever. I will even give the sadists' rah rah cheer in the comments for all who share.

Reality TV Exposed

Though if they brought back Circus of the Stars you can bet your sweet bippy I'd be tuning in to that.

Is There A Person Left On Earth . . .

Who hasn't seen this movie? Wonderful and terrible and unforgettable.

Life Is Beautiful



You may need to double click on the video to go to YouTube to read all the subtitles. But it's worth it.

Here is Roberto Benigni accepting his Oscar. If you've never seen this, you have to. Embedding was disabled, but here's the link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cTR6fk8frs

Enjoy!

Strength In Numbers

Jelly Bean Epiphanies

One night last week around midnight, while I was hopped up on jelly beans and Taco Bell, it hit me. To really do this right. To actually write well, you have to immerse yourself in your story. You need to believe in it, have confidence in your ability and follow through. In other words, you have to be committed.

No, not like that, though there are some days when I believe they're coming to take me away - ha ha, they're coming to take me away. Case in point - an educated almost forty year old woman was gorging herself into a stupor at midnight with high fructose and artery clogging burritos. What the hell was that all about?

But I digress.

I always knew you had to do those things to write well. But it hit me (in the midst of my Jelly Belly induced delirium) with such certainty and clarity. I'd never experienced that knowledge with such depth and surety before. And I don't know what to do about it.

I've been held up this past year in my writing. I have several theories/excuses. But the fear of commitment hadn't been one of them until last week. And now I don't know what to do about it. I don't know if I'm able to commit to being an author. Not with the depth it really takes. And it isn't because of my limited time. It isn't because I don't think it's a worthy thing to commit to.

It's fear. Plain and simple. It's the what ifs. It's the nay saying bastard voices in my head. And the only one to blame is . . . me.

And I'm tempted. Oh, am I tempted. To stop before I start. To choose to fail under my own terms. My own power. Consciously. By not trying in the first place. To close up shop and shake my head in embarrassment at myself for that crazy time I spent thinking I could actually become an author.

So here I sit, without a jelly bean in sight. Tempted. To chuck it all.

And I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Question For You

How rude of me. When a body goes to intermission, it's proper to leave some intermission music playing. So here is some I offer up as an apology. (This is one of the songs I sent out to the parental unit for their polka intervention, so it's definitely appropriate for intermission.)



Anywho, now that I've rectified that, I have a question. What current car do you think is the quintessential chick car? Back in the day I would have answered Fiero or Cabriolet or maybe a VW Rabbit. But what contemporary car do you think is a definitive chick car?

The Merits of the Mullet

So, yeah. Things are pretty much chaos at Casa de Quinn (or chez Quinn for all my legions of loyal but silent French Canadian lurkers). Nothing life threatening, just taking a major beat down by some masked freak in spandex, jumping off the top rope wielding a metal folding chair. You know, normal chaos.

So it's got me to thinking, which with me, you never know where the hell this will go. Usually nowhere good. And here are the fruits of my ruminations - The Merits of the Mullet.

I have now determined that there are some nice benefits to be reaped by sporting a mullet. You don't even have to really get it done. They sell mullet wigs now. All you'd have to do is show up in public with one of these bad boys nailed to your noggin.

Righteous, huh?

So here, in no particular order are the merits and virtues of the mullet as I see them.

1. No one expects anything from you.
2. You can get away with any degree of laziness.
3. You are not expected to be a productive member of society.
4. Any number of carny jobs are yours for the taking. (and really, do I need to enumerate the endless amounts of perks that go along with carny work? I didn't think so.)
5. You can wear the same clothes for days and no one will look twice at you.
6. "All business up front. Party in the back."



7. You can write nothing for over a month and no one looks at you twice.
8. No one believes that a mullet wearer can actually write at all.
9. It's completely assumed that your greatest accomplishment is clearing the lint from your navel.
10. Mullet equals magnificence.



You didn't think I could come up with ten, did you? Yeah, I know. Some of those merits seem almost the same, but hey, what did you expect? I have a mullet. (You just can't see it under the pointy hat.)