I like to fix things. How do you fix *ssholes?

Last night, Mrs G was back in France, 1944.


She was hiding with her 3 month old son in the woods, not because the soldiers were after HER specifically, but because that was what you did when the soldiers came to town, you made sure you stayed out of sight.

She woke up in the hospital, having been knocked unconscious when the bombs hit. No one could tell her where her son was.

The man to her left was dead, and they were trying to amputate the leg of the man to her right. Then the next bomb hit the hospital. She dropped her burning robe and leaped from the second floor.

She wandered the eight miles to her home in a daze, naked except for one slipper.

She was 21.

When she got home, her neighbors had found her infant son in the woods but had not been able to find her. He was fine.

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

Saturday afternoon Mrs G called the Honey and told him maybe a stroke?

By the time I made it next door, her speech was gone, except for one word, the name of that son safe at the neighbor's home so long ago. I called 911 and the last few days we've been visiting her in the hospital.

Her daughter, who lives a few hours away drives in every other day, making preparations to move into her mom's home for a while, until her mom is feeling better.

Mrs G had lost her speech but was still able to write, so she has not been completely locked into her own mind. She is still sharp as a tack. But last night her speech came flooding back to her and she told me the tale she says she has never shared with her children.

The son from that story, the story that drew huge wracking sobs from her, lives in town and still has not been to see his mother, has not called to inquire.

I would like to hunt him down, but Karma or the deity of his choosing will see that he gets his. My role in this is just to make sure that her cats get fed and that she knows that we love her. But it's hard. I'd like to do more.

In which we traumatize the girl child.

We went sailing with my parents a few weeks ago. It was the first time ever for the Honey and the Kids--I was raised on the sailboat, it's just 6 months younger than me. I suspect it was the consolation prize for my father for trading in the Porsche when I was born.

The Honey and the kids loved it, but Little O wanted to go swimming. With me. RIGHT.NOW.

It WAS hot, so we found a quiet cove and Big O and I jumped into the water. Then it was Little O's turn. Do you see that photo? The one where she's wearing the bulky blue life jacket?

We explained that she HAD to have a life jacket on and KEEP it on in order to be on the boat. It would keep her from sinking and keep her safe, which is always our biggest priority. She accepted it without a peep.

So I jumped into the lake, and in spite of the 100 plus degree temperature, that water was a bit chilly. I thought to myself,
"oh, this isn't going to last long at this temperature..."

So the Honey passed Miss Priss into the water, onto the floaty cushion thrown out for general principle.

My poor baby.

As soon as she slid off that cushion, she completely flipped out. Shrieking and climbing on top of my head.

Apparently we had sold the life jacket so completely that she had absolute faith in it, and we never bothered to explain that she WOULD sink into the water, but that it would stop her from sinking sinking. She thought in her six year old brain, that she would float on the water where the life jacket touched the water. It makes sense. It also nearly drowned me before her father could pluck her back out of the water and calm her down. Thank God for the stupid floaty cushion.

She's fine and now that she understands that her life jacket was not failing, she's totally game to go sailing again.

What a trooper!

Cookies make the world go 'round.

Miss Priss made cookies in the shape of princess crowns, until I got tired of watching them break as they were transferred. Then we switched to hearts. She ran some over to Mrs G and the Grand Dame promptly popped the crown onto her head.

There are few things better than a six year old and an eighty-six year old both giggling like girls. :)

Exxxxcellent margarita party has me drunk blogging this fine and wondrous evening.

Sweet Jeebus am I going to e sorry tomorrow. possibly tonight.

Major points to the honey for being my designated driver.

Salud to Miss Blunt for throwing a fan-tabulous partay, even if she did call me on the abundance of cleavage I was sporting. It's not my fault they could have their own zip code.

And for getting Miss Sunshine and my new partner in crime to show--both of whom swore they were in for my B-day and bailed. 8 months later and still bringing it up...not bitter, are we?

Need to send my best Jen a box of books now that she is trapped in the deep south. Actually needed to send them to her sooner that this, but everything works out for a reason. She would not have wanted to schlepp them all the way to 'bama, but now that she's THERE...

Must.make.sandwiches.for.Honey. No chance in hell I'm waking back up at 4:30 to make them like usual.

The Heartbreak of The Flops

So, part of me wants to laugh and mock the commercials for "Restless Leg Syndrome" like I do pretty much any commercial with disclaimers like "Be sure to advise your doctor if you've ever had a Liver transplant."

WTF? My doctor's visits require medical history in triplicate, even if It's just for the yearly. Wouldn't your doctor KNOW if you have a giant fucking scar?

But let's get back to my point. Because RLS sounds like the winner in a pharmaceutical sales rep's "Make up a Syndrome" contest. Like Nanwrimo for leeches.

Except...

My hubby has them beat. He's got the Flops. It's not just his legs, people. His arms go flying, he kicks off the covers and then pulls them back up. He flaps the covers. That's my favorite. But he snores through it all.

He says I don't love him enough because we have not actually said vows in a legal type way.

Tonight he asked me to come to bed early and then (in his sleep) held his hand up over and over again to block my view of the show I was watching on the idiot box.

He doesn't understand that the fact that he wakes up each and every morning, not a bruise or a pinch mark on him, is the proof that I love him.

Why I need night vision goggles...

My brother and his wife are insane. Which is what makes them so Awesome.

Last night we all trooped over to the park across the street from their house.

In the dark.

To play Hide and Go Seek.


Five Adults, five teenagers, and a hopped up six year old.

Eldest nephew showed up in a ghillie suit...



I wish Big O had been with us. He's off wrestling at the State tournament...

I swear I have not run that fast before.
EVER.
Little O, who minces down the baselines and swears it's her top speed, discovered how to use her full stride as she "helped" whomever was It. We made her carry a light stick to keep from being mowed down on the stampede to base. It was still a narrow thing. She wasn't understanding that an adult running at full speed can't come to a complete stop just because they crossed the line, so please sit down on the wall. I almost pulled a Matrix/Jedi mid-air flip trying not to knock my own kid down.

I'm not down for football where my lack of co-ordination will let down my team, but hide and go seek? I'm totally in.

Sigh.

So I put my foot in it at work.

We have one very blunt, outspoken girl at work, and one very fiery person. The ladies of the fishbowl prefer to stay neutral.

So Miss Blunt observes that Miss Fiery tends to get sick when our boss takes personal days on Fridays. It should be noted that Miss F's best friend is the receptionist, so from time to time on a Friday, the Receptionist (and she's sooo much more than that, but we'll call her Miss Sunshine) says--"Will you guys be okay without her? Because Miss F is sick." Which is awkward for all of us, because then we're resenting Miss Sunshine for just doing her job and being the bearer of bad tidings because it's her best friend she's asking about, and we feel like jerks for wanting her to come in because we're slammed. We've all been sick, we all take sick days. Not many of us call in consistently when the boss is known to be gone.

Huh. Miss Blunt calls 'em like she sees 'em, and I rather enjoy her straightforward attitude, although I tend to be a little more discreet myself--usually.

But this week is graduations of all sorts, as well as our office's busiest time of the year. So while it was a scheduled MORNING off for Miss F, she was supposed to call in to see if we needed her, because the Boss just went on vacation.

She called at noon, and Miss Sunshine told her she didn't know, because the reps were on the phone and I was at lunch, so Miss F said she was going to grab some lunch and call back after.

So she DID call back. At 2:30. I told her um, yeah, come in, and she tells me then she'll have to drop her daughter off so it won't be until at least 3. Then she paused, waiting for me to say, oh, never mind then. I told her to come on in.

Miss Blunt takes a lot of heat from Miss F for talking shit, but this was enough, and I DO NOT LIKE talking ABOUT people. I think the honest way to do it is to talk TO them. So I warned Miss Sunshine that I was going to say something to Miss Fiery about the schmucky call in. She suggested, given Miss Fiery's nature, that maybe I send it in an Email.

So Now Miss Fiery is completely pissed at me, and doesn't see how it's any of my business that she took two and a half hours to take her kid to lunch, because the boss told her she could (take him to lunch, that is). I think she really believes that if the boss had been in the office she really would have taken two and a half hours and then called in STILL not ready to come back.

Wouldn't it be chickenshit for me to let Miss Blunt take the heat for saying what we were all thinking, but never saying it TO Miss Fiery? I'd rather have it out in the open, so we can all move on.

Sweet Jeebus I hate drama. I hate it even more knowing I threw gas on the smoldering embers of this particular drama, but I also have to live inside my own head, you know?

BE a good citizen.
Treat others like you want to be treated.
Take other people into consideration.
sheesh!

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

update!

So my boss asked me to apologize, not for the message, just maybe for the delivery of said message, and Miss F and I are okay again.

I wish you could see her...

I HAVE to figure out how to post cell phone video.

Because there are few things better than Little O with her newest obsession...

She does the sprinkler. All Damn day.

hi-larious.

She's also reading Ramona Quimby, Age 8 to herself. In Kindergarten.(!)

Little O sums up Western Religion...

On our recent road trip to see my folks, Little O grabbed 2 books for the long car ride.

 

One was her new Highlights magazine, and the other was the child's first Bible that she got for Christmas.

 

We were rolling through Williams when she slapped the book shut and announced,

 

"Well, I read the whole Bible."

 

Really?  And what did you think of it, Miss Priss?

 

"Well, I was really sad when they killed Jesus, but then they put him in a cave, and put a rock in front of it, and he came back, so I felt better."

 

Um...

 

Well, actually, I guess that's about it, isn't it? 

Thank you, thank you very, very, muu-u-u-u-uch.

I wasn't really expecting to get the Lohan/Spears Parenting trophy for the month of April.

 

I'm really quite overwhelmed.

 

In my defense, Little O really does think the song SAYS "Thank You". 

 

I didn't correct her.  So when my six year old skipped through Wal-Mart singing that sunny little Lily Allen song, she really was singing Thank you, and not in a wry social commentary sort of way.

 

Big O smirks, because he knows what the song is actually saying in it's chipper tones. 

 

It does end with a k, and the second word IS you.

 

Once Little O figures it out, she'll still sing it Thank you. 

 

But I was silently singing along with her as we fought the crowds last night, and I have to say, it was delicious.

 

I'm well aware I'm going to hell, no need to comment (hahahahahahaaaaa).

 

 

weighing close to a thousand pounds...

Ah, Sayre, where is Operation Lose That Ass when I need it?

I'm trying to cook at home again. We've been baaaaad about going out. But right now with Miss Priss and her Tee Ball and The senior O and his wrestling, I'm not HOME to cook, and the Honey's new job necessitates early bedtimes. So If it's not almost done by six, we just need to go grab something. It's ugly, folks.

Senior O makes it sound like he's almost through with high school instead of about to start it. Elder O?

Little O has finally, at long last, embraced bedtime. I have resisted bedtime stories, holding them out as a carrot to lure her into her own room. Baby, tonight was the last chapter of Little House in the Big Woods. YAY! As a bookseller, can I tell you how long I have waited for these nights?

Big O had no kind of attention span for long stories. He is a rapid reader himself, sadly following in my voracious reading habits--I didn't mean to imply that he's not a reader. But at six? Not so much.

We have discovered a new bookstore. It's only open on Saturdays, and everything is a dollar. They run it out of an industrial park on the east side. Can I tell you, I would never have gone within six blocks of this place if I hadn't been staring at their sign, barely visible from the Starbuck's parking lot. Hmmm....you're a shifty serial killer, but you're lazy, and you want to lure me into the space where your 70's van is waiting? Okay, I'm in!

Actually, the Honey's sister had been telling me about it for weeks, but kept bailing on me when I called her to go. So I dragged the Honey with me a few weeks ago. It was sweet. Not fuzzy animals in Easter baskets sweet. Dude, where's my car? sweet. My eye only twitches a little that they stop at sorting by category---sort of. After that it's good luck, suckah!

But last weekend after we MISSED Big O wrestling in Modesto by minutes, and only because they wrestled out of weight class order--Little O and I went to see if we could find the next little house book. We came out with fifteen books. Three little house books and eleven American Girl books. By my calculations, that's about what we would have spent on two American Girl books at B&N.

With the Honey's new improved early bed times, Miss Priss reads to her daddy until he falls asleep. She reads him American Girl stories. Daddy, meet Felicity. :)

Oh, the Horror

My bra is creaking like an old creepy staircase.

 

Does this mean it's about to lose structural integrity and everything is about to burst forth?

 

Because let me tell you, the ample proportions of my youth have given way to epic proportions.  Someone could get hurt if this thing gives.  sigh.

 

*****

 

Going to Tahoe with the Hot New Wife and her friends in May.  No way I'm dropping fifty pounds in a month.  Just gonna have to jiggle my way through.  I realize I'm whining, but I frigging hate to dance.  I doubt I'm talking them into skiing or board games.  It's drinking and dancing.  shiiiiit.

 

Good thing I like her.  Her friends are also very gracious in their bafflement. 

 

I am equally baffled.  Even when I was in my twenties, I didn't dance.  I drank, but it was more of a kick-back chillin' with friends kinda thing.  These girls drink with a purpose.

 

I'm so old, and happy to be so.

 

*****

We took the kids to the zoo and then to old town Sac, and they had a good time, them we went to Makuni's for sushi downtown on a Friday night. 

 

We all agreed it was very CSI Miami, and the Honey and I were waiting for a blonde to come flying over the upstairs balcony.

 

The O's thought it was very glamorous.

 

Photos after the camera recharges!

 

Please Pass the Reynolds Wrap.

Mmmmkay.

Sitting in my silent house (okay, silent except for The Honey's snoring), my answering maching keeps giving a little electronic shush-shhhush noise, as if it were wind in the wiring.

At this hour, I must admit that it's creeping me the hell out, and I begin to sympathise with people sportin' tinfoil hats. Or poor, overbaked Plasticman from Redding.


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

On a separate note?

Class act, there, Mister former President.

Asked to comment on Obama's handling of the economic crisis, Dubya said "He deserves my silence" and said that in times like these we should support each other, not attack each other. Which I take as a jab at yappping Mr. Cheney.

Any jab at Cheney is a jab for the good guys--So was not pardoning Libby. It has to suck to get booed at speaking engagements. Still a failure as leader of the free world, but I feel for him.


Okay, the answering machine just did it again. I think I need an exorcist.

Good night, all. (all 2 of you)

Chicken or the Egg?

So Big O stayed at his father's last night. 

 

The Ex is infamous for waking up late and dropping Big O off still needing a shower, so I called his cell this morning...no answer.

 

Shit.

 

But my phone rang, and it was the Ex's #.  Whew!  I didn't bother with a greeting (because I, too, am eternally running late in the mornings),

 

"Hey, just making sure you guys are up and running, and please make sure he gets a shower before you come over."

 

A man's voice replied,

 

"I made sure he got up, and he's in the shower now."

 

Bwaahahahahahaaaaaaaa

 

"Okay, Big O, I love you, see you soon."

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in local news...

The crazy local happenings at the legal epicenter of our fine (okay downtrodden) county? That whole family is batshit crazy and ruuuuude. Soon as I heard the name, I thought, oh, well it WOULD be one of them.
Yes, I realize that I am going to burn in hell for my thoughts.

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

Speaking of hell, what in the hell was ABC thinking, cancelling Life on Mars?

WAAAAHHHHHH. Every.single.show.I.like.

I am the goddess of death for great TV shows. I am the Gorgon. As soon as I turn my gaze upon it, it's as good as dead.

Dark Confession Time--possibly a Dorkfession.

I have a secret to confess.

I really can't believe I'm going to tell you this.

Kristy, my world music loving friend, you should look away. I'm about to expose the shallow end of my musical gene pool.

I need to quit stalling.

Friends, all two of you still reading this FB orphaned blog, I have a weakness.

A prediliction, if you will.

I've tried to stop. I've tried immersion therapy in the good stuff, trying to cleanse my palate. (Jeebus, is that spelled right?)

But...but...I kind of, um, well, I may have spent more money on bad euro pop than on anything with a guitar in it. Music seems like such an indulgence, and because my tastes are sort of thrash-y I tend to leap at anything lighter.

Which is how I ended up with:

Robbie Williams*

Lilly Allen

and

Freaking Lou Bega (Oh, the shame)

I also purchased my first Madonna album as she was going through her cowboy/Ali G phase.

I hope you don't think any less of me. (sob!)

I know that Robbie Williams is a former boy band member, and come on, Lou Bega just seems like an ass. Don't mess with Lily, though, 'kay? I love to hear little O sing that song. It's less fun to hear her sing Alfie, which is her true favorite, but she doesn't know what she's singing yet, and it's still not Genie in a Bottle or anything.

*The Robbie Williams video goes a little fangoria on you at the end, just a warning.

Wednesday Hero-and a lttle Jen

Sgt. Kelly Keck
34 years old from West Liberty, Kentucky


Secretary of the Army Pete Geren congratulates Sgt. Kelly Keck after presenting him the Purple Heart.

On September 13, 2008, Sgt. Kelly Keck, a combat medic serving in Afghanistan, was wounded while trying to aid his fellow soldiers who's truck had just been struck by an IED. "I stepped off the road to try to get to the side of the truck, and the next thing I know I hear a loud boom, and I'm laying on the ground," he said. Sgt. Kelly had stepped on a land mine. He was flown to a field hospital in Jalalabad where he ended up losing three fingers on his left hand and his right leg below the knee. "It was quite an ordeal," the soft-spoken soldier said.


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 watched Black Hawk Down over the weekend for the first time.

The Honey was baffled to look over and see me crying. I never cry at movies*.

I don't think I was crying for my nephews, at the though of them being in a situation like that. I think it was the thought of ANYBODY in such a clusterfuck. Knowing what was coming, too, because I had said at the beginning of the movie that there was only one story I remembered about Somalia, and it wasn't pretty. Yup, that's the one.

The Honey saw my point though about streamlining benefits, because anybody who has gone through something even remotely like that while we eat pizza and watch football should be TAKEN CARE OF by the entity that sent them there, not made to jump through hoops.

Come on, Mr. Obama, I am looking forward to hearing your plan for THAT mess, too.

* Once upon a time, the bad boyfriend & I went to the movies with his best friend and HIS roommates. They were older than I was, and all very artsy and philosophical. They were by far my favorites of the bad boyfriend's friends. So we went to see Jacob's Ladder with Tim Robbins, and when we got out of the movie, they were all nowhere to be seen. Turns out they had all gone home to cry for the rest of the night at the deep concepts and heavy thoughts the movie had provoked. All I could think was, really? I thought it kind of sucked.

I'm not a great follower, I think. These were people I admired and wanted to hang with, but all I could think was that they must have been hitting the bong too hard, because huh? I think it's related to my loathing of most poetry. My old friend Ray relishes deep philosophical conundrums to the point that he is pursuing theology in school. I think I could make a living writing infomercials. Different paths, but the same need for faith, right?

Valentine Madness

So my favorite of the Honey's car guy friends got married last night.

At the hockey game.

We're tickeld because Garry is over the moon for his sweetie, and if she would agree to get married on the ice at a hockey game for the texan-hockey nut? It must be love. It was part of a radio station promotion, so there were 103 couples doing the deed, including one guy dressed in a turkey suit. Whatever.

Garry looked sharp in his suit, Shannon was pretty in her polka dots, but as the hockey game went on, I became distracted.

Down in front, right up against the glass? I swear he looked like Biff Henderson. It may have been the baseball hat, it may have been the big earpiece.

The Honey was laughing at me as I snarled obscenities at the bloonde who kept blocking my photo. But I got him, Not until the game was over, and you can't see his earpiece, but I got him.

 

Not sure who Biff is? He's Letterman's Stage manager guy:



The Honey says it could just as easily have been James Earl Jones and maybe white girl should shut her pie hole.

I'm such a dork. ARGH! I'm a bad dork, though, 'cause I missed the Dorkteenth. Shit. Consider this my Dorkteenth confession.

in love with love

A few weeks ago Little O was studying a baby shower invitation, cooing over all of the fuzzy baby details, when she stopped and asked what R.S.V.P meant.

I explained that you put that when you want someone to write back to you.

Her latest obsession is making homemade valentines by the THOUSANDS. At the bottom of each one, she writes R.S.V.P. Then she sends them all to her father and I. I have tiny paper hearts and full sheets of paper all over my house. We no longer speak, we write love notes.

The Honey says I'll have to explain RSVP soon, and I know he's right.

Her stick figures are getting more lifelike every day, though. We can't spell BACKWARDS in front of her anymore. She's getting that same wierd fakey laugh her brother has. She remembers her knock knock jokes.

So for just a little while longer, I am going to savor each little RSVP she writes and I'll Respondez Si Vous Plait to each tiny scrap of love she sends me in her fanciest curli-q writing.

My name is Jennifer

...and some days I feel like this guy. I refer to myself as socially retarded, but some days it's just that I'm annoying. I fall into patterns and say the same things over and over again in conversation to fill in the gaps. If we're walking by each other and you seem to be expecting something but we've already said hello for the day? You'll probably get a snippet from Camptown Races.
If someone is giving me news that I don't want to hear? "It's all an adventure."

Is is like social tourette's? I know it's annoying, but it just falls out of my mouth.

I'm filling in for a different department and it's fun to learn a new job. My co-worker in...hmm...it's not the fishbowl, let's call it the tank--the toilet tank. Don't get me wrong, it's nice back there, and there's a lot more room, but there's also the potential...well, you get the idea. Anyway, my co-worker in the tank is someone I really like. She's new to the company, but our sons are friends. People, I am trying so hard to NOT be annoying. I've told her she can stop me when I start singing, because half the time I don't realize I'm doing it--which wouldn't be so bad if I sang anything good. No, I hum the Chicken Dance for no reason. It's annoying to ME.

I'm also really bad at ass kissing, apparently, because interpersonal politics are so NOT my bag, baby. There's a whole lotta ass to kiss in the tank.

******

And on a happier but FB related note, I just realized (When she joined four more stupid groups including "no-such-thing-as-pro-choice" and "Global warming--see? I told you they were making it all up!") that I could opt to get less news from the sweet but misguided eastern cousin, so unless she actually asks me to join, I don't have to get mad each day. Because seriously, If I wasn't so boy crazy I'd be flying a rainbow flag in my front yard. Just because. I AM a California girl,, and the only reason my dad turned out to be a republican is because he made money. I know I got my hippie ideals and need for logic and reason from my parents. I think my mom secretly IS a democrat. Because she's my hero like that.