The Best of Blogs: 2009-2010, Leslie Thompson [superbooks4u .txt] 📗

will often stay tangled in it for years. If they are rescued, deportation is a relief after a decade of torture and rape that had become their fate.
Try as I could, I could not locate consistent statistics on any of these crimes. The reason is that the people who should know when and why these things happen don't have the information. I wish I could say that it is simply a case of incompetence, because if that were the case, then it could be easily repaired with hiring and firing. But the real reason why there are no true statistics is because they don't know. The few people who know the names of these lost souls are very often invisible themselves, and they don't want to be deported. So the survivors and the sufferers linger in the background, allowing these hideous injustices to go on, and permitting the killing and enslavement of more innocents.
I do understand the desperation that drives people to slink across borders in the shadows of night. I understand what crushing poverty, lack of health care, and corruption in government can do to the human soul. I also understand that there are vicious predators in every country, including my own. If a person wants a better life, keep your visibility at all costs and go with one of these two options:
1) Immigrate legally. Yes it's a pain in the ass, and you have to jump through hoops and red tape until you're fingers bleed and your eyeballs drop out. At least your new home knows you're here and can help you when you need it, and people will admit to knowing you.
2)Stay home and change things there. Sure your government may be full of homicidal despots, and the guy over seeing water purity is the retarded son of the local jackass governor; and it's true that they have more guns and a meaner temper, but that doesn't mean you can't get a group of your best buddies together and resolve things without blood shed. Yes it will be very difficult, and it will take a very long time, and you will probably learn to play "Kick-A-Thug", but it can be done. Nothing worth having is ever easy.
Want to give me crap regarding my views? Great! Before you open your mouth and talk through your butt, check out my sources.
www.nytimes.com
www.cis.org
www.ice.gov
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Casualties this week: 0
I'm trying very hard not to look a gift horse in the mouth.


The Last Week of summer

The last week of summer vacation is always a time of high anxiety in my house hold, and we all have our ways of coping. For my part, I run around like a chicken with my head cut off making sure that the kids are ready for their first day of school. I buy school supplies by the truck load (thank you to my in-laws for the help!) I move the house hold budget from summer to school year, and I start clearing away the assorted fire hazards that have developed behind the television and in closets. There are school orientations to attend, teachers to meet, and daily recitals from my children about the proper behavior in the classroom.
For my eldest child Julie, this year was especially nerve wracking. She is starting the sixth grade and that means Junior High. She was delighted when I told her that she may wear a little bit of make up, and after hours of contemplation of the cosmetic department at Wal-mart, she settled on a lip gloss the exact same shade as her lips. She also decided that clothes were something she wore so she won't be naked, and chose clothing with patterns and colors so painful that they induce migraines. She discovered that her curly blonde hair had become curlier so that it sprang from her scalp in long spirals in what has been affectionately called a 'Euro-fro'.
Kwiss discovered a new skill. While sitting at the kitchen table playing games with Sonic, Kwiss picked up a butter knife left from lunch and chopped the head off of a nearby fly, impressing everyone. In the following days, Kwiss has made his rounds through the house, decapitating flies with ever increasing ease while venting his spleen. At the end of every day, he announces the number of flies he has killed, and informs me that the green ones are the easiest to destroy. I respond by telling him to put the knife in the dishwasher, and sweeping up the evidence of an insect genocide occuring within my house.
Poor Sonic is entering Kindergarten and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He is excited about the prospect of riding the bus with his brother and sister, and getting to do all the things that he's been hearing about his entire life. On the other hand, he's fearful of being without Mommie for a long period of time. To cope, he has taken to turning off video games while Kwiss is still playing them and provoking his brother into chicken mode. He tumbles along the furniture, hides in the hall closet so he can leap out and scare anyone who walks by, and he follows his brother EVERYWHERE.
As for my husband, he deals with the changing season the same way he always does. He works hard, pays the bills, and hands over the money. Then he just sits back and watches the show, ready to sooth hurt egos and frazzled nerves whenever possible. When it isn't possible, he sends us all to our rooms so he can enjoy some peace and quiet.
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Casualty list: 0
People actually managed to be nice this week. Happy day!


The great and amazing Kwiss

Of my three children, I have to say that my middle child Kwiss, is the most out going and adventurous. He is a rambunctious 8 year-old who is always on the move...fast. Whether he is going to his best friend's house, or just going down stairs, Kwiss does it as a dead run. As a consequence, Kwiss gets hurt quite often. Since he has learned to walk (or is it run?) he has fallen onto furniture, down the stairs, over rocks and tree roots, and more often than he is willing to admit, nothing at all. We have watched in open astonishment many a moment as our sweet son sails through the air with greatest of ease, like a superhero making his rounds through my living room. Due to the risk of serious head injuries, we no longer keep a coffee table.
Walking and running is not the only thing Kwiss does quickly. He speaks quickly too, and with his speech impediment, it makes for some strange conversations. There has been many frustrated talks where Kwiss bursts into my office in full "chicken mode" to announce that a meteor is dancing with the roof, or gleefully relating a tale of intrigue and mayhap that involves a, "Pwerpl neena and a specowd mows". I still don't know what he was talking about there.
On occasion, Kwiss does take the time to just sit still and think. I have passed by the open door of his room and saw him sitting on the floor, chin propped in his hand and thinking. I consider him for just a moment as I wonder what is rolling around his brain before I continue on my way. I know that it won't be long before he reveals the things that weigh heavily on his mind. For instance when he was 5, he once flooded the bathroom in an experiment meant to save water. Apparently it needed rescuing from the drain. The experiment failed as the water escaped into the laundry room downstairs.
We have also learned that batteries rust when you pull the plastic labels off of them, and once they do, they can set a Wii controller on fire. On the day that occurred, Kwiss presented me with the offending devise; holding it out at arm's length while it sparked and smoked at the connectors. Apparently, the battery had corroded to the point that some of the contents leaked out of the seal making the whole thing flammable. There was much squeaking and shouting as Kwiss hit chicken mode and I pried the battery out with a chopstick. Oddly enough, the controller survived. Go figure.
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This week's casualties:
1 Man in India- called me twice a day for a month to ask me if Dorothy Matteson is here. Cannot seem to understand the words, "You have the wrong number." Understood the word "lawsuit" just fine. Hasn't called me since.
2 Driver who got all up on me (southern for tailgating close enough to read his text messages) while on HWY 41- Ignored driver and continued at 5 miles over speed limit until I reached construction zone. I slowed to 25 mph. Driver freaked out and brained self with cell phone.


Old enough to know better, too young to give a crap

A few days ago, I turned 35. Ordinarily, I greet each birthday with nonchalance as I go on with the certainty that the change in my age will have little to do with my status in the world. For the last 14 years, I have been defined as a young, married mother of three, and as someone who defines herself within those boundaries. Most of my time is spent in the tasks of housekeeping and child rearing, with little thought to how the passage of time will change my perception of myself and my reality. Over the weekend, as I was stuck in grocery store traffic, I allowed my mind to wander far enough to contemplate my age.
To my utter amazement, I realized that a few definitions of myself had changed, quite literally, over night. For instance, if I was eaten by a bear tomorrow the newspaper reporting my demise would describe me as "a mother of three young children", rather than my accustomed "young mother of three". According to the E! channel, I am now old enough to move from the pert and perky status of "kitten" and onto the somewhat more predatory title of "cougar". And according to my OB/GYN, I have taken those first tentative steps toward the the title of "Pre-Menopausal Female". When I say something stupid, people no longer look upon me kindly and tell me that I'm too young to know better. Now I'm just a moron.
I have also achieved new status within the realm of commerce. In the 5 days since my birthday, I have been bombarded with advertisements announcing the newest technologies invented to help me fight the free radicals conspiring to destroy my skin and my precious beauty. Who are these free radicals? Are they some new kind of fascist terrorist group bent on world domination? Is there some kind of Siolent Green conspiracy I need to warn my mother about? Why is Oil of Olay the only group fighting this battle? I try not to worry. Any terrorist group that can be foiled by a heavy lotion can't be all that dangerous.
I have noticed some physical changes as well. My youngest son hugged me yesterday and informed me that my boobs smell funny when I'm sweaty. A push up bra is no longer something that enhances my cleavage, but rather an industrial strength garment I stuff my ta-tas into after I roll them up in the morning. I tried on a pair of cute low rider jeans and discovered that I could