DALY SKINNY

Americans have boundary issues. As I understand it and CNN reports it, there is a group of Neo Nazi Nationalists patrolling our boarders. Their primary goal involves protecting and forwarding the sanctity of democratic ideals visa vie promoting the implementation of immigration laws. The Neo’s are reported to believe the United States and its safety depends on promoting a white Anglo Saxon America whose roots can be traced exclusively to a European lineage.

Since most Americans don’t have photographs of their relatives disembarking from the Mayflower or Ben Franklin’s autograph, the task could be somewhat arduous. More importantly, the Neo Nationalist doctrine is both Constitutionally mute and it violates the Statue of Liberty’s tired and hungry philosophy.

I am thinking these Patriots would enhance their image as patriots (along with promoting their Eco friendly position), if they spent more time protecting our gulf streams then our boarders. Currently, Great Britain and her petroleum subsidiary appear to be a bigger risk to our national security then aliens without medical coverage.

Perhaps, though, Neo Nationalists are actual undercover agents. They could be part of a cleverly executed ruse designed to infiltrate Europe’s industrial hierarchy and advance a cohesive relationship that will result in America’s fiscal redemption and cleaner waterfowl. Or,in an effort to insure safer boundaries, they could ship themselves to the Continent on an oil rig.

I am considering entering myself in the genius book of world records, as today I am a statistical phenomenon. The past 24 hours began with internet issues that required defragging, rebooting, anti virulent interaction and several costly emergency visits from my service provider. The router, the either net , the intra nets and modem box were scanned, checked and vetted. My computer, however, continues to turn off at random and sporadic intervals. It is either infected with a virus or possessed. (Either way, serious and possibly repairable trust issue have ensued)

Aside from the computer, my air conditioning is broken. As we live in south Florida and it is the height of summer (ergo the average temperature is elevated 10 degrees, but humidity is raised 110 %) Our house resembles a steam bath. Aside from the mold issues, my skin glows. The lack of frozen Popsicles and ice cubes is also raising my suspicions about the longevity of our 2 year old freezer. I am hoping though that the inactivity is related to my daughter, utilizing knowledge gained from the kardashian sisters education television and jamming ice cubes down her pants to alleviate excess body heat.

Moreover, The washer is leaking, the car window won’t close and my daughters cell phone won’t text (don’t care so much about that as I discovered she is still capable of oral communique – mostly while her internet loads or during face book log in)

Toward the end of the day, I needed a break (and was slightly frightened to touch another appliance). I seized on an opportunity enjoy a summer evening with my kids. As we were looking to escape the heat, we headed outdoors for a bike ride. Amid the darting between raindrops, dodging traffic and lightening bolts. We debated the statistical odds of electric connectivity as it pertained to swimming and driving, drag raced, tried to see how could pop the highest wheeling and who could pedal backwards the fastest. Just as I had determined that intrinsic reward of my technical implosion, the bike chain broke.

Domestic Goddess. The term implies a domestic pleasure delivered by a women of extraordinary beauty and charm. My gender dictates and Martha Stewart mandates, I should enjoy a natural aptitude for culinary and decorating artistry. Unfortunately, mostly for my family and house guests, I have neither. Aside from my inability to strategically place knickknacks, arrange flowers, and coordinate fabric, my culinary skills are minimal. While I blend a intoxicating margarita and whip killer egg nog, they provide little in the way of sustenance for a family of five. Moreover, there are legal issue associated with serving alcohol to minors.

There have been numerous attempts to expand our nutritional exposure. I have prepared root beefed beef, spaghetti tacos, creamed spinach and eggplant. Mostly though, my genetic disposition betrays me. I either forget specific ingredients, forget to set a timer, or whip instead of blend.

Consequently, I felt somewhat remorseful, when my daughter returned home from camp last night. Other mothers spent the day planning and preparing a home cooked meal. My daughter got rigatoni with butter and chicken nuggets. Luckily, my children have sheltered palates and my husband is a huge fan of chef boyardee. After a homemade martini, I even delivered dinner in a pleasant and charming manner.

  I might need better breasts. I don’t know so much that I want them, as much as I am propelled toward their acquisition. (since I am rarely naked it is difficult to tell). However, In a paradigm reminiscent of illusionary weight loss as it pertained to the general populace during my pregnancy, everyone appears to have developed or procured perfectly erected mammorys. The pervasive nature of this generational expectation is demonstrated through a variety of reliable sources, most of which are based on the height and size requirements mandated visa vie The Girls Next Door, The Girls Gone Wild, the Victoria Secrets Catalog, and Joan Rivers.

I blame Martha Stewart.

The historic dominance and mass appeal of her life style tutorials is clearly responsible. With the inception of Martha’s first collection, she cultivated a subculture of domesticated America. Their main purpose involved reaching unobtainable brandized ideals that would lead homemakers, bakers, decorators and crafter’s alike in the common purpose of illumination and ornamentation. Thereby, her unfortunate incarceration left a substantial void in the lives of women (and some men) around the world.

To insure motivation and affirmation, followers have procured another synthetic idol. Demi Moore’s Dorian Grey’s styled foray into senior citizenship is both inspirational and practical. Body sculpting and higher or firmer breasts are much more appreciated then homemade compost or decorated doilies. Consequently, as we don’t know the name of her surgeon, Demi and her ageless physique were nominated.

As a right brain linear thinker, this is good news! I do not need to make silicone to enjoy it. Aside from minimizing the risk of failure, it adds to the procedures allure. My exposure is limited to acquiring a reputable plastic surgeon. The art of erecting a new chest is more of a reflection upon me then actually attributable to me. After a thoughtful cost and balances analysis, I concluded, however, that I should fulfill my obligatory homage to Demi, but maximize a return on the investment. Since more people actually see my eyes then my breasts, they should be lifted first. Obviously, my husband is disappointed.

Please go to SPY GAMES to view the survey

Marriage has its advantages. STD’s are limited, procreation is easier, and there is always a designated driver. However, in terms of sleeping arrangements it is iniquitous. My husband has been traveling the past several weeks and I have rediscovered solitary slumber. Ergo, I am seriously reconsidering the archaic origins that dictate marital room assignments.

I suspect that either the conjugal organization of married couples was born out of a freedom fighters blue balls or it was mandated by the constructional constraints of our forefathers. Thus, after searching the homes of various friends and interrogating virtual strangers regarding their nocturnal cohabitation, I have concluded nuclear families have been misguided in the advancement of their living spaces. Originally, singular bedrooms were most likely the result of the need to impose prepubescent adolescent disciplinary actions. Before cell phones and cars were invented, and based on the inherit primeval nature of their sleeping accommodations, pioneering parents mistakenly used solitary confinement as a form of corporal punishment. Through the cultivation of modern techniques, most contemporary domiciles are now erected with indoor plumbing, electricity and running water. Thereby, American children enjoy bedrooms that serve more as a testament to the innovative minds at Apple then a form social isolation. Currently, my daughters enjoy accommodations that include, but are not limited to, wireless internet access, Ipads, remote controlled television, on-demand movies, and/or Barbies, wii, and play stations.

While my husband and I subsidize bedrooms that resemble a Disney inspired theme park, we share our accommodations. This means that aside from actually sleeping, I have a plethora of cohabitational considerations. I administer snore strips, am forced to navigate my way to the bathroom utilizing the cell phone screen light, and my television programming is mostly limited to history and science channels. Fortunately, I am too exhausted from bouncing around the bed all night, as a result of my husband’s restless leg syndrome, to hear his 5:00 am alarm sound.

My children started Vacation Bible Camp this week. It is a 5 hour a day week long program designed to enrich their religious understanding. As they are receiving a Catholic eduction, attend a Presbyterian Church, and the camp is Methodist, they are slightly confused. Aside from knowing little, if anything, about the schools religious doctrine, my youngest daughter was concerned about their religious curriculum. Her anxiety is most conspicuous in terms of her uncertainty as it pertains to the camp’s reading materials. She has compulsory summer reading assignments that include the independent completion of three books before progressing to the next grade. Consequently, my daughter is not interested in adding bible passages. According to her, she has a maximum number of letters that her brain can process in a day . (She wants to ensure that all fast food and ice cream orders are properly executed.)

My older daughter is one of the camp’s group leaders. Since she is versed primarily in rosary and confessional work, I am not certain who hired her. However, I am somewhat troubled that the toddlers under her tutelage will expose her ambiguous religious affiliations and someone will expel us. My daughters and I have been traveling in confined spaces, including bathroom privileges and sleeping arrangements, for the better part of two weeks. Mostly, our sanity depends on encountering separation anxiety. Moreover, my children need to be reintroduced to oral hygiene, dental floss, and the morning sun. I am hoping the camp either offers more in the way of arts, crafts and gospel then actual Methodist philosophy or they consider us a charitable donation.

 Vacation day 17

The family vacation is over and we have returned to our homestead! I expected that the drive from Baltimore to Tampa would be relaxed and leisurely. As this expedition, I had opted to leave the canines at home, my husband ditched us for a better work related offer, and my oldest daughter is camping in Connecticut, our return load was lighter. I hoped that my younger children and I would enjoy a few days of quality time while forging our way homeward. As the days proceeding our departure were chaotic, somewhat poignant, and relatively stressed filled, I should have heeded the warning signs and tempered my expectations. To begin with, my mother-in-law never recovered from her undiagnosable virus and remained weak and horizontal throughout our visitation. My father-in-law managed vertical, but was winded by it. My maternal mother’s plumbing exploded the day before we left. So aside from the obvious inconvenience of borrowing the neighbors washer and bathing in the local pool, I left her with sewage spewing out from her basement floor. Additionally, I sensed the my father secretly suspected I was going to surprise him and stay through father’s day. Since I am an only child, there is no back up plan.

Clearly, I was anxious, and partially relieved, to be getting out of town. However, my unease mounted as we spent the better part of our first five hours of travel time driving through a traffic induced interstate speed of 25 miles per hour. After movement commenced to a steady flow, but before sustenance or bathrooms were procured, communication broke down. My children declared their mutual hatred for me and each other. I countered with a mature adult response that included a madate dictating that they could either get along, shut up or take a bus. Then, we listened to radom oldies stations and cried for the following five hours. After which, we bonded mostly in our search for a clean hotel that included cable and a pool. Luckily, my daughter found one that included all three plus free pizza delivery and a family friendly lifetime movie. We all slept great – until I wet the bed!