On Comments, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen

A number of you -- oh, why am I being modest? HUNDREDS of you -- have written to complain that you cannot post comments and also to wonder why your name is not in my "People I Have Knewn" listing.

My advice to you: Be patient. My strategy will work. It's working now, actually; it just doesn't look like it. You must trust in me. You must trust that I have your best interests at heart. Even though you tell me what you want, and tell me clearly, I know better. You think you want your name on the list now. You have a perfect right to express yourself. I hear you, but I know better.

Sound familiar? I learned that argument from our president. Oh, I hate that guy. He goes to Australia and touts democratic ideals, I read. Democratic ideals? This from a man who has flouted our own laws, abused his power, quashed our freedoms.

OK, calm down, calm down. Pop a couple pills. Breathe deeply. Relax.

Now, about comments. I believe you may post comments by clicking on "O (or some other number, but probably 0) Comments" at the bottom of each post. I am currently allowing anyone to comment, but that may change if any naughty comments are left. Also, I think you can sort of subscribe to My Little Farm by clicking on the Atom link wherever it appears. It connects you (I think) to the RSS feed.

I think of so many things to write about while I'm doing other things. Then when I sit in front of the computer they flee like lemmings. You can actually see them exiting my head, like dandelion fluff. Here's one that remains however:

I was taking a driver safety class for older people (for the record, I was the youngest person there) and I took an instant dislike to the instructor. He had the annoying habit of posing questions then adopting this smug smile that says, wordlessly, "It's a simple answer, but you'll never get it." He also kept turning to one of the two men in the class for confirmation or elaboration, as though we women weren't on his level. But what really got my goat was when he mentioned that my dark-colored glasses frames were of the type that used to be referred as "birth-control glasses."

Meaning what? That they're so ugly no man could see past them to the fabulously sexy body beyond?

I was stunned but, of course, commented mildy, "They didn't work."

Which got a laugh, but if there had been a scimitar within reach, class would have been quickly at an end while everyone except me searched for a box and ice to pack his severed penis in and called 911 and asked for the mini-limb-reattachment squad.

Oh, the wrath of a woman scorned.

Yesterday I was filling out an online application to work at Staples (I am panicking at my lack of income) and one of the statements I had to agree or disagree with read: "I say whatever is on my mind."

Most people who know me will strongly disagree with my answer, which was "strongly disagree." Contrary to popular opinion, I repress SO MUCH of what I am thinking that I have to have several nightmares a night to compensate.

Wouldn't it be fun to say whatever is on my mind? Take the example of the driver safety instructor. The above scene would be rewritten:

Instructor: "We used to call those 'birth-control glasses.' "

Me: "You stupid f***-wad. Shut the f*** up. Who's your supervisor? I'm going to get you f***ing fired!"

Harsh, but probably more healthful for both of us.