gobble gobble gobble

I had a great visit with my Aunty and Uncles, discovered great pictures from my dad's childhood and history, had no drama or stress, just a blissful speed run up I-5 and back down.

We even made it home in time for The Honey's family gathering, too.

If I could've figured out a way to meet the new baby on Big O's side of the family, four more hours in the opposite direction, I think it would have been the trifecta!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Amazing

I am in awe of anyone who can dance. Let alone En Pointe (SP?).

Seriously, watch this video.

Took us ten years...

Read their names.

On Saturday,
August 6th, a CH-47 Chinook helicopter was shot down over Wardak
province, Afghanistan killing 30 United States servicemen. It was the
largest single day loss of life since the war began. Killed were:

U.S. Navy

Lt. Cmdr. (SEAL) Jonas B. Kelsall, 32, of Shreveport, La.

Special Warfare Operator Master Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Louis J.
Langlais, 44, of Santa Barbara, Calif.

Special Warfare Operator Senior Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Thomas A.
Ratzlaff, 34, of Green Forest, Ark.

Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technician Senior Chief Petty Officer
(Expeditionary Warfare Specialist/Freefall Parachutist) Kraig M.
Vickers 36, of Kokomo, Hawaii

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Brian R. Bill, 31,
of Stamford, Conn.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) John W. Faas, 31,
of Minneapolis, Minn.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Kevin A. Houston,
35, of West Hyannisport, Mass.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Matthew D. Mason,
37, of Kansas City, Mo.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Stephen M. Mills,
35, of Fort Worth, Texas

Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technician Chief Petty Officer
(Expeditionary Warfare Specialist/Freefall Parachutist/Diver) Nicholas
H. Null, 30, of Washington, W.Va.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Robert J. Reeves,
32, of Shreveport, La.

Special Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Heath M. Robinson,
34, of Detroit, Mich.

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL) Darrik C.
Benson, 28, of Angwin, Calif.

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL/Parachutist)
Christopher G. Campbell, 36, of Jacksonville, N.C.

Information Systems Technician Petty Officer 1st Class (Expeditionary
Warfare Specialist/Freefall Parachutist) Jared W. Day, 28, of
Taylorsville, Utah

Master-at-Arms Petty Officer 1st Class (Expeditionary Warfare
Specialist) John Douangdara, 26, of South Sioux City, Neb.

Cryptologist Technician (Collection) Petty Officer 1st Class
(Expeditionary Warfare Specialist) Michael J. Strange, 25, of
Philadelphia, Pa.

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL/Enlisted
Surface Warfare Specialist) Jon T. Tumilson, 35, of Rockford, Iowa

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL) Aaron C.
Vaughn, 30, of Stuart, Fla.

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL) Jason R.
Workman, 32, of Blanding, Utah

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 1st Class (SEAL) Jesse D.
Pittman, 27, of Ukiah, Calif.

Special Warfare Operator Petty Officer 2nd Class (SEAL) Nicholas P.
Spehar, 24, of Saint Paul, Minn.

U.S. Army

Chief Warrant Officer David R. Carter, 47, of Centennial, Colo. 2nd
Battalion, 135th Aviation Regiment (General Support Aviation
Battalion)

Chief Warrant Officer Bryan J. Nichols, 31, of Hays, Kan. 7th
Battalion, 158th Aviation Regiment (General Support Aviation
Battalion)

Sgt. Patrick D. Hamburger, 30, of Lincoln, Neb. 2nd Battalion, 135th
Aviation Regiment (General Support Aviation Battalion)

Sgt. Alexander J. Bennett, 24, of Tacoma, Wash. 7th Battalion, 158th
Aviation Regiment (General Support Aviation Battalion)

Spc. Spencer C. Duncan, 21, of Olathe, Kan. 7th Battalion, 158th
Aviation Regiment (General Support Aviation Battalion)

U.S Air Force

Tech. Sgt. John W. Brown, 33, of Tallahassee, Fla. 24th Special Tactics Squadron

Staff Sgt. Andrew W. Harvell, 26, of Long Beach, Calif. 24th Special
Tactics Squadron

Tech. Sgt. Daniel L. Zerbe, 28, of York, Pa. 24th Special Tactics
Squadron

These brave men and women sacrifice so much in their lives just so
others may get to enjoy freedom. For that I am proud to call them
Hero.
Those Who Say That We're In A Time When
There Are No Heroes, They Just Don't Know Where To Look

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:
http://rightwingrightminded.blogspot.com/2006/08/wednesday-hero-blogroll.html

Still sweet.

Saturday Miss Priss and I had to decide between two activities.

1. There was an Easter egg hunt in the tiny town to the south of us, starting at 11.

(As you may or may not know, I live in the city deemed by Forbes to be the most miserable in America. I now understand why Huntington, Virginia was not thrilled to be advertised as the fattest town in America all over Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution, because the most miserable in America? Really? WE are still in California, folks. No blizzards, teeny tiny tornadoes, no humidity, just bone searing heat.)

2. So in defiance, there was a "Stockton is Magnificent" rally on the Miracle Mile--Also slated to begin at 11, and rumors of a flash mob were flying. Little O wanted to know what a flash mob was. I told her that everyone secretly agrees to meet somewhere at a certain time, and then just spontaneously break into dance.
Little O didn't hesitate.
We HAD to got to the flash mob.
Until, as we talked, she figured out that we would be watching OTHER people dance, and then she was all about the egg hunt. The flash mob would only be fun if she were dancing.

We went to the egg hunt, she got her loot, and we agreed it was a good day. We wondered how the flash mob had gone, and she got a little serious and wanted to ask me a question.

When we broke in to dance, would the police know ahead of time, so it was okay? And where would we have broken in?

Oh, my heart. My girl is growing so fast, but every once in a while she reminds me that second grade still has magic.

Brown Pants in Australia

ARGH! So mad. My car is wheezing and gasping on its last legs, and my perfect gift for my gun totin' nevvys is looking dead in the water.

When I sympathize with the kids over their terrible days, I usually end it with "some days are like that" and Miss Priss knows to follow THAT up with "Even in Australia."

The schmucks at CQBCITY could still step up and make things right for me, and Big O has a party to go to tonight, so maybe the day can be salvaged, but my car? Probably imagining all the green in my refund check getting sucked under it's hood as we speak.

Bring me my brown pants!!!!!!

Was this funny to you?

My father outdid himself and threw a surprise birthday party for my mother. I took this poem.

The Honey and I heard this poem a few weeks before,and I thought it was perfect for my mom. We thought it was funny. Apparently,we really needed Billy Collins to read it to them, because no one else did. They thought it was deep, or touching, or even somber. I usually hate poetry, but I like funny. huh.

I'm glad the Honey liked it, too, at any rate.

sigh.

I'm also really hoping my mother snorts at "Dress your Family in Corduroy and Denim" on CD. Nobody had "Me Talk Pretty One Day" in stock. When your parents HAVE everything they need or want, gifts are a challenge. ESPECIALLY given that there isn't anything that I could buy for her, I thought the poem was perfect. I looked for a lanyard kit to whip one up for her, too, but no luck. Probably for the best given how well the poem went over. I'd have been cross-eyed from braiding the damned thing and not gotten the laugh.

The gardener is in the details....

How we got there, I do not know, but this evening Little O and I found ourselves discussing evolution versus creationism.

Wow. Just wow.

Which is why all of the smart monkeys kept hanging out together, making EVEN SMARTER baby monkeys, who eventually used the bible as an allegorical companion demonstrating the consequences of both good AND poor decision making.

"Mama, I totally know an example of a bad decision in the bible."

Really?

"Yes. God had a special tree and said to leave it alone, but...the gardener, I think it was, didn't and he told his wife to try it."

Huh. What lesson do you think we should get from that?

"Mama, it's all about respect! If it's not yours then you shouldn't touch it, especially if GOD tells you to leave it alone!"

o.O

To Conquer Paris with an Apple!

My Favorite

The Honey's Favorite


So on Saturday we went to the DeYoung in San Francisco to see the 1st of 2 shows on impressionism.

I'll never get my kids to Paris. They are going to have to do that on their own, unfortunately. When I went to London with my folks, my dad insisted that we go to the National Gallery. Um, okay, sure. It was interesting, but what blew me away was seeing Monet's Water Lillies. It was a huge canvas and looked like nothing up close. I was across the room when it slammed into focus. AFTER we got home I took an art history class and was aghast at how many of those pictures I had seen but not appreciated.

So the Honey valiantly went to the library for me and checked out everything he could find on impressionist art for kids. Little O soaked it up like a sponge, and was primed for the trip. Big O leafed through a book on the drive to the bay. What Miss Priss really wants is to see starry night, but THE starry night is not a Musee D'Orsay property, so is not included in this show. They WILL however, have A starry night from that series, and she's very excited about that.

So I didn't get the audio tour for all of us, because Big O insisted he did not want one, and I really thought it would be overwhelming for Miss Priss, and I didn't want to HAVE the audio tour and then not be able to LISTEN to the audio tour. I got one for her, and one for the Honey, and off we went.

Claustrophobia, thy name is Jennifer. Jeez, maybe it's whatever a fear of crowds is that I'm too lazy to google. I HATED not being able to turn around--and that was WITH metered entry into the exhibit. I can't imagine the madness of regular admission. LIttle O and the Honey didn't even notice, they were thoroughly immersed in teh audio tour. The Honey said he didn't even notice other people until someone bumped into him or stepped in front as he was trying to look at a picture.

Big O was bored like only a fifteen year old boy on a family outing can be. sigh. He's a big boy and I'm fine with him wandering off, but I was really starting to get antsy because he hadn't resurfaced in a while, and then, lo and behold, there he is marching towards me.

With a three foot high angry japanese lady in a museum uniform. OH sweet Jeebus, no. Did he Touch a painting? WAS IT DAMAGED? My life and future earnings flashed before my eyes as they made it through the crowds. Apparently the gift shop was straight ahead, and while we were told that there would be no re-entry to the exhibit, there is no rope or anything signifying the end of the exhibit. There's a no re-entry notice painted on the side wall in the doorway, above eye level.

So all she wanted was proof that he had a ticket as he had wandered into the gift shop and then went back to find me. Whew!

So we had brought an elegant picnic of PBJ and oranges, and sat on a bench in Golden Gate park while we chowed. Little O starts to laugh, and we all look, and there is a squirrel clutching her leg from under the bench. My girl is DRAMA, and I would expect her to be traumatized--maybe if it had been her bare leg she would have been, but she had her jeans on and was enchanted with the squirrel. I would have screamed and kicked my leg out, but she just wanted him to do it again. There was an artist selling paintings in the park, and he told Little O that if she had any nuts, the squirrel would be her friend all day. She took her daddy's cell phone and went off to take pictures of her new furry friend. I still need to pull those from the camera...

Big O has NO interest in seeing part 2, which opens mid-September, but Little O and, surprisingly, the Honey, are very excited to go back. I'm all in, but this time WITH the audio tour--and maybe a tazer--and maybe on a week day.

#@$$%$%&$%^*&$%&$#%^$#@

I am not, by nature, an angry woman.

I am so frustrated with my ex that I could just scream.

As a cheerleader and touchy feely support system for our son, he is superb...And that concludes our recap of his good points.

Wrestling is Big O's thing, he gets that from his dad's side of the family, and I support it enthusiastically if not always with full comprehension. I also foot all of the bills because things just aren't looking up right now for his dad financially. Things have not looked up for him financially since... jeebus, since he decided to pursue real estate.

I pay for a gym membership so that Big O can train in the off season. For his birthday, his father joined the same gym, not knowing how he's going to pay the membership dues, but because if he joined it came with one free session with a personal trainer. Which is what he gave Big O for his birthday. His Free session.

I did not mock or make fun. Turns out, this MAMON of a trainer (That's basically cocksucker is spanish, if you were wondering) told my son that he could make him a champion for the bargain price of $1350 for a 90 day session.

Guess who promised his son that he'd do his best to make it happen?

Now I am the great Satan for telling my son the TRUTH. That if $1350 is too rich for MY blood it's waaaaaay too rich for his father's.

Now I am the Shiva of Dreams and aspirations.

Am I wrong to be honest with my son?

Supercalifragilisticexpialadocious

"Mama, if you say a word at the wrong time, can it REALLY change your life?"

If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around...

My Children love to Dance.

I'm afraid that they may have been switched at birth.

Add this to the fact that Little O does not believe in eating macaroni & cheese or (sob!) mashed potatoes, and I think I have a pretty good case for alien abduction. Fairies switching them? Robot children a la Spy kids?

Take your pick, but it's getting reaalllly hard to believe they are the fruit of MY loins!

Big O was in his 3rd quinceanera last weekend, and again, you could not get either of them off of the dance floor. Luckily every once in a while Little O would throw in a move like a cross between a Carlton and an Elaine, with a little sideways kick...



So I know she really IS my kid.

Little O had her dress rehearsal for her first ballet recital tonight. The cute in that room was overpowering. We all stumbled out slightly woozy from the chubby legs and dimply smiles--and the tutus, oh my stars the cute of those tutus!

Mr Darcy he's not...

I confessed my love for Holmes on Homes today to a co-worker. THAT'S my kinda dreamboat. Give me a master at what he does over a pretty Mario Lopez type any day. I think I horrified her.

Along those same lines, Jack Reacher may be my new literary husband (Sorry, Atticus Kodiak). Jack Reacher doesn't believe in laundry. My heart went pitter pat.

I heart cheap, mass market fiction and strong, capable men. Who don't believe in laundry.

Knock Knock...

When I was growing up, my father would announce on long car trips that it was time for another Humor Lesson (OH, yes, it was capitalized).

groan. We would talk about the definitions of satire and sarcasm until he felt that I had a grasp of it all.

As Miss Priss pours over her highlights magazines, she tells me the jokes and then we talk about the ones she doesn't get.

Incoming teacher at two o'clock.

am or pm?

And I'm off, totally over-explaining about pilots orienting themselves in the sky based upon the face of the clock, and then testing her...so if I say there's a dog at six o'clock, where is it?

I am SO my father.

Blogger, I've been Two timing you.

I have a new love...

No, Facebook doesn't count. That's like crack. It's different.

I just finished reading another fabby post by Maria, at Just Eat Your Cupcake. I have a long blogroll, but nothing makes my day like seeing that Maria has posted something new.

When I was little, my father brought home a treasure from one of his trips. It was a book, Conversations with a Pocket Gopher, by Jack Schaeffer, the man who also happened to write Shane, the western. (Total side story, when I was running my bookstore in Hanford, my fella took me to Yosemite, and when we saw the little bookstore on the way, you know I had to stop. I had always looked for another copy of my book in all the hippy granola bookstores, to no avail. When we walked in, I began the title and the lady who owned the store finished it for me. Her dad WAS Jack Schaeffer, and she had multiple copies, so I bought one for me and one for my dad. COME ON, that was cool.) Back to the point, Maria can make folding laundry with her dog at her side into poetry. She reminds me of that book. Whether she's talking about her partner, her daughter, her dog or her dishes, she takes you there. The lady's got soul, folks.

I've been cheating on Blogger with my new favorite, Open Salon. It's fun to browse their blogs and see who strikes a chord. My favorite so far has been Ann Nichols.

I'm not really blogging much these days, but I had a late latte, and Little O was quietly sobbing in her bed because of growing pains. The Honey doesn't remember having growing pains, but I DEFINITELY had 'em. Based upon Miss Priss' misery, my kiddo is gonna have some gams, let me tell ya. A little tylenol and some back rubbing and she is back out, but I am wide awake, too wired to even play a little bejeweled. It doesn't help that I've been off for the last week and am due back to work tomorrow (yikes, make that in 4 hours).

How huge could this be?

Morphine given shortly after injury can significantly reduce incidence of PTSD. 

 

http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2010/01/morphine_ptsd.html

 

I’m not posting those Wednesday Heroes only because I’m not blogging very often anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.

 

People are dying in service to our country everyday, and many many more are coming back with serious issues.  We OWE it to these folks to make sure we take care of them when they come home.   If we can prevent a single case of PTSD, we should be researching the HELL out of this. 

You know, we're aging. I get that.

The drummer looks like they just rolled him out of his cardboard box, decided his shirt was too dirty to salvage, and had him take it off.

He looks like a suspect on CSI (vegas or ny, Miami is never anything but neon colored and/or freshly waxed skin glistening with a slight sheen of sweat).

I've written before about how badly tattoos age when they become covered with old man fur. I really think a cut up tee shirt was in order. Grandpa's nipple rings are flapping and he needs to pull his pants up. I realize that he is in a rock and roll band and cannot dress his age, but maybe they could give him the Dynasty treatment--not the beaded shoulder pads, more like the Linda Evans/Joan Collins soft filter.

Wrestling may be the end of my sanity.

It's possible that Big O got the haircut from hell from his wrestling coach at the tournament on the Weds before thanksgiving. We're looking into a Jack sponsorship deal.

It's also possible that I advised my son that his stepfather would have kittens if Big O knocked a tooth loose because he was not wearing the mouth guard I got for him (after his father was going to cover "all" the costs and we bought it all). It's further possible that I then clarified that while kittens sound cute, it would in fact be full grown hellcats emerging from the Honey's ass to consume us all. Which got the adorable grin I was looking for while still getting my point across that my boy had better WEAR his damned safety gear.

If he loses a tooth on top of the *cough* modified bowl haircut, he's not going to get to talk to a girl until college.

How do you choose which hurts you hold onto?

I find that I am drawn to two kinds of people in my life...Brainy smarts and wild flamboyance. The brainy smarts, well, I loves me a big brain. The sparks that fly from big brains are what make life worthwhile for me. But my own big brain gets me into trouble and I over think things and start feeding my own insecurities, which leads me to the other recurring character in my life, the loud flamboyant one who shows no fear. I have said before on this blog, I am at times paralyzingly shy. Completely socially retarded. I assume that people forget me as soon as they meet me, and that they are not talking to me. So when I make an outgoing friend, I am fascinated by them, and enjoy their ability to force me out of my shell. Sadly, the other trait of flamboyance is a certain carelessness. They make off the cuff remarks and promises that don't pan out, and it's no big deal.

In general one of my best traits is that I don't stress over things, I am the one that sucks it up and moves on. But I have to say, sometimes it feels like I can hold a grudge like a muthafucka.*

I shake things off and move on, but I soak it into my big brain and start analyzing it, and over analyzing it, and get all butt hurt. The Honey is a Master of Butt Hurt. The people who have stood me up or inadvertently hurt my feelings are banished forever in his mind, and he sneers when their names are mentioned. Which is kind of nice that it's on my behalf, but ultimately it gets exhausting. Sometimes it's people I love and adore, sometimes it's people I am still genuinely fond of. I can't function while in butt hurt mode. I have to be able to put it away and move on with my day. The Honey likes to buff and shine his grudges and set them out where he can see them. Mine are hidden away in a cupboard in my brain, and I only bring them out for a polish when I get my feelings hurt.

I got my feelings hurt today and I so don't want to add it to my dark little cupboard to trot out the next time someone disappoints me. I wish they were at least righteous grudges that I could be proud to hold onto, you know? Then I could call them up and say "Fuck you for killing my dog, ruining my career, or re-electing Dubya after he'd clearly fucked it all up (Hey, wait a minute, I could be onto something..)" But how do you call someone after fifteen years and say "Fuck you for giving me a pencil cup for Christmas when I gave you a full set of towels because I THOUGHT about you and what you needed. And while we're at it, fuck you for casting me as Mare Winningham in the "Who would play you in the movie" game! Because you, lady, are no Sharon Stone." See? They aren't even GOOD grudges and hurts. They are petty and small. It is my sincere hope that by typing this out, I get it out of my system, so that whatever dark gremlin made me just google a picture of Ms. Winningham--who is a fine character actress, don't get me wrong--will crawl back into the cupboard for a while.


*Greg Beck, wherever you are, I still miss your posts.

Brian Crook, Where are you now?

Brian Crook is no longer Brian Crook. He changed his name, and we lost contact.

Brian wasn't even my friend, he was my brother's best friend when we lived in Sacramento. He and his younger brother, Brent, lived across the street from us, around the corner from Birdcage Walk as it was under construction. I would get sent over to call my brother home for dinner and
Brian's mom would always tell me to get a piece of candy from the dish--I was four or five, people, that was HUGE. Brian's family had also come from Redding, but they lived in Enterprise. Being four or five, I had no concept of subdivisions or parts of town. I thought Brian and his family had lived on the Starship Enterprise. I always wanted to ask if I could see their uniform shirts.

The Crooks moved back to Redding about the same time we did. The boys made their own skateboards, for YEARS. They became fans of Devo, of Blondie, of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They double dated. Then Brian and his family moved to Portland. My brother went to live with them the next summer. It broke my heart. I hope Big O always makes time for Little O the way my brother made time for me. I'm sure a sister six years younger worshiping you was a drag sometimes. My brother sent me tapes for my birthday, Synchronicity, by the Police, and Bonnie something, she sang total eclipse of the heart. (Sweet lord, why am I telling you that? I apparently have NO kind of filters or dignity) I about wore out that Police tape.

I'm thinking of Brian Crook because after my brother went up, Brian came down and stayed with us. He brought his guitar, and on lazy afternoons, he would sit in the family room and play Beatles songs on his guitar and sing them with me. It was heaven. I sing. It's just my nature, I sing constantly, to the point of annoyance and monotony, at times.

I bought Little O the Disney sing it because my girl loves to sing, too. Imagine my glee at discovering that the microphone is compatible with Rock Band. The Honey bought me the Beatles Rock Band disc for my birthday. I told him we could get the guitars and drum set later, I just wanted to sing.


I didn't know I knew the words to Dear Prudence, but listening to it, I don't hear the Beatles singing, I hear Brian Crook. It makes me smile.

I hope someday he googles his old name and finds this. I hope his kids (I hope he has kids) buy him Beatles Rock Band and sing it with him.