Aw, crap.

 

My christmasy intentions were left in the dust. I wanted to post the "official" photo of Little O and Santa, but we still haven't picked it up. Quite frankly, I doubt ole Santa is going to look any LESS like he's been given a valium latte to keep him from running out the door screaming at the teeming hordes of children crawling over him.

Oh, did I forget to mention where this photo was taken? Only the happiest place on earth...Okay, the happiest place in Stockton...That's right! Hometown Buffet. I want to be tranked to go there. If Wal Mart SERVED food in an all you can eat manner, the people would be better behaved than 85% of the patrons at Hometown. My kids and my mother in law love it. Could you stab me in the eye with a fork as you clear my table? Thanks, that'd be great.

************************************

On a side note, my folks gave me slippers that are photo-sensitive and light up at the toes in the dark(like tiny headlights). I wore them home and we had to stop by the store for bread on the way. The crackhead in front of Smart foods about lost his MIND over my slippers.

I love my town.

Christmas Party 2008:

Score! Two weeks pay, hopefully in time to pay PG&E so we can crank the heat guilt free this month!

I love our Uber boss, and his crazy Christmas party antics. I did not have to sing this year, OR (shudder) do the running man, like other people did!

Luv My O's

 

And I love that they love each other.

Little O wasn't feeling good, and my MIL had jst discoverd a CD of Spanish Christmas Carols and had turned it up (in the middle of the new Muppet Christmas special!) Little O had tried valiantly to listen to her grandma's music, but my little one speaks no spanish, and was trying to be subtle about watching the muppets on the sly. I asked Big if he'd let her sit on his lap so they could both hear the muppets, and he opened his arms without complaint.

I think I'm getting old, because I got all teary eyed seeing them snuggled down on the chair. Maybe I'm just afraid they end up like Mrs. g's kids, distant and feuding in my old age. But it was a sweet moment and if you do not own a digital camera, go buy yourself one and throw it under the tree--Worth every penny.

Do Books (and Christmas Ornaments) scream?

My heart, she hurt when I threw the ick covered box into the dumpster when we moved.

In large part it was very liberating to throw out a lot of useless shit that had accumulated in the course of ten years in this town. But what a mistake it was to ever put anything into that back shed, where, as it turned out, cretins and critters ruled.

Anything of any possible monetary value was stolen, so many times that I stopped putting locks on the door. We used a What Would Jesus Do bracelet to keep it closed, but the thugs never really got the irony. Eventually all that was left was the Christmas box from hell, waaay too much stuff from the house to ever be used in our tiny duplex, and heavier than cement shoes to try to move--so I never did. Shall we talk about the books? Oh my dear lord, my books. The thugs saw no value in my books, and again, just not a lot of space to store things, so they stayed in the shed.

When it came time to move, I couldn't even look at the Christmas things that had been chewed and, um, otherwise touched by mother nature. I had the Honey's best friend, Tim, just load it into a trip for the dump. If I had not used it or seen it in 5 years, would I really miss it? I do. I find myself hunting for decorations I loved, that are lost--was it in that box, or did I let the Ex have it? Dammit.

I could not bring myself to have Tim take the two boxes of books. I salvaged the fairy tales, but the box of books that smelled like cinnamon and sugar and sweet, sweet lasagna were doomed. They had been "visited" so thoroughly that I would never have brought them into my kitchen. So I sucked it up and tossed that box into the dumpster I had gotten for just such decisions.

Of course the fucking box burst open and all of my babies were exposed, staring at me as I abandoned them to larger critters and more destruction. I almost dove back in for my Cookwise, by Shirley Corriher. I mean literally, it had me hopped up on the edge, teetering, about to save at least ONE of my fortune in books, purchased with a discount I'll never have again. The guy pulling around the corner in his bass-thumping Honda snapped me out of it, and I hopped back down and walked away. Their tiny booky screams were only in my head. (right?)

I'm not so much a cook as I am a baker...Shirley is releasing Bakewise this year. I can hear it calling to me. Do I really envision spending money I could spend on Sci-Fi on a baking book, when I already own so many? Probably not. Probably. Not. I think.

Am I just getting old?

My sense of humor has always been slightly off track from that of most people. It's another thing I owe to my father's black humor, I suspect.

So I think I know where they were going. I can just envision the meeting, possibly over some sort of alcoholic beverage, where someone tossed out the phrase and got a big laugh.

But in the hungover light of day, didja STILL think it was a clever and socially acceptable Christmas promo (to run for weeks) to be talking about giving presents from Santa's Swollen Sac(k)?


************************************

I know the Illinois Governor is a scandal of pretty epic proportions, but why is no one talking about This???

So we have a sleazy politician (gasp!) selling himself and his influence? Well I never...Oh, no wait, 80% of America already assumes that happens.

But the Department of Defense KNEW that Roadside IEDs were going to be an issue before we went, and even after we SENT kids over, did nothing to attain the basic things already available to keep them safe?
WHY IS NO ONE GOING TO JAIL FOR THIS SHIT?
This is directly responsible for lives lost, and we're all going to shrug like it's another $30,000 toilet seat? Those crazy kids in government...

On a related note, did anyone read the artcle in Rolling stone that in addition to his investment banking background that everyone mentioned, the guy Dubya put in charge of the Big Fat Bailout has worked for Dubya before... wait for it...

He was in charge of the independent contractors rebuilding the infrastructure in Iraq! And now he's overeeing $700 billion of your money! Hooray! Hey, maybe he could get Brownie a job...just to clinch the deal. Good job, Brownie.

(Um, I'd post a link to the RS story but while I am fighting insomnia here, I am waaaay too fucking lazy. I still get actual paper magazines sent to me, delivered by fossil fuel burning vehicles. I know, bad californian.)

I love reading the things GI Kate posts. They break my heart, but I just don't understand why more of this isn't in the headlines. (I stole the link to the DoD stuff from her.)

Weds Hero

Spc. Jonnie L Stiles
38 years old from Highlands Ranch, Colorado
769th Engineer Battalion, Louisiana Army National Guard
November 13, 2008


Louisiana National Guard spokesman Maj. Michael Kazmierzak said Spc. Jonnie L. Stiles had been serving as a gunner on a Humvee doing route clearance when and IED detonated near his vehicle in Jalalabad, Afghanistan. He said the job typically involves checking roads for bombs and insurgents.

Stiles' wife, Launa, said that he was nearly killed last month when a suicide bomber blew up a military vehicle in front of his. She said he was still able to rescue three other soldiers and returned to duty before his 30-day recovery period was finished.

"He was strong and really cared for his men," she said.

Stiles was born in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, and graduated from Littleton High School in Colorado. He served in the military for 17 years, first joining the Marines and then switching to the Army in 1999. He served three years at Fort Carson, left the Army and then returned as a member of the Colorado Air National Guard in the Summer of 2007.

All Information Was Found On And Copied From MilitaryCity.com

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

This post is part of the Wednesday Hero Blogroll. For more information about Wednesday Hero, or if you would like to post it on your site, you can go here.

the prehistoric birds and petrified bees

So I can blog now about the big event in Big O's life two weeks ago.

 

He asked a girl to the movies.

 

Ultimately, she said no, but this opened up a whole new world of issues I thought that I had a few years to prep for.

 

On Sunday I finally broached the subject with him, that maybe thirteen is a little young for a one on one date.  Maybe a group thing would be more age appropriate.  My punk-ass son smirked at me and said that times change, and maybe when (dinosaurs roamed the earth) I was a kid that was the case.  He didn't actually use the dinosaur line, but it was all there in his smirk. 

 

It's ON.

 

For his insolence he's getting the sex talk from his MOTHER.  Are there photos on line of horrible venereal disease rotted penises (Penii?) somewhere online?  Maybe I'll give him a box of condoms in his stocking.  There were kids having sex in junior high twentymphmph years ago when I went.  I am fully aware that it happens.  But I can't think of a better eeww factor than having your mom talk about it.  With pictures.  (I think even I would have to draw the line at demonstrating how to put one on.  Not yet.  Not at thirteen.) 

I am a dork, but it's genetic.

I may have mentioned once or twice that I am a Daddy's girl. I adore my mother, too, but in my manic-spastic-creative frenzies, I am my father. I channel my mama-san when we get down to the nitty gritty, and I want it done right. My dad is the supreme idea guy. They both have big gnarly brains, a fact that I am eternally grateful for, but they channel their energies differently.

My love of all things cheesy and over the top?

My dad.

I am working on a project that may or may not pan out for Christmas. Trying to respect the poverty and still give gifts I think are neat--meh, so far it's a maybe. But it involves a lot of felt. Little O positively swooned when she saw all of the scraps I was setting aside.

After promising not to cut off her sable locks with her safety scissors, she was given the bag to rifle through and cut up to her heart's content.

These are the very first thing she came up with, and while I loved her family of eternally resilient paper goldfish, these are my new favorite thing in the world:





She made little felt fingers. The colors kinda make them look like zombie fingers, don't they, Gretty?

I am soooo putting these at the top of ribbons and giving my parents bookmarks for Christmas. Maybe we'll write "You are here" on the ribbon.

The Honey thinks I've gone insane. He doesn't get how beautiful and sooo very genetic these fingers are. I think I am raising my kid right. Ten kinds of awesome in a six year old's brain.

Love my O's.

Facebook Photos!

Oh, my stars. The scandal of posting old high school photos on Facebook.

Luckily I only had three friends that I hung out with, so I have photos of other people, they do not, thank you tiny baby jeebus, have photos of me in full Duran Duran mode. Again, thank you tiny baby jeebus.

See? In the long run it pays to be socially retarded in high school...

Of Legalities and Please and Thank You.

I was the mellow kid in my family.

 

My brother was the emotional one.  Not a see-saw kind of emotional, but he felt things more strongly, the things he cared about, he cared passionately about.  I didn't get ANGRY.

 

I don't think I knew what true anger was until I discovered the true rat finkery of my ex.  As all of my illusions of happily ever after crumbled like blue cheese (stinking just as badly, might I add), I was well and truly--magnificently--pissed off. 

 

Since then I get angry much faster.  But I get angry when I am MAD or overtired/stressed.  What I don't do is get mad over the little things, or things I can't change, or even on a daily basis.  When I get mad, I'm NOT nice.  I admit it.  

 

In everyday life, though, I am nice.  To strangers, to my kids, to my Honey and his family.  It's a better way to live.  It's a NICER way to live.  I can't sustain the kind of anger it takes to get mad at every little thing.  It would ruin my day, drain me emotionally and leave me miserable and mean.  I would be something out of Tolkien, craven and blackened and lurking away from the light.  In the endless email memes that go around, when they ask you what color your aura is, I always answer that I picture it spring green like a granny smith apple-tart and sweet and juicy.  I have no idea what new agey color it's supposed to be, it's just a happy color and it's how I picture it.

 

The Honey makes jokes that I'll leave him because he's broke, or brown, or unemployed.  Last night he was being pissy, and I wanted to tell him that if I ever leave him, it will be because he refuses to speak nicely.  That one thing affects the quality of our lives much more than money or employment.  His contention is that it's the difference between speaking Spanish and speaking English.  I say bullshit.  His sisters don't speak to their husbands like that.  

 

Mind you, I love this man waaaaay more than he thinks.  He thinks my reluctance to marry him is based upon the fact that I don't love him, I'm just stuck with him.   I'm crazy about the fool, but my condition for marrying him is that we go to counseling.  That's it.  Okay, that's not it, I want to go to counseling but I want him to find the counselor, so he can't later say that I chose one who was biased.  He needs some serious communication skills.  I want him to say things nicely.  I casually told someone at work that if Little O brings home a boy that speaks to her the way the Honey speaks to me, you would never find that boy's body.  It occurred to me that I'm training her to look for exactly that boy.  That was during the great Valentine debacle, and since that realization, I take much less shit from him, for my kids and for myself.   His tangles with Big O?  Are more over the fact that he SOUNDS pissed off and on the edge, even when he's not, so Big O goes on the defensive, and here we go again...  Every time the TV cuts out (Oh, digital, you moody bitch), he curses and rails like it's going to help.  Which sets my teeth on edge and makes me not want to watch TV with him, which hurts his feelings. 

 

I also want to go to counseling so I can make him understand that I have no hesitation in tying myself to him for the rest of our lives--as far as I'm concerned, that knot is already tied. When I love you, it's a done deal.  There is no internet boyfriend, there is no flirtation with the UPS Man, I have everything I want.  Here's the hard hearted realist in me, though:  Marrying him in a legal sense means assuming his debts.  I have a friend whose deceased ex's tax bills came back to haunt her NEW husband.  IF (given his health issues) I have to face life without him as my partner, I can't also face single parenthood saddled with crippling debt.  I will convert to Catholicism and marry him in the Church, but let's not make it legal.  Speaking as someone who has gone down the divorce highway, making it legal doesn't make it permanent.  The two of us being committed to each other and ONLY each other--that's what makes us forever.  I'm all in.  I just want to spend my days with please and thank you.

 

 

My man is a Rock Star.

So the girlfriend whose house we were going to this weekend?  Also happens to be my former sister-in-law. 

 

The Honey went with me with gritted teeth, bracing himself for cold stares and colder shoulders. 

 

The patriarch of that family would never stand for such a thing, even at ninety-one, but the Honey didn't know that. 

 

Let me tell you, NO ONE in the Honey's family gets a divorce OR remarries. 

 

The Ex's family is the very definition of the blended family.  A second spouse is not anything new, but I was the only Ex who showed up at the party...:) 

 

So my man gets beaucoup points for sucking it up and risking complete and utter alienation so I could meet the nephew's new wife and squeeze both of my boys before they head back to the war zone. 

 

The Ex's family gets beaucoup  points for being as gracious and warm as ever.

 

The new Bride got to see her new family in action, and took it well, in spite of their overwhelming numbers.

 

It was a good weekend.

 

And my man was a rock star.

 

Jennfactor 3.2

So we're travelling to a girlfriend's house today to meet her new daughter in law, and kiss her children before they head back to Iraq. (She has two sons and now a daughter in law in the military, and a daughter still at home. They managed to co-ordinate their leaves, so everyone is home at once!) She also has a daybed for Little O that we can have, if we can haul it. No Problem! I'll just zip up to my Brother's house and borrow his beast!

Oh, my friends, the Honey is LOVING the beast. It's a gigantic (remember, I'm a Honda girl, and the Honey is devoted to his ancient Acura) Ford F350 --complete with running lights and sideboards. It's also diesel, I had forgotten. It's like driving an RV. A noisy RV. Sadly, an RV that cannot take advantage of my thirty cent discount on gas at Safeway that I had been saving up. CRAP.

So last night after work we cleaned and tidied my car, and I asked the Honey if I should use the spare Honda key, because while it only has one key on the ring, it has a pretty large photo keychain that a guy would not want to stick in his pocket. The Honey says just give him your regular keys.

Side note: I'm not one of those people with fifteen keychains, are you? I had a friend that prided herself on the # of keychains she had, but it seemed a little high school for a grown assed woman. Maybe it's just me.

So I take one last look around my car to make sure I got the Honey's glasses, and HIS keys are gone, so I said--you've got the keys? He nods and smiles to me over by the truck (which is running), as my brother shows him all of his toys.

An hour later we pull into the driveway, home again and totally psyched for our journey south the next day. I smile at him and he smiles at me, and we're just pretty happy. Sitting there. Okay, enough of this, I have to pee.

"Gimme your keys, baby"

"You have them."

"I do? did you put them in my purse?"

Yeah, no.

**************************************

We think they are on the counter at my brother's house. But our sweet elderly landlady lives next door and while it is eleven at night, it's got to be done, so we call her, and yay! she has the spare keys.

Except the one to the big old security door does not work. So the Honey shimmies over the fence to unlock the back door, and the freaking doorknob comes off in his hand. Unreal.

He eventually found a way in, and all was well, except that we still have no house keys-- or a back door knob. Locking yourself out with any hope of getting in in a normal fashion being an hour away? Jennfactor 3.2

(Locking yourself out of anything is a 2, add a full point for the distance from the actual keys, and two tenths of point for the doorknob. I think we were eligible for an extra tenth because the spare key didn't work, but we would definitely have bumped it to a four if I had actually peed my pants.)

ARGH!!!

I love Life on Mars. Have you seen it?

Well don't look for it anytime soon, because it's gone until FRICKaFRACKIN FEBRUARY!!!!!

I truly enjoy this show, which is almost a death sentence for network television. I am the curse of good shows everywhere. (I have this unfortunate ability at Bath Body Works, too. If I like it, it's gone out of production within months.)

I want to Netflix the British version now, just in case.

sob!

OOh, James

I am a much bigger dork than most of co-workers. I relish this fact. When I saw the release date of the new Bond movie, I told the Honey we were going for my birthday (He's really not a movie theatre guy, but loves movies, it's weird).

Last night my co-workers met me for drinks and mexican food, and then bailed out before the movie.

I'm not spoiling things, I'll just say we really enjoyed it. Here is my grumble:

At the end of the last movie and the beginning of this one, it felt like a giant game of mousetrap with the stunts. I know it's Bond, but a few gadgets in place of one or two steps in the stunt sequence would have fixed this for me, I think. I miss Q. 'Cause I'm a dork that way.

Um, but I still think Roger Moore should shut his pie hole. Moore was the Bond I was raised with, but he would have screamed like a girl at the things Daniel Craig does. I love Craig as Bond. I think he's a much more likely assassin/spy than any Bond since Connery.

***************************

On.My.MorganFreeman.

One more thing to add--the haircut on the villain's second in command? Was he a failed monk? The latin version of dumb and dumber? The necklaces were really bad, too.

That is all.

Mmmmmm...books

Who was I kidding? This was never going to be the year I dove into NaNoWriMo. Facebook scrabble keeps me from blogging, let alone devoting hours each night to typing. Are we sure we couldn't move it to January? Seriously, I've got NOTHING in January.


The true death knell of my NaNoWriMo delusion, though, was a fabulous bag of hand me down books from SQT at the Fantasy and Sci-Fi Lovin' Blog.

The first one I dove into was this:

I reallly enjoyed the premise of the book, that aliens have come to earth but want an agent to make them palatable to the human race. It's a clever book and I would have sold the bejeebus out of it, were I still selling books instead of trash. My only complaint, and I'm not even sure that it IS a complaint, was that the cussing seemed a little over the top sometimes. That's a funny statement coming from me, because away from my kids I have the mouth of a gutter rat, but at times it seemed a little forced or over the top. I think what I was reading is an advanced copy, so maybe an editor got out a red pencil and cut out a few...I can't pinpoint why they caught me, because if ever there were an occasion for a high stress vocabulary, meeting a sentient sewer scented jello shooter would do it, but it got to the point that it pulled me out of the story for a minute. I dunno, The book was phenomenal and I can't wait for the next one out of the bag...

Happity Birthday to Meeeeeeeeeeee.

The origins of the Jen Factor Explained...

Random madness...

I was wandering through Safeway, and I thought I'd make the Honey a little chocolate pick me up.

I don't think I offended him, but I certainly startled the man in the baking aisle when I shrieked "Are you FUCKING kidding me?"

Okay, I didn't exactly shriek it, but I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I'm all about adding a little goodness into my family's ready to make treats. I read my labels and make my choices based upon the best options I'm willing to cook.

But a TEN dollar brownie mix?

That thing had better massage my colon and buff and shine my lower GI like one of those riding floor polishers you see in high rise lobbies after hours. You know what? You STILL better throw in a coupon, beeyotch. Haven't you heard there's a recession?

**************************************



On a separate, glorious note, Little O consumes books like candy.

I am so tickled. One of the sets we ordered from Scholastic was Skippyjon Jones. He's a siamese cat who thinks he's a chihuahua superhero named El Skippito Bandito. Totally cute. Until Little O is reading (excellently and with different voices!!!) to her father, and she says "you are keeling me!"

The Honey casually pulls the book away from her to take a closer look, and yep. It's typed as keeling. My man who doesn't have a politically correct bone in his body (really, I've seen the x-rays), suddenly has a bug up his butt about Skippyjon Jones and his accent.

I think it's hilarious--the bug, not the accent.

Wednesday Hero

Cpt. Gussie M. Jones
41 years old from Raleigh, Arkansas
31st Combat Support Hospital
March 07, 2004


Cpt. Gussie Jones was born in Arkansas and was one of eight children. She began her Army career by enlisting in 1988 as a personnel clerk and climbed to the rank of a sergeant.

In 1986, Jones earned a bachelor’s degree in business administration from Arkansas Central University. She was selected to attend the Army Enlisted Commissioning Program and earned her second bachelor’s degree from Syracuse University in 1998. It was in nursing.

Her career as a registered nurse and a commissioned officer began in September 1998 at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. In 2002, after completing a course in critical-care nursing, she was assigned to Beaumont Army Medical Center, where she became a mentor.

"She was a very dedicated person and was always smiling, said a co-worker and friend, Capt. Susan Gilbert. If anyone asked her to do something, she would do it. And she was very kind and gentle and patient with the patients."

Cpt. Jones died of a heart attack while on duty in Baghdad, Iraq. During her 15 years of military services, Jones received a Joint Service Commendation medal, four Army Commendation medals and three Army Achievement medals.

"She was so much a part of their team, and so her death must really affect their morale," Gilbert said. "I'm very worried about the other soldiers because they've lost their battle buddy."

All Information Was Found On And Copied From MilitaryCity.com

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

This post is part of the Wednesday Hero Blogroll. For more information about Wednesday Hero, or if you would like to post it on your site, you can go here.

I've been cheating on you.

It's that damned Facebook.

 

Facebook is frustrating to me, coming from blogging, because I like to write and read STORIES, not buttons.

 

Honestly?  I'll pretty up my blog before I spend any more time hunting down funny flair, or throwing food or pumpkins or cats, or growing a farm--jeeze, I'd kill my cyber plants just like the real ones.  But now the people I've friended on Facebook are people I like and I don't want to spoil their fun, and some of the applications are damned funny, but... but... I'm up to 178 unanswered requests for things in one form or another. 

 

I feel bad for ignoring their pleas for green things, or pirate battles, or good karma (is that one going to bite me on the ass, or WHAT?), but sheesh!  

 

However,  Facebook has something Blogspot and Wordpress and Xanga don't.

 

Oh, Dawg help me, Facebook has Scrabble.

 

I would have forty two games going at once, if I knew forty two people on Facebook.

 

It's better than crack!  It's vocabu-crack. 

 

I conned my dad into NaNoWriMo, but I abandoned it because I'd rather play Scrabble.  Okay, and I had no plot or time--now that the Honey's off work is NOT the time to spend long hours writing when I'm finally home--it would not end well!

 

So it's not you, it's me.  I am a weak woman.  I cannot resist the tiles.  I am jonesin' for the triple word score, baby. 

So How was your Halloween?

My Little Gypsy Fortune Teller...

We had a functioning crystal ball and the prettiest Rom Princess ev-ah!



And here we are, me in her giant butterfly wings, because I sweated BLOOD making those for her two years ago and the wretched child would not wear them. SOMEONE was going to wear the damned things.


We went to a Halloween Party later that night, and I felt like a nun. Every.single.female. had gone for the skirt up to here and top down to there. Sigh. The honey wore Little O's grass skirt and a hawaiian polo:

sigh.

So I wore Little O's butterfly wings to work today, and tried to make myself a little black nose.

Friends, I look like a frostbite victim.

sigh.

Oh, and the Honey got laid off.

Bob Zamora is a cheap and evil man. That's right, I said it. He should take lessons from Harveys on how to treat employees. If only the Harveys were in our area. I realize this means nothing to you all, but it makes me feel better to have typed it, and that's what blogging is all about, right? Free therapy.

We're alive!

 
 
 

While at the tiny hole in the wall toy store/joke shop/dust bin on teh eastside of town, I jokingly asked Little O if we should put some flies on the cake around the frog (Because you KNOW they were selling fake flies at the shop) and instead of squealing in horror, She was all for it. I was very proud. So we bought three plastic flies for a quarter, but I forgot to put them on the cake. As we were putting the candles on it, Little O kept asking me why there weren't any flies on her cake, but we were at the park, and had been shooing flies all day--I kept thinking what an odd question--be grateful, kid!! I may yet raise a dorky girl. She'll be pretty, and she'll be smart, but maybe if I play my cards right, she'll be a big dork, too.

Family night--Yay! Boo.

Last night we went to see this movie at the Fox theatre downtown--yay!

It cost almost as much as a regular movie--boo.

We went inside to discover complimentary tiny cups of soda, and free cookies--yay!

Took our treasures up the stairs to the balcony and were told no food or drinks--boo.

Plenty of seating in spite of our close to the last minute arrival--yay!

Organ music concert at the beginning not doing much for my six year old--boo.

Big O laughing out loud at the Abbot & Costello impersonators--yay!

Little O laughing at the same impersonators--oooh!

Cartoon AND a fifties dance movie before the main event--yay!

Little O whining about when Franklin Stein will be on--boo.

Gah, I can't keep up this format, my attention span just isn't there for this kind of thing. The movie was a lot of fun, and Little O thought the theatre was beautiful and delicious. Both of my O's enjoyed the movie, although Little O had a few scary moments with Drac, Franklin, and the Wolfman. I thought she was a little more ready, but she got over it pretty quick, and maybe that's part of the fun when you're little? No place you'd rather be when seeing those fellows for the first time than snuggled up to your daddy, or sitting on your momma's lap. She was even worried for Franklin at one point, and we covered her eyes when they torched him at the end.

(Cracks me up that there is a Transylvanian castle on an island off the Florida coast.)

A couple of years ago in one of my birthday madness fits, when Big O was still in Karate and wanted to invite EVERYONE, I looked into renting the theatre across the street, picturing a three stooges night in my head. They wanted a hell of a lot more than I had envisioned, so that went down in flames, but I think there is a lot of charm and fun in those old classics (but definitely not PC!!), and they would be a fun theme for a kids party.

In Redding, the Shakey's Pizza (Or was it Straw Hat?) in Cypress square would have those old B&W movies running all the time. *cough cough* That was, ahem, before the days of VCR's when anything could be watched at will. It was always a treat.

Good times then, and good times now. Worth every penny to go out as a family and have everyone laugh at the same bad jokes.

I dislike the drama.*

You know what? I could care less about Sarah Palin's wardrobe.

Gimme a break. As if the Republican National Party was going to send that money to orphans in Africa, or even to build houses in New Orleans. If they had NOT bought her the clothes befitting a concubine she-devil of the third Bush regime* (they hope), it would have been slipped into the coffers of some other Republican hopeful. Why is this news?

By the same token, on a local note, the city council of Sacramento was just outed for their scandalous discretionary funds--They get $50k apiece to spend as they see fit. The TV reporter said one of them even spent 250.00 on a CRAB FEED. Um, yep. When they showed the report on TV, it said they had given 250.00 as a sponsor of a charity crab feed.

As a retail manager, I got hit up A LOT to sponsor things. My little failing store was asked for a ten THOUSAND dollar sponsorship for the Asparagus Festival. Donations and sponsorships are part of community involvement, and I think that's exactly what those discretionary funds are for. Is fifty grand apiece appropriate in these times? Hell, no--but just make the announcement that the council has been told they will get five grand a piece until the police and fire departments are fully staffed again. Don't act like your news crew caught them spending the taxpayer's money on midget porn and new swimming pools at the homestead.

*I dislike drama, but I looove some good old fashioned Hyperbole. (did I use that right?)

Green eyed Monster

For Little O's birthday dinner, we took her out with all of her local favorite people.

Our 85 year old French Polish landlady was invited, as was Little O's favorite Auntie and the Honey's mom.

Mama Dina was lovely as ever, but, I think, a little piqued that Elderly Landlady ruled the conversation.

But here's the thing.

Mrs. G speaks English.

Speaks it through a French filter, granted, but it's still something Little O understands, and poor Mama Dina was frustrated beyond words to watch Little O chatter at Mrs. G. She WANTS that connection with Little O. She was decidedly unhappy to see that Mrs. G has it. Little O is the only grandchild to not understand her spanish speaking Grandma. She adores Dina, but can't have a two minute conversation with her that doesn't involve reciting a prayer or some kind of miming.

I think this breaks my heart. The Honey only curses in spanish at our house, though. I can't teach her what she needs to know, and he didn't see the importance when she was small.

I'm also saddened that MY mom is three hours away and has to hear about Little O spending so much time with ther other grandmother. I want my daughter to have that tangible bond to MY mom, and memories of MY parents. GAH.

It made me unhappy to see Dina unhappy. But Mrs G was over the moon to have been included and it felt very right to bring her with us.

(Side story: Mrs G told the server that in Europe they would have RRRrroom in their coffee. Could she have some RRRrrroom in her coffee? That poor girl's face was the very definiton of nonplussed. She turned to me for clarification, and I said, could you pour a little rum in her coffee? The girl laughed and said she guessed her grandpa always used to put a little brandy in his, and Mrs G said that brandy would be just wonderful. So the little girl brought Mrs G a coffee that had to be 50/50. I could smell it from across the table, and Mrs G's eyes almost crossed. We got her another coffee to tone it down, but she seemed to enjoy it. She also ordered her spaghetti with "two big balls." I was waiting for Little O to give us the wipeout line, but she didn't catch it. I love English as a third language. Of course, my Spanish as a second language was kind of comical, too. Dina wanted to know what Mrs G was ordering, and I didn't have anyone to translate for me, so all I could come up with was "huevos de carne"--wrong balls, Jennifer. sheesh.)

Seis--Happy Birthday, Little O

How can she be six?

tee hee

Even if I were voting WITH them, this would have made me laugh.

A stunningly fabulous weekend.

I had the best weekend and it was brought to me by the most unlikely source.

One of the Honey's brothers.

Specifically his oldest brother, who has had a tendency to bring up every misdeed the Honey ever committed, and endlessly contends that the Honey broke his father's heart. The Honey feels that he did everything possible for his dad, including being the one to find him collapsed of a heart attack, and so those conversations tend to go downhill rapidly. I try to steer clear of it all--my family doesn't DO drama.

This Brother in law, however, sank into the bubbling, oozing tar pits of my esteem when he marched my year old daughter to me in the middle of a family party as if she smelled, and told me that his mother was OFF work and I could watch my own kid. As if I could pry my daughter away from his mom with a crowbar. As if it was my idea to use his mom as daycare in the first place. prick.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got the call from the Honey on Saturday that we had spaced the party for this BIL's only child, and I'd better hustle to be there by 2--without him. Really? A root canal, no anesthesia, but a camera so I can see what they're doing? That'd be swell!

Packed up my O's and stopped at the store for a funny card, and stuffed some cash in it--who are we kidding, like I'd know what a bona-fide you tube star (don't ask) would want, or as if I would open myself up to BIL's scorn for choosing the wrong gift. Not gonna go there.

But lo, we walked into bizarre-o world. The niece tolerated Big O (those quince practices really helped) and so did her hip/thuggy friends. They were dancing in the garage with a black light all night. When it came time to go, at about ten, Big O actually begged to stay. I was beat and loaded him into the car, but..but he's NEVER asked to stay at ANY family party. He's never asked me to go to a party. When favorite SIL offered to drop him off later, I caved so fast it was embarrassing.

After we left, the cops showed up about twelve to talk about the noise. One of the kids opened up the garage door and they all stared at the cops for a minute and then bolted into the back yard. The cops thought it was hilarious, because true Stockton thugs:
A) would not have had sixteen grandmas and forty-two Mexican aunties wandering thru the garage to keep everyone suitably spaced and decently covered--school dances are not as well chaperoned.
b) would still freeze momentarily, then would have stared down the cops, if not making outright statements about sizzling pork.

But Big O gets to go to school on Monday and talk about the black light, the computerized music he got to help with, the live older girls, and oh, yeah, then the cops broke it up. No, man, my mom wasn't there.
It's a thirteen year old's dream come true.

So I had a little more love for the BIL this morning when the Honey said we were headed over there for brunch. I don't have to cook? hells, yes. We're there.

I warned Little O that all of the little kids she had played with the night before would be gone, so we packed some toys for a bored kindergartner. BIL was way ahead of me, and totally had me beat.

I don't think he expected it to get the kind of reception it did, but he had found something in the Niece's things that he thought Little O would use in years to come:




Oh.My.Dawg. Little O pored over it all day. We talked about alphabetical order, and looked up everything she could think of, We went thru the maps in the back, she started working on her ASL, REALLY wanted the pictures of the Braille alphabet to be raised. All day, she soaked it up. I think he was equally amazed, but BIL found the perfect thing for my girl.

He's out of the tar pits. Both of my O's had a fabulous weekend, and I owe it all to him.

It's done.

I can't deny it any longer.

That smirky smile and the litany of wrong answers--WRONG.ANSWERS.

I tried. I liked the maverick concept, but it was just an uncanny ability to blow smoke rings--right up the hind end of America. He just doesn't seem to get it.

Before I was mildly apathetic, benignly on the fence.

Now I am just scared. People on TV thought he WON that.

Seriously? Were they watching something else?

This is how Dubya got re-elected.


Remember these guys?


Shave off one of those beards an you might recognize that smirk.

Going slightly off topic?

Who picked McCain's suit? It looked awful. When the newscasters look better dressed than the republican candidate, someone on staff is getting FIRED.

Okay, back on track?

You know what you rich, out of touch motherfucker? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of ANYTHING DOES make Joe the Plumber rich to most of America. I don't have eight houses. I don't even have one. I rent. Why? because I am one of the working poor. One of the people you deem unworthy of a tax break. I don't care if you're born into a priveledged family. Lots of people are, and still recognize how the rest of us live.

"Congratulations, You're RICH." smirk smirk.

Yes, Mr. McCain, he IS. That's why you are not my candidate.

************************************

Gahhh--and also the quotations around health. People have stretched the concept of "health" of the mother? Guess what else it means--HEALTH of the mother, you twit!

Gretty Luv

I've been geting lots of Gretty love in my comments.

I keep seeing things that make me think of you, Gretty, so let me return the love!

First up, we have a Choose your own adventure movie, Zombie Style!!!

The other thing is a link to keep a girl and her dog together.

Hope you get some rest!

Ugh.

Glad I worked today.

Sob!

Forget AIG, save Mother's Cookies!!!!

(Okay, I bought the Halloween ones for the kids a couple of weeks ago and almost blogged about the wierd sensation of growing up, because they seemed greasy to me for the first time in my life. The bag is still on top of the fridge...)

Oh, the joy of seeing that striped bag in the basket (Yay!) and then finding out mom had bought the mixed bag (Boo!). Trying to beat your brother to the bag so there would be one or two pink and white frosted tigers or elephants, or--hell, who could tell what they were supposed to be, but oh, they were the ultimate treasure. Once you got down to the bottom of the bag, and found that one last broken bit, long after all the whole animals were gone? Score!

I'll bet no Mother's Cookies employees went on a four hundred thousand dollar spa week...

Birthday Madness

So This Year Little O wants a princess party. But all of her daddy's friends have boys. So how do we make it unisex?

It's a Frog Prince party!

Little O has managed to learn all the words to "I Kissed a Girl" in spite of the fact that we do not have MTV, and the radio stations I listen to play things with more of a guitar theme. The ONE song she figures out all of the word correctly to has to be the one with lyrics I don't want to hear from my not quite six-year old?
(In answer to your question, no, it's not latent homophobia, it's my daughter singing sexual lyrics she doesn't understand just as she learns to shake her butt while she dances)

So we're changing the lyrics for her party"

I kissed a frog, and I liked it,
Hope dad (the king) don't mind it,
I kissed a frog and I liked it,
he went poof and became a prince...

Yeah, it's not perfect, but Little O is loving it.

random nonsense.

Entertainment Tonight came on, and Man, Howard Stern looked like a Skeksis*. It was disturbing.
************************************************
Speaking of disturbing, I think Little O is getting a book of bible stories for Christmas. At a baptism last weekend, she was getting creeped out by the forty foot high crucifix. My SDA-raised brain is always a little creeped out by Catholic Statuary (see childhood nightmares), but she really needs some backstory on that one!

Okay, and the other night at dinner I was asking why none of the nuns my nieces dealt with had the great names like Sister Immaculata or anything, why were they plain old Sister Irene and Sister Mabel?

The Honey started teasing me, asking why I was only asking the Mexicans, and I told him because they were Catholic! Favorite Smart-assed niece chimes in, saying she may be Jewish, after all, and Little O pipes up from next to me,

"I'm a poodle!"

It was a show stopper, I'm telling you.

I may not ever be Catholic, but my girl is getting a little religion in her stocking this year.

A poodle...sheesh.

Can I teach her to say Pastafarian?

*For those of you who did not watch the Dark Crystal on an endless loop, This is a skeksis:

So wrong.

I think I could not be Junice for Halloween without getting fired. But Oh, I want to be her for Halloween...

Shut Up! Now it won't play? I think this is the link, then. Bastards.

http://www.hulu.com/watch/37752/saturday-night-live-the-lawrence-welk-show

What would you do?

Okay, a preface:  When my Grandma passed away, at her funeral, we somehow came to the conclusion that the fly that was buzzing around was her, still around.

 

Do we avoid swatting flies now? 

 

No, but we apologize to Grandma as we squash her.

 

*******************

 

In going through the family photos, we found papers.  There were receipts from the grocery store in the twenties, the canceled checks that my grandfather wrote to pay for the birth of my uncle, and just random stuff.

 

I read the very sweet note my Grandpa Ernie sent to my Grandma when they were courting.  Grandpa Ernie was my Grandma's second husband, but he was the only Grandpa I ever knew on that side, and I would never use the word step- in reference to him.  He was my Grandpa.

 

As I tucked the note back into it's envelope, smiling, I told my mother that a swarm of flies was about to descend, because I didn't envision Grandma thrilled to have her letter read by anyone else.

 

My mom laughed and told me that she had said much the same thing when SHE had read the note, and that her brother AND her son had been horrified that she had read Grandma's letter.  She said that my sister-in-law looked like she was dying to read it, but didn't, faced with the frowns from my brother and uncle.

 

I was honestly taken aback.  Isn't that why we keep things? 

 

My grandmother has passed, and  the only way I have to get to know her better now is through my mom's stories and the things she left behind.

 

Is it the difference between men and women?   Is there such thing as privacy for your ancestors?  Her history is my own, and I loved delving into it. 

 

I dunno, what do you think?  Did I invade her privacy?  

Happy Birthday, Carolee

 

Big O's grandmother died a horrible death from breast cancer.

When people wear pink ribbons? It's because some beautiful brown eyed boy has one less source of unconditional love to draw on as needed. Buy the stamps. Lick the yogurt lids. Because the next blue/brown/green eyed kid to lose might be yours.

I love pictures!

My mission this visit was to help my mom sort through phtots so we could scan some in--we sent the bitchin' ones from the turn of the century to be restored, but I thought I'd share this one. It's my maternal grandfather with his little brother and his parents, we guestimate it was taken about 1927-29.

Woot! Woot!

On the Vay-Cay!

Darwin IS dead. That's why.

This was sent to me via email, but is worth posting:

 

Nurse's Point of View on Evacuation Shelters during Gustav Personal insight to hurricane evacuation centers   Wednesday, September 10 2008

Sherri Hagerhjelm, RN, volunteered her time to help Gustav evacuees at the shelter in Shreveport , La.   During her volunteer hours she was required to be escorted by a National Guardsmen armed with an assault rifle to ensure her safety.  In a letter to the editor of a south Louisiana newspaper, Hagerhjelm offers a unique perspective on evacuation centers: Dear Editor, I am a nurse who has just completed volunteer working approximately 120 hours as the clinic director in a Hurricane Gustav evacuation shelter in Shreveport , Louisiana over the last 7 days.  I would love to see someone look at the evacuee situation from a new perspective.  Local and national news channels have covered the evacuation and "horrible" conditions the evacuees had to endure during Hurricane Gustav.     True - some things were not optimal for the evacuation and the shelters need some modification.   At any point, does anyone address the responsibility (or irresponsibility) of the evacuees?   Does it seem wrong that one would remember their cell phone, charger, cigarettes and lighter but forget their child's insulin?   Is something amiss when an evacuee gets off the bus, walks immediately to the medical area, and requests immediate free refills on all medicines for which they cannot provide a prescription or current bottle (most of which are narcotics)?   Isn't the system flawed when an evacuee says they cannot afford a $3 copay for a refill that will be delivered to them in the shelter yet they can take a city-provided bus to Wal-mart, buy 5 bottles of Vodka, and return to consume them secretly in the shelter?   Is it fair to stop performing luggage checks on incoming evacuees so as not to delay the registration process but endanger the volunteer staff and other persons with the very realistic truth of drugs, alcohol and weapons being brought into the shelter?   Am I less than compassionate when it frustrates me to scrub emesis from the floor near a nauseated child while his mother lies nearby, watching me work 26 hours straight, not even raising her head from the pillow to comfort her own son?   Why does it incense me to hear a man say "I ain't goin' home 'til I get my FEMA check"  when I would love to just go home and see my daughters who I have only seen 3 times this week?   Is the system flawed when the privately insured patient must find a way to get to the pharmacy, fill his prescription and pay his copay while the FEMA declaration allows the uninsured person to acquire free medications under the disaster rules?   Does it seem odd that the nurse volunteering at the shelter is paying for childcare while the evacuee sits on a cot during the day as the shelter provides a "daycare"?   Have government entitlements created this mentality and am I facilitating it with my work?   Will I be a bad person, merciless nurse or poor Christian if I hesitate to work at the next shelter because I have worked for 7 days being called every curse word imaginable, feeling threatened and fearing for my personal safety in the shelter?   Exhausted and battered, Sherri Hagerhjelm, RN

Here we go again

out of my ass...

So This guy is a social worker and he's suing the county he works for.

I am all about religious freedom.

BUT.

I grew up in a family that served. My parents were nurses. In a field where you care for people, you don't always get to choose your hours. People don't need you until five o'clock or until sundown and then just freeze until you are able to get back to work.

IF it turns out they asked him to stay late on Friday or come in on Saturday for team building exercises? Then yeah, I'd complain. I understand the importance of the Sabbath but you chose to be in a service profession.

Fully acknowledging that the sum total of what I know is exactly what is printed in that link and nothing more, um, I think he's in the wrong line of work. There are ways to help people, help children, that don't require you to have flexible hours. I don't think social work is one of them.

Compounding that is the fact that he's suing them for not reprimanding co-workers based upon things OTHER people heard. That would open the county up to lawsuits on the other end, wouldn't it?

Do I doubt that the remarks were made? Not really--Ass hats are everywhere. IS anti semitism still a problem in the world today? Yes, I honestly believe that it is--and that sucks, but THIS lawsuit seems flimsy to my untrained eyeballs, and the combination of the two makes him seem ...unseemly.

we interrupt this blogging interruption

for a slight kvetch.

 

Wouldn't Maya's ability, if it's all tied in to Adrenaline, be manifesting when Mohinder (oooooh, Mo-HINder!  yes I am a twelve year old) goes all primal man on her?

 

I realize she's not scared, but...um...her adrenaline was definitely surging.  ahem.

 

 

 

We now return to your regularly scheduled blogging silence.

 

Because honest to Dawg, I got nothin.

 

 

Blog? What Blog?

OOOOOHHH.

Sorry about that.

No time for a post right now, but can I thank Bill Gates for no longer shaking his ass while Jerry Seinfeld watches?

I find the new ads a huge improvement.

L/Cpl. Jason Hanson
21 years old from Forks, Washington
3rd Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, 1st Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force
July 29, 2006


L/Cpl. Jason Hanson died when a gasoline truck near a building he was in exploded, causing the building to collapse in Al Anbar province, Iraq. Three other Marines were also killed in the blast. Lance Cpl. Anthony E. Butterfield, 19 yrs. old, of Clovis, California; Cpl. Phillip E. Baucus, 28 yrs. old, of Wolf Creek, Montana; Sgt. Christian B. Williams, 27 yrs. old, of Winter Haven, Florida.

Hanson graduated in 2003 and joined the Marines in 2005. He married his wife just before shipping out.

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

This post is part of the Wednesday Hero Blogroll. For more information about Wednesday Hero, or if you would like to post it on your site, you can go here.

Like hey, Forks Washington is everywhere these days thanks to Twilight. Anyone talking about young men still giving their lives? Anyone? Where are THIS BOY'S Facebook Flair buttons?

Their names should be read before every Miley Cyrus concert, Every Fashion week show, every single event where people are gathered, until this nation can actually remember and honor those soldiers and their families with so much on the line.

Sorry to be schmearing the you tube all over...

I would share it with the facebook, but I have no clue how to embed over there.

A wee small Sarah Palin bit.

Beautifully said!

I loved the late late show when it was Tom Snyder's, and I love Craig Ferguson (again with the spelling?).

Maybe it's because they think no one's watching that they are allowed to voice opinions?

I dunno.

My Mother in Law has a lady.

You know, a lady!

A lady to do my hair.


She rattled off something in spanish at dinner the other night, and the Honey starts laughing.

"My mom says your hair looks terrible"

He then translates what he told me to his mom, and she sqwaks and is very flustered.

I KNOW that's not what she said, hoser, I do speak a little. But she has a lady, and she even had a card in her wallet for me.

Wait for it.







Not yet.










Oh, yeah.














now.

 

So my mother in law thinks my hair looks terrible.

Bwahahhahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Dear Metrosexual Opthamologist:

I heart you in a completely asexual manner.

 

You are the very essence of Metrosexuality.

 

I heart your monochromatic wardrobe and your artfully graying blonde spiky hair.

 

The only time anyone in my office (because we all love you and go see you) has seen you in something other than a black tee shirt or turtleneck, it was a white tee shirt-- your tees are always very expensive and lint free, tucked into your belted slacks.

 

I picture your life as pristine and sterile as your office, devoid of drama and/or unsightly displays of poor taste.

 

It is YOUR family I see in all of the picture frames--they are in black and white, too!

 

You go to witty urbane cocktail parties where no one gets hammered and barfs cocktail weenies into the potted plants, and I am sure you drive a German Car.  (Possibly a Mini Cooper if you are sportier than you seem.)

 

I adore you even when you make my pupils as big as a kid in a velvet painting and send me out into the world with nothing but lame roll up sunglasses to shield me from this bizzarr-o world side of town where the cars are CLEAN and blind me with their freshly waxed shine.

 

How did you ever end up in Stockton and not San Francisco?  Were you wanting to be a sleek fish in a cloudy pond, instead of one of a school of sleek monochromatic metrosexual fish?

 

Because you are definitley out of water.

 

xoxo,

 

Jennfactor10.

Sigh.

I was told by someone at work that for someone who cooks, I eat out a hell of a lot.

She knows this because she eats out a hell of a lot, too--and sees ME out.

Maybe I am just statistically more likely to hit the Shitty service lottery because I buy more tickets, or because I was a manager whose whole thing, spiel, schtick--whatever you want to call it--was Good Customer Service.

Let me tell you, I have gone to Marie Callendar's since I was a kid. We had to stop at the MC on Sunrise in Sacramento at least twice a year so my dad could have chili and cornbread. I think my father swooned when they opened one on Hilltop in Redding.

The Honey? Not so fond of it, but an open faced turkey sandwich has broken him on more than one occasion. During the Olympics, he was weak. Little O was overjoyed.

We walked in and I requested a table for four--you can tell the economy is feeling the pinch when there's no waiting at MC. The Honey asked, as she gathered our menus, if we could sit in the bar side so we could watch the Olympics.

Biotch did NOT roll her eyes and huff--I am sure that was NOT what I just saw.

Oh, yes it was, because I'll be damned if she did not take us to the only table in the room that was actually BEHIND every TV. If the Honey sat on the corner, he could look sideways at the big screen. Have we talked about the Honey's temper? I immediately told him we could leave as his eyes got big and slightly crazed. Stupid cow didn't help when she sniffed,

"you can move the table--a little."

A little? REALLY?

We were gathering our stuff back up to go when the Honey looked over and saw Little O with teary eyes. He just caved at that point--resigned himself to not watching the Olympics, and opened his menu.

So the manager comes over to ask if everything is okay, and here's the thing:

The Honey was settled back down, and he is a firm believer that you do NOT complain while any of your food is still in the kitchen.

I told the manager we were fine.

Our waitress was fabulous, and almost made up for the hostess, and the food was fine. After our meal, I asked to speak to the manager. I thougth he ought to know about the eye rolling, huffing, and surly little bitch that had seated us. Did I call her that? No. I simply explained what had happened and that I thought he should be aware.

Fucking unbelievable, because his first response was NOT I am so sorry, or I'll speak to her, it was

"I ASKED you, and you SAID everything was fine."

Pop rocks, people. Pop rocks exploding in my brain. I could hear them fizzing and hissing. I wasn't asking for a discount on my meal, I was not hitting him up for a free pie. I had started by telling him how great our waitress was. I thought he ought to know about his hostess, but it turns out he must have been the one who trained her! He worked up to a half hearted I'm sorry you feel that way, but added that we could have sat anywhere, there were tables open that faced the TV. Um, yeah, that was kind of my point, asshole.

ANYWAY, I wrote a letter to Marie's website, and it was almost completely grown up. I may have used the term stink eye when the Honey asked for bar seating. It was much more rational than my open letter to Chili's and/or Border's.

I have no expectation of anything but a form letter from Marie's, but I felt soooo much better having written it to corporate.

Did I ever tell you about my mother and the feedback form at Italian Cottage?
My roommate Kat, the Bad Boyfriend and I went to IC to meet my folks for dinner, and we got there before my folks. Waitress Paula was a complete cow to us--almost THREW Kat's coffee on her. As soon as my folks showed up she was sweet as pie. We were stunned at the turn about, and told my parents about it.
In place of the hefty tip my parents usually left, my mother wrote on the back of the check:

"We hope that when Paula gets back to her kennel, her mother growls and snaps at her."

My mom rocks.

More polly-tics

Palin.
McCain.
Obama.
Whassihname (Okay, Okay, Biden).

Bill and Hillary made it work with a middle schooler in the white house. How old was Amy Carter when Jimmy lived there?

I don't have a problem with Palin as a woman or as a mother in the veep position, I am assuming her Hubs will step up, along with some sort of help. Your teenaged daughter could get knocked up whether you are a stay at home mom or the CEO of a fortune 500 company. That's just biology.

Obama has young kids. Michelle is there to fill in the gaps. Shit, kids have been raised by single parents and done just fine.

But I think I am skeeved out by choosing to step up your job duties (when you are already in a position of power) when your children are so very young. Wouldn't you miss out on so much?

The show with Geena Davis as the female pres. versus old crusty Donald Sutherland? That was a show we enjoyed for the two weeks it was on, and kinda showed a woman trying to still do it all. Minus the newborn.

I like that Palin colors outside the lines. I like that about McCain. I was disappointed that he had the same fat-cat republican partying that his lifelong campaign reforms have railed against. I am sad that political analysts say that a huge part of Palin's populatiry in Alaska comes from UNdoing her predecessor's fuck ups, and that she's actually done little in terms of pro-active legislation. I LIKE that she has huevos (whether those have to be testicles or ovaries to be cool in your book, she's got 'em), but I think McCain would have demonstrated his lack of a gigantic elephant shaped monkey on his back if he had gone with his heart and picked Lieberman.

Obama said the magical words, and I listened hard for McCain to say them, too, but he didn't. At this point in the game, I could still be swayed either way. I have heard both the pro choice and the benefits streamlining for vets that are near and dear to my heart from Obama. But I am unconvinced that he can make those happen, or that his commitments are to anything other than what he thinks we want to hear.

What I like about McCain is that he HAS pissed off Republicans in the past. He is still, however, tainted with Bush-iness.

good lord.

I just spoke with a woman, and her friend had the most god awful stain on her shirt. 

 

It looked like a big gray nipple.
 
This was not a gray shirt, and it was NOT like her shirt was wet. 

 

This was an old, dried stain like a giant grey nipple on a shirt that was, quite frankly, already too tight.

 

It was staring at me. 

 

I had trouble finishing my sentences. 

 

I wanted to hand her my Tide stick.

 

Ah, life in customer service...

I have a new boyfriend.

My sister-in-law started it.

 

She introduced us to Steve.

 

Steve does things our husbands won't--things the Honey wouldn't DREAM of.

 

My mother called me one day giggling and told me about Sam. 

 

Then she sent Sven to me.

 

Ah, those Scooba brothers.  They are to die for.

Wednesday Hero

Lance Cpl. Ryan T. McCaughn
19 years old from Manchester, New Hampshire
1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force
November 7, 2006


"I just can't believe it," said Nicole Cote, mother of L/Cpl. McCoughn. "It's not supposed to happen this way. Your kids aren't supposed to leave you." McCoughn joined the USMC during his Senior year of High School. "He said he needed to do this. He said if he could keep one dad from going to Iraq and he could take his place instead, then he'll feel like he's accomplished something."

Lance Cpl. Ryan T. McCaughn was killed on November 7, 2006 while conducting combat operations in Anbar province, Iraq. He leaves behind his mother, father, step-father and two brothers.

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives so that others may enjoy the freedoms we get to enjoy everyday. For that, I am proud to call them Hero.
We Should Not Only Mourn These Men And Women Who Died, We Should Also Thank God That Such People Lived

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