Bang, Bang

Some people killed some people. 

Some people who shared similarities with the people who were killed got mad that those people were killed because it really seemed senseless. 

And then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And you see where this is going. Well each time this happened, the people who shared those similarities got mad.

Duh. Of course. Their similarities made then different from the people who shot the gun who killed the people, but it didn’t make them ‘bad’. 

DIFFERENT DOESN’T = BAD

And they got scared. Because if they shared those similarities….could they be next? Is it just a case of wrong place, wrong time? It needs to stop. How do we stop it? We ALL know it needs to stop!

But when it comes to these police officer shootings, perhaps the media shouldn’t be looking to black community to see how they are going to fix this problem. This is a primarily white person problem. (I know the office in Minnesota was of Asian descent, but that is an outlier.) 

WE need to fix this. It’s not up to the black community to educate us. To stop us. 

Just like it isn’t up to the LGBT community to educate us.

Just like it wasn’t up to children of Sandy Hook to educate us.

Media-focus your camera here, to see what we are going to do, what I am going to do. And not on the grieving black community.

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Purple Tears

I finally decide to take to Facebook to beg for new mom friends, a cry for help of sorts…and 5 seconds later Prince died. Typical Her et al. luck. 

It’s odd how famous people are like us where they live and die and someone is mourning him like the hell I went through last summer when I found my dad.

He wasn’t any more important than my dad, he was just better known. And a much better musician than my dad, although that bar was low. Sorry dad.

What craftsmen, they were. May they continue their art by speaking to our hearts. Both my dad and Prince.

Had a Burthday

The blog, not the blogger.

I like to casually gloss over these things as if nothing has happened. Mostly because I didn’t notice. And I wouldn’t have if WordPress hadn’t notified me that I needed to pay for my .com again. Thank Obama.

So I thought I take it back to the Her et al. that does cuss and doesn’t talk all about her dad dying all of sudden last summer….errrr shit!!!!

Oops. Ok. Miss Martha Stewart Her et al. here revisiting my most popular post! You guessed it!

Lotion Potion 
Shared over one catriple times. I made a batch tonight because Baby et al.’s elbow’s looked like this:

 But that’s after I rubbed the lotion on which really overly perfused her skin making it really red! 
We call that “dinosaur skin” in this house. No clue why. Sissy et al. started it one day and it seemed pretty politically correct, so I let it fly. 

Unlike the time she said she had “homeless hair” at the Grand Floridian. It was a pretty accurate description of her hair at the time, but I cringed at the people she could offered with that!

Back to my lotion. Best. Stuff. Ever. To add to its awesome, I got the new Kitchen Aid attachment everyone else has, the bowl scrapper. Yes, it’s as glorious as it sounds. It looks like this: 

So I squirt my four little ingredients (refer to previous post), flip on my stand mixer, and forget all about it. Because I did this after dinner and dinner includes wine on Sunday’s (and every other day that ends with “y“). And it’s easy to forget with wine!

Maybe that’s why Baby et al.’s elbows look like dinosaur diaper rash. Oh well. At least we’re on our way to improvement now. 

Does anyone miss the old Her et al. or have you all evolved with me….or left? Blog followers are like the boyfriends girls have when they are going through their bar fly stage, they kind of fly in for the night/weekend/month and then move on. Not that I mind, I do the same thing to you guys! 

But, to those lifers I have, you guys are my fav! ๐Ÿพ

I’m Saying it, But We’ve All Thought It

It’s been six months since my father passed away unexpectedly. I have had enough “look on the bright side” shit to last a lifetime.  

  • He’s no longer struggling with his PTSD
  • He loved you guys more than anything
  • He’s up in heaven fighting the good fight for God  
  • He’s always going to be with you, looking after you, putting a hand on your shoulder when you cry to help ease the pain

……..wait…..WHAT? Like ALL the time he’s going to be watching me? Does he just close his eyes when I pee or does he leave the room?  Do I need to hold in pee farts (you know what they are, you forfeit all fancy-ness when you click on my blog)? While he’s with me, does he maintain his earthly morals and thought process or is it like a whole different mindset once you’re on the flip side?

Now because of these unknowns, I’ve decided to set some Her et al./Papa in Heaven et al. ground rules. I’m positive he’s subscribed to the heaven translation of Her et al. which is my blog without all the shits and far! Hi mom.

And away, we, go: (Love me some Billy in the Streets)

  1. Please leave the room when I’m naked. You haven’t seen me naked since like, oh my last diaper change with you. I know there was that one time when you almost accidentally walked in on me delivering Sissy et al. and we ALL lucked out when that nurse stopped you. Soooo…lets keep all this yummy between me, my hubby, and the lady parts doctor!
  2. Goes without saying (I hope), but no watching sexy time with Hubby et al. Maybe we should try the whole tie on the doorknob thing from colle…..er I mean….from TV.
  3. Baby et al. is the only company I need during potty time and I only let her in because I don’t trust her to not try to swallow 50 hair ties the moment she gets 2 minutes alone. Plus she laughs during those awkward pee fart’s….lets be honest, we all do. It really should become a “thing”. 
  4. If you don’t want to hear me cussing about your precious granddaughters, steer clear of the house around nap time and 8pm if the baby is protesting sleep, and anytime I’m awake before like 7am. Although pre-7am cussing sessions can have multiple causes (the sun, hubby breathing, waffles that don’t toast themselves).
  5. If, by any chance you see me in the garage freezer grabbing a box of Girl Scout cookies…do NOT under ANY circumstances, follow me into our bedroom. You don’t need to see me like that. The random chocolate spots on my robe and my carb-overloaded facial edema in the morning tell more than I’d care them to.
  6. Please do not appear to me in my dreams. Those are sacred spots for the hot celebrities I’ll never meet and there is no bigger sexy time killer, than your dad.
  7. I reserve this right to add to this list via speaking outloud anytime I stumble upon a situation I’d rather my father not witness.

I’ve come to the part in my grieving process where I’ve accepted but not forgotten. I find that humor keeps his goofy-ness fresh in my mind and I cherish those memories of my dad. 

Turning, turning, constantly turning.

    Making a Murderer

    I’d like to jump on the band wagon here and give my 2ยข. Steven Avery did it. He raped and killed that poor woman.

    Seriously argue with me. Give me your best. The concept of him being framed by two separate police departments, is possibly the most absurd thing I’ve heard. Think of the massive amounts of people who would have to all be on the same page and willing to risk their careers and freedom all in the name of keeping this subpar human in prison. I’m sure there are people in both departments who hate him. I just don’t think they hate him more than they love their lives.

    Now Brandon is a different story. I don’t believe he is intelligent enough to have intentionally misled so many people. Additionally, I doubt he was competent to stand trial. If he truly did participate in these horrific acts, I think it was more about being easily manipulated and in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

    Having said that, I can say that neither of them got the fair trial they are owed as Americans. And that shortcoming needs to be rectified. And your thoughts are…..

    Dog Shit, Big Steaming Pile of Dog Shit

    2015

    Bad things happened. And some great things happened. Then in between those two extremes were a billion normal, everyday things that happened.

    But that’s ok. Because I’m closing out that year. Buh-bye dog shit. My OG ‘Her et al.iens’ know my dad died in July. The hubster and I found him and for some reason, I see that picture in my brain, ever single day. I’m not sure if I’ll be sad or happy the first day that I don’t see that picture in my head. Or guilty.

    But I digress. The year I lost my dad was also the year baby et al. started dance. The year sissy et al. started guitar and made the dance team. The year we took a big trip to Disney World. The year I discovered the wonderful world of ordering my groceries online and having them delivered. (Sadly that was a pretty big deal for me.)

    Now I know everyones going to be posting all these positive, uplifting post and year in reviews on Facebook and everywhere else. You won’t see those here. So turn the channel if you wanted to see puppies frolicking on the beach or cats being scared by cucumbers (seriously, what’s the deal with those? It’s just a cucumber you psycho cats!)

    But what if it’s ok to call 2015 a steaming pile of dog shit? Rock bottom is a launching pad for ‘up’. And while I admit that losing a parent isn’t rock bottom, it blows just nicely if I do say so myself.

    I hate you ’15. I’m so glad there is no such thing as time traveling because I never have to deal with you again. No one likes numbers divisible by 5 plus you’re the year before a leap year (I assume that is the year equivalent of the middle child syndrome). If we were in high school together, I would have snubbed your a$$ and made the pukey face behind your back. Annnnnd you’re fat and you’re ugly. Peace. Deuces. Whatever else the kids are saying these days.

    I’ve got grand plans for you 2016. Blog speaking: Deep Thoughts by Her et al. returns on the 8th of every month. And Self-promotion Saturday starts this weekend (so stay tuned and get your favorite post ready.)

    And to close. Behold: 365 poop emojis dedicated to 2015 A summary of my 2015. ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ๐Ÿ’ฉ

    25 Days of Nicolas Cage-Day 18

    #18!! We’re legal, Her et al.iens! Go buy yourselves a smoke or drank for my nutty followers up in USA’s hat (Canada..) 

     But I digress, he is stunning as a red head. 

    Just. Stunning.