Not Killing People

that's me. I'm not killing people. Not today, anyways.

The good news is that I quit smoking, again. Little arms half heatedly stretch towards the sky with a weak and anticlimactic, "yay!"

As it is when I quit, I like to come here and vent about everything that genuinely pisses me off and, it seems to me, probably has since birth but all this time the nicotine has kept it down. This is the real me, and let me tell you... fuck you (I said that with my deep man voice, btw).

Phew, I've been holding that in for some time now. That felt good.

Who knew nicotine was holding me back from being, as Oprah urges us all to be, authentic.

Now I can walk around giving people filthy, dirty looks for not paying attention to how they are not supposed to walk within a five foot radius of me. Stupid is no excuse, and I will bite your face off.  Get the fuck out of my way.

Now, this is honesty. Arms stretch out east and west to behold and bring in this new dawn, "sigh." It's  truly a beautiful day.

If you happen to see someone barreling down the highway, burying the needle (of their tired little '99 Toyota) whilst in third gear, wave 'cause that's me. Call me crazy (bitch), but something about possibly blowing up my engine satiates me and tickles my very core.






by the way, this song kinda (really) sucks, but he says crazy bitch and I liked the cherries. fyou.

Umm... excuse me, Arrogant Misogynist?

You're a douche bag.

The other day, while filling up with gas at the corner station, wearing my pajama attire, which consists of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and, if I recall correctly, no bra, and flip-flops - oh, and slight bed-head, a somewhat elderly man gave me a filthy look while pulling up at the pump beside me. As this happens to me somewhat regularly (in a variety of different outfits), I pft'd to myself and went about my business.

I then gave him the benefit of the doubt - maybe he wasn't gunnin' me off, maybe I imagined it. Maybe, he walks around with that filthy look of disdain on his face all the time.

However, as I was starting up my car to leave he walked passed me again, the look of disdain clear as he peered into my car.... he then proceed to cross himself- as in, yes, The Father, The Son, and the Holy Fucking Ghost.

To which I just want to say, "Bitch, just because 'women seem wicked when you're unwanted' doesn't actually make me EVIL!"

I am so sick and tired of bitter, can't get laid, men putting their shit on women.

When I go out for the day, I do not deviously plan to splay my breasts o' plenty out so that you will weep at my feet and do my bidding. Fact of the matter is -you don't even occur to me. All I wanna do is drop my fucking kids off - without you crossing yourself because of my very existence.

Now, I wouldn't have written about that goof at the gas station, but I heard an acquaintance-ish of mine, a single guy, say that "women are evil because they use their sex as power" and it just seemed like something needed to said, as if this acquaintance was only a few years away from being just like that disdainful old man, cursing woman and their womanly wiles, using 'god' to protect him from their evil ways (by the way, good luck with that).

Apparently, how we use this 'power' is: we don't want to have sex with you. Our power seems to be that we are not attracted to you or your cock... therefore we are evil bitches for parading about in clothes that we enjoy wearing and being common-courtesy-friendly. Fuckin' cock teases. We should be ashamed of ourselves! Going out in public and not being attracted to you enough to sleep with you - how dare us?!

To be perfectly clear - I've heard this type of statement a few times from men in regards to all women, not just the ones that actually are flaunting their business. In fact, it's those nice ones that aren't flaunting their business that are the real evil ones, because they give the look like they're all "nice and stuff" but really, they're the truly evil ones because they are secretly luring you in by looking good and normal- but then you ask them out and they *gasp* turn you down... and suddenly, you see their evil clearly. Nasty little bitches going about their business.

So, it seems,  the short of it is this, because you are not a complete enough human to attract a partner - we are withholding sex and rubbing the fact that you love our lady bits in your face? Do I have that right?

On behalf of any and all women who agree with me - grow the fuck up. asshole(s).

...and don't fucking cross yourself when you look at me, damn it! That pisses me off.

The Rose Goes in the Front, Big Guy

One should not think. Unless you're dedicating the thinking to some physical project that requires a tool such as the brain, one should not idly think.

I'm in the process of learning Drupal 7, which, those that have spent any time in the background of their blogs, trying to make things different, will appreciate this... requires my brain. And while my brain is hard at work trying to internalize things such as "Drupal Views" (and wondering why this has to be so much more freakin difficult than hand coding!!!!), idle thoughts creep in.

Out of my window, I see my next door neighbor, an elderly man, watering his yard, and I think, "God, that's gonna be me one day." In that one second of thought, stories abound in my head. What type of old person will I be? I never see his wife although I know she lives there - is she the shut-in in the relationship? He's the "doer" and she's the "coucher"?

I steal their raspberries from their yard, the ones I can reach when I "plank" over the fence. I wonder if they see me and shake their fists.

I've always imagined my old age similar (only slower) to my life now. As well, for some reason, I always imagine my husband walking about, slightly hunched, in his tighty-whities (whose elastic will, by then, stretch up to his rib cage) and with droopy, grey haired skin boobs. In my vision, he's always slightly ornery but good humoured about it (I'll be sure to let you know if this is the case). Before you know it, I was assigning roles to our elderly selves: "I wont be the shut-in, so it'll have to be him," "I wonder if I'll garden then?", "will he ever put clothes on over his tighty-whities?", "will our kids even visit us?" and "just how much ear hair will he have and will I wax, shave, or pluck my lady beard?"

While my brain was hard at work trying to process the time it is going to take me to duplicate a site in Drupal... in the one second of free time I gave it to look out the window, it wrote a complete history of my future - and anxiety moved like a stirring cauldron in my belly.

"TURN IT OFF!!!" yelled a voice from the bellows. "QUICK, TURN IT OFF!"

"What? What was that?" I absently whispered to myself while my gaze fixed on the future.... "what did you say?"

and then closer to my ear, I hear... "don't think, Meat..."

My gaze returned to my lap top in front of me, and I remembered to, yup, you guessed it,  breathe through my eyelids.

I shook my head and remembered that my brain is only a tool... it is not the whole of who I am or will be.

While I'm not adverse to the elderly image of my life, living it created a gap between now and then, and in that gap there came distortion. Distortion of what is now. Distortion of frequencies sounds awful and, I imagine, creates static. Static reproduces the sensation of fear which manifests as anxiety.

I, all at once, surmised then feared what doesn't exist when in fact, in the words of (my beloved) Crash , "[I] don't know shit..." which is a beautiful thing to remember that I don't know.

It was a fleeting moment but had I not caught that source of anxiety and confused it with a necessary fear, my whole day could have sucked balls.

Free is the person divorced from idle thought and "Party on, Garth."

Frankly...

I don't know which one is hotter... I'm torn.

And, I fully realize I'm a little late coming to this party, but I love them all.

Better late than never.

Also, was very conflicted about this. Yummy voyeurism mixed with deep, eye scratching jealousy.

que sera.



Yay! 2012 Star Trek II

Ask Not...A Word to the Wise

Really?

Ask not what your relationship can do for you, but what you can do for your relationship.

When you wake up in the morning, this should be the question you ask yourself, or at least... my husband should.

I believe I do; in that, it's a natural initiative in me to contribute to my partner's well-being. I *enjoy* it even. It gives me pleasure to bring the ones I love a little happiness.

I think if husbands ( and I'm generalizing towards the men because, well, I think they're consistently daft as a species when it comes to this) woke up and asked what they could contribute to their relationship today instead of brooding over when their last blow job was... they would increase the positive flow of the partnership and, consequently, would probably see more blow jobs (winning!).

Because I love analogies to no end, I proposed this one to a gentleman (with an outstanding work ethic)... when you go to work you don't show up, sit on your ass, take zero initiative, and collect a pay cheque. You understand that your peers (wife/family) and employer (institution of relationships) would not take kindly to your sloth like contribution. In fact, such is your ethic that you would be horrified and embarrassed to not do your part on the job. When you go to work, you appreciate the hell out of the fact that you have a job and you work your ass off to show you are worthy of that pay cheque. You show up, you are awake, you are an active part of a team - without that, there would be no team. Without that, there would just be other people working whilst resenting your lack of contribution to the whole.

Right? Do we follow me? People who go to work and do nothing don't usually hold their jobs very well or long.

I propose that this perspective be brought into the house of marriage and/or relationship. Now, before you get all up in arms about who your fucking employer is... it's not your wife. Your wife is your peer, your family is your team. Your employer, like it or not, is simply the end result. Happiness or self-employment - it's your choice.

We've all heard a million people say it a million times: Marriage is work. So, why not take a minute, step back, and compare how you show up at your job and how you show up in your relationship. Do you show initiative (examples: Hey, I'm going to mow the lawn before it gets too long, Hey, I'm going to cook dinner tonight, or I'm going to organize a family outing)?


Ask yourself, do I just come home at the end of a long day, sit back and watch other people do stuff and then expect to collect a blow job at the end of night? What type of relationship employee are you?

If you are the kind of employee that shows up in their best everyday and gives 100% and still... no blow job? Well, then, I suspect you work for a call center and suggest you recognize the glass ceiling when you see it.

And if your reading this and chuckling to yourself that you are that sloth employee and you still collect a healthy sum of blow jobs at the end of the day... well, I suspect you work in the kitchen at KFC, your life sucks in  general, and you're actually in denial about taking it up the ass day in and day out.

I guarantee that either way someone somewhere is recognizing their glass ceiling with their "partner" and packing up their desk as we speak.

Now if your relationship is just not fulfilling and that's why you lack the drive to contribute, then nut up and get out. But if you love your relationship and your partner, for godsakes, don't be lazy. And DON'T tell me you just don't know how to do it... because there are a tonne o' instruction manuals out there that you could read.

Let's say you wanted to be, oh, I don't know, an electrician... if you weren't born with the gift of knowledge that it took to be an electrician, you nutted up and went to school to be one. You sought out the professionals so that you could learn how to be a good electrician. If you lack the skill, knowledge, and intuitive sense to be a good relationship partner - THEN GET OUT THERE AND FIND A TEACHER. TAKE THE GOD DAMN INITIATIVE LIKE YOU DID WITH YOUR CAREER. okay?

If about this time your whining because you "work all day... now I have to come home and work too!?" then I say this to you: if your house does not look like you are a hoarder and food magically appears around dinner time then somebody in that house is still working... too.

If you require a less subtle comparison to really make this clear and really hone your intensive, then here:

People who go to their relationship and do nothing usually don't get laid well or often ;)

Clear as mud?

Sweet Jesus

My head is like a ball being held under water by some bully. In other words, I'm sick.

I liked it at first because I was kind of losing my voice. I always think that's a little sexy - even though even I could tell I sounded a little like a 70 year old heavy smoker that wreaked of cheap perfume and tobacco, wore deep pink lipstick that bled into the lines on her face, and moved her false teeth around in her mouth with her tongue as she winked at you. I think her name is Flo. She's still really proud of her breasts too, even though in their supportive gear they still resemble two oranges at the bottom of a pair of socks.

Now though, well... I'm just another girl running her hand along the bottom of her nose in a constant attempt to absorb the free flowing mucus. Somehow I'm sure I'm no longer sexy.

Ugh.

It's okay though. I will soldier on. Like the trooper I am. Don't you worry about me.

I was out this past weekend with some friends from high school - it is this year that we all celebrate our 40th. Technically mine was last year which kinda makes me the wise elder of the group (because, of course, I kinda failed grade 9 due to an introduction to pot n' stuff. Whatever).

It was really, really great to see those girls. A few I had seen over the years, but two I hadn't seen in a really long time. One of those two girls is this beautiful French Canadian girl that was the girlfriend of the guy that I could have sworn was my soul mate. She was and is such a beautiful, kind, and sweet girl, it was way too hard to hate her for stealing my soul mate away (even though, technically, they were together long before I ever met him. Whatever).

So we became friends her and I, friends that eventually lost touch only to come together this last weekend over drinks and dinner.

When she walked into the room she looked different... couldn't put my finger on it really. I also noticed that someone had chopped the hell out of her bangs. Poor girl I had thought, hell of a bad haircut... yikes! But then about an hour later - she pulled her hair off to reveal her perfect and fuzzy bald head.

It wasn't a bad hair cut, it was a wig. Turns out my old friend is battling breast cancer that has metastasized to her lymph nodes. I had no idea. It was her that had initiated this get together reunion - so she could see everyone.

One out of every seven women face a diagnosis of breast cancer in their lifetime. There we all were, seven of us, and it wasn't me, it was her.

Under all our laughter and reminiscing that night, there was a profound echo.

I couldn't help but look across the table at her and hold still her smile, her beauty, and her being... .

Of course, she too is a trooper. Why just last weekend her ex boyfriend beat the shit out of her, she told me, and she still came out with us. With that, the echo got deeper.

Thank god, she's living her life for her now. She's dumped the bad boyfriend and is focusing on her health and happiness. My heart beat this heavy beat of reality. Not fear, but the incredible broken beauty of life on life's terms.

She seems like glass to me. You have never seen life quite like the one you see in the face of death. It is breath taking.

Still, I think she will survive this. I see her fragility. I see the possibility. But still, I think she will survive.

I think she will live to the ripe ol' age of someone just like Flo - simply because she must. We will all meet again to have dinner and drinks. Our slippery pink lipsticks will line the rim of our glasses - and everyone but her and I will have breasts like two oranges at the bottom of a pair of socks.

All Done

Well Mr. Allen Carr, it seems as though you have done it. I'm impressed. I have to tell you though, I didn't finish your Quit Smoking the Easy Way book before I put my last cigarette out - I just couldn't.

Every breath of cigarette became the biggest buzz kill ever. I was the slothiest cigarette slave, dragging myself to that pack of 'friends,' hearing somewhere in the back of my mind a "baby wants to fuck" like insanity.

You gave my head a shake, slapped the stupid from my eyes, and showed me the way. Thank you.

Usually when I quit, I put patches all over me to help me endure the withdraw, that oh-so-awful process. However, Allen said "No replacement therapy! You don't need it." When I first read that I thought, "Yeah right, Allen." But come the day that I put that last smoke out - I just didn't put a patch on. I was all Meh.

Allen works in mysterious ways.

Allen was also right when he said that the withdraw wasn't that bad. After five days of cold turkey I no longer feel like I'm walking in a fog and sleepy as all hell.

I did, however, have moments of incomprehensible, nearly tear inducing, irrational frustration. P lease, allow me to share.

A lot of these moments were attributed to... yes, you guessed it, my stove - the oven in particular.

I know, right? It makes so much sense. Doesn't everyones oven frustrate them to no end?

My question, my burning fucking question about my oven in particular is: what was so hard about a fucking dial??????

This stove has reduced me to (near) tears lately when I've gone to simply turn the fucking thing on so I can cook dinner (which, really, isn't that complicated enough?).

Because technology is just so neat this stove sports buttons for EVERYTHING. Once you find the "bake" button (and its stupid sweet spot so that it actually turns on), you then search the galexy of buttons for a temperature button and you (again, once you find the button's sweet spot) hold it down (not gently, btw - forcefully) and wait for your number to come up.

You might think you'd be done there, right? Yeah, this is where this bitch gets me Every.Time. Don't get cocky with technology, because now that you've chosen bake over the infinite other choices and selected your temperature, you now have to go to the other side of the panel, FIND and PRESS START.

Are you fucking kidding me?

What? What was so difficult about a dial that you just turned and it came on? It was ONE STEP!

You want to guess how many times I have 1) selected bake and 2) selected my temperature... and then 3) just walked away? Only to come back a half hour later to wonder why the frozen sausage rolls (that nights wholesome dinner!) were not even warm.

With barley enough patience to smile at my children's never ending stories of "like, then I said this, and she, like, totally *rolls eyes* did this, and I was like, whatever!" my stove often became the hair that broke the camels back. You know why?

because, for heaven sakes, it SHOULD be easier than this!

Other than that though - this cold turkey business has been a breeze. Thanks again, Allen!

Reluctantly Whole

Letting go is a funny thing. Resistance to it is like... forever pulling apart a piece of taffy, the thing you're holding just gets longer and thinner, a translucence that has become depressingly empty and unfulfilling. But still you hold on.

Eventually the taffy will snap and you will, hopefully, at the very least, have your droopy half back.

But if you could just let go of it, let it drop where it stands, you would be whole.

Being whole is so overrated.

Dis-ease is the new black.

Not really though. I just thought I'd walk the mire for purely reminiscent reasons. What the hell, right?

I am reluctantly whole.

I Can't Get No

I started smoking again for the New Year. Woo hoo! Allen Carr told me to and who am I to argue?

I first started smoking again back in May sometime.

I had been quit for about a year and half when my niece came to live with me, and I convinced myself that the only way I could deal with her powerful will was to allow myself about 10-15 five minute breaks a day. After my niece went back home in September I quit again in... October? I think.

Come December, I decided I was solid enough in my quitting to allow myself a) a go out drinking smoke and b) a holiday pack of smokes - right? That's reasonable. Then I would stop again, because I can stop smoking like nobody's business. All I have to do is slap a patch on my ass and off I go. Staying quit is, apparently, another matter all together.

Enter Allen Carr. Apparently he can stop me from smoking and make it easy. Who doesn't like a quick fix? Certainly not me. I picked up his book (in hopes of staying quit) having "smoked my last holiday smoke" and sans nicotine patch on my ass. However, his book instructed me to "not to stop smoking" until he says so. I love you Allen, you just co-signed my bullshit. I went right out and bought a pack a smokes, shoved my hand down my pants and ripped the patch off (a delicate procedure in public, let me tell you), sat in the frosty, freezing fucking cold and lit up with a I am so in the right GLEE!

So here I am, once again, ready to kick it, this time Carr style.

I'm hoping to address this whole thing with a much clearer head. I don't want to replace the compulsion to smoke with the compulsion to murder gummy bears with my sharp and ferocious teeth. I don't want the desire to rip the door off my fridge so that I may satisfy my need for some sort of masticated oral satisfaction... . I think Mr. Carr's book has its work cut out for it. I can't imagine not having that seductive desire to fill my mouth with the pleasure of sugar if not a tube o' nicotine.

It's time to get my gentle meditation ON! - like an epic MMA fight. I'll be George Rush St-Pierre.

sigh. Such a slave.

Happy New Year Everyone.

Feel'n Yer Boobies

I was feelin' my boobies a while back and, low and behold, I thought I felt something. Fear filled my belly, and I kept (feverishly) examining my breasts. Some of you may know, I fancy myself a bit o' a doctor in my past life, and with my trusty assistant Google, I was off towards a diagnosis. Malignant or benign? I searched high and low: smooth lump, pitted lumb, big lump, moving lump... lump, lump, lump.

Also, I called a real doctor for a second opinion.

If you don't already know, I have medically enhanced boobies, bionic boobies if you will, and the question was, was the lump just part of the implant ? Whatever it was, it was a lump.

I had implants put in just under ten years ago. I had never had much in the breast department, and after kids, well, let's just say my chest resembled two tired pencil erasers on a couple slices of soggy Wonder bread (and if that isn't some good imagery, I don't know what is).

My heart beat as I waited for the doctor to agree that it was most likely something to do with the implant. I'd been feelin' my boobies on a regular basis for sometime (because not unlike a vibrator - they're a toy you just never tire of) and had never felt anything quite like this, but then again, I hadn't really been looking.

My doctor didn't disagree with my potential diagnosis, but she suggested a mammogram all the same. After all, lump or not, I am, as of this year, that age (it's okay that you missed my birthday, I wont forget it).

Being that I'm aware of the breast squeezing mammogram machine and aware that I really had nothing to squish before the implants, I've always been a little a'frightened of THE MAMMOGRAM.

When booking the appointment for the mammogram, I mentioned my small boob concern, and I got that bored, half listening we all think we've got the tiniest titties, honey response of "uh, huh. Okay, I'll note that."

Who knows I thought, maybe they're not that small. Maybe it wont matter....

So, MAMMOGRAM, here I come.

I had heard stories for us implant girls; they push the implant out of the way, slap what's left of your breast on the cold metal, squish, and snap! I was prepared.

I walked in, and the technician and I discussed my boobs. I told her there was not much actual breast tissue... and, again, I got that sort of really honey, you don't have to justify your vanity to me look, and I shut up. I stepped up to the big scary machine.

I placed my breast on the machine. I raised my arm, I put it here, I put there, and she manipulated what she could and the two plates came together as her hands held my breast in place. Squish, squish, squish, squish until (as she barely got her finger out), I was all pinched in.

First breast down. Next.

Only this time was a little different. As the plates came down to squish me in she grabbed a different tool to help her out. You see, I didn't know if it was normal or not, but she couldn't get her fingers out from between the plates during the first breast, she was pinched all in with me, with just a whisp of breast. For the second breast she grabbed the special tool that I knew they kept handy for girls just like me...

she grabbed... a spatula.

With my next breast in place, instead of squishing and pinching her fingers in, which were much thicker than any extra breast tissue I could muster up, she splatted my breast down with a spatula to keep it in place.

We smiled weirdly at each other and I shrugged cutely (but not really). When she turned to go take the picture, I smiled and winked at my vane and vindicated little breast. Somehow, I felt accomplished - like the little breast that could.

And so you're not all sitting around waiting with bated breath, the results are in people - my little boobies got the all clear with a come back in six months FOR AN ULTRASOUND. No more MAMMOGRAMS for Mantra's boobies ;)

Small bionic boobies rock.

How to Feel Alien (and Oh Look! A New Post)

I'm back in high school, or so it feels. There is nothing stranger than being on a campus of recently graduated kids.

For me, being back in school (university) is like when I take yoga classes. It should (and I use that term loosely) be a good and rewarding experience, but... instead it brings out my judgmental mind. In my first few classes of yoga I always size up the competition... ? I bet you didn't know yoga was a competitive sport, did you? Well, it is. I size up the other participants and my wrong brain says things like, "She thinks she's all that, pft... just give me a few classes, I'll kick her yoga ass." I know, my spiritual connection is awesome, right?

So the same thing goes at school, just slightly varied.

"Oh, she/he thinks they're soooo smart. Whatever, wait till you get the real world kid. " And then I think to myself, why am I even having this discussion - I am such a nerd.

I think I am some anthropological study to myself. How I move within the chaotic cluster fuck of girls giggling and shouting out "you still owe me a hug... don't forget my huggsies!" Oi. I am studying the reaction of the forty year old foreigner in what seems like education Disney Land for the terminally beautiful. Never has my presence seemed so loud even though I rarely say a peep (because I am sensing that I am terminally uncool).

Now, I am aware that my tone will probably change over the next few months, just as it does in yoga class. Eventually I will cease to feel the need to prove myself to myself, and the thrill for newly graduated will wane. Until then though....

what the hell is this world coming to? These are the future leaders of our country? Pull your pants up man! You want experience? I'll show you experience. Oh, and take your need to discuss Utopic and Dystopic societies and shove it up your ....

but also - feel free to learn something interesting so you can carry on an intelligent conversation later in life, only without being a pompous know-it-all (like me).

The Recluse in Wet Clothes

I am ever so slightly thinking about Recovery again. I read your recovery blogs - those of you on the right hand side of my blog that engage in that. I read and remember when I needed to be there so badly, I also read and think that I am glad that I have found detachment with love as solidly as I have.

I no longer have judgment or an emotional response to the addicts, any addicts, use of their drug of choice. I have found the sweet spot wherein I can accept and even still have love and/or a removed sense of empathy for the addict(s).

But, in the last few days... I have felt a certain pull back into the world of Recovery, to Al Anon. It's as if I have come to understand that there is, at the very least, one more thing I have to learn. One more thing I have to do. Humbly and respectfully. Even though it sometimes feels like putting on wet clothes.

I don't like Recovery rooms, I don't like "rooms." I don't like sharing, I don't like finding support. On that side of the coin, I am a bit of recluse - but isn't that because, maybe, I'm afraid of what I will find?

That detachment with love has turned into detachment. With love.

Birth Control and Terrorism

The three year old terrorist was on the lose again this morning. It started innocently enough and even almost righted itself, but no.

It was big. HUGE. Ginormous even. She's taken to destroying her room when she's really pissed. Every toy, every pillow, every blanket... she throws them everywhere. My inner-therapist acknowledges that she is doing this to manifest her supreme anger at her situation. She likes to make a horrible mess so she can see the mess that is inside of her.

However, as much as I can sympathize, I'm done cleaning it up and/or getting her to help me clean it up... and blah blah blah... help her to come to terms with how this type of expression is negative with, you know, a really soft and sorta high pitched phony voice. This time, I took the toy basket and laundry basket out. Then, she went for the dresser drawers. PISSED RIGHT OFF at me, she was going to pull every item of clothing out and slam it, with demon like satisfaction, to the floor. In a reverse-psychology type move ( that was done by either her or me, I'm still not sure) I took her out of her room and let her scream in the living room while I sat on the stairs blocking her path back to her room.

The response to this was to scream until there was flying daggers of fire and blood squirting  from her eyes and say (from the mouths of babes... I tell you. Too cute) "I DON'T LIKE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU ARE STUPIDDDDDDDDD!"

To which I responded, "Actually, I am rubber and you are glue..." Na, I didn't do that (maybe). 

She screamed some other terrorist like statements at me that I didn't understand (because, of course, it's a secret language that involves tongues or something?), and completely monopolized the living portion of the house looking for things to destroy - only to be stopped by me (thus angering the Fuhrer more). Eventually, I left my post on the stairs, allowing her to return to her room. As she slammed her door, I leaned my head down the stairs to where my sixteen year old was hanging out in her bedroom with her boyfriend...

"Did you guys want to have some unprotected sex at all?"

"Umm, no... we're fine," she called up to me.

That's what I thought.