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: