Okay!  That's it!  With the celebration of FB's birthday (being today...I was a made a mommy 12 years ago today.  Hard to believe.  I don't feel 12 years older.  And he looks 15.  Whaddya gonna do?) the holiday food train has come to an official and complete stop.  The leftover birthday cake will be looked at longingly and sniffed heartily, but no longer will pass down my gullet.  The 4 gallons of ice cream sitting barely touched in my freezer will be touched by the children alone.  (Why four may you ask?  Because I was in the middle of the holiday food carte blanche that I extended to myself and they were buy one, get one free.  There were three flavors I HAD to have and you can't buy three gallons of ice cream when it's BOGO...you have to get four.  My logic is infalliable; don't try to debate me on this.)  So have I spoken, so shall it be.  Well, that's the plan anyway.  I've indulged to the point my body is going to demand broccoli at knife point.

I was tooling around Netflix adding more movies I have no time to watch to my queue when it struck me that Paul Walker is a fine looking man.

 Those are some awful purdy blue eyes, and I really don't care that his gorgeous teeth are capped.  It helps that he also looks like this:

Definitely would be hard pressed to kick that out of bed for eating crackers.  Of course, my heart still belongs to Mike Rowe as long as we're talking about impossibilities. I don't know if anyone can match him for sheer snark and sarcasm.  Not to mention I wouldn't get CPS called on my ass for grabbing his.

Has anyone noticed that Steven Seagal, renaissance man that he is, is still making movies despite working for a Louisiana Sheriff's department for the last 20 years?  Or was filming up until 2009?  Wanna know why you don't?  Because, although he is a great shot, speaks fluent Japanese, and is a master in several martial arts, let's face it; the man still can't act.  Wooden is an adjective that comes to mind.  Not that I still don't watch nearly everyone of his movies when they come on the tube, but still.  Can't act.  And he thinks he's the recreation of a Lama or something. (No, not llama, Lama.  He's not that nuts.) 

I'm sitting here in a post holiday funk, waiting for pizza to arrive and for a phone call from the groomers stating that I can come fetch Knucklehead McSpazatron and Crackhead.  They have been there since 1300.  Apparently, although I had an appointment, it was walk-in day at Petco and they are not allowed to turn away walk-ins despite running out of kennel room, leashes, tie rings to clip said leashes to, and a 4-5 hour wait time for scheduled appointments to be done.  I heard all this at check in.  It seems the natives were a trifle displeased with management today.  So now I'm sitting next to my cell phone, wondering if it is going to ring to come fetch them the same second that the pizza arrives, or if they can't get Crackhead cleaned up well enough because of the tsunami of spittle he has invariably filled the boutique with.  ( He tends to drool when nervous.  Looks like a Saint Bernard when he really gets going.)  As it is nearly 6 pm, I'm starting to wonder if I need to call to see if everything is alright or if they've forgotten my phone number.  And I still haven't started on FBs birthday, which is tomorrow.  Tree is still up, decorations everywhere, and family room a shambles from the daylong Xbox fest he has indulged with his friends over WiFi.   I just have to get through his birthday shenanigans and I am starting the "Campaign of Fitness."  I let myself have WAY too much leeway this holiday season, and with still not being able to run or put a lot of stress on my knee, that has resulted in some dastardly after effects.  Yeesh.  I'm going to have to cover all the mirrors in the bathroom in shame. 

Castra Praetoria: Twas The Night Before Christmapocalypse

America's 1st Sgt is serving in Bahrain these days (yes, the same Bahrain as my Bardy Hardys!) and I just had to link to his Christmas posts. They speak to me in a way nothing else would at this time of year.
(Just roll over the sentence below.  For some reason I can't get my links to highlight.  Stupid links.)

Castra Praetoria: Twas The Night Before Christmapocalypse

Makes me weep softly into my pillow in gratitude.

Here's a little PSA he posted as well:



A man after my own heart. I too may be indulging in a zombie movie or two this Yuletide evening.

Merry Christmas my loves!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!! Thank Goodnes For The Kegels...

Prenatal Pole Dancing DVD from Christina Applegate

"And the cold pole feels good on my 'rhoids."

Testosterone Poisoning Is Making My Son Retarded

The First Born has finally got his phone, DS, and computer privileges back after 2 long months.  Now, had it been me who had lost the above mentioned electronics for not turning in my homework in an expeditious (or, really, AT ALL) manner, you can bet that I would be pretty diligent about getting my little ducks in a row.  Not this yutz.  Today's homework conversation went as follows:

Me:  "Did you have homework to turn in today?"
FB:  (Looking all around, mumbling incoherently and generally irritating me) "Not really."
Me:  "What does that mean?  You either did or you didn't."
FB:  "Well, she....um...see....I didn't...um...."
Me:  "SON, did you have homework last night?"
FB  "Yes."
Me  "Did you turn it in today?"
FB  "No. She didn't ask for it."
Me:  "When she gave you the assignment, did she tell you when it was due?"
FB  "Yes."
Me  "Was it due today?"
FB  "Yes."
Me:  *crickets*  "Then you should have turned it in whether she asked you for it or not, because it was DUE TODAY."
FB:  "Oh."

What makes this conversation most frustrating is that it is not the first, or even fifty-first time we've had the same conversation, only with minor variations.

I've been making peanut butter balls because it's time to make such things.  I hate Christmas baking.  You'd think that I'd enjoy it more since it only comes around once a year, but that is not the case.  As with putting lights on the tree, I am a surly misanthrope until I get the bulk of this crap done.  Seriously, some day, I'm just going to say, "Let's go to Caymans for Christmas" just so I can enjoy this stinkin' holiday.  But my point was not to blather on about my Grinchly attitude.  That is for another post.  No, I'm still on the boy not being able to think his way out of a paper bag secondary to toxic testosterone poisoning.  I was making said peanut butter balls (you remember them?  I was talking about them right up there, see?), and dodging Labrador lips at the same time, because Crackhead hasn't yet figured out that I mean STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN when I growl it at him 25 times a minute.  Unlike Knucklehead McSpazatron, who so obediently lies by the couch and eyes me like a vulture wondering about the sick lion.  It was time to go get Spawn of Satan from the bus, so I said, "FB? I'm going to the bus stop; keep an eye on the dogs so they don't get the peanut butter balls."  As I received assurance that he would guard the peanut butter balls like his own, I went to the bus stop, which is only about 500 feet from the house, by the way.  I wasn't gone an eternity for the love of Mike!  (Mike?  Mike Rowe?  *sigh*)  SoS and I get back and the dogs are locked in the office with FB.  Ingenious!  I think.  The boy is using his noggin to make sure that the PBBs are safe!  Then I hear, "Mom?  The dogs pulled the peanut butter balls off the counter, but it's okay; I put them back."  I was greeted by a counter full of mushy, slushy, LICKED peanut butter balls.  And that child thought everything was A-OK.  I'm about to have him tested.

December 7, 1941

I am in severe lust with Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs. He's snarky, sarcastic, articulate, and has a great singing voice. Ain't bad looking either.

Wonder if I could make him leave his amazing, beautiful girlfriend to be swept off his feet by a cranky mommy of two.....

I just found out Leslie Nielsen died on Sunday...that's what I get for working so much. In my mourning, I will now watch Airplane non-stop for the next 6 hours.

The mama llama went to Idaho for Thanksgiving and, since I had to work this weekend, the boys went to stay with my niece.  The lack of children running around, combined with me leaving the house at 0600 and not returning until 2030 or there about, not to mention my overwhelming fatigue from being extremely busy and my normal status insomnia, has resulted in household goods not being put back where they normally would be.  There is clean laundry all over the coffee table, mail stacked on the kitchen table, and cedar chips from the dog houses on the deck all over the floor by the back door.  I didn't realize how far I had let things go, however, until FB came into my bathroom to say goodnight after the boys got back home tonight.  It wasn't until after he left that I hoped he's either really oblivious and/or extremely tired, because otherwise he couldn't have missed the fairly large purple penis sitting front and center on my vanity between the sinks.  Poor kid is going to have scars if he survives being raised by me.

Awesome. Awesome Day.

You ever have one of those days where your brain just can't connect the dots?  Where tasks that should be mere muscle memory become like a monkey doing a math puzzle and even those that know and love you want to call you Blonde?  Everything I did today had me feeling like a complete airhead.  I was near to asking someone to blow in my ear so I could get a fill up.  I don't know if I am more sleep deprived than usual, suffering from the effects of sunspots or incipient senility, but I had problems today. 

One of the nurses came and asked me to evaluate her patient who was a post-op C-section with calf pain.  I went to the bedside, queried where the pain was, what it felt like, if she had been wearing her TED hose and SCDs, felt for heat, unequal swelling and checked for Homan's sign.  All were negative except for pain with gentle palpation.  I looked at both of her calves and they didn't appear to be any different in size/swelling, but, being the experienced high risk obstetric inpatient nurse I am (with the certification to prove it...HA!), I measured both calves.  And I measured them again.  And then a third time.  Then I did equal measurements on both legs from ankles to knees.  Now this was a large woman.  Her calves were nearly the size of my thighs, but I knew, just KNEW she couldn't be measuring 460cm on her right leg and 420cm on her left.  They didn't look that big or that different.  So I measured again.  And got the same result.  The clinical picture didn't fit the imperial evidence.  Hmmm.  Nonetheless, I paged her physician and told him of my findings.  He said, "There is how much difference between the two?"  I repeated my findings, adding, "I measured three times.  But she has no, and I mean NO symptoms other than the slight pain. "  He said he would be down in a few minutes.  I hung up and my synapse fired. I realized that since this tape measure was different from the one I'd used for the last 12 years, something was amiss. Back I went to the room and re-measured, this time looking closely at the numbers and realizing the line for the centimeters is where the decimal point would go.  So what I was reading as 46(line)0 cm would actually be 46(point)0 cm.  Could I be a bigger asshole?  Or a bigger airhead!  I knew what I was seeing and what my brain was perceiving could not be accurate.  (lets not get into me not saying, "gee, this doesn't look like an abnormally long tape measure...say one 4 meters long.").  Holy crap.  I'm retarded.  I beat cheeks out to the phone, re-page the doc and clarify my findings.  He replied, "I was hoping you read that wrong."  He proceeded to call me "460" for the rest of the night.  There are worse nicknames, I guess.  And at least it wasn't the middle of the night that I unleashed my stupidity on him.  I still can't wait until his ass graduates in July though.

Then, I came home to find my flag wrapped around the outdoor light fixture and the pole bent, tinfoil that the dogs got out of the recycle bin in the pantry chewed up all over the carpet, and a house at 53 degrees and a non functioning furnace.  So here I sit, blogging in a house only 10 degrees warmer than the November night with the gas fireplace trying to warm my children as the emergency furnace fixer guy tries to get me heat so at least my pipes won't freeze.  Again, awesome.  Awesome day.


ADDENDUM:  That no good, lousy, waste-of-space, ain't-worth-the-powder-it-would-take-to-blow-him-to-hell, motherfucking contractor of mine screwed me over AGAIN!  There is water in the bottom of my furnace from his half assed fitting job on the vent pipes.  There's not supposed to be water in the bottom of my gas heated, electronic ignition furnace you fuckstick!!  Yet again, I have been Corey'd!  That's what I'm going to use in place of the f-bomb from now on: "Oh, Corey!"  or "mother-corey-er!"  If it wasn't worth dragging his ass to court and the ensuing fees after 8 years in this house, I'd have to do it.  Shitballs.

Once again, working in the medical field gleans a cornucopia of unusable knowledge.  We nurses were sitting around in the nurses station during a brief lull; the flurry of brand new dependents had ceased, charting was caught up, and no corpsmen had to be severely beaten around the head and neck just for the hell of it.  In short, a peaceful moment.  I was contemplating my next course of action with my patients, including how to keep a wonderful woman with a repeat c-section without Duramorph because of a "soft" morphine allergy and only marcaine and fentanyl spinal, and without a post-op PCA, from climbing the walls all night as she had to deal with that major abdominal surgery without long acting narcotics in her spinal or a button of love to push as needed when I heard, "How the hell would anyone know it was JESUS' foreskin?"  As you could imagine, my head broke the sound barrier swiveling on my neck to see just from whence came such a query.  A colleague is finishing her degree and one class, apparently, required her to investigate religious artifacts and relics and their meaning to the flock.  Why this is important in a nursing degree, I have no idea.  It seems that the Latern Basilica in Rome has the Holy Foreskin as one of its relics. During the Middle Ages there were reports of up to 18 different foreskin relics around Europe. That seems a bit much for an eight day old infant, even if he is the Son of God.  Apparently, various miraculous powers have been attributed to the Holy Prepuce including it rising into the heavens and becoming the rings of Saturn.  Also, it expands when held near a virgin.  We all began to make comments sacrilegious, blasphemous and all manner of other ous-es, until it was decided that we were getting a little off the chain.  Although, we all agreed that "hey, I have a miraculous foreskin." is the pick up line of the century, hands down.  There are pages and pages of Google results on this particular subject, so even though I haven't given the Savior's foreskin any thought at all, many people throughout history have.

In keeping with the strangeness of the topic, another colleague informed us that there is a Museum of Menstruation in Washington, DC.  The website claims, "discover the rich history of menstruation and women's health!"  No thanks, my history is more than enough.

There Aren't Enough Drugs In The World

FB's bed is a wooden captain's bed.  Loft type bed with drawers underneath; you get the picture.  Being made of wood, it squeaks with every movement and it is very apparent when the boy is restless and having difficulty settling to sleep.  The other night I was downstairs and I became aware of squeaking above me.  The squeaking had a pattern...it was rhythmic, if you will.  RHYTHMIC SQUEAKING COMING FROM MY SON"S BED.  I began to hyperventilate and turned up the volume to drown out the sound of my worst nightmare. 

A few days later my mom dropped them off and said, "I walked into the bedroom last night and I don't know what FB was doing, but he was acting awful guilty." 

I will now go to my happy place and live in a state of denial for the next 10 years.

Wowzers. I Don't Need To Think I'm Pretty That Badly....

The thing about working in labor and delivery is that we are extremely open to talking about lady parts.  And where I am now at Small Military Hospital, we talk openly about lady parts even when the poor 19 year old corpsman are around.  Hey, this openess will more than likely make them more sensitive to their future significant others' needs, so really, we are performing a community service.  Don't ask me how this came about, but one slow day we were talking and someone asked, "Well, have you seen that vulva jewelry?"   I thought she was talking about Vajazzling, which has been around for awhile, but I think is kinda dumb.  And ouchy.  But no, she was talking about this on Etsy.  Holy crap. 

From the page:

Celebrate your own beauty.  Each piece is an original, one of a kind,  hand sculpted image of its owner to remind her that regardless of what the world and the people in it may tell her: she is beautiful.

So, apparently you send this person a picture of your vulva and she makes a 1.6"x1" pendant that you can wear for a night on the town or cleaning stalls, the choice is yours.  My favorite part is where she says that if you are not comfortable sending a picture, you can just describe it.  I'm thinking anyone who is buying this hand sculpted image of their vulva to wear, isn't going to have a problem sending a picture.  And if you don't send a picture or a description "you will receive one of our beautiful flesh-toned Vulva pendants."  So you could just be walking around with some anonymous vag around your neck.  I guess that could be less embarrassing for some.  

"Is that an original, one of a kind, hand sculpted image of your vulva on a chain????" 

"Well, no, it's not my vulva.  I actually don't know to whom it belongs.  I'm just wearing it  "

One would think this page was one of those freaky one-offs that show up on Etsy every once in awhile, but as I was searching for the page to make this post I found a plethora of Etsy vulva art, arranged on one page for your convenience.

So, I survived my great Middle Eastern adventure. Not that I had concerns regarding my destination, it was more that I wondered if I could survive 18 hours in the air without hurting myself.  Or my fellow travelers for that matter.  Why do some women dress for air travel as if they are running a special on massage services at at "gentleman's club"?  I can think of nothing more uncomfortable than being wedged into a coach seat  next Skippy The Incredible Snoring Fat Man unless it was being wedged there in a micro mini, 4 inch stilettos and showing off the twins to the extent everyone knows them on a first name basis.  But that's just me.  Personally, I had on a pair of capris, a lightweight shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of Keens.  Given a chance I probably would have worn my damn jammies, but contrarty to popular belief, I do have some social graces.  The hoodie happened to be FB's because as I was scurrying around trying to get out of the house and to the hotel before the airporter left my ass (and I made it by *that* much only because I pulled in front of him and frantically waved, refusing to let him leave without me), I could not seem to locate my dignified, adultish hoodie.  I grabbed FB's and spent my trip hunkered in this thing with the punk ass graphics.  Ah well, at least I was warm on the plane.

Dana Delaney, when she was filming China Beach went to Viet Nam for a visit and said the heat "just hit you in the crotch and all you could think about was sex."  Obviously a different heat from Bahrain because that heat hit me with a full body slam and all I could think about was air conditioning.  Of which there was plenty.  Usually set at 45 degrees below the coldest place on Earth.  So, despite being in the Middle East with temperatures in the high 90s to low 100s, my punk ass hoodie and I spent some quality time together.

About a week before I came home we had gone to bed and my cell phone rang.  What?  I looked at the display and it read "FB's Middle School."  What, what what???  Answering cautiously, the man on the other end introduced himself as the 6th grade counselor and he would like to speak with me regarding FB.  I informed him of where I was and he replied, "Oh, then I will send you and email; would that be okay?" Yes, please, because this short minute is going to cost me $300 dollars.  I got up the next morning, wrestled the Nav away from the Drudge report, and logged on to my email.  6th Grade Counselor had done what he said and so I opened said email and read, "I would like to talk to you regarding FB."  That was his message in its entirety.  Unfortunately, I had gotten that much from the 14 seconds on the phone the night before.  And it's not as if I thought he wanted to discuss some other 6th grader.  I took a cleansing breath and sent a reply requesting a little more detail, if it wasn't too much trouble.  Apparently, the school was concerned regarding FB's academic progress.  When I got home this is the conversation FB and I had:

Me:  "So, how is school going since I was gone?"
FB:  "Great!"
Me:  "Good, good.  So getting your homework done?'
FB:  "Yep!"
Me:  "Getting good grades on it?"
FB:  "Yep!"
Me:  "So, no problems then?"
FB:  "Nope!"
Me:  "Your guidance counselor called me while I was gone.  Why do you think that was?"
FB:  *crickets* "I don't know."

Luckily, there is this wonderful thing in our school district called Parent Portal where you can log on to the school website and, not only see your child's assignments, but their grades as well.  And his were, in a word, DEPLORABLE!  He was getting A's in Global Adventures (sounds like something in special ed) and PE.  The rest were Cs and below including, (are you ready?  because I wasn't) an F in Language Arts.  Do you want to know how bad it chaps the ass of a mother with an English degree for her kid to get an F in Language Arts?  There isn't enough Boudreaux's Butt Paste on the planet!  Now all of these grades are the result of his lazy ass not doing, or not turning in, his homework.  His in class classwork show As; he's just being a turd.  So we had a fulfilling discussion about grades and his future (including such inspiring phrases as "I don't even care that you're crying!  You SHOULD be crying!") and he and his phone have parted ways until I see some serious improvement on them thar grades.  Jeez. 

This working thing is really puting a wrinkle in the ol' bloggin'. There are a few posts that have been running around in my head for a while, and if I don't get them down, they will just float off into the dark, cobwebby corners of my mind, and then forget it! No way I'm going over there without a MLB regulation sized bat! I went to get the Glittery Hoohah electrocuted the other day. I just realized I shouldn't call it the Glittery Hoohah, lest readers, all 2 of you, think that I've been engaging in some Vagazzling.   Fear not, friends! My September issues have not grown to such proportions that I would stick crystals on my girly parts, thereby rendering the Glittery Hoohah a GLITTERY Hoohah. I can't see where there is anything comfortable, or aesthetic really, about this for anyone. They have to get in the way. Although the dragonfly was cute. But if they are going to post pics, they might want to stick to chicks without razor burn and stubble. That's all I'm saying. Anyway, back to the electrocution.... We were well into said torture(that I willingly pay for. I know: shut up whiner), when I felt a rumbly in my tumbly. Oh, this can't be good. Really, can there be a less opportune or socially acceptable place to float an air biscuit? I think you would be more readily forgiven for cutting one loose on a first date in an enclose car, or ripping a loud one in the middle of your wedding vows than during an aesthetic procedure such as this. And due to the nature of said procedure, there is no way to tighten your cheeks to keep it in until the feeling passes. No, you lay there, praying and sweating like a supplicant in front of the volcano, promising all manner of behavioral and lifestyle changes that you don't intend to keep, if this moment will just faaaaaaddddddeeeee awaaaaaaaayyyyyy.

You may remember this post I wrote a year and a half ago. Well, look what happens afterwards:

 I was born where?!?  Yer kiddin'!

 Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were naughty, but the results are cute.

 Look at that face!  Although, that's the same look his dad gives me when he calls me a "retarded jackass." 

Those Who Cannot Remember The Past Are Condemned To Repeat It - George Santayana

It's been nine years. In the ensuing nine years, since our view of our world and ourselves changed, have we gotten a little removed from the event? Do we look on it, even in the little time that has passed, as an event as remote from our daily lives as Pearl Harbor? A tragic event that shaped us, but is so far in our history as to not effect us? I believe it continues to shape us; it's an event that causes our future to be incredibly fluid, more so than it might have been otherwise. The images from 9/11 are harsh and still shocking. Seeing them again is like being back on that Tuesday morning, in tears and shaking that such a horrific tragedy could happen. Not just here, but anywhere.

I wish they would make Ground Zero and the field outside Shanksville national monuments. I love the pictures of the twin pillars of light reaching high and brilliant into the night sky. I wish we were not violently changed nine years ago, but since that is futile, I hope we never forget.

Are You Sure This Isn't Skinamax?

I saw this on in a patient's room on network TV at 1130 in the morning. It's almost uncomfortable to watch...I kept thinking I was going to get busted for watching pr0n!

My friend posted this on FB and I had to repost it everywhere because it made me laugh. Mostly because the Cat from Hell is named Sylvester and this is the same attitude I get from him every freaking day.

First Day of School 2010 edition

6th Grade Thug Life:

When did this kid get so enormous?


2nd Grade Cuteness:

He wasn't too excited....

FB in Idaho

FB spent a week in Idaho with Fun Uncle Chris and the Best Aunt and Cousin Ever.  Reminiscent of the summers of my youth where our parents would turf us to our grandparents (11 miles from where FUC [ha!] lives now) for a few months.  There we would say goodbye to Grandma at 7 in the morning and she wouldn't see us again until dinner.  Sometimes we'd roll around for lunch and grace her with our presence and whatever smells we happen to be exuding at the moment.  We ran wild and free; fishing, swimming, biking, growing up.  So my bro sent some pictures:

They swear that's a foot and a half long corndog from the fair, but I have my doubts.  The least offensive guess I have is a deep fried Geoduck.  

FB enjoying a massive jalapeno filled hamburger. Apparently, he hammered this back along with a big order of curly fries and more than one soda.  Oh, to be a growing boy.

FB and the Cuz on the beach cruisers, preparing to ride into town.  I bit my tongue about the lack of protective headgear.  He spent the week with the Cuz (formerly known as PChinkins..now lacking the chins) riding all over the town like some pedal power bike gang.  I would like to point out that, despite FB wearing the same thing, these pictures were not taken on the same day.  And that I sent him to my brothers with more than his swim trunks and a single shirt. 

This may be the closest he came to bathing all week:

My bro assured me they were in the water everyday, and that he took that opportunity to keep FB as clean as the dog.  After his shower the night he got home I asked him how it felt to be clean and he said that he had taken a shower that morning.  When I said that was because his uncle knew better than to send him home to me without one, he replied, "Aunt Ardie wouldn't let me out of the house unless I took one first."  Which frankly, makes more sense.  My brother wouldn't have cared if the entire complement of passengers on the plane would need to be revived after being overcome by the miasma of funk from my boy, but the SIL is a little more philanthropic.

I'm not dead! I feel happy! I feeeeel haaaapppy!

No, contrary to how it appears, I have not shuffled off this mortal coil and joined the choir invisible.  It does appear that I channeling a serious amount of Monty Python, however.  I've started a new job....actually, it's the same job, it's just in a different locale, and thus entails an ass ton of different protocols, paperwork, etc, ja niin pois pain.  (That there is Finnish, is pronounced "ya neen pois pine" and means "et cetera."  I'm in a strange mood; sue me.)  More about the job later (like how I'm winning friends and influencing people, namely an anesthesiologist, by pulling an IV he didn't think was running well enough [it was BTW] after he started another one.  What?  She was an uncomplicated section.  And I hadn't had any Pepsi yet.  So I had a brain fart that would have caused even anesthesiologists that know and love me to question my skills.  Let alone one who doesn't know me from some chick off the street.  Whatev...)

Steve's biological father sent me a nice wad of cash, which he does on occasion in, what I believe to be, an exercise in redemption for being such a dick when his kids were little.  He wanted me to do something fun with the boys so I bought this:

It came in three separate boxes with a total weight of 286 pounds.  The enclosure poles alone weighed 174 pounds.  I thought I was going to rupture something dragging those suckers into the backyard.  It took me three days after work to put this sumbitch together.  The trampoline itself was no sweat; legs and frame snapped together and the mat was fairly simple as well despite 96 tension springs and "help" from an overexcited 7 year old, which resulted in some of the said springs getting hooked a little off kilter and needing to be unhooked and then re hooked in the proper place.  Do you know how hard it is to unhook a tension spring after it has found a home?  I was sweating more than  virgin in a cat house.  The enclosure poles were an exercise in torture. The bottom and top half of the poles had to be joined, then the top and bottom foam padding had to be put on, then you had to put this big, blue vinyl condom on over that, and put on these notched top caps.  (There was much weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth going on, not to mention some more blood, sweat, an inkling of tears.)   To attach the poles to the frame you had to hold these 20 pound poles about 2 and a half feet of the ground while attaching them with three U rings.  They were so kind as to include one of those cheapo, flat wrenches that are completely useless, and my children had decided to get into my socket set for some reason known only to themselves, despite threats of a fatwa if they mess with my tools without asking, and proceeded to lose the ONE socket I could use.  So, I attached all eight of these poles with a little open end wrench.  Much cussing ensued.  Senior Chief's wife called in the middle of this and when FB told her I was putting up the trampoline she asked him if he were helping or hiding in the house.  My friends know me oh so well.   And FB laughed when she asked and not because he thought she was joking.  Putting up the net involved a step ladder, bungee cords that had to be hooked to the top of each pole, weaved through the net, hooked on the frame, and then a nylon tie was wrapped around all of that, and tied on the bottom. EIGHT FREAKING TIMES!!!  Next time someone sends me a bunch of money, I'm spending it on cookies and Pepsi. 

The boys seem to enjoy it, however.

Yeah, I don't know why it's not right side up, and I'm too tired to figure it out.  Besides, keeping your brain engaged will help ward off Alzheimer's.  In parting, while I was hugging SoS goodnight he informed me that he could see down my shirt and he was lookin'.  As you see, nothing changes here.

Angel Flight

Watch through the backstory, get to the song and listen to the lyrics. With the drive to get the Runyon Creek Bridge named after Patrick, this seemed apropos.

Captain Patrick Brian Olson

Patrick was my friend Kristin's older brother. As a fairly shy transplant to North Carolina, I did not know Patrick well. But through Kristin I knew he was a great big brother. Through the friends I made that had grown up with Patrick I knew he was a generous and loving friend.

 Kristin and Patrick with their grandparents

(photo courtesy of Kristin Olson)

Patrick played football all three years of high school; a member of our celebrated "Chain Gang" who won the conference championship in 1982. (And peeps, you don't know football until you know SOUTHERN football.) He also wrestled all three years. We were a 3A school and most everybody was a multi-sport athlete. During this time, Patrick spent three years on the Student Council and in the Interact Club, as well as an officer in the National Honor Society.

(photo courtesy of Washington High School Packromak 1983

Washington, NC)

He attended the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, CO.  (Quite a climate change for a North Carolina boy!) and married the love of his life, Robin.

 Patrick and Robin, senior year

(photo courtesy of Washington High School Packromak 1983

Washington, NC)

p

(photo courtesy of Air Force Academy Heritage War Memorial site)

Patrick was a 25 year old 1st Lieutenant when he flew an A-10 in Desert Storm.  From the Air Force Academy's Heritage War Memorial site:

"Captain Patrick B. Olson died on 27 February 1991 while on a combat mission in Saudi Arabia supporting Operation Desert Storm.  Olsen was piloting an OA-10 aircraft and was directing other warplanes toward Iraqi tanks.  He had a call from Army troopers who believed Iraqi tanks were about to pull an end run on their position.  Olson threw his Warthog's 57-foot-6-inch wing almost vertical to the ground as he banked sharply to aim at the Iraqi armor.  Gunfire erupted around him and hit his aircraft.  The damage was serious and Olson tried to land the aircraft.  He was inches from putting down on a sand airfield when his OA-10 flipped over.  He did not have time to eject."  

Patrick in Saudi with what his sister called "that goofy mustache."

(photo courtesy of  Kristin Olson)

What this does not say is that Patrick flew his Warthog on one engine and no hydraulics to a friendly base and that his landing gear collapsed and the A-10 cartwheeled.

The point of this post is not only to highlight a home town hero, but also bring  a petition to your attention.  This petition was started to encourage the City Council members in Washington, North Carolina to name a new bridge on River Road after Patrick.    In the last few days, due mainly to Facebook, the number of signatures on this petition has grown from 30 to 158.   Please consider visiting the petition and adding your name.  It doesn't matter if you have no ties to Patrick, Washington, North Carolina, the Air Force, the NCDOT, or really, even me.  (I know it's hard to believe I said that, since I espouse that it is really all about me!)   Please add your signature to honor a fallen hero and to help us all remember Patrick.

I'd just like to add a commentary by one of Patrick's former squadron members from the Air Force Print News Today:

Selfless Service

Commentary by Lt. Col. Dean Lee
87th Flying Training Squadron commander

2/10/2009 - LAUGHLIN AFB, Texas -- Have you ever sat down and really thought about why you joined the military? Perhaps it was to get education benefits or to see the world. Or maybe it was to please a family member or to get away from a situation. Many join the military to gain a skill or just obtain a steady job.

Whenever I contemplate why I joined the Air Force, I think about a friend I made during my first assignment. His name was Lt. Patrick Olson, but we all called him "Oly". We both were new A-10 Pilots at Davis Monthan AFB and deployed to fight in OPERATION DESERT STORM. On one particular mission during the second day of the ground war Oly, a forward air controller, was calling in fighters to attack the hasty Iraqi evacuation out of Kuwait. I still remember that day.

The weather was cold and there was an overcast deck about 3000 feet above the ground. Oly had to fly in and out of the clouds to spot the enemy movement then pass the information to the fighters. One of the times when Oly dove below the clouds, enemy artillery lit him up and shredded his A-10. Oly was able to maneuver the jet back into the clouds and egress towards friendly lines. He had so much battle damage to his jet that he had to fly on one engine and the third backup flight control system.

He successfully maneuvered the crippled jet back to a friendly base, but he was unable to adequately control the jet during the landing and was killed in the crash. "Oly" will always be remembered for giving his life preventing hundreds of Iraqis from escaping Kuwait.

But the thing I will always remember about Oly was how much he loved serving his country. When they recovered his personal effects, they found an American flag in his G-suit pocket. He flew every single mission with that flag in his pocket to remind himself of who he was serving. To say the least, Oly personified our slogan of "Service before Self".

Ever since Oly's crash, I have always carried a flag in my G-suit pocket when I fly partly in respect for my long lost friend, but also to remind me of why I continue to serve in the military. Some days I forget and view my service as work, or just a job.

But I try to remember that we are "serving" in the military, not just "working" in the military. Oly served his country, and I want to be like him. Though you and I might not be flying combat missions everyday or heralded as heroes, I do think we can re-orient our perspective to remember why we are serving our country.

Because in reality, America is relying on us. We are public servants and have the privilege to serve. The next time we contemplate why we joined the military; let's remember heroes like Oly who gave their all so we could have so much. Whatever your reason for joining the military, Let us all unite as we provide "Service before Self".


(Patrick was posthumously promoted to the rank of Captain.)   

What's this?  Oh, this is where the microwave used to be.  Yeah, don't worry about that.

What?  Oh, this is just the scorched and blackened interior of the microwave.  No need to worry.

Yeah, this is just a continuation of the previous photo.  Heed it no mind.

That?  That's just the round plastic thingy (it's an industry term) that the glass plate for the microwave is seated on.  Why does it look like a charred marshmallow?  Well, it's a funny story.

I came home from work yesterday and, as I hit the door, I thought, "Something smells like it burnt." I came in the house and my dear babysitter greeted me with what has become her standard mantra: "The only thing that happened today was....(insert minor catastrophe here)."
Apparently, contrary to my strict orders and house rules, SoS decided to make popcorn by himself. Unfortunately, because he is not allowed to do this, he is unaware of the existence of the handy-dandy "popcorn" button, that enables you to push/cook/done. He put it in for, what he assured me, was "74." Seconds, minutes, hours, months, who knows, but 74 was the magic number. The babysitter told me she cleaned it out as best she could, and despite the molten mess in the bottom, "I put the plate back in and turned it on and it still works." I could win an Olympic medal in keeping my countenence as my brain screeched, "You turned ON the fire damaged microwave???" Teenagers. What are ya gonna do? As soon as she left, I broke out the screwdriver, removed the microwave and escorted into the garage. While my house no longer has "eau de Yellowstone wildfire" wafting through it, the garage is heady with the scent. I left this morning with instruction that the boys were not to touch the microwave. Nor were they to hammer, dissasemble, drop, kick, smash, crash, mutilate, or staple it.

So this afternoon I was greeted with, "the only thing that happened was FB put the wrong soap in the dishwasher and there were bubbles everywhere. No water, just bubbles. But I cleaned it up." It's going to be a long summer.

This is the sweet art project my son did.  He's a lover.  He's also the one who, yesterday, did this:

SoS: "Grandma!  Smell my hand!" (holds closed hand up to her face)
My Unwitting Mother: "What did you get into?"  (as she smells his hand)
SoS: "I FARTED!"  (laughs maniacally)
MUM:  "Why would he do that to his Grandma?"
Me:  "Because he knew his momma wouldn't fall for that."


He is also getting even more obsessed with boobs, if that is humanly possible.  We were snuggling on the couch, one of his favorite activities, when he looked at me and said, "Mom, I love you."  Having said that, he then put a hand on each side and squished my boobs together.  "What are you doing?"
"I like the way that looks."   Yeah, well, you need to keep your paws off my person.  Conversations about appropriateness ensued.

Yesterday, I came to  understand how some parents cross the line.  That line that separates discipline from abuse.  It's because SoS has developed this habit of, how should I put it to not offend any one's sensibilities and to portray the true nature of his crime... he's been, well, FUCKING PISSING ON MY CARPET!  Now, I have no idea if this is defiance, laziness, or a feeling of Lebowski simpatico with El Duderinio in our house, but it's ridiculous and needs to stop.  He's done it several times and each time, it ends with tears and promises of not doing it again and GROUNDING, SEVERE, SEVERE, GROUNDING!!!!  Last night I went in to check on him, as I knew he was probably reading instead of sleeping and, just as I opened the door, I heard the ending stream of pee hitting his carpet.  FLAMES!  SHOUTING!  FEELINGS OF INSANITY!  Seriously, I wanted to play handball with his head and then throw him through a wall.  As it was, I jerked everything out of his room, off his bed and made him clean his carpet while I stood over him like a Centurion overseeing a slave on a Roman ship. All I would have needed was a cat o' nine tails.  What could possess someone to start something like this at 7 1/2 years of age??  Except being possessed, of course.  I went in to his room  after he cried himself to sleep (while I'm in my room thinking, "Good! You should cry yourself to sleep!"  Not my finest moment.), and I marveled at how I could love someone so much and want to beat them all week long at the same time.  He will be the death of me, I'm almost sure of it.


Ever have a friend of your kid's that you just can't take?  When my brother was in middle school my dad hated  two of his friends; he thought they were little junior criminals.  As it turns out, my dad is a psychic genius, because those two yahoos are in prison right now.  FB has this friend that just seems to rub me the wrong way.  He's a sweet kid, really, and polite..almost too polite.  Almost, but not quite broaching that Eddie Haskell level of obsequiousness that turns adults stomachs as he tries to weasel his way into their good graces.  Of course, the kid is only 11; give him time, he may reach the zenith of Haskell-ness.  He's very imaginative and loves to relay his stories in great detail.  Like, constantly.  At some point, this kid needs to take a breath.  And he really needs to stop showing up at my door at 8 in the morning. 

Apparently, In My House Swimming Is A Blood Sport As Well

Enjoy the Fireworks

Fortes et Liber

I got my laptop FIXED!!  Booyah!  Well, let me put a qualifier on that.  My AC jack is now fixed.  The laptop itself is still slower than the second coming due to the extraneous crap that is bogging it down  like so much sludge in the bottom of the septic tank that is my processor.  And no, it's not porn.  Just in case you were wondering.  The Dell tech came to my house to fix it, which is always a little strange for me, despite knowing they are bonded.  This doesn't mean they can't snap does it?  Almost made me want to carry my industrial strength pepper spray in my back pocket when he showed up.  He called and asked if it were okay if he were here between 10 and 11 am.  I said it would be, but that I had a dental appointment at noon.  At 11:30 he shows up, because he had been "stuck in traffic."  Yeah, like I've never used that excuse before.  I figured it shouldn't be a problem, because, hey!  How long can it take to replace a motherboard?  Apparently, longer than the 20 minutes he had before I had to leave.  As he sat puttering around with his anti-static bracelet at my kitchen table, I was suffering paroxysms of anxiety to the point I had to run to the bathroom six times due to nervous pee.  At noon (you know, the time I was supposed to be checking in) I checked to see where he was.  As he was putting the keyboard back on, I called the dentist's office and told them I would be 5-10 minutes late.  No prob.  Except, when I hung up, I remembered I lived 10 minutes away.  Crap.  So I said to the Dell man, "I'm actually late for an appointment; would it be okay for me to leave you here and you just leave when you're ready?"  He looked at little taken aback and said, "Well, yes, if you're comfortable with that."  I thought to myself, "the kids are in daycare, the dogs are outside, if you find anything you want to steal, I'm sure my homeowners (and DELL) will be willing to cover it."  So I buzzed my ass right on out of there.  It wasn't until I was breaking the sound barrier on the highway that I realized he could very well be trying on my panties.  Or, barring that since he was a big, fat man, sniffing them.  ACK!  What the hell, I'll just do a shit ton of laundry when I get home.

I have been slightly remiss in my bi-yearly dental appointments.  I was sure it had been at least a year since I had last darkened the door of TM, DDS.  And then, my little white-girl-with-dreadlocks-tooth-fairy-helper informed me that we hadn't done xrays since 2005.  Erm...then when was the last time I was in here?  2006???!!!????  Holy crap!  It's not like my dentist is this guy:


I had to endure much chastising from the Hygienist of Guilt, about how it would probably take more than one appointment to clear the gunk off my teeth, and I shouldn't be surprised if my mouth was completely fucked up, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Ha!  Little did she know, I am blessed with the ability to bullshit my way through a concept paper 15 minutes before it's due, and the teeth of a goddess; no matter how much I ignore the "floss twice daily" command.  She was praising my dental hygiene so much, I thought there should have been a choir of angels behind her.

I've been on vacation the last week..not that we went anywhere.  Originally, I had taken the time to go to my father's family reunion.  Which they have every FREAKING year.  Really?  A year isn't enough time for me to miss them that much.  And before someone comes down on my ass about being a cold hearted bitch, not that I'm denying it AT ALL, you have to understand my dad's family reunions.  He, his remaining brother, and his sisters (who can't spend  three days together without getting a tad..um..cranky with each other) sit around and tell the same stories.  At one time, like 30 years ago, my cousin and I decided that we should assign each story a number and then they could just call out the assigned number and we could get the reunion over in half the time.  Good, yes?  The last three years the reunion has taken place in a YMCA camp a few hours away from Denver.  The family got a deal if we committed to three years.  Unfortunately, Colorado suffered from an infestation of the Pine Boring Beetle, or some other damn boring insect, that killed all the trees at this camp.  Beautiful vista?  Not so much.  50 acres of kindling, that's what we have here.  Not to mention, we sea level dwellers find it difficult to perfuse anything at that altitude. Lungs, brain tissue, heart, it's all cyanotic.  So I spent my time forcing my offspring to help me get below the first level of grime/detritus in the house.  Yay!  Who needs Disneyland?  We have Baseboardland!  And Swiffer-up-the-animal-hair-ville. Whee!

Today, to celebrate my last day on vacation, I mowed the lawn and then decided to clean my couches.  I have leather couches, just like I have leather interior in the Planet Killer, because I have children and dogs.  And children.  Easy clean up and usually no staining, even when it's black Sharpie marker.  And yes, I know that from experience.  I usually have a pretty practical eye when it comes to furniture and furnishings.  I knew, for example, when I married the hubster one of the first things that had to go was the pedestal kitchen table with the 800 pound glass table top that was secured with 4 little suction cups.  I knew this because I got pregnant about 14 seconds after we got married.  All it would take is the curtain climber crawling up on that thing and presto!  Flounder baby!  Unfortunately, I have periods, as we all know, where I am freaking RETARDED!  What kind of carpet do you want in your new house?  How about oatmeal colored Berber?  Yeah!  That will be great, especially when I add two kids, two dogs, a cat, and everything that comes with them.  Same with the couches.  Did I get brown?  Did I get black?  You know those colors that would hide crayon, Sharpie, DIRT?  No, I got Oyster Shell.  Oyster Shell is a cream color with a hint of a pinkish tinge.  Just the thing for a family.  And it's not like these are couches that are in the rarely used living room that one might sit on twice a year.  No, these are the couches that have been lived on, slept on, eaten on, you name it.  You wouldn't think it would be hard to pick the right kind of couch for the right kind of situation.  You know what I'm saying:  don't buy a microfiber couch if you plan to have sex on it; don't buy an Oyster Shell colored couch if you plan to take it off the showroom floor.  Anyway, I'd been thinking that I should clean these suckers for some time, but I was stopped by, well, sheer laziness, really.  It's a pain in the ass to clean these sonsabitches.  One is 8 feet long with recliners on both ends, the love seat is regular size with recliners as well, and they are kind of poofy with the cushions.  Makes them comfy to sit/sleep on, but, seriously, pain in the ass to clean.  To make this easier, I decide to use the Kirby vacuum.  It is an extravaganza of attachments.  I'm almost sure it could launch the space shuttle if I hooked up the right tube/handle/head. I slathered the couch with leather cleaner, started up the upholstery cleaner head and Great Hera's Ghost!  The filth!  I'm almost inclined to let friends and relatives know they should get swabbed for MRSA!  How the hell did these things get so disgusting.  Apparently, I have macular degeneration. 

Michael-The-Extremely-Gay-Hairdresser decided that he liked the blond highlights in my hair, and so he decided to make me ALL blond.  Wowzers.  I feel downright Barbie-ish.  Good thing I'm so down to earth, otherwise it might go to my head.  I'd buy a condo, a corvette, and start having an unfulfilled relationship with a sexually ambiguous metrosexual.

Michael has quite the menagerie in his backyard.  I noticed a Stellar Jay and the following conversation ensued:
Me:  "That's a huge Jay!"
MTEGH"  "Yeah, I call him BJ.  BJ bobs up and down.  And he comes when I call him.  He can swallow one nut while holding another in his mouth."
Me:  *snicker* *snort* *choke* *snerk*

Didn't Know Longboarding Was A Bloodsport Didja?

And this is just the tip of the iceberg.  This is without the road rash on his side, forearm, elbow, hand, knee and shin.  Go big or go home as I always say.

What Did We Do? Is Our Town Bad? What Have We Done?

Yes! Two, count 'em, TWO days of sun and above 60 degrees! w00t!

Light Posting Haiku

Broken Laptop waits quietly
Useless with no way to charge
I sulk

Out of warranty
Expensive daycare
Damn frugality

Dell IT help
Indian accent
pushing upgrades

Extended warranty
On credit account
Need new motherboard crap


Horrible flop sweat
Waiting for tech to come
I hate desktop

Want my wireless life back
Missing my laptop motherfucker
I sulk

Dear OB triage patients: If you have sex in the morning, at some point the after effects will leave your body. This is normal. One would have thought this is something that would have occurred to you, at least after the very first time you had sex, if not before 24 weeks in your gestation. Please do not be surprised when we tell you it isn't amniotic fluid; but fluid filled with flagellates. And please stop bringing your flagellates to my attention because I just see that as bragging that you're getting some and it makes me jealous. Which will cause me to say snarky things at the nurses station. I'm just sayin'.

If Blogger decides that it actually is going to work tonight, this is a video of FB's belt test in Tae Kwon Do. He had to break board with three different kicks; so of course the only video I get of him is on the board he needed two tries to break. He usually breaks on the first kick in class, so naturally he requires two kicks in front of a Grand Master judge. (And no, it wasn't Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five. Although, how cool would that be?)

Speaking of FB: Every year his school has a science fair. All students are encouraged to participate, but 5th graders are required. They know from the beginning of the year that this is something they must do. FB, being his father's son, decided on a project about a month before it was due. He decided to throw paper airplanes through a fire and see how long it would take for them to catch fire. Was this an approved topic? He assured me it was. Is your teacher nearing retirement? He didn't understand the question. I bought the requisite tri-fold presentation board for him to begin preparing. A week later I found it behind his door, bent with holes from the door stop. He started his presentation on Word like so: "Question: I wonder what would happen if I threw a paper airplane through a fire? Hypothesis: I believe it would catch fire and burn down to ashes. Because paper catches fire easily." Oh, so this is the "No Shit, Sherlock" science fair. I harangued him in my maternal manner, "What kind of paper are you going to use? What style of airplane? What are the variables going to be?" His answer to everthing: "I know. I will. I am." etc., etc., ad infinitum. Two days (yes, I said TWO DAYS) before his project is due, he and his friends are outside with a pie plate full of debris, lighting it on fire, and throwing paper airplanes through it. Acrid smoke is billowing through the neighborhood because they have picked fresh cedar boughs to try to alight. After many failed attempts to get these planes to light, I asked him if he knew what his problem was. He decided that maybe he needed a bigger fire (oh, yeah, I'm sure the neighbors are on board with that). The hemming and hawing went on for several minutes before I pointed out that his hypothesis was wrong because the planes had too much velocity to ignite just flying through the flames. He concurred and the night before the science project was due he used black duct tape to patch his presentation board, cut out the sentences from what he printed from Word, and .....that was pretty much it. I figured, live and learn, he'll see what his effort bring him. What I forgot is the whole "don't crush their little spirits" attitude of this school, because they gave him a "B". A freakin' "B"!! Although he only got half credit on presentation, organization and some other "tion" that escapes me right now. I asked if he were okay with his presentation. He said yes. I pointed out the 50% scores. He said, "But I got a good grade." I then waxed poetic, and apoplectic truth be told, on effort, work ethic and values of grades. The words "half assed" may or may not have been bandied about; I can neither confirm or deny. The end result is, he now knows that a hard earned, worked your ass off "C" will triumph over a half assed "B" any day in this house. Hard as it is to be the daughter of a nurse, being the son of a woman raised by an engineer is probably much worse.


SoS had a book report that required him to build a "riddle vest." What the hell? Does no one do normal things anymore? Then again, how much did I enjoy handwritten, stand in front of the class book reports when I was in first grade? Or, you know, ever? So, he did his book report on anteaters. He was very cautious about his clues because he didn't want to give it away on the first one

  Yes, he chose "It eats termites" because "It eats ants" would have been such a gimme.  After the class guesses what it might be, he gets to turn around and show the answer

And that there, as I'm sure you will agree, is an accurate depiction of a giant anteater.  The hearts connotate his love of the aforementioned termites.


We were in the car this afternoon when a song by The Police came on. FB, being my son, was immediately reminded of a quote from a cartoon.
FB "Cheese it, it's the FUR."
Me: "I think you mean the FUZZ."
FB: "Oh, yeah. Cheese it, it's the Fuzz."


Speaking of this afternoon, I had to rush out from work to get my mammy's grammed. This place makes me a little nervous as they are the biggest bunch of Boob Nazis I've ever met. The first time the gave me shit about how they recommend that a baseline be done at 35 and not 40, despite no literature to support that recommendation and my lack of access to a time machine to transport me back to my 35th year. Yeah, well, I'm not 35, so I hope you can adjust and move on. Then they hassled me about skipping a year. I argued with them for a little while that I was 40 at my baseline and now (at the time) I was 41 which is NOT skipping a year. Until I realized that since I was only 2 weeks away from turning 42 that I technically had skipped a year. I was due in February, so I was wondering what kind of mayhem was going to ensue from that. What with them getting all up in my business about my menstrual cycle, birth control preferences and family history, they were too busy to notice that I was a little late. Then she asked how often I did self exams. And, just like when the dentist asks how often I floss, I laughed at her. Why do you force me to lie to you? We both know that even if I say "every few months" it's a giant falsehood. I check my scrub pockets for pens every day I work, isn't that enough? It's pretty vigorous. C'mon. And can I just say, what the hell? It's the 21st century. We should have flying cars, fetal monitors that actually work, and a better way to do this test. And one that doesn't require jewelry removal, because that shit itches.

I got a phone call from my neighbor inuring as to whether I had gotten a new dog, or if everything was all right at my house, becuase there was a lot of continuous barking. It seems dear Dude, likes to while away the hours while I'm at work, by giving voice to whatever thought enters his head. Uh oh. I went to my neighbor across the street, he of the long time dog ownership, to see what he thought of bark collars. When I mentioned that Dude was apparently, a little loud, he nodded and said, "Yeah, we were wondering if we should talk to you about it." Oh great! I'm THAT neighbor! The one with the dog you just wish would shut the FUCK UP! Like the dog that used to bark at my dad when he pulled into the driveway, of OUR house after a long day of work. Stand in front of his dog house and bay at my father in his own driveway. My father enjoyed this so much he started carrying one of the BB guns in the car and peppering the ground around it until it went into it's doghouse. Got to where Puppy (that was the name of this full grown dog, Puppy) would hear the ol' VW sqaureback pullin' in and would go into his house until my dad was in ours. I don't want to be that neighbor. So, I hope the collar is working, but no one has been around when I am to ask. But, no phone calls, or "courtesy" visits from the county sheriff, so I guess no news is no jail time.

Cartman Cracks Me Up

Argh!

I just found out Godsmack and Shinedown are going to be at Pain in the Grass this year! And Iron Maiden and Alice in Chains are coming this summer!11!11!!1!Eleventy! And there is no way I have the time/money/babysitter to see all, or any, of these. Argh!

I was talking to Bad Daddy at work today about when to buy my ticket for my grand Middle Eastern extravaganza. Being of Middle Eastern descent and traveling to and fro as he does, he should know, yes? I explained that if I buy now and the prices go down, I'll be pissed. If I wait and the prices go up, I'll be pissed. Basically, I'll be pissed. When he found out how much the ticket is his advice was to buy it as I wouldn't find a better price. So, I guess I'm buying a ticket. Now I just have to figure out if I want to be extremely cranky at the beginning of my flight (very, very AM departure)or at the end (very, very, PM arrival the next day). What the hell, I'll be in the air and on the ground for layovers for 22 hours; I don't think cranky is avoidable. Firetruckin' be-yotch, anyone?

It's been hard for we poor PacNWsters since someone seems to have forgotten to dial the thermostat back from winter. Sitting at a nice 56 degrees for a June 10 kind of puts our knickers in a twist. Some adventurous soul decided he was going to glean whatever UV rays might be fighting through the overcast skies and rain showers today on our scoot-ward home from the daily grind. I saw him in my rear view mirror in his bright red convertible with the top down. (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, dude; have you seen the weather?) Hey, more power to you. He then pulled alongside me at the stop light and, from my vantage point high upon the Planet Killer, I glanced over. As I am sure we are all wont to do. AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH! He had his shirt off! And he had moobs! Big, giant, MOOBS!! With nippies the size of manhole covers! Resting on his hairy beer gut! ARGH!

I was in Al's picking up a little of the moo juice (de-fatted and organic of course; there are more than enough hormones and cases of precocious puberty running amok in this house, thankyouverymuch!) and I noticed the turtledove cooings of a couple following me around the dairy case. Hey, young love. They can't help it if that kind of stuff makes me want to regurgitate a dinner from last year; I'm just not squishy like that. I grab the chalk water (so called by my father, the son of a dairy farmer, who still speaks fondly of ladling the cream off the top of the raw milk on the farm and eating it on his cereal) and come face to face with a, surprisingly, older woman and, what can only be described as Sasquatch's little brother. ARGH! Muscle shirt with an insulating layer of back/arm hair to keep him comfy in this inclement weather! ARGH! Get that guy some wax! A laser! Some Nad's!
Speaking of Nad's; Is it me, or is that the worst product name ever? Reminds me of the boys' inter-mural football team of our brother dorm my frosh year of college. Called themselves "The Nads" and gave some bullshit explanation of the name to circumvent the morality police (private religious university, remember} and then we all stood on the sidelines cheering, "Go Nads! Go Nads!" We were sooooo street!

Posting may be light until I get the laptop back from the emergency room. The AC jack problem ceased to be a problem. In fact, it ceased all together. I may need sedation until I get it back. It was and adventure trying to keep FB from turning reading my one of my least appropriate stickers on the way to the fix-it store. Namely, the hand in a peace sign with "Fuck Off And Die" written on the fingers. I'm such a good mom.