That's a lot of golf.
Damn.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Honor, Sacrifice, Duty.
On the bottom shelf in my library -- the shelf that holds various oversize coffee-table books -- there is a seldom-opened tome that offers images from the Viet Nam war. about 2/3rds of the way through that book, on the left-hand side, there is a black-and-white picture of six young Marines on a gun boat.
They are tired and sweaty. All of them wear tattered, dirty fatigues and grim, thousand-yard stares, even as they smile mechanically for the camera and brandish their weapons. They are all weighed down by so much more than their overloaded rucks.
The one in the middle is my Da'.
He carries a field radio; the same radio that will be hit by gunfire in less than three months and burn its imprint indelibly into his body. He still carries that radio today -- the straps are still visible if he wears sleeveless shirts (which of course he doesn't, because too many people gawk at the bright pink keloids that mar his shoulders and upper chest). There is a ratty towel around his neck, he wears standard military-issue, black-rimmed "birth control" glasses and his helmet is covered in illegible graffiti. If I wanted to, I could climb to his attic today and pull the towel, the glasses and the helmet out of his footlocker and trace the ghosts of those words with my finger.
My love of books,. my poor eyesight, my affection for bad puns and truly awful dirty jokes and my skills in profanity all come from the man in that picture.
My eldest daughter has his artistic talent in spades.
My son has his eyes and his mechanical ability to disassemble and reassemble anything handed to him.
My youngest child has smile and shows all the signs of having his skill in languages.
He still bears the scars -- physical and psychological -- from a conflict decades and continents away. Those scars can be easily breached by careless words and actions.
Remember those who have served and those who currently serve this Memorial Day.
(I will save my vitriol for those who scorn such service and are utterly beneath contempt for another day.)
Addendum, becasue I can't get the comment to post:
EB -- it's despicable when any Commander-in-Chief -- who bears the ultimate responsibility in sending our men and women into harm's way -- neglects to honor them appropriately. Party affiliation does not matter.
If you're willing to send people to die to enforce the will of the Country, the least you can fucking do is hang around and drop a fucking wreath for those who have fallen.
About the only legit excuse could accept in this case is an honest-to-God medical crisis.
They are tired and sweaty. All of them wear tattered, dirty fatigues and grim, thousand-yard stares, even as they smile mechanically for the camera and brandish their weapons. They are all weighed down by so much more than their overloaded rucks.
The one in the middle is my Da'.
He carries a field radio; the same radio that will be hit by gunfire in less than three months and burn its imprint indelibly into his body. He still carries that radio today -- the straps are still visible if he wears sleeveless shirts (which of course he doesn't, because too many people gawk at the bright pink keloids that mar his shoulders and upper chest). There is a ratty towel around his neck, he wears standard military-issue, black-rimmed "birth control" glasses and his helmet is covered in illegible graffiti. If I wanted to, I could climb to his attic today and pull the towel, the glasses and the helmet out of his footlocker and trace the ghosts of those words with my finger.
My love of books,. my poor eyesight, my affection for bad puns and truly awful dirty jokes and my skills in profanity all come from the man in that picture.
My eldest daughter has his artistic talent in spades.
My son has his eyes and his mechanical ability to disassemble and reassemble anything handed to him.
My youngest child has smile and shows all the signs of having his skill in languages.
He still bears the scars -- physical and psychological -- from a conflict decades and continents away. Those scars can be easily breached by careless words and actions.
Remember those who have served and those who currently serve this Memorial Day.
(I will save my vitriol for those who scorn such service and are utterly beneath contempt for another day.)
Addendum, becasue I can't get the comment to post:
EB -- it's despicable when any Commander-in-Chief -- who bears the ultimate responsibility in sending our men and women into harm's way -- neglects to honor them appropriately. Party affiliation does not matter.
If you're willing to send people to die to enforce the will of the Country, the least you can fucking do is hang around and drop a fucking wreath for those who have fallen.
About the only legit excuse could accept in this case is an honest-to-God medical crisis.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Revenge con gas. (IOr, Octoboy gets his own back.)
SnarkGirl (the 9-year-old) and OctoBoy have been at it, hammer and tongs, for days. Everything is worth a fight. This evening, though, he finally discovered the keys to his own revenge kingdom.
This afternoon, they had a particularly rancorous blow-up over K'nex. She destroyed one of his elaborate creations; he pitched a fit. Each was sent to a separate corner to cool down. After the prescribed time-out was served, she went to the kitchen to complete homework, and he went to his room to re-build his machine.
Or so I thought. (To fully explain his vengeance, I need to lay some knowledge.)
You see, the evening rituals in our house are fairly reliable. Around 7:45, we herd the three kids upstairs, and the jockeying for position around the sink (punctuated with a lot of noise) starts, as they brush their fangs. Then each child removes to his or her own bed. Whichever parent is "on" that night takes their own turn at washing up while the other visits each child in turn for kisses, hugs and "good nights!" (as well as last-minute reminders -- "I need my gym uniform tomorrow -- can you wash it?" and wheedling to stay up.)
The parent on bed duty then visits each child for prayers and a final kiss/tuck in, while the other parent takes his or her turn in the bathroom. Ideally, everyone is tucked and in bed by 8:15.
Tonight was my "off" night, so I was brushing my teeth when my eldest daughter came rushing in, gagging and crying, struggling for the mouthwash. She was followed by a smirking OctoBoy and a husband biting his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
It seems that, rather than building, OctoBoy was besmirching his sister's pillows. After nightly prayers and while Husband was putting the baby to bed, Octo snuck down the hall and dropped his bomb -- so to speak.
"I farted on your pillows!"
Then he ran for the hills, while she freaked the fuck out.
It was glorious. Truly, he is my son in all ways.
This afternoon, they had a particularly rancorous blow-up over K'nex. She destroyed one of his elaborate creations; he pitched a fit. Each was sent to a separate corner to cool down. After the prescribed time-out was served, she went to the kitchen to complete homework, and he went to his room to re-build his machine.
Or so I thought. (To fully explain his vengeance, I need to lay some knowledge.)
You see, the evening rituals in our house are fairly reliable. Around 7:45, we herd the three kids upstairs, and the jockeying for position around the sink (punctuated with a lot of noise) starts, as they brush their fangs. Then each child removes to his or her own bed. Whichever parent is "on" that night takes their own turn at washing up while the other visits each child in turn for kisses, hugs and "good nights!" (as well as last-minute reminders -- "I need my gym uniform tomorrow -- can you wash it?" and wheedling to stay up.)
The parent on bed duty then visits each child for prayers and a final kiss/tuck in, while the other parent takes his or her turn in the bathroom. Ideally, everyone is tucked and in bed by 8:15.
Tonight was my "off" night, so I was brushing my teeth when my eldest daughter came rushing in, gagging and crying, struggling for the mouthwash. She was followed by a smirking OctoBoy and a husband biting his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
It seems that, rather than building, OctoBoy was besmirching his sister's pillows. After nightly prayers and while Husband was putting the baby to bed, Octo snuck down the hall and dropped his bomb -- so to speak.
"I farted on your pillows!"
Then he ran for the hills, while she freaked the fuck out.
It was glorious. Truly, he is my son in all ways.
A public service rendered for a friend.
It seems that Gay Cynic has discovered that Ambulance Driver's post on Cycles and More in southern Louisiana has dropped all the way to number six in Google search.
Unnacceptable.
It's my opinion that any company that touts its family-owned, down-home values and yet treats its customers so shabbily has all the charm of a bag of semi-rotted, syphilitic, wart-raddled assholes, slathered in mayonnaise and left to bake in the sun. In addition, those that administer such utterly wretched customer service would probably be pleased to eat said rancid mayo-encrusted assholes on moldy toast.
Unnacceptable.
It's my opinion that any company that touts its family-owned, down-home values and yet treats its customers so shabbily has all the charm of a bag of semi-rotted, syphilitic, wart-raddled assholes, slathered in mayonnaise and left to bake in the sun. In addition, those that administer such utterly wretched customer service would probably be pleased to eat said rancid mayo-encrusted assholes on moldy toast.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Are all hippies utterly insane attention whores who feel the need to lecture perfect strangers?
Yesterday was Ginger Beastie's end-of-preschool-year picnic at a local park. The school hired a DJ, there was a peanut toss, sack races....everyone brought their own lunches, and the school provided ice cream treats and entertainment.
It was the "everyone bring their own lunches" that caused the rumble.
Our area is suburban-to-rural; we have a mix of dumb ass city folk who move "out to the country to experience farm life" and then complain about the smell of cowshit, and we have people who get up at 4 to feed their cows before dressing in their Hagar slacks to go to corporate IT and Pharma jobs. We have stay-at-home Fundie moms and doctor moms and corporate director moms and hippie vegan non-vax moms. It's an eclectic mix.
Well, yesterday's picnic was...tense, because one of the hippie vegan moms publically accused one of the corporate director moms of blatant child abuse, and told her that she ought to have her kids confiscated by Child Protective Services.
Why?
Because CD mom (who took vacation time, left work, ran home, picked up her toddler and came to the friggin' picnic in her suit -- just so the could GO to the picnic with her son -- and had to go back to work right after the picnic was over), instead of packing a lunch, drove through McDonald's and brought chicken nuggets. Vegan mom was terminally offended, grasped her throat and gagged dramatically, and proceeded to launch into a tirade about Big Meat, hormone-laden chicken, body thetans and chicken karma. She actually let her child eat deep-fried, battered nuggets of karmic death and vile chemical mutation!
Now, I'm not a huge fan of Mickey D's, but a) it's her kid, b) he doesn't get fast food often and c) it's HER FRICKIN' KID.
CD mom was not amused, but took the high road and ignored her. VM got louder. Eventually, VM looked like a raving lunatic, hands in her hair, tears on her face while she gave a hoarse, impassioned rant about Mother Gaia and how people like CD (and most of the other moms) were killing children by feeding them white bread, peanut butter and capri sun juice bags. The school director eventually pulled her aside and calmed her down.
Wile this was going on, VM's son -- who looks sort of weedy, pale and unhealthy -- sidled over the CD's son. CD's son palmed him a nugget and a handful of fries, and they went off to wreak havok.
I've never seen a kid inhale a McNugget so fast.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ginger Beastie and I walked Octo-Boy to school...only to have to turn around and walk right back to pick up some contraband that Sister Meatball had confiscated.
It seems that he thought (it being two weeks from the end of the school year) today would be a good day to bring along his vampire fangs, and wear them for morning prayer.
After all, they say two "Hail Marys" every morning, and the line does go, "Blessed art thou among wolf men," right?
It was the "everyone bring their own lunches" that caused the rumble.
Our area is suburban-to-rural; we have a mix of dumb ass city folk who move "out to the country to experience farm life" and then complain about the smell of cowshit, and we have people who get up at 4 to feed their cows before dressing in their Hagar slacks to go to corporate IT and Pharma jobs. We have stay-at-home Fundie moms and doctor moms and corporate director moms and hippie vegan non-vax moms. It's an eclectic mix.
Well, yesterday's picnic was...tense, because one of the hippie vegan moms publically accused one of the corporate director moms of blatant child abuse, and told her that she ought to have her kids confiscated by Child Protective Services.
Why?
Because CD mom (who took vacation time, left work, ran home, picked up her toddler and came to the friggin' picnic in her suit -- just so the could GO to the picnic with her son -- and had to go back to work right after the picnic was over), instead of packing a lunch, drove through McDonald's and brought chicken nuggets. Vegan mom was terminally offended, grasped her throat and gagged dramatically, and proceeded to launch into a tirade about Big Meat, hormone-laden chicken, body thetans and chicken karma. She actually let her child eat deep-fried, battered nuggets of karmic death and vile chemical mutation!
Now, I'm not a huge fan of Mickey D's, but a) it's her kid, b) he doesn't get fast food often and c) it's HER FRICKIN' KID.
CD mom was not amused, but took the high road and ignored her. VM got louder. Eventually, VM looked like a raving lunatic, hands in her hair, tears on her face while she gave a hoarse, impassioned rant about Mother Gaia and how people like CD (and most of the other moms) were killing children by feeding them white bread, peanut butter and capri sun juice bags. The school director eventually pulled her aside and calmed her down.
Wile this was going on, VM's son -- who looks sort of weedy, pale and unhealthy -- sidled over the CD's son. CD's son palmed him a nugget and a handful of fries, and they went off to wreak havok.
I've never seen a kid inhale a McNugget so fast.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ginger Beastie and I walked Octo-Boy to school...only to have to turn around and walk right back to pick up some contraband that Sister Meatball had confiscated.
It seems that he thought (it being two weeks from the end of the school year) today would be a good day to bring along his vampire fangs, and wear them for morning prayer.
After all, they say two "Hail Marys" every morning, and the line does go, "Blessed art thou among wolf men," right?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Gas station etiquette
One of the errands I ran yesterday was heading over to the WaWa and gassing up the Imperial Battlecruiser for the upcoming week. It being a Saturday, the WaWa was hopping inside and out -- all 12 pumps were occupied and all four registers inside had lines.
While I waited my turn to pull up to the pump and get gas, I observed two prime examples of genus douchebaggis obnoxii.
'Bag the first: a woman who had strategically pulled her car parallel to two pumps. She was right in the middle of the lane. she was using the rear pump, but was pulled far enough forward that no one could use the front pump at all; there was no way to back into the slot, or back far enough in to stretch the hose to reach a gas tank. She was singularly unaware that this was sheer asshattery on her part. When one old guy asked her to back up a bit so he could fit his Honda in, she cussed him out and told him to "Get sum gawdam patience, ya old bastid!'
'Bag the second: a young dude sitting at the pump, in his car, on his cellphone. Now, the WaWa really was crowded, and there were three people circling like sharks, waiting for their turns to gas up. Assclown sat in his car chatting away while I waited my turn, pulled up, walked in, hit the ATM, pre-paid for my gas, filled up and got my change. As I was pulling away from the pump, he hung up, walked in and paid for his gas.
If only we were allowed to thwack people for public idiocy.
While I waited my turn to pull up to the pump and get gas, I observed two prime examples of genus douchebaggis obnoxii.
'Bag the first: a woman who had strategically pulled her car parallel to two pumps. She was right in the middle of the lane. she was using the rear pump, but was pulled far enough forward that no one could use the front pump at all; there was no way to back into the slot, or back far enough in to stretch the hose to reach a gas tank. She was singularly unaware that this was sheer asshattery on her part. When one old guy asked her to back up a bit so he could fit his Honda in, she cussed him out and told him to "Get sum gawdam patience, ya old bastid!'
'Bag the second: a young dude sitting at the pump, in his car, on his cellphone. Now, the WaWa really was crowded, and there were three people circling like sharks, waiting for their turns to gas up. Assclown sat in his car chatting away while I waited my turn, pulled up, walked in, hit the ATM, pre-paid for my gas, filled up and got my change. As I was pulling away from the pump, he hung up, walked in and paid for his gas.
If only we were allowed to thwack people for public idiocy.
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