Fun!

http://www4.vc-net.ne.jp/~klivo/soft/mondrian.htm

Ye Olde Shoppe

Hmm... chain mail, chain maile, chain maille, chaine mail, chaine maille. Why the fascination with archaic spelling? Standardized spelling was a damned fine thing. My father, though, used to advocate spelling reform. He even wrote a letter to the editor about it. If I ever have time to scour the Star-Telegram ("Startle-Gram" in our family, due to errors both grammatical and spelling) archives held at the University of Texas at Arlington (my almost alma mater), I will find every last letter Pappy ever wrote to those numbskulls throughout the years, including his promotion of the idea that the United States of America should annex Mexico (whether they want to be annexed or not?), thus solving the illegal immigration problem and supplying a new source of oil all in one (not to mention putting lots of translators and sign painters to work).

Yesterday, I sent an email to my sisters, Bible-Thumper and Money-Grubber, requesting that they return Pappy's journals to me. I think I am finally serious about writing -- writing, and getting paid for it. The impetus for this is my recent contact with the son I put up for adoption 20 years ago, Wesley Louis Franklin Bridges (or was it Wesley Franklin Louis?), who was renamed Paul Michael Mueller by his adoptive family. Paul wants to know genealogy information. I thought having copies of Pappy's journals would be edifying. (Why did my brain want to say "edificacious"?) Bible-Thumper (who has maybe two of the journals) retorts that I could work from copies, and that it would be better to put the originals in a safe deposit box. (My brain: ok, MY safe deposit box.) Money-Grubber hasn't responded yet. I anticipate a vitriolic reply. But I stated my case simply, logically, and without resorting to pathos. I even offered to pay for the copying and have the copies bound, one for each child (natural or otherwise) of my father, plus the two grandchildren (Paul and Lindsay, daughter of my deceased sister, Inge) who do not have ready access to a parent with a copy of the journals. We'll see if my request is honored or not. I don't know if I really believe MG will comply or not. BT will, but perhaps grudgingly.

Reading back through the previous paragraph, it struck me that if BT and MG ever find out I refer to them as such (okay, I'm in a pissy mood, otherwise I get along okay with them), it will be absolute zero before I see the journals again. So if you know me and know my sisters, DO NOT let them have the URL to this blog. My future as a writer depends upon it. Yes, I know I can self-censor. But is that really writing my thoughts, hopes, ideas, and musings then? I dunno.

Maybe I should go down to Ye Olde Shoppe and buy myself une clef. (I looked up "clue" in French, got indice, which doesn't seem to make sense - index? - so I used key instead.)

Gotta love babelfish.

Once Upon a Time

I now know why Mommy never read fairy tales to us. Prince Charming isn't real. He's a fat, bald guy with degenerative arthritis who snores.

Pappy used to read the Brothers Grimm, which I like better than the Disney spin on things. The stories always have a moral of a sort, and in a way, they don't really seem like they're for children. I love the Frog Prince best, where the Princess promises to take him home and be his friend if he retrieves her golden ball out of the well. She lies, and runs off, only to find him at her door the following evening. The King makes her fulfill her promise.

Everything may turn out okay in the end, but you have to kiss a frog first, right?

Well, I want my Prince Charming, riding on a shining white stallion, to come rescue me. I've had it with this crap. The funk is so blue around here, the ice in my cup looks like a coconut snowcone.

Calgon's a lie, there is no Prince Charming, and even "the one that got away", Tom Urquhart IV, is now fat and bald, and his wife is expecting. No, Dorothy, you can't go home. You're stuck here in Emerald City, only it's just weird, there are no viable guys your size, and the green dye gets on everything.

Oreo Cookie

Seen at the Evil Empire (Wal-Mart): Black woman checking out with the following items: three loaves of white bread, vanilla ice cream, chicken breasts (white meat, eh?), toothpaste, tampons. Everything going into her body is white. Odd sight.

The Silent Treatment

Logan is giving me the silent treatment. I called him earlier to discuss Weyland's dental problems (mainly that my cheap-assed insurance won't cover but 25% of a pediodontist). I wasn't finished talking, but Logan hung up on me. That irritates the ever-loving crap out of me. I get furious when he doesn't let me finish what I was saying. So I tried calling him back. He hung up on me without even saying hello. So I called the house phone. He hung up on me again, without even saying hello. Sometimes caller ID is a pain in the ass. I alternated between his cell, which he eventually turned off, and the home phone. What a childish ass he's being! It is important to take care of dental problems. Our friend, William Wurm, aka "Wormy", damn near died from an infected tooth. The infection, which started in a cracked tooth, entered his blood stream and caused damage to his heart valves. He had to move back up to Chicago to be near his parents. He is in rehab, and will be there for a very long time.

I get very pissed when I'm thwarted by childish men, unreasonable dentists, and worthless insurance. Today, they can all go to hell. I'll sit on Weyland and pull his damned tooth out, and that will be the end of this annoyance. PISS OFF, EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Money Envy

I'm out of touch with the universe. Eric called earlier to say he was thinking about staying in the DFWMetromess for a while, rather than hiling back to San Diego soon because he can make money here. He went house browsing. I don't think he's exactly in a position to buy a house just yet, but I'm not his financial advisor, so wtf do I know? I do remember him saying something about not having a credit card he could use to run a tab, which is why I offered mine the other night. Whether he doesn't have one available because it's maxed, or his time spent nearly jobless in SD caused him to have account(s) closed, I don't know. It's really none of my business. He was looking at a house in Sara's neighborhood, Lantana, Texas, which is near Flower Mound. He opined as that a house payment in that area would be $3000 a month. HOLY CRAP!! He mentioned Sara's monthly neighborhood association fees are $300 a month. Mein Gott in himmel!! Okay, sue me. I don't speak, write, or read German. Why would someone pay good money for a neighborhood association? So one can voluntarily live near the neatness nuts and busybodies??

I'm obviously out of touch with the universe. I'd have to be a freaking multimillionaire to buy a house that cost that much. That, or I'm cheap. And I definitely couldn't afford it. I make $1500 a month, before taxes, insurance, & assorted deductions. My bi-monthly paycheck is closer to $600. I guess it's a damned good thing that our house is paid for and that I have Logan to pay the utilities and buy the food. I'm busy paying off my credit cards and stuffing money in my retirement fund. I definitely need to finish my degree before I can live like the rest of the "real" world.

Last night, my real world friends and I took Susan to dinner for her birthday, which was back on the 9th. I can't believe I spent $25 for my own entree. I'm going to be broke for the rest of the month, considering the fact that I chipped in $50 to cover my dinner, one drink, and my portion of the appetizer and Susan's meal. I was happy to be with them, but in a way, it always makes me depressed. How do people afford to live the way they do?

We got to Herbie's house, and I was happily telling them Logan gave me a dozen red roses for Valentines, which I know cost him all of $25, including the lovely red vase. Dave sent Herbie a bouquet which probably cost $50 - $75, AND he bought her a pair of 1/2 carat diamond earrings, which (to my way of thinking, at least), she sort of groused about, since they weren't full carats. Oh, to live in that world.

My friends all have new cars, new houses, all the latest toys (PDAs, iPods, new cell phones that take pictures, etc., ad infinitum). Why am I both jealous and repulsed by the conspicuous consummerism? I want to feel like I belong, I guess, and I am appalled by how much everything costs.

I guess I'm just tired of working and feeling like I'm getting nowhere fast. I love my new job, for what it is, but it's still not what I want to do when I grow up. I want to be able to stay home and write, and I don't know how to get to that point. I'm thinking myself into a blue funk, so I should stop now. Besides, it's way past bedtime on a school night, and I'm sure the kids are still up, despite the fact that they are being quiet. I should know, that's a warning sign. So I'll go put them to bed, and then myself, and hope I can dream myself into a better mood.

Eric channels the dead, speaks in tongues, and makes eyes at a bartender, and not necessarily in that order

Last night, I called Eric to see what was on his plate. He was tired from a week of Tonybeest, a prior evening of fencing, and a general infection of ennui, I believe. He wanted to party. So he said he was coming to get me, and we were going to JJ's Hideaway, henceforth known as The Hideaway since everytime he tells someone he's going to JJ's, they think it's a person's house. While I was waiting for him to arrive, I got online and was pleasantly surprised by Faggotman sending me an IM. Faggotman (henceforth known by his real name, Michael) and I must have talked two hours and change on IM. He's a funny guy, and joined the Mutual Admiration Society (patent pending) that I have going with Sara, Eric, and anybody else who is funny, writes funny stuff, and also thinks I'm funny.

I called Eric around 8:30 or so since he wasn't here yet, and he had fallen asleep. I was willing to call off the idea of going out, but he said hell no, he'd be here in a flash. So around 10 or 10:30, he arrived, and whisked me off to the Hideaway. Inside, the place was packed. No where to sit, even. So we got back in the car, and drove a couple of blocks uptown to The Shamrock, a bar owned by Logan's Irish friend, Matt. Matt wasn't there, but there were two bartenders named Chris. Eric kept oogling the one who was serving us. He just knew Chris 1 was gay because, Eric said, Chris 1 waxed his eyebrows. ??? I guess I don't have "gaydar".

We drank lots. I had about five or six rum & cokes, lost count, and Eric had at least five or six glasses of Guiness stout, with a couple shots of Jaegermeister and a shot of Tuaca thrown in for fun. Bleaaggggggghhhhhkkkkk!!!!!!!!! Seventy bucks later, I managed to convince Eric that we needed food. So off to Benito's, where we had quesadillas, papas y huevos, y huevos con charizo. To top that off, Eric had three shots of tequilla, and a chaser of sangrita or sangrilita or some such.

What made the evening memorable was that #1: Eric kept oogling the bartender. I even offered to ask Chris 1 for his number, but Eric wouldn't have that. #2: At Benito's, Eric ordered everything in Spanish, impressing the waitress, and also talking in Eye-talian. In fact, he was getting Spanish and Italian confused after a while. I guess the tequilla was kicking in. What made all this interesting was the fact that shortly after we were seated, a hippy looking guy came in, sat down near us, and ate in silence, looking over our way a lot. Well, I admit, there was no one else there that time of night, and Eric was being a bit flambouyant (and loud, which will piss him off when he reads this), and there was the incident of him telling me, in Spanish or Italian or a mixture of both, I don't know or know why for that matter, "fuck you and all your dead relatives", THEN translating that to English for me, loudly. Then the loud comment about needing music, whereby (I'm sure GLADLY) the waiter turned up the radio. When we got ready to leave, Eric "made first contact" with hippy guy (I didn't catch his name.). Eric guessed he was a bass player. Hippy guy said sometimes, but that he usually played keyboards. Eric offered him a job, then found out the guy had a day job as a graphic designer, whereby Eric offered Hippy guy a better job, more money, etc., and gave him his number. Hippy guy seemed a bit wary, but interested. I'm curious to see if Hippy guy follows through Monday or not. Fifty dollars later, we were out the door.

But what to me was the most memorable thing was #3: Eric channeling the dead. I admit we were drunk. I admit I get a bit maudlin and weepy sometimes when I'm drunk. But Eric isn't the sentimental type. Out of the blue, he started a conversation about Mommy and Pappy and the afterlife. He told me all sorts of typical cold reading type things, like "they're at a better place", "they're busy with what they are doing now and don't worry about the little day to day stuff", and "that in three to five years, a big, life-changing event will happen" to me. But then he said that Martha knows about all my little disappointments, and that I can be so much more, if only I stop settling and get off my ass and accomplish something. He said Pappy thinks I should have big plans, plans for the future, rather than just plans for next week or tomorrow. Okay, I admit, that sounds like gypsy fortune telling, too. I guess I was just feeling weepy and wanted to hear something good. Eric knew Mommy and Pappy, so of course, he would know their mind set. Eric seems to think he can feel the presence of their spirits. He said he even talks to them.

I don't have any definite beliefs about the afterlife, except that the jury is still out as to whether or not there is one. The scientist part of my brain scoffs, yet the spiritual part of my brain can't dismiss it out of hand. And then there's the sniveling, weepy, childish part of my brain that is terrified by the thought of nothingness when our bodies give out, give up, give up the ghost. Is it that nature loathes a vacuum?

All I know for certain is that I always believed I would be able to sense my mother's spirit. I never really thought that Pappy would hang around afterwards because he always seemed so at peace, so settled, when he was alive. Mommy's spirit seemed agitated in some ways, excited in others, reminding me perhaps of a boiling pot of water, always in motion. Restless. So I have never been able to accept that she could really just move on once she died. I always thought she would make contact with me, especially since we often talked about what the afterlife could be like, if it existed. She believed in it a whole lot more than I did at the time. I suppose the fact that she has always been a whole lot more spiritual than me is the reason. She was a questing soul, always seeking the unity with God which, in her mind, was really the purpose of life. We spend our earthly existance wanting to be reunited with our maker. I've never had what I would consider a religious experience, one where I truly felt some sort of omniscient presence, except when holding my newborn children, alone, with no doctor, no nurse, nor even the baby's father present. When I was alone in the hospital, holding my baby, I felt a power not of this plane. This happened with each child, Beth, Wesley (named Paul when he was adopted), Brighid, and Weyland, but particularly with Brighid. The reason for that, I suppose, is yet to be revealed to me.

Shakespeare got it right in Hamlet. "There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Of course, this begs the question about heaven. But that is for another blog. How this post turned from a discourse on "Fun With Eric" into a rant about spirituality, I dunno. I thought it funny this morning when I woke up that when in our cups, we wax all metaphysical, see spirits, and wet our pants with laughter, but in the bleary-eyed light of day, with my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth and my urine the color of lime Gatorade, indicating a powerful need for fluids other than the alcohol-laced varieties, my mind perceives the evening, rather, as sad in a funny sort of way, and that all drunks have this in common: a heightened imporatance of self.

All this aside, Eric has changed a lot from the Eric of partying twenty years ago. Last night, he gave me $80 to cover his part of the cost of our evening. I hated asking him to reimburse me after he paid to have my car towed a couple of weeks ago, but I would have been almost broke if he had been unable to repay me. So tonight, when I go out with The Gals (Herbie, Heather, Susan, and Shellie), at least I won't go into hock for my dinner. We're going to go eat lobster, check out Shellie's new house, then adjourn Chez Wilbanks for dessert, perhaps a movie, and - get this - SOBER knitting. Yeah. Right. We'll see about that. A couple of Bailey's laced hot chocolates later, the cats are stringing the yarn all over the house, Herbie's calling us all drunk bitches, Heather's shaking her head in despair over us drunk bitches, and Susan, Shellie, and I are showing our tits. Oh, wait -- that was last time we got together, drank a whole bottle of vodka AND several appletinis, some red wine, and ate lots of chocolate. Susan promised Steve she wouldn't drink this time. We can still have fun together without booze, right??? Honestly, yes we can.

I've enjoyed playing the train of thought game with you this afternoon. Next time, on "Melodrama Theatre", we'll talk about... boyfriends! Every single one of them!! Oh, short list. Make that lovers then, past, present, and future. Should keep me busy for several weeks, then.
-30-

CONGRATULATION!!!!

Just got off IM with Sara, after two & a half hours of witty repartee, to find the latest incarnation of the Nigerian letter in my spambox:

From: claimsagent7080@netscape.net

(Somebody good with computers help me here... what's the REAL email address so I can spam the spammer right back?)

To: claimsagent7080@netscape.net
Subject: CONGRATULATION!!!!

(I don't trust anyone who doesn't know it's "congratulations".)

Date: Feb 12, 2005 12:52 AM

(Huh? What is a business doing, writing me at 12:52 AM on a Saturday (their time, I'm assuming).)

GLOBAL FREE LOTTO COMPANY INTERNATIONAL PROMOTIONS/PRIZE AWARD DEPARTMENT.
WINNING NUMBERS:37-13-43-85-67-11.BV

(These are not my numbers! My numbers are 12-46-18-pi-square root of 47!!)

REF:S6376527711
BATCH:S7151085135

(Like I'd really remember those??)

Attn:Winner

(Do they send out Attn:Loser letters as well?)

We are pleased to inform you of the result of the Lottery Winners International
programs held on the 27TH/01/2004. Your e-mail address attached to ticket number
653164251591-6011 with serial number 7321410,batch number\ S7151085135,lottery ref
number S6376527711 and drew lucky numbers 37-13-43-85-67-11.BV which consequently
won in the 1st category, you have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay out
of $1.800,000.00 (One Million, Eight Hundred Thousand Dollars)

(US? Sterling? Canadian??)

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

(Ok, they got it right here.)

Due to mix up of some numbers and names,

[(Imagine the sound of screeching brakes) Wait a minute! Do I really trust these guys now???]

we ask that you keep your winning information confidential until your claims has been processed and your money Remitted to you.
This is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse
of this program by some participants. All participants were selected through a computer ballot system drawn from over 40,000 company and 20,000,000 individual email addresses and names from all over the world.
This promotional program takes place every year. This lottery was promoted and sponsored by Association of software producers. We hope with part of your winning,you

(They give out some much in this lottery, they can't afford spaces between words.)

will take part in our next year US$20 million international lottery.For security reasons, you are advised to keep your winning information confidential till your claims is processed and your money remitted to you in whatever manner you deem fit to claim your prize. This is a part of our precautionary measure to avoid double claiming and unwarranted abuse of this program by some unscrupulous elements.

Please be warned.
To file for your claim, please contact our fiduciary agent with the below details
for processing of your claims:
Mr. Rook Van Nas
Chief financial Director

(Can't afford a capital F?)

The Free lotto Company
TEL:+447040114110
FAX:+447040114112
Email:info_freegloballotto@yahoo.co.uk

Remember, all winning must be claimed not later than 2ND MARCH,2005.After this date
all unclaimed funds will be included in the next stake.

Please note in order to avoid unnecessary delays and complications please remember
to quote your reference number and batch numbers in all correspondence.

Furthermore, should there be any change of address do inform our agent as soon as
possible.

Congratulations once more from our members of staff and thank you for being part
of our promotional program.

Note:
Anybody under the age of 18 is automatically disqualified.

Yours faithfully,
Mrs Laura Anderson.
AFRO-ASIAN Zonal Coordinator

(Ah. Used the capital F here. AFRO-ASIAN?? Odd combination, if you ask me.)

Promotions Manager.

(Yeah, okay, so this isn't really funny. But when you've just spent two & a half hours talking with a very erudite person, it can strike you as odd to get CONGRATULATION!!!! in your mailbox.)

In other news, I have found my son's adoptive mother, and made contact. She was misplaced (well, to me, anyway) for a number of years, having moved to Pennsylvania from Texas when Paul was somewhere around 11 years old. He's now almost 20, and a sophomore at LaSalle University, studying Latin. I was interesting in hearing from her, since Brighid was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome last year, and Paul was diagnosed with AS at the age of 6 or 7. It can by trying, at times, dealing with my youngest daughter, so I thought I'd look up the mother of my son to see if she had any tips.

Well, I'd write more, but I've got to spend a penny, then lay down for a while. My shoulder is hurting (don't know why), and I'm tired.

put down your drink and swallow first

That's the funniest damn thing I've read all week. I can't wait to get the t-shirt!!

train derailment

I'm sitting here, staring at the blank blog box (say that three times fast), not knowing what to write. So I'll just play the train of thought game, going from topic to topic, going off on tangents, going to hell in a handbasket, going for broke, going crazy (oops! too late!), going to hell if I don't change my ways (Should h(H)ell be capitalized? Is it a proper noun? Why do questions of proper punctuation and grammar plague me?), going to bed in a few minutes if I can't think of anything to write.

My favorite color used to be blue, when I was younger. Now that I'm a "ma'am", it's green, emerald green. I like the jewel tones of colors now, and don't like bright colors. They hurt my eyes. Time for new glasses?

My favorite comfort food is mashed potatoes with brown gravy that has sauteed mushrooms in it. I only like cream gravy on chicken fried steak, and it has to have enough pepper in it, or it tastes like library paste. I ought to know. Eric (fizziecoffee) is fond of regaling people with my attempt to make biscuits and gravy in the dorm (Brazos House) at UTA. He said the gravy was like library paste.

I keep wondering where this train of thought is taking me, and for unknown reasons, my mind goes back to listening to my mother play guitar and sing "The Hobo's Lullaby": http://www.arlo.net/lyrics/hobos-lullaby.shtml

My mother was such a talented person. At times, I feel like... I don't know how to explain it. Somehow, through "Fun With Recombinant DNA"™, my mother's genius has been watered down. I may try, but I just can't seem to be as brilliant or as interesting as she was. I don't think any of my siblings measure up, either. That's not to say that I think that the addition of my father's DNA to the mix was the cause of the diminish... (ing? ment? Yeah, I know, go to lookitthehellupyourselfgoddammit.com) My father was brilliant in his own quiet way. (Who else makes a play with "xenogamy" and "xu" in Scrabble®, play out, two triple word scores, making everyone cry?) He had endearing quirks, like wearing only boxer shorts unless he was going outside, eating broccoli stems with peanut butter, and reusing junk mail as stationary for personal correspondence. Every door knob in my parents' house had five thousand rubberbands saved on it. Tiny balls of twine were in the "junk" drawer in the kitchen. And the pantry had a box, I kid you not, 3'x3'x4' packed SOLID with plastic grocery sacks. Herbie saw it and said Pappy was ready for plastic bag warfare. I miss him so much.

Gawd, I'm feeling maudlin. Nothing for it but to plunge in and get it out of my system. I need red wine, chocolate ice cream, and George Jones music. Well, maybe I'll crank up the smoothie machine and make margaritas. Country music always puts me in the mood for margaritas.

I guess I should try to think happy thoughts. Okay, kittens purring on my neck (except when...), Weyland laughing at his own knock-knock jokes which don't make sense, Brighid's face lighting up when I gave her a Chinese style robe I found for less than $5 at the thrift store, Logan trying to tickle me, Nona's (aka Eric) cooking, especially if he makes me the perfect hash browns, with onions, garlic, cheese, and ketchup, lots of salt & pepper for sure, and getting a box of 64 crayolas with a sharpener for Christmas one year, wrapped in the most beautiful ice blue jacquard paper, which I actually liked better than the big box of colors.

Okay, I'm no longer depressed. But it's 8:16 p.m., and I'm hungry, so I'm off to go scrounge something for supper, since Nona won't answer my IM offer to go for chicken fried steak....

two out of three ain't bad

Found a great website: http://www.badgerbadgerbadger.com/

Blue moon Sunday morning.

Car died.

Two out of three ain't bad.

The Pursuit of Happiness, or Girl Interrupted

The butt crack rash cleared up pretty quickly, but then I was laid low by the flu AND strep throat for a week. I managed to miss three days of work (without pay, since I don't have any sick time left, and can't take my vacation until I'm off probationary status in May) and miss my oldest daughter's 26th birthday. Damn, I feel old.

I've been so tired and worn out, that I haven't yet gone to work out in the gym after work. I always think of some excuse. I've been having trouble breathing, probably a residual of the flu, and my back has been such a misery of pain that all I want to do after work is go home and go to sleep.

So this morning, I woke up with so much pain in my back that I figured the only thing for it was a pain pill or, just perhaps, well, a bit of relaxation in the form of the pursuit of happiness. (Sounds better than self-abuse to me.) Hey, if one can't find pleasure in oneself, in whom can one find pleasure?

To this end, first, let me say that anyone who doesn't self-medicate in this manner is either a liar or in dire need of psychiatric help.

And to the other end, well, the fait was not accompli. First, one of the kittens hopped on the bed, jumped in my face, and proceeded to try to nurse on my shirt, purring loud enough to wake the dead. I tossed him/her on the floor, and tried to pick up where I had left off. Then, Logan barrelled his way down the hall with the garbage, as it was trash day. (Am I too late for the trash? No, lady, hop right on!) Then Logan came back in the house, turned on the hall light, which shines into the bedroom, and my mood was killed entirely. Then, of course, die rousing of die kinder began, and any thought of resuming my ministrations was completely annihilated.

So whether or not this evening will prove more successful is yet to be seen. I hope to lure Logan into my boudoir with promises of a picnic in bed, a back rub, maybe even a little something for his troubles. Our love life has pretty much come to a screeching halt since he decided last August that it was just too painful, considering my weight and his decrepitude. But that shouldn't put a halt to EVERYTHING, dammit! If we were married, I'd divorce him for failing to perform his husbandly duties. I think it shows a lack of imagination on his part. Hell, I've managed to do a variety of sensual things in a variety of locations, positions, and degrees of drunkenness. Is it too much to ask him for a hand with my... pursuit of happiness once in a while?!?

the indignity!

Last night, I noticed a slight burning in my, ahem, well, ...butt crack area. So I had Logan look at it, which was hilarity itself, having to put up with his -yes- wisecracks. He opined as it looked like diaper rash, and I should clean it with some Listerine (ouch!) and put some zinc oxide (baby butt rash medicine) on it. So I adjourned to fait ma toilette.

I got a baby wipe (We keep an ample supply chez nous, n'est-ce pas?) and liberally doused it with Listerine, which I proceeded to apply to mon fissure du cul (I hesitate to use "fente de bout", which is what I got for English to French at babelfish when I put in butt crack, but translates back into "slit of end" when I ask for French to English. I know, I know, it loses something in translation. I'll have to ask Fred, my weird French pen pal, how one says butt crack in French.)

And yes, it did sting. It smarted. My eyes watered. So I had a great idea -- I put a dab of Orajel® and some Campho-Phenique® along the "great divide" as well. Then, I slathered the zinc oxide on, for good measure. That ought to do the trick, I thought.

It does feel better today, but since I can't see it, I'll have to suffer through having Logan inspect the area again. I considered having him take a picture and posting that as well as this little story, but the indignity of it is just a bit much.

back to work

Well, I've been back to work now since the 3rd, and I must say that having a job where I get a winter break is remarkable. I got almost nothing accomplished, though on New Year's Eve, I did spend the whole day completing the Herculean task of cleaning out the 'fridge (which had not been attempted in six months or more, perhaps as long as a year, GAG ME!!!). Instead of doing all the piddly tasks I had assigned myself, I laid up in bed, ate bon-bons, petted cats, watched lots of t.v., and drank up most of the booze in the house, save for the Biohazard (tm), which is similar in color and taste to gasoline, and is hotter than the law allows. Among its many uses are tool cleaner, wormer, and a rub for sore joints.

Christmas was fairly uneventful in that there were no fires and no blood. In my book, that's a good thing (to steal a phrase from Martha Stewart).

Weyland had his faith in Santa Claus renewed, though, by receiving a "crabitat" complete with four hermit crabs. (Unfortunately, three have already died, so I'll have to go to the pet store this weekend and replace them.) My best friend, Herbie (aka Esther), generously donated the aquarium tank and most of the supplies after hearing that Weyland was "going to give Santa one more chance". So I ended up spending a lot of time surfing the internet, learning about hermit crabs. I ran across one pretty funny website. Scroll 2/3 down the page at: http://x-entertainment.com/articles/0815/ to see info on a parade held for a hermit crab.

Brighid was thrilled by receiving a Yu-Gi-Oh! "duel disk" from her brother. She is fairly obsessed with anime' in general, and with Yu-Gi-Oh! in particular. Personally, I don't care if I never hear another word about the whole subject, but at least, it is piquing in her a desire to learn Japanese.

I got Logan an old fart gift for Christmas, a device I called a "pecan picker upper", but which is listed as a "nut gatherer" on this website:

http://www.4thebestpecans/NUTGATHERER.HTM

Logan's was red, btw. Also, the kids and I had found The World's Largest Coffe Cup (tm, patent pending), which we gave him, filled with espresso flavored cookies and candy. Earlier in the season, I gave him a pre-Christmas gift of a red & white "fargo" type hat with "bah humbug" embroidered on the flap above the forehead. LOL

He surprised me with a smoothie machine which makes great margaritas. The kids have even amused themselves making odd creations in the device. Weyland took the cake with chocolate ice cream, strawberries, and rootbeer blended together. It tasted terrible to me, but he loved it.

So Christmas was pretty good, and then we got together with my siblings and the cousins on the 1st at Golden Corral for a gift exchange, where I received two CD's, a Robert Earl Keen, and a Lyle Lovett, from my brother-in-law, Jack. Logan got a good cigar and a gift certificate to Starbuck's (Starbucks'? Starbucks?), which seemed to please him. The kids got various gift certificates which they used to buy toys & DVD's to their liking, along with some clothes from their Aunt Louise, and some books & toys as well. So not everyone has resorted to "just giving gift certificates". I mean, it's kind of pointless, isn't it, when my kids get $10 Target gift certificates from their uncle, and I give his kids $10 Target gift certificates. LOL, great minds think alike, eh?

Well, lunch is now over, so like I said, back to work!

Where have I been?

I haven't posted for over two months. Where have I been? I dunno, busy, tired, lost, at least my focus, my head, my ambitions. I did manage to switch employers. I'm now at the University of North Texas Health Science Center, which is oh so much better than RadioShack.

Today is December 23rd, and I just started a ten day stretch of vacation, six of which are paid! I've never had this much time off in December without being on welfare. I'm going to spend tomorrow finally decorating the house and cleaning, and maybe end the evening by driving through Interlochen and Diamond Loch looking at the rich peoples' Christmas light displays. Logan couldn't be bothered to put up any lights this year, not even his fantasy light display: a doe and buck making merry, if you get my drift. He laughs every time he talks about it. He'd make it just like those animatronic figures, with the hip motion going like a rabbit on the buck.

Anyway, my new job is so much better than my old job at RadioSucks. I mean RadioShack. I tried to find the website, radioshacksucks.com, but it looks like the corporate lawyers finally got it shut down. So much for first amendment rights. I did find out there is a Yahoo! group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/radioshacksucks/

Well, I don't have a lot to bitch about in regards to RadioShack. I mean, well, nothing specifically, that isn't pretty endemic: low pay, crappy benefits, neurotic supervisors, and a corporate mentality that crushes the spirit out of its employees.

So maybe you can understand why I'm so happy to be at UNTHSC. The pay is about the same as I was making at RS, but the benefits are so much better, and the atmosphere is lightyears ahead. It somehow makes a difference to me to be a part of something where people are striving to learn, to grow, and to make a difference. I may be just paying the bills, but the people for whom I'm paying them are much nicer people.

Well, it finally feels like winter now that we're experiencing temps in the teens and managed to get a peppering of snow yesterday. I lost my gloves, and thought I would freeze my hands off in the time it took me to walk from the parking garage to the building. This weather just ain't nach'rul. You'd think we was Yankees or sumpin.

Gotta go top off the cup of wassail. Nothing like cold weather to make a body want to get drunk and curl up on the couch with five cats and a grouchy old curmudgeon.

Merry Christmas, Y'all!!

Spare the rod; just be honest.

I was raised in the late 60's and the 70's by very liberal parents who, I suppose, used an experimental method of discipline. That is to say, almost none at all. I was given very few rules, had no curfew, and few consequences for what most would consider misbehavior. The one concept I recall learning that has stuck with me is that lying is not only wrong, it is unfair. People make their decisions based upon what information they have at the time they make the decision, and if they are basing their decision on a lie, then the person who lied is the one who erred, not the person who ended up making a bad decision.

Learning how to behave is difficult enough, but even more so when one doesn't start to learn until, say, 25 years old.

But what always impressed upon me the most was my parents' disapproval. I was rarely spanked as a child, and I remember it only inspired anger and rebellion. But to see my mother cry over my bad behavior or to hear my father cluck his tongue and shake his head in disbelief, this caused me great regret and woe. So it is probably no suprise that I don't hold much faith in corporal punishment. I feel it is usually done in anger, and I don't like to let a child have that much control over my actions. I feel it rarely improves a child's behavior, and often makes it worse. I use it only in rare instances.

The father of my two youngest children has just the opposite belief. Hearing him tell tales of his childhood, I often wonder if this is because he was often spanked. He seems to spank the children over the smallest infraction. He is easily provoked by them, and would probably have lower blood pressure if he would realize they are children, not small adults.

But then again, I grew up with few rules, so what do I know?

What I believe is that while certain niceties help society to function (such as saying "please" and "thank you", for example), what really matters is being honest. My mother had a rule that if we kids did something wrong, and were asked about it, if we told the truth, all we had to do was make amends (which is sometimes the worst punishment of all). If we lied, and the lie was discovered, we got in trouble not only for the misdeed, but also for the lie.

If I comport myself in a fair and honest manner, then in my heart, I feel my behavior is irreproachable, even if my decisions turn out less than perfect. Having good judgement can sometimes be a gift, I suppose, but it usually comes by trial and error over time. I've learned (the hard way, of course), that it is sometimes easier to lie, but it is harder to keep up with the lies than it is to just tell the truth in the first place.

Well, I'm probably preaching to the choir, and I don't really feel like I'm getting anywhere with this discussion. It might be more interesting and serve the topic better to discuss actual examples, but I'm all out of time for now.

More later.

A Day at the Quack Shack

I went to see the doctor today. The pain near my rib was diagnosed as "costal chondritis". Not exactly pleurisy, but close, I suppose. Also, the phlebotomist drew blood, and hit it on the second stick, so I was impressed. It often takes 6 or more tries, as my veins are deep. I'd have a hell of a time if I ever wanted to be a junkie. I had blood drawn to have my anemia and cholesterol checked. Last time (over two years ago) that they checked my cholesterol, it was high, but no action was recommended, so all I've done is try to eat more garlic and onions. If my cholesterol is still high, the doctor will prescribe medication.

I was given a shot of depo medrol (a steroid) for the rib thing and a prescription for naproxin EC for the pain. I suppose the cough I've been having can be treated with OTC meds. I'm actually starting to feel a little better, except for the injection site, which is beginning to throb.

While at the clinic, I had the doc look at the lumps on my right arm. They are probably lipomas, but since my insurance will pay for excision, and one of the lumps was removed a couple of years ago and has started regrowing, I'm going to have them removed on the 25th.

The doctor is actually a physician's assistant, and I like her quite well. She's at the clinic associated with the local medical school which used to be associated with the (now defunct) osteopathic hospital. I like that osteopaths will on occasion perform chiropractic procedures. A few years back, I had a pain in my shoulder that wouldn't go away. I finally went to the clinic to have it examined. The young male doctor I saw at the time opined it was caused by my carrying a heavy book bag, gave me a chiropractic adjustment, and the pain was immediately gone.

Well, I have to go herd cats -- make the kids gather their dirty clothes to wash. Actually herding cats might be easier. Guess I'll have to threaten the cutting of a peach switch. We have a peach tree right near the front door. The threat alone usually works.

Next time, if I remember, I'll delve into the whole concept of disciplining children.

Saint Martha, pray for us

I just noticed the time stamp at the bottom of the page can be changed. I'm actually two hours ahead of what was previously posted, so I've fixed it. I'm not very observant sometimes.

I wanted to write more last night, but Gilmore Girls was on, followed by One Tree Hill, and then I had to watch old reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway, so my night was used up, vegging in front of the t.v. I didn't even bother to fold clothes. I was a bed potato, as I was not reclined on the couch.

Housework looms it ugly head, though. Tonight, all that's on (that I remember about right now) is CSI - New York. So it looks like I'll be rookydid into doing some laundry. Saint Martha is the patron saint of housewives. Pictures typically show her holding a tea kettle and stomping on a dragon. I perceive the dragon to be housework. So I guess I need to light a candle and pray for the intervention of Saint Martha in my struggle to clear a path through the house. More later.

Another weekend with nothing accomplished....

Friday night, I spent a couple of hours on the computer, reading email, a newsgroup, and playing Age of Empires. It was raining, so the satellite was busy "searching for signal" all night.

Saturday, the kids and I went with Fiona and Heather to Old City Park in Dallas, as it was Girl Scout day, and Fiona is a Girl Scout. I think the kids liked picking pears from a tree and getting rock candy in the gift shop more than anything else. Looking at the old cabins and even the houses from the turn of the century, I was struck by how cluttered and complicated our lives have become. I think it's true that back then the emphasis was more on survival. Success was more a measure of one's abilities back then, I think, than it is today, where dumb luck and who one knows are far more important that doing what needed to be done.

Sunday, I mostly laid up in bed and felt bad. I don't know if it was getting out in the light mist Saturday, or what, but my side started hurting, and it got progressively worse. So bad, in fact, that I took Monday off to try to recuperate. It feels almost like I've got a bruised rib. When I take a deep breath, it sends an almost electric shock through my system, the pain is so intense. Logan opined as to whether it was a blood clot in my lung or perhaps pleurisy. I was running a low grade temperature, 99.6 F, and I still feel hot today at work, so I will try to get in to see the doctor Thursday if I'm not better tomorrow.

So no clothes got washed or put away, the dishes are still stacked to the ceiling, and the cat box needs to be cleaned. Not a productive weekend.

I'm the one on the left.