I Might Turn into a Thumb Sucker

A humongous spider was killed under my house by the furnace guy Mike this morning. He said it was the size of a baseball and it stared him down. He took my raid with him on the next trip and sprayed all the (ewe ick ewie ewe) (hold your breath when you read these next two words) spider eggs.

The week after we buried Tim I thought there was a skunk under the house. The thought of it caused rapid breathing patterns for myself. And heart palpitations. Standing outside of the skunkified crawlspace of my home, I turned my face to the sky and I told Tim he better get that animal out of my house or I would indeed go mad and who would finish raising Mitch? People, I was on the verge, a girl can be pushed too far you know. The evidence of skunk vanished that very day. Cue eerie music that includes the harp.

So Tim. What are you thinking letting that gi-normous spider and the fruit of it's loins set up camp under the house? How am I expected to sleep and watch TV in this place now, knowing that monster spidies lived down there? (I'm using the past tense of live because if I get real and use present tense I would have to go throw up and then shake in the corner while eating my hair.)

Tim. Focus. Do your job. Provide. Protect. Don't make me have to ask you again. GOSH.

Abstinence and the Slippery Slope

Welcome to the Smokers with B.O. Lounge. I mean the DMV.

Please let the court record show that I waited 24 hours after writing those 1st two sentences. I had to wait because I could feel the mock gene rising up in my throat, and try as I might I couldn't swallow it down. I was afraid that I might get mean towards my fellow human beings at the DMV. My brothers and sisters here on this earth. I abstain from the mockery today. There will be no details about personal encounters, observances, and things witnessed. I will not get personal. But it took me 24 hours and a trip to the temple to get it under control. However, I will say this. You and I are the only two normal people I know and I'm a little worried about you.

There were positive outcomes at the DMV. The girl that waited on me was very nice. And I didn't get a case of scabies or head lice. (small digression, and stop itching your head, I only introduced the thought of head lice, not the reality of head lice. OK, you're right. It's enough to make you itch. all over. ). But back to the matter at hand, (have you noticed I have a tendancy to go off somewhere???) biggest plus of all, I got one of these:

Remember I have das boot? At church I ran into my Dr. and he saw me lugging it around and he told me I could come in and get a parking permit. Now don't you be a worry-ing. When Tim was so ill, the oncologist gave him one of these, and I saw how badly he needed it. It truly saved him precious energy that he needed for other things. I was so very grateful that he wasn't forced to walk long distances to his appointments. And I vowed to myself that I would never ever ever abuse the handicapped parking spot in my life. And I don't plan on starting now. I plan on Abstinence. But I have the golden ticket now. (climbing slippery slope) And I can use it if I need it. (reach the summit of the slippery slope, looking at the view)

Since I have mentioned church twice in this blog, I should come clean. I've already used my parking pass twice. (loose footing on slippery slope) I used it at the temple, but there was LOTS of handicapped parking available. However I took the best spot. (Definitely on the slope with both feet now) Then, after my shift was over I used my parking pass because I had a quick trip to the mall. It was right before closing time and I was the only one in the handicapped parking. (Yep. Gaining speed on the slippery slope.)

My guess is that most of my readers have never had a handicapped parking sticker. Let me educate. THEY ARE AMAZING!!!! When I came out of the mall, my car was RIGHT THERE and I didn't have to lug that clunker strapped to my left foot very far. My foot IS broken after all.

It is obvious that I am morally conflicted here, and carrying around handicapped sticker baggage. I am deserving of the parking sticker, but I know that others are more so. What, oh what, do I do? Readers, (along with Obe-Won-Kinobe,) you are my only hope.

ps. I am weak but I am able.

War of the Neurotic Worlds

Because of das boot (see PityParty below) I was forced against my will to go in for a massage. The following conversation pretty much takes place every time I go in for a massage. It is purely in my head and it drives me bawonko.

Zen Self: Oh, hey she's got an electric table warmer now. m-mmmmmmm. Now that's a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious idea. Can I get one of these? Do they sell them to regular people? Where would I put it? I think I would put it on the couch in front of the big screen. Good idea Mommacita. OOOOOOO-OOOOOO AHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHH Wow. Big wow. Biggest wow ever.

Crazy Self: I hope she doesn't look at my moles and flab. Surely she has seen more moles and flab than this before. Surely. And she's remembering the more flabby and more moley people right now. At least I'm not hairy. Or zitty. That would be worse. I hope she's thinking that instead of mole and flab thoughts.

Zen Self: Oh, she's starting on my back and neck. I love the back and neck part. I love that part where she goes up every vertebrae. Oh here she goes. Yep. Good as I remembered. How can she just know where the spots are that need a massage? She's amazing. She's an angel. An angel of mercy. Alita the Angel of Mercy. That's her new name from now on.

Crazy Self: Where should I put my arms? Should I leave them up by my head? There's not quite enough room. Hows about I just let the hang down? Yeah. That will work. Just flop them on down there. That's going to work great. I think my hands are starting to go to sleep. I can't feel my fingers. Well don't be ridiculous. Put your arms back on the table. But there's not quite enough room! Maybe I should try them along my sides. Will she notice if I move? Will she think I'm not liking this and stop if I'm continually thrashing my arms around? Don't be silly. You're paying for this. Just move your arms where you want them. I'm afraid she'll stop. You are ridiculous. Ridiculous and a half. Move your stupid arms already.

Zen Self: Arms next to side. Now that's a great combo. How great is it that we've got the Mozart going today? Can a girl ever ask for more than Mozart and a Massage? I think I like this better than the ocean and the babbling brook CD. Laa-Tee-Daa-Te-Daa-Te-Daa-Te-Daaaaaaaa. Oh yeah. Oh she's doing my leg that's been lugging das boot. Yum yum Yummie to the Yummie. I think when Leigh comes here to have the baby I'll send her in for a massage. Because she will have been lugging around something too. She will like Alita the Angel of Mercy. Oh I am such a good Mommacita for even thinking that. I am giving and kind and I am maybe an Angel of Mercy as well.

Crazy Self: Don't pass gas. Don't pass gas. Don't do it. Don't. I mean it. That would be bad. Even though you are relaxed right now, you've raised 4 kids Mommacita, and you can figure out how to not do that. If anyone could read your thoughts right now they would be grossed out, think you are sickening, and be disgusted with you. Don't even think about putting these thoughts on your blog. You will be sorry. Don't do it. Don't. I mean it. DO NOT

Zen Self: Good job on averting the gas crisis Mommacita. You have more control than previously imagined (and someday you may have enough to write a proper blog) and I am duly impressed. Oh, she's being so careful on my broken foot. That feels like a butterfly is flitting around and over my broken broken foot. Butterflies can heal things, right? The butterfly and the Mozart are making me better. Pretty pretty butterfly. Pretty pretty Mozart. Is that drool coming out of my mouth?

Crazy Self: Do you think Alita the Angel of Mercy saw the drool? I would not want someone drooling in my place of business. I think the drool went through the head donut pillow and is on the carpet. Do you think it's on the carpet? Oh I hope it is not on the carpet. Just look down there and see.... Shift a little to the left.... I can't tell. It's one of those Persian rugs with a busy pattern. Relax. It is a pattern that hides drool. I wonder if that is on purpose?

Zen Self: Lucky break on the Persian rug, but you best be careful where you step when you get off this table missy.

Good, Better, and BEST

Everyone go to for a looksie at my newest grandbaby. There is a PICTURE. You will like it. Oh, he is the cutest little ultra sound blob that I have ever seen. Yep, HE. I'm getting a HE!!!!!! WAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Pityparty

Zippadeedooda. I got myself one of these here bad boys. And I look ridunkulous in it.

I come out of the Dr.'s office into the waiting room. There's this lady sitting there waiting. She stares at my foot. Then she tells me I'm going to roast when I go outside. Thanks friend. You have a nice day too. Isn't there a patient oath or code that if you're a patient you should do no harm or something? Somebody needs to fill her in on her oath obligations. I was harmed and she did it.

Then I go to the post office. I wait in the line with the 6 other people without a steplite easy strider walker brace velcroed on. I catch every person at one point or the other starring at my foot and I see a bubble form over their head with the words, "that looks like an elephant foot" written inside of it. And then those words dissolve and these words replaced them: "that sounds ALOT like an elephant's foot plus it

ska-weaks somewhat if you're only just standing there." And then those words dissolve and were replaced with, "you are kind of a looser, because didn't you break that foot 5 months ago?"

Then I come home, get a drink because I did roast when I went outside, or at least I thought I did. I clunk over to the neighbor's house to teach 8-ll year old girls how to draw. My neighbor takes one look at me and begins to act as if I had blood coming out my nose. I get her all calmed down and then her husband walks in and I have to start it all over again. Then the little girls come in. Have you ever seen the pity eyes? Well I got the pity eyes. They didn't say anything, and I didn't have to explain anything, which I appreciated, but man, those 8-11 year old pity eyes can make you feel like you're oozing with pity factor every breath you take.

My brother sent me a box of Swiss chocolates because he just went there. And I love him for it. I'm thinking it is time to crack that baby open and eat about 6. And then I'm going to look down at my roasting foot and have another one, a really big elephant sized one, and I'm going to dedicate it to the lady in the Dr.'s office that has no Laderach chocolate from Switzerland.

And I hope she reads this blog because this is what they look like. And they are really super yummy.

Meet the Parents

I've just recently gone through my last meet the parent experience with my kids. I've done it 4 times, 2 with Tim, 2 without. He didn't scare anyone off, and neither did I: a marriage resulted 3 out of those 4 times, and the 4th one is still on, fingers crossed knock on wood.

When Tim met my parents we were barely 19. We swooped in for a quick meet and greet, because something told me that would be best. I only remember a couple of things about it. First, I was nervous to the point of being compromised. I was certain Tim would end up running away, with his arms up in the air, doing jazz hands, screaming, with legs whirring so fast that when you looked at him you saw a wheel made out of feet rotating instead of legs. (I watched a lot of Saturday Morning Cartoons as a kid.)

I remember on the Meeting Day, walking hand in hand into the house, the TV being on, and thinking: YES! There will be no stories about me telling the home teachers that my mom was making beer under my bed. (it was root beer, I was 4, and you're right, it's not that good of a story but my mom loves to tell it to anyone who will listen. If she were here right now and you were here right now she'd tell you the beer under the bed story.)

Things were going OK and I hear my dad come in from working outside in the yard. I hear him splashing around in the bathroom and hear his closet door open and shut, and I assume he's changing out of his gardening duds. Pretty soon he comes charging out of his bedroom in this:

Dad, are you kidding me? Out of your whole closet you choose the jumpsuit? Was it because this happened to be dirty?

Or was it because you wore this already that week?

Did you even consider perhaps coming out to meet my soul mate in this Dad?

Or perhaps you could have found this in that closet of yours:

I looked over at Tim and I swear, I SWEAR I saw him take a little swallow and suck in a little more air.

I look back on it now, and I just love thinking about my dad in that gold jumpsuit, meeting my man for the first time. I wish Dad still had that jumpsuit, and wore it to watch the news at 12, 6, and 10 every day. I wish he wore it while sitting in his lazy boy reading his beloved Deseret News and I wish that whenever I visited him, I would see him bound out of his bedroom zipping that thing up to his chin just like he did that day. Why is it that when something happens that we perceive to be embarrassing, with time it just becomes endearing? Especially with our parents? I just love those two men, those two most important men in my life. The Jumpsuit, the Swallowing, all of it.

And to my kids, if I embarrassed you at all on meet the parents day, and I'm sure that I did, please know that I'm sorry and just remember, that someday, with time, all wounds will most likely dissipate and become a friend.

Big List of Sewing that is on a Blog

Welcome to my own big list of sewing that is on my blog. Like my other blogs, it is only sort of about sewing, and is really about pointless vignettes. Having cleared that up for legal purposes, let us begin our sewing journey, one and all, boys and girls:

Big List item #1:

When I was a little girl, I tried to teach myself to sew.

It was in 6th grade, when my friend, Shelley Thayne and I were going to be Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy for Halloween. I was the tallest, so I got to be the man. WHATEVER. We went to Fashion Fabrics and bought fabric. I insisted to my mother I could do it. How hard could it be? Shelley and I cut out our He She outfits together and then I was on my own. My Grammie ended up fixing/finishing my Andy costume after I had ruined the bobbin enough to make myself cry, made one sleeve shorter than the other, and boy howdy, there were serious issues with the crotch. (FYI, I hate the word crotch)

Mother was right again. Sigh. I didn't know what the heck I was doing and I didn't know how to sew.

Big list item #2:

The Utah Public School System stepped in, and pretty soon I could make a black and yellow daisy beach bag with the best of them.

Big List item #3:

Soon my mantra became:

In a sewing class I remember making a brown and creme wrap dress when I was a senior in high school that my mother told me was way too short. The sleeves turned out the same size. Plus there was no (insert that word I told you before I hate) in a dress to have to deal with.

Big List Item #4

I went to BYschMOO and had an assignment in a class in the art department. I had to create something with fiber. This time I bought fabric for a quilt in the po'folk section in the ZCMI bargan basement. I pieced together a quilt and set up quilting frames in my apartment. They took up the whole front room My roommates except for the two mean ones were so understanding.

Big List of Sewing item #5

I worked my brains out to get those 2 roommates out of my face and to close their yaps.

Yummy shiny hair. I was so healthy.

Big List of Sewing item #4

I experienced a

No, I did not make funky hats. I moved into a phase where I had little babies and no money and they needed pajamas and so I made pajamas. I sewed because I had to.

I couldn't wait to buy pajamas and stop sewing forever.

sewing =poverty sewing=poverty sewing=poverty

It was drummed into my spirit with a 500 pound mallet.

This is the part where you wipe away the tear.

Big Sewing List Item #5

By the time I got to the point in life where if I happened to sit at a sewing machine I didn't have a cryer at my legs, I started to sort of consider maybe sewing again.

I had been scarred you remember, by the poverty of my youth. It was serious, but you should understand that already if you had been paying attention to Big Sewing List Item #4.

I went to therapy

And now my sewing girls and I sit and sew and discuss amoungst ourselves.

In fact this weekend, at my very home, we made quilts for people we love while wearing our hose and tasteful pumps.

Unfortunately now, there's a bit of this:

Big Sewing List Item #7

Now, while I am validated by hot flash Barbie, I am much more satisfied by the reality that we share the yummie shiny hair factor. OK. That's a lie.


Big Sewing List #7 has nothing to do with sewing. And I have nothing to do with Barbie. I just liked thinking I might be able to fool you all into thinking I'm as pretty as hot flash Barbie. This IS the Internet and I AM anonymous after all.

Anonymously yours, Mommacita Bobita

PS My favorite part of this blog is you thinking I look like Barbie. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee

Rocky Mountain Shang-Hi

Imagine my freakdance and verklemptness when I went to my homepage and saw the below headline (the one in enlarged gi-normous purplish letters), along with

a headline about the Tennesee GOP mocking Michelle Barack,

a headline about astromoners finding a baby Supernova,

a headline about a new message from Osama Bin Laden,

a headline about gay Marriage being Legalized in California,

a headline about an angry flight attendant that set fire to a plane,

and a headline about Shania Twain ending a 14 year marriage :

"Gilmore Girls, the Movie"

It was a cruel cruel way to get me to read about Lauren Graham's next career move. Which is not a Gilmore Girls Movie. The entertainment industry is the devil.


And I didn't even have to have my hair cut, colored, and blown dry to read about it.


I want a Gilmore Girls Movie.
I think I deserve it.
Stop being mean to me about it.

Always and Forever From Now On No Matter What Or You Can Kill Me

I had my hair done today. I learned the following under the dryer:

1. Jennifer Anniston and new boyfriend John Mayer frolic in hotel pools in Florida.

2. Gwyneth Paltrow wears black lace dresses to film premiers that have no lining, with the lace spun a little tighter in strategic spots. I had to wonder, is she scared to move slightly? What if the film is funny and she giggles? Or what if she sniffs or snorts? Oy to the Veyest of the Vey.

3. That Polygamist bunch are a sad and scary lot, with big
prob lee moes.

4. Mariah Carey is married now. And she is talking procreation. I saw pictures of the honeymoon couple cavorting in the surf. I'm going on record here: before she was married, to me she measured high on the gross o meter. Now that I've seen the cavorting pics, she's still number one.

5. Matt Lauer is one of People's 100 most beautiful people. Matt Lauer? Matt Lauer?? Maybe they should have a 50 most beautiful people.

6. American Idol is down to three. The guy with the dreds is off.

7. I need to bring my own reading material to the salon. ALWAYS

It's Time for Change

I have a crazy bird in my yard. It wacks itself into the window on the backside of my home. It is interrupting my TV time. Which is, duh, always. (Sidebar, I KNOW that it is unattractive to admit that I watch alot of TV. I know this. Yet I don't care what you think and I've sunk just that low.)

Back to the bird.

It started about a month ago. It was banging into my window over and over. It would bam into the window, drop to the ground, then it would flap-struggle-flap-struggle to lift itself up, only to slam bam into the window again. And the blasted thing is slaming into the glass a million times during an episode of __________. (you fill it in, it could be anything).

The first day it happened, I got annoyed, and then I was forced by my thoughts to pony up to my guilt. Why wasn't I more compassionate for the helpless animals of the world? Why wasn't I checking to see if it was injured? A Nice Person would check. I may watch alot of tv, but am I a hard heart as well? My neighbor is a vet and loves animals. What would she think of how I was acting? She would recoil in disgust but hurt for my insensitivity. And she would refuse to collect my mail when I'm gone.

So guiltily I put on my shoes and take my broken toes and sigh loudly all the way outside to check on the stupid bird. It is nowhere. I hear nary a sound. I even bend over to look. I even lift up bushes and peer into the dark spidery places. Nothing. I hobble back into the house having proven to myself and the bird that I have feelings of caring for the helpless.

10 seconds later the wacking begins anew. I hang something up on the window (I heard that it helps) and go upstairs to my bedroom to watch TV. More evidence of kind-of-sort-of caring.

Days later, David and Lisa come over. They witness the slamming. Let it be stated that they thought I was exaggerating, but they quickly learned differently. David, scientific wizard that he is, notices that the bird is hitting the window with its feet. I immediately feel better. I'm not such a pathetic creep after all. I can tell because I felt better that it is not banging it's head or wing, but CHOOSING to bang its feet. Let it be noted. It's humiliating how much I need validation.

4 weeks later (Saturday) the stupid stupid bird is slamming not into just one window, but ALL FOUR of the windows on the back side of my house. Over and Over. All day long and into the evening, again and again, during my TV time.

Just for the benefit of my blog readers, Saturday night I counted 20 slams in 5 minutes. That is 240 slamajammas in an hour. I did the math because I can't watch my TV anymore. Last night I sat and watched the window that is most popular (covered now with birdy claw prints and slobery-doo ) and I think that there is more than 1 bird involved. And this morning I took a stroll outside: my new deck is covered in bird poop. Fresh Railings. Fresh Floor. Fresh Poop.


Can you see why I am exhausted??? I'm getting insane. Notice I didn't say going, I said getting. Insanity is being given to me.

What are Obama and Hilary and McCain going to do for me?

What????

Motherguilt

I'm headed for this. It is most distressing. The good news is that if I want to, I can gain a lot more weight and still be OK. I don't really want to, and frankly that would be horrifying, but there's not very many times one can say that its ok to weigh in at 500, so I better make hay while the sun shines.

I found out the other day that I have 2 broken toes. I broke my toes standing at the island slaving away (as per usual) for my family at Christmas time. I wasn't skiing. I wasn't running. I wasn't stubbing. I WAS STANDING. I 'm sure I broke them because of years and years of doing the same thing. (slaving for my family). Yep, it IS rather convenient to find out the week before Mother's day that I broke my toes giving and giving and giving to my family. You can bet I won't be forgetting this anytime soon. And yes, I've been walking around on broken toes for 5 months, but don't you worry about me. Did I mention I'm a widow?

Unfortunately, necessity dictates I do this.

Here is a timeline for purchasing my lil' rascal scooter, preferably shiny and red:

1. Lay on couch watching House: break 3rd rib on left side

2. Reach for phone from couch: break elbow

3. Fast Forward DVR during commercial on House all while on couch: break pointer finger on right hand

4. Write blog, not from couch, but from chushy chair: break pelvis

5. Dig through purse looking for reading glasses: break shoulder

6. Open eyes in the morning: Fracture skull

7. Put on socks: foot comes right off in hand.

To my children: I do and do and do for you until my toes are broken off. I warned you this would happen someday. For mother's day, I'd like a pint sized American flag to go on the back of my scooter that you put me in. And I'd like one of those sticks to put it on that is 6 feet tall. And make sure it is springy so it waves back and forth. Cause I'm proud to be an American in the most unusual way.

Whooooooooosh

Adendum to Memories Lighting the Corners of My Mind Segwaying into Mother's Day

David and Lisa stopped by for a visit.

The Adams Peanut Butter Tubs (see previous blog) were used for collecting bees after they had been slammed to their deaths by tennis rackets. After the tubs became too disgusting or full they were chucked under the deck. On closer examination there was not one tub, but several. David was pretty excited to see those tubs.

1. I had no idea what was going on from 1979- 2004.

2. Scrap the Mothers Day Baloney.

3. I'm leaving those tubs under the new deck.

Memories Lighting the Corners of my Mind Segwaying into Mother's Day

I am having the deck replaced with or without Tim's blessing. The HeMen came and ripped it out on Thursday. The deck sits close to the ground, and I was EXCITED to see what would be underneath. I was anticipating 22 years of stuff I hadn't missed. There wasn't as much stuff as I had hoped, but here's what was unveiled, laying there on the ground, like discarded underwear:

2 soccer balls. flat as a pancake

several tennis balls, dirty dirty dirty

a softball

No Frisbee. I was expecting a Frisbee

A vintage Adams peanut butter tub. The picture to our left there is not the real tub, however, it is the real brand. (I try to impress) I used to buy this peanut butter but you had to stir and stir and stir after you first opened it, because it had no lard (or whatever they put in peanut butter to keep it from separating)....only peanuts and salt. I chuckled at what a granola I used to be, willing to stir my peanut butter because there were no additives. As I recall, stirring that stuff was a greasy mess. What a MOM my kids had!!! A Peanut butter stirring Mom!!!! I forgot how great I was!!!
The kids used to use those tubs in water fights. Somebody must have kicked it under the deck when I sent them out to pick up the water fight mess. I never caught them.

Moving along..

Some pieces of really long, 2" white PVC pipe. I have no recollection of us EVER using PVC pipe. Tim and I were NOT PVC pipe people. We knew how to do nothing. PVC people are people who go to Home Depot and buy stuff and bring it home and fix everything and make life better. Tim and I would live life with the drawer off track until our fixie neighbor came over and was disgusted with us and helped us. We were really quite pitiful.

A roll of tar paper that the roofers must have stuffed under there 6 years ago when we weren't looking so they didn't have to carry it off. dirty birds.

Someone's flip flop. It was one of those from the late 80s or early 90s that had strips along the side of the sole. I think it was Jake's. It was found almost smack dab in what would have been the middle of the underneath of the deck. As I looked at it laying there in the dirt, I felt this little pang in my heart for my children, all grown up and gone. Then... in the recesses of my mind, a little memory poked, then jabbed, then punched itself through.

I remembered one of the kids hounding and badgering me because someone in an act of revenge had taken their flip flop and chucked it under the deck as hard as they could and wasn't I going to get them in trouble and why wasn't I moving and how could I let them get away with that and wasn't I going to crawl under there and get it and why wasn't I listening to them and why was I batting them away with both of my hands???

Hey Jake, I found your flip flop. And I'm gonna finally get David really really in trouble. Or Leigh. I don't think it was Mitch because he couldn't have wrestled your flip flop off your foot. You were too fierce. I'm betting David. Anyway...

Mother's Day is in a week and now that I've found your flip flop I'm really deserving, don't you think? Remember, I stirred peanut butter for you. And I kept buying you balls no matter how many you would loose. 100s of balls I purchased with my own money. (I could really use that money NOW) And I let you do something with PVC pipe that was really really fun for you. I don't know what it was, but I have evidence that I let you do something. So you just sit there and think about what I've done for you. You can never ever EVER repay me.

I've got to stop now, because the virtues of Mommacita would fill up another post.

Isn't it a thing of beauty how I can turn garbage under my deck into what a deserving Mommacita I am? I've gotta say, sometimes I impress even myself.

Not the real garbage, merely a reinactment

Overheard at Walmart Today From a Guy Clearly in His 80's

"I'm a bringing these here pants back because they're a way too tight in the crotch."

One comment:

I could have gone all day without hearing that.

A few questions:

Why, when one hears something like that, does one feel a compelling need to turn one's head and look at the person delivering such a comment? Why can't we just leave it alone? Why do we need a visual to go along with the audio? Are we better off after we get the visual? Why the head turn then? Do we think we're going to somehow feel magically unsickened if we get the visual? What do we do with the visual once we get it? How can I make it stop?

If I have to have the visual, then so do you.

Oh yeah. Happy May Day.