By Any Other Name…
This may come as a surprise to many of you—in fact, I’m certain it will, judging by my email—but my name is not Kathy.
Neither is it Kathleen, Katherine, or Kath.
Now, I have a sister named Kathy, but I’m not sure how so many people came to the conclusion that my name is Kathy. For the last 4-5 months I’ve been getting email a couple times a week, clearly intended for me, but they start out “Hey, Kathy,” or “Dear Kathleen,” or just “Kath!” Rarely are those emails from the same person… so I’m stumped.
I don’t think I’ve corrected anyone in email, mostly because the notes have been one-time things, comments about this or that on one of my websites. Lately, however, people with whom I have had many online conversations have begun addressing me as Kathy. These are people who know me as Thumper, and may have seen my “professional” name on a website (K.A. Thompson), but I’m still not sure how one goes about making the leap from K.A. to Kathy.
In any case, I’m not Kathy.
If you’re not sure what to call me, just call me Thumper.
Okay?
Okay.
Sunday
Thursday
Wuss redux
Ok, I didn’t weenie out. I went to my appointment at the endocrinology clinic and let them stick a couple of IVs in me. It wasn’t too bad—Spouse Thingy came down from the OR armed with Lidocaine, and was able to numb the site where the IVs were going. That was going to be the worst of it, I think, though they expected me to really feel like crap after being injected with the insulin.
The problem is, I seem to be insulin resistant. After the insulin went in it was expected that after 30 minutes my blood sugar would be down in the high 30s. It only went down to 55. They put a little more in… and it went up [insert rolling of eyes]. One more addition of insulin—the last, if that didn’t work I was going to have to reschedule and have all of that amount injected up front—and after 10-15 minutes I hit 44, and stayed there. I never did get as low as they hoped, but probably low enough to suit the needs of the test.
I also never did get as symptomatic as they would have liked, either. Didn’t get nauseous, jittery, clammy… I felt a little warm and for about 3 minutes felt sort of irritated, but that was it.
Then there was this little problem with trying to take blood out of me. For some reason my body just does not want to let go of its blood. I really made that nurse (well, 2 nurses, actually) work for it. Nice nurse that she was, she had a box of mini-donuts waiting for me, so that as soon as they got the blood they needed with my blood sugar way down, I would have something sugary to push it back up. That and a Mountain Dew (I brought a grape soda, but it was warm by then.) Now, she musta been psychic, cause she brought my favorite mini-donuts, and I really like Mt. Dew.
I blew my diet all to hell today, but for a box of mini-donuts, it was worth it. I only had a few when I was there but I got to take the whole box home. Yay.
Now I wait. It’ll probably be a week or two before the results are in.
So keep your fingers crossed.
This is one test I want to fail.
Ok, I didn’t weenie out. I went to my appointment at the endocrinology clinic and let them stick a couple of IVs in me. It wasn’t too bad—Spouse Thingy came down from the OR armed with Lidocaine, and was able to numb the site where the IVs were going. That was going to be the worst of it, I think, though they expected me to really feel like crap after being injected with the insulin.
The problem is, I seem to be insulin resistant. After the insulin went in it was expected that after 30 minutes my blood sugar would be down in the high 30s. It only went down to 55. They put a little more in… and it went up [insert rolling of eyes]. One more addition of insulin—the last, if that didn’t work I was going to have to reschedule and have all of that amount injected up front—and after 10-15 minutes I hit 44, and stayed there. I never did get as low as they hoped, but probably low enough to suit the needs of the test.
I also never did get as symptomatic as they would have liked, either. Didn’t get nauseous, jittery, clammy… I felt a little warm and for about 3 minutes felt sort of irritated, but that was it.
Then there was this little problem with trying to take blood out of me. For some reason my body just does not want to let go of its blood. I really made that nurse (well, 2 nurses, actually) work for it. Nice nurse that she was, she had a box of mini-donuts waiting for me, so that as soon as they got the blood they needed with my blood sugar way down, I would have something sugary to push it back up. That and a Mountain Dew (I brought a grape soda, but it was warm by then.) Now, she musta been psychic, cause she brought my favorite mini-donuts, and I really like Mt. Dew.
I blew my diet all to hell today, but for a box of mini-donuts, it was worth it. I only had a few when I was there but I got to take the whole box home. Yay.
Now I wait. It’ll probably be a week or two before the results are in.
So keep your fingers crossed.
This is one test I want to fail.
Tuesday
Ask, And Ye Shall Receive
Knowing smart people is a wonderful thing. I asked for both sides of the equation, and I’m getting it. JP Brassard posted this in my comments, and is kindly allowing me to put it in a post.
Yes, there are many valid reasons to topple Saddam Hussein - he is, truly, a Very Bad Man. But those valid reasons do not give the United States and Great Britain the right, nor the moral responsibility, to act unilaterally, against the wishes of the much of the rest of the world and the United Nations. If there's anything the 1990s taught us - the clusterfuck in Somalia notwithstanding - is that multilaterlism, whether on a NATO or a UN scale, is really the only way to go when confronting regimes with brutal human rights abuses. The Balkans spring immediately to mind. East Timor is another, though the UN probably acted too slowly.
The thing is, we are not, nor should we be, the world's beat cop, not even as the lone remaining superpower in the world. I could even say especially as the lone remaining superpower. If the UN thinks that war against Iraq is not the best current course of action, than the US better damn well respect that decision or come off looking no better than ancient Rome contending with the Huns before the death throes of the Empire drove the seat of power east to Byzantium (now Istanbul (though at some point in between then and now it was Constantinople - probably named after one of the Byzantine Emporers, but that's neither here nor there)).
Acting unilaterally in Iraq displays profound contempt for the body the US helped to create after the bloody conflagration of WWII, and damages our credibility across the globe, which will only serve to harm our efforts in the fight against international terrorism (which, as we all know, is the real threat to the United States' national security). Yes, the people of Iraq deserve better than Saddam Hussein, and it would be oh so nice if we could simply march on Baghdad and kick the Mustachioed One square in his power-hungry ass. But we dare not act alone, nor with a "coalition of the willing" (a lovely, insipidly demeaning phrase, that), that flies in the face of the UN, or we risk a further escalation of tensions, the increased likelihood of terrorist attacks against Western civilian targets, and (in the worst-case scenario), region-wide war in the Middle East.
The people of Iraq deserve better. But it must be the world that acts, not just the US.
My little head is close to imploding as I try to figure this all out… I hate to admit it, but I am still riding the fence on the whole Iraq Issue, and it’s not a comfortable place to be.
Knowing smart people is a wonderful thing. I asked for both sides of the equation, and I’m getting it. JP Brassard posted this in my comments, and is kindly allowing me to put it in a post.
Yes, there are many valid reasons to topple Saddam Hussein - he is, truly, a Very Bad Man. But those valid reasons do not give the United States and Great Britain the right, nor the moral responsibility, to act unilaterally, against the wishes of the much of the rest of the world and the United Nations. If there's anything the 1990s taught us - the clusterfuck in Somalia notwithstanding - is that multilaterlism, whether on a NATO or a UN scale, is really the only way to go when confronting regimes with brutal human rights abuses. The Balkans spring immediately to mind. East Timor is another, though the UN probably acted too slowly.
The thing is, we are not, nor should we be, the world's beat cop, not even as the lone remaining superpower in the world. I could even say especially as the lone remaining superpower. If the UN thinks that war against Iraq is not the best current course of action, than the US better damn well respect that decision or come off looking no better than ancient Rome contending with the Huns before the death throes of the Empire drove the seat of power east to Byzantium (now Istanbul (though at some point in between then and now it was Constantinople - probably named after one of the Byzantine Emporers, but that's neither here nor there)).
Acting unilaterally in Iraq displays profound contempt for the body the US helped to create after the bloody conflagration of WWII, and damages our credibility across the globe, which will only serve to harm our efforts in the fight against international terrorism (which, as we all know, is the real threat to the United States' national security). Yes, the people of Iraq deserve better than Saddam Hussein, and it would be oh so nice if we could simply march on Baghdad and kick the Mustachioed One square in his power-hungry ass. But we dare not act alone, nor with a "coalition of the willing" (a lovely, insipidly demeaning phrase, that), that flies in the face of the UN, or we risk a further escalation of tensions, the increased likelihood of terrorist attacks against Western civilian targets, and (in the worst-case scenario), region-wide war in the Middle East.
The people of Iraq deserve better. But it must be the world that acts, not just the US.
My little head is close to imploding as I try to figure this all out… I hate to admit it, but I am still riding the fence on the whole Iraq Issue, and it’s not a comfortable place to be.
Monday
The Joy Of Discovery
Things Thumper Learned Today
Yay me.
It was an educational day.
Things Thumper Learned Today
- There are honest mechanics… I could have gotten a brake job I didn’t need, but the guys at Firestone were honest enough to not let me replace brake pads that still had 50%+ life on them.
- There are gift certificates available for purchase online, usable at base commissaries world wide. If the Boy is nice, we might send one his way. Maybe two.
- Take out 2 large pieces of furniture, and the living room looks fricking huge.
- Take out 2 large pieces of furniture from the living room, and the cat freaks out.
- Twenty degrees Fahrenheit doesn’t feel so cold towards the end of winter. I won’t remember that come the beginning of next winter.
Yay me.
It was an educational day.
Sunday
Impotence
The Boy has worked for the last 5 years; he started as a busboy when he was 14 years old, and hasn’t stopped working since then, other than a short stint while we were in the middle of moving from North Dakota to California. He’s a hard worker, and good at what he does.
Or did.
With the CA job market being what it is, his boss seems to have come to the conclusion that going to school full time in addition to working almost full time is no excuse for not being able to work shifts on demand.
So here we sit, 2000 miles away, not being able to a damn thing to help him out. If we were still there—and right now is when I resent having been transferred after we specifically requested to stay at Travis for our last 2 years—it wouldn’t be a worry. At least then he’d have a sure roof over his head and food on the table. There’s just not much we can do from here.
It’s probably not the worst feeling in the world, but right now it makes me feel pretty damn powerless. I can only imagine how it makes The Boy feel.
The Boy has worked for the last 5 years; he started as a busboy when he was 14 years old, and hasn’t stopped working since then, other than a short stint while we were in the middle of moving from North Dakota to California. He’s a hard worker, and good at what he does.
Or did.
With the CA job market being what it is, his boss seems to have come to the conclusion that going to school full time in addition to working almost full time is no excuse for not being able to work shifts on demand.
So here we sit, 2000 miles away, not being able to a damn thing to help him out. If we were still there—and right now is when I resent having been transferred after we specifically requested to stay at Travis for our last 2 years—it wouldn’t be a worry. At least then he’d have a sure roof over his head and food on the table. There’s just not much we can do from here.
It’s probably not the worst feeling in the world, but right now it makes me feel pretty damn powerless. I can only imagine how it makes The Boy feel.
Saturday
One Side Of The Big Issue
Email from a friend of mine, who is trying to help me figure out the confusing mass of questions about whether or not war with Iraq is justified. Posted with his permission.
You have been my friend for more years of my life than not, so I trust that you will understand my inability to elaborate on specifics. [Said friend worked for the government for almost 20 years, in one of those “I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you” sort of jobs]
This food for thought, nothing more.
There is more to consider about Iraq than any potential connection with the events of 9/11/02. Forget the politics that have been warped beyond recognition. Forget any potential alliance between the fundamentalist and secular sects of Islam, and whatever theories there might be regarding financial and geographical support of bin Laden by Saddam Hussein. Forget all the reasons that the media parade in front of the public day in and day out. In the end, none of those reasons really matter.
Let’s pretend it’s not Iraq. Let’s pretend it’s a small country called Uberania. Uberania was once a Republic, and its citizens afforded a reasonable amount of freedoms. Then came a coup; Uberania was ruled thereafter by a dictator who modeled himself after Stalin—and prided himself on being much more ruthless. His eldest son was even more ruthless than the dictator, and was in charge of numerous interrogations. He reveled in torture; he had no qualms about chaining a man to a chair and raping his wife in front of him. He had no difficulties in dismembering the woman while her husband was forced to watch. And when he was done with her, emasculating the husband was simply his dessert.
Picture this once peaceful place: terror is the rule of the land. Women are less than property. Children are treated worse than dogs. Imagine yourself standing on a road there, an observer who cannot interfere. As you stand there you see two uniformed men approach a little girl; she looks to be about three years old and certainly is no more than five. They talk to her for a moment, and her eyes go wide with fear. And there is nothing you can do to stop it when they start beating her, pummeling her tiny body with fists and feet. When they finally stop, her blood coats the ground in a thick puddle, and her final breath is preceded by a small sound of bubbling. Her mother sees this from her house but if she tries to stop it, they will turn on her and set her, quite literally, on fire.
You can do nothing, so you move on. You watch as a teenage boy grabs a handful of old, molding food out of a pile of trash, and you watch as he’s shot by a soldier—for stealing garbage. And yet it doesn’t surprise you, because by now you’ve seen firsthand how the dictator handles dissent among his own staff. No one—no one—is allowed near him armed, but he damn well carries a side arm. And he doesn’t hesitate to use it. Hint that he might be wrong, and your brains will be sliding down the wall. Aid is sent to his people in barges of food and medicine, none of which makes it to the citizens. It feeds his army, and the medicine treats their ills while the rest of the country scrapes to get by, living in the shadow of fear, without enough food, and where an illness just a little worse than a cold can mean a death sentence.
Now—what if Uberania once went by the name of the United States of America? What if there were countries beyond its borders with the capability to help? Would saving the lives of most of the people in Uberania, freeing them from a true reign of terror, be worth the risk to the lives of those from whom they hope to find freedom? Would it be worth knowing how many might be saved against a regime with no compunctions against using biochemical weapons on its own citizens?
Would you risk your life if it meant freedom from complete oppression for those people? Would you not hope that if you lived like that, that someone would help you?
I’ve been to Iraq, Thump. None of the political posturing means anything. You can have a healthy distrust of our Administration and get the willies every time you hear the President speak, but that doesn’t mean the fundamental basics aren’t right. Hussein has to go. His cabinet has to go. The people of Iraq deserve, just as much as we do, a life without the constant stress of living in absolute terror. Think about how it felt on 9/11. How the people in NY felt. Imagine living through that every day. Always wondering when the next show will drop.
Yes, there are other countries with the same capabilities as Iraq but with few exceptions, none are lead by a true megalomaniacal sadist. We can play the waiting game, in hopes that he disarms, but that in itself won’t stop the abject suffering of the Iraqi people. People deserve better—and if we have the means to help them, it is in my opinion our responsibility.
View the politicians with healthy skepticism, but look past the rhetoric. There are valid reasons for going into Iraq and removing Saddam Hussein from power. Its people are reason enough.
I’d like to hear the opposing argument—without rhetoric, without calling the president a bunch of names, without referring to the U.S. Military as Bush’s Penile Extensions. Something very calm and reasonable. I need things to think about.
Email from a friend of mine, who is trying to help me figure out the confusing mass of questions about whether or not war with Iraq is justified. Posted with his permission.
You have been my friend for more years of my life than not, so I trust that you will understand my inability to elaborate on specifics. [Said friend worked for the government for almost 20 years, in one of those “I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you” sort of jobs]
This food for thought, nothing more.
There is more to consider about Iraq than any potential connection with the events of 9/11/02. Forget the politics that have been warped beyond recognition. Forget any potential alliance between the fundamentalist and secular sects of Islam, and whatever theories there might be regarding financial and geographical support of bin Laden by Saddam Hussein. Forget all the reasons that the media parade in front of the public day in and day out. In the end, none of those reasons really matter.
Let’s pretend it’s not Iraq. Let’s pretend it’s a small country called Uberania. Uberania was once a Republic, and its citizens afforded a reasonable amount of freedoms. Then came a coup; Uberania was ruled thereafter by a dictator who modeled himself after Stalin—and prided himself on being much more ruthless. His eldest son was even more ruthless than the dictator, and was in charge of numerous interrogations. He reveled in torture; he had no qualms about chaining a man to a chair and raping his wife in front of him. He had no difficulties in dismembering the woman while her husband was forced to watch. And when he was done with her, emasculating the husband was simply his dessert.
Picture this once peaceful place: terror is the rule of the land. Women are less than property. Children are treated worse than dogs. Imagine yourself standing on a road there, an observer who cannot interfere. As you stand there you see two uniformed men approach a little girl; she looks to be about three years old and certainly is no more than five. They talk to her for a moment, and her eyes go wide with fear. And there is nothing you can do to stop it when they start beating her, pummeling her tiny body with fists and feet. When they finally stop, her blood coats the ground in a thick puddle, and her final breath is preceded by a small sound of bubbling. Her mother sees this from her house but if she tries to stop it, they will turn on her and set her, quite literally, on fire.
You can do nothing, so you move on. You watch as a teenage boy grabs a handful of old, molding food out of a pile of trash, and you watch as he’s shot by a soldier—for stealing garbage. And yet it doesn’t surprise you, because by now you’ve seen firsthand how the dictator handles dissent among his own staff. No one—no one—is allowed near him armed, but he damn well carries a side arm. And he doesn’t hesitate to use it. Hint that he might be wrong, and your brains will be sliding down the wall. Aid is sent to his people in barges of food and medicine, none of which makes it to the citizens. It feeds his army, and the medicine treats their ills while the rest of the country scrapes to get by, living in the shadow of fear, without enough food, and where an illness just a little worse than a cold can mean a death sentence.
Now—what if Uberania once went by the name of the United States of America? What if there were countries beyond its borders with the capability to help? Would saving the lives of most of the people in Uberania, freeing them from a true reign of terror, be worth the risk to the lives of those from whom they hope to find freedom? Would it be worth knowing how many might be saved against a regime with no compunctions against using biochemical weapons on its own citizens?
Would you risk your life if it meant freedom from complete oppression for those people? Would you not hope that if you lived like that, that someone would help you?
I’ve been to Iraq, Thump. None of the political posturing means anything. You can have a healthy distrust of our Administration and get the willies every time you hear the President speak, but that doesn’t mean the fundamental basics aren’t right. Hussein has to go. His cabinet has to go. The people of Iraq deserve, just as much as we do, a life without the constant stress of living in absolute terror. Think about how it felt on 9/11. How the people in NY felt. Imagine living through that every day. Always wondering when the next show will drop.
Yes, there are other countries with the same capabilities as Iraq but with few exceptions, none are lead by a true megalomaniacal sadist. We can play the waiting game, in hopes that he disarms, but that in itself won’t stop the abject suffering of the Iraqi people. People deserve better—and if we have the means to help them, it is in my opinion our responsibility.
View the politicians with healthy skepticism, but look past the rhetoric. There are valid reasons for going into Iraq and removing Saddam Hussein from power. Its people are reason enough.
I’d like to hear the opposing argument—without rhetoric, without calling the president a bunch of names, without referring to the U.S. Military as Bush’s Penile Extensions. Something very calm and reasonable. I need things to think about.
It’s a Tease, I Know It
Wow. It's like a day of spring today--after so much cold weather and more than enough snow, we're getting a nice, warm day. The kids are playing outside, laughing and squealing, and most of them are dressed in t-shirts and shorts.
We have to enjoy it while we can. Tomorrow the high is supposed to hover around 30 and there's a chance of snow. It figures, the one really good day we have, the Spouse
Thingy is stuck at the hospital doing a 24 shift. He could have used the warm day to finally take down the outside Christmas lights. No kidding, they're still up on the house.
Hopefully they'll come down by June...
Wow. It's like a day of spring today--after so much cold weather and more than enough snow, we're getting a nice, warm day. The kids are playing outside, laughing and squealing, and most of them are dressed in t-shirts and shorts.
We have to enjoy it while we can. Tomorrow the high is supposed to hover around 30 and there's a chance of snow. It figures, the one really good day we have, the Spouse
Thingy is stuck at the hospital doing a 24 shift. He could have used the warm day to finally take down the outside Christmas lights. No kidding, they're still up on the house.
Hopefully they'll come down by June...
Wednesday
More Boring Medical Crap
…or, why I might hit 8 feet tall…
Okay, so I’m not a biological scientist. I don’t pretend to understand exactly how everything in the human body works, but I’m learning more than I ever intended to. This week's lesson has been on Human Growth Hormone.
Yep, HGH. The thing that helped you reach your full height potential. It’s produced by the pituitary gland, and evidently, it’s produced in the same area of the gland that produces Vasopressin (your body’s natural anti-diuretic hormone, without which you’d pee your freaking brains out all day and night), and the area that sends out chemical signals to the rest of your body about producing estrogen. I’ve figured this much out because my body doesn’t make Vasopressin any longer (hence, the diabetes insipidus), and since some things are still missing (ahem… estrogen related), and recent blood tests show my HGH level is really low. Really really low.
Now (wake up! there will be a test later), even as adults you use HGH. Without sufficient amounts, your ratio of body fat to lean body mass can shift, and you don’t recover as well from insult to your muscles (meaning, you don’t repair those little micro-tears you get in your muscles from every day movement as well). I have Fibromyalgia and have had chronic body pain for 6 years; there has even been a study on FMS & HGH deficiency that showed some promise in using HGH replacement therapy to treat FMS.
But… chances are the low growth hormone levels are related to the pituitary tumor I had removed last summer. Still, replacing the HGH might make a big difference in how I feel, and may make it easier for me to put on some lean muscle mass. We already know what my HGH level is (very low), but in order for the endocrinologist I’m seeing to justify the expense of HGH replacement, there’s one more test to be run.
Next week I go in, have a couple of IVs put in place, have some blood drawn, and then they’re going to inject me with insulin to drive my blood sugar way down. When the blood sugar is down, the body releases HGH; theoretically, if my pituitary is producing any, it will then. They’ll draw more blood, then either feed me or push sugar water through an IV to bring my blood sugar level back up.
I’ve been warned that this won’t be a fun morning. The IVs aside, when your blood sugar level is that low, you tend to feel really sick.
Oh joy.
Why am I putting myself through it? Because I have high hopes that the test will show that I really don’t produce enough HGH, and can then go on replacement therapy. It may make all the difference in the world for me—in terms of overall body pain, loss of body fat, increase in muscle mass… It might mean that for the first time in 6 years, I’ll start to feel good. I feel okay most of the time, but I miss feeling really, really good.
So here’s to hoping I flunk the test.
I hope you took notes.
Your test will be next Friday.
…or, why I might hit 8 feet tall…
Okay, so I’m not a biological scientist. I don’t pretend to understand exactly how everything in the human body works, but I’m learning more than I ever intended to. This week's lesson has been on Human Growth Hormone.
Yep, HGH. The thing that helped you reach your full height potential. It’s produced by the pituitary gland, and evidently, it’s produced in the same area of the gland that produces Vasopressin (your body’s natural anti-diuretic hormone, without which you’d pee your freaking brains out all day and night), and the area that sends out chemical signals to the rest of your body about producing estrogen. I’ve figured this much out because my body doesn’t make Vasopressin any longer (hence, the diabetes insipidus), and since some things are still missing (ahem… estrogen related), and recent blood tests show my HGH level is really low. Really really low.
Now (wake up! there will be a test later), even as adults you use HGH. Without sufficient amounts, your ratio of body fat to lean body mass can shift, and you don’t recover as well from insult to your muscles (meaning, you don’t repair those little micro-tears you get in your muscles from every day movement as well). I have Fibromyalgia and have had chronic body pain for 6 years; there has even been a study on FMS & HGH deficiency that showed some promise in using HGH replacement therapy to treat FMS.
But… chances are the low growth hormone levels are related to the pituitary tumor I had removed last summer. Still, replacing the HGH might make a big difference in how I feel, and may make it easier for me to put on some lean muscle mass. We already know what my HGH level is (very low), but in order for the endocrinologist I’m seeing to justify the expense of HGH replacement, there’s one more test to be run.
Next week I go in, have a couple of IVs put in place, have some blood drawn, and then they’re going to inject me with insulin to drive my blood sugar way down. When the blood sugar is down, the body releases HGH; theoretically, if my pituitary is producing any, it will then. They’ll draw more blood, then either feed me or push sugar water through an IV to bring my blood sugar level back up.
I’ve been warned that this won’t be a fun morning. The IVs aside, when your blood sugar level is that low, you tend to feel really sick.
Oh joy.
Why am I putting myself through it? Because I have high hopes that the test will show that I really don’t produce enough HGH, and can then go on replacement therapy. It may make all the difference in the world for me—in terms of overall body pain, loss of body fat, increase in muscle mass… It might mean that for the first time in 6 years, I’ll start to feel good. I feel okay most of the time, but I miss feeling really, really good.
So here’s to hoping I flunk the test.
I hope you took notes.
Your test will be next Friday.
Monday
The Next Generation
It’s true. Whether you want to or not, whether you realize it’s creeping up on you, or not, at some point you begin the process of turning into your parents.
Mine used to buy huge amounts of pecans—enough to fill a 33 gallon trash can—to feed the neighborhood squirrels. I don’t know if they still do that, but I do know they feed the neighborhood stray cats, and at least one found the deal so good she’s stayed around for 10 years. She even tolerates being scooped up and taken to the vet for shots. Didn’t complain much when they had her spayed.
They also used to put out bird feeders. I’m sure the thought was to just feed the birds, but I often wondered if it wasn’t to provide Play Time for all the stray kitties.
But, back to the squirrels. They loved those pecans, and when the back deck was devoid of their favorite nuts, one or more of them would come up to the back door and peek through the glass, looking for a human to come open the trash can and dish out a bunch of pecans. One looked like he was trying to knock on the door—he wanted nuts, and he wanted them ASAP.
We have a couple of squirrels that live in the tree outside our front window. When winter hit we started to worry about what they were doing for food. A couple times a week we’d see one of them scrambling across the street, and we assumed it was in the pursuit of foodstuffs.
So we did it. We became my parents. We bought a squirrel feeder and nailed it to the tree, and bought a bag of dried corn cobs for them to munch on. They appreciate it, though looking at them, they’re not starving.
The bonus to feeding them? It drives the PsychoKitty nuts. Max sits in front of the window and watches them (and the birds that come to grab the leftovers), and he squeaks and chitters, and dances in place like a toddler who has to pee. Hank plopped down in front of the window last night and wouldn’t let Max near it—if Max were human, he would have stared crying. I think Hank knew it, too.
Heh.
It’s true. Whether you want to or not, whether you realize it’s creeping up on you, or not, at some point you begin the process of turning into your parents.
Mine used to buy huge amounts of pecans—enough to fill a 33 gallon trash can—to feed the neighborhood squirrels. I don’t know if they still do that, but I do know they feed the neighborhood stray cats, and at least one found the deal so good she’s stayed around for 10 years. She even tolerates being scooped up and taken to the vet for shots. Didn’t complain much when they had her spayed.
They also used to put out bird feeders. I’m sure the thought was to just feed the birds, but I often wondered if it wasn’t to provide Play Time for all the stray kitties.
But, back to the squirrels. They loved those pecans, and when the back deck was devoid of their favorite nuts, one or more of them would come up to the back door and peek through the glass, looking for a human to come open the trash can and dish out a bunch of pecans. One looked like he was trying to knock on the door—he wanted nuts, and he wanted them ASAP.
We have a couple of squirrels that live in the tree outside our front window. When winter hit we started to worry about what they were doing for food. A couple times a week we’d see one of them scrambling across the street, and we assumed it was in the pursuit of foodstuffs.
So we did it. We became my parents. We bought a squirrel feeder and nailed it to the tree, and bought a bag of dried corn cobs for them to munch on. They appreciate it, though looking at them, they’re not starving.
The bonus to feeding them? It drives the PsychoKitty nuts. Max sits in front of the window and watches them (and the birds that come to grab the leftovers), and he squeaks and chitters, and dances in place like a toddler who has to pee. Hank plopped down in front of the window last night and wouldn’t let Max near it—if Max were human, he would have stared crying. I think Hank knew it, too.
Heh.
Friday
The Wabbit Did Not Die
Nope, was just busy. Not too busy to sit down and write a little bit, but to be honest, on my list of Things To Do, it was kind of towards the bottom. It’s been a week of fun stuff. Yep. Fun stuff.
Happy last day of February.
And Happy Birthday to my sister Kathy!
And a sort of Happy Birthday to great-niece Kaitlyn, who turns 7, but was born on Feb 29th, so she really gets screwed out of her Real Birthday most years…
Nope, was just busy. Not too busy to sit down and write a little bit, but to be honest, on my list of Things To Do, it was kind of towards the bottom. It’s been a week of fun stuff. Yep. Fun stuff.
- The water pipes that lay under our front yard broke. Because of that, the entire street was without water for 27 hours, while these poor guys worked—through the night and in the rain—to get it fixed. They’d fix one leak, and another would spring up. When they were done, they’d fixed 5 leaks.
- Spouse Thingy got sick. Not just a garden variety cold or tummy ache; he was curled up in a painful ball on the bed, feverish and nauseous, not able to eat anything or drink much for 2 days. But he’s much better now.
- I got tons of work done on some projects. ’Boxer Shorts is nearing completion—just waiting for contributing authors to get their proof corrections to me before I set it in a final layout. Today I’m mailing a publishing agreement to all of them. The end of March I’ll order a block of ISBN numbers (waiting until then because, honestly, I don’t have the money to get them right now.) I expect to send the book to print by April 15th.
- Progress was made on my own book. Writing this chapter was particularly difficult because I had to (spoiler for those who have read the last two books) kill someone off. It was sad. I surprised myself by getting choked up when I went back and read what I’d written.
- Saw 2 movies; Daredevil and How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. Both decent flicks.
- Most importantly, I went on a hunt for the elusive Frostless Blueberry Pop Tart and was successful.
Happy last day of February.
And Happy Birthday to my sister Kathy!
And a sort of Happy Birthday to great-niece Kaitlyn, who turns 7, but was born on Feb 29th, so she really gets screwed out of her Real Birthday most years…
Wednesday
The Windmills Of My Mind
Shortly after I filed for a business license, I started getting “offers” from various banks to apply for a line of credit; now, this is an Essential Business Item, as much of what I do will require having a credit or debit card. On the whole, I’d rather use a credit card simply for the liability protection. So I read these offers carefully, because at some point I will need to apply for a card.
Now, these banks got my company name and address from the state, obviously. They know it’s a new business. Yet on nearly every application is a little box asking how much money the business makes every year.
Well now. I don’t really know that yet. I won’t officially launch until April, so all I really have right now is outgo, not income. You think they’d realize this and create a whole new application for Brand Spanking New Businesses.
Really.
I don’t think there’s any question about it: we’re going to war sooner or later.
No one wants war, not even those who support the effort. In the end, everyone wants peace, but some believe that the road to Greater Peace is war.
I don’t know what to believe.
I do know that to me it feels as if this war is being shoved down our collective throats without any apparent justification. It feels as if our Esteemed President is posturing, whipping up the Cowboy Mentality and poking his finger in the faces of our allies, trying to bully them into going “our” way. Even if there is good reason to go into Iraq, he’s alienating those with whom we must cooperate by his actions.
That said, I haven’t been given a Really Good Reason why anyone, much less my Active Duty Spouse, should gear up and head for a war. I keep hearing thinly veiled references to the events of 9/11, but nothing to substantiate a connection between Iraq and Al Quaeda. It just seems like Bush wants to use 9/11 as a reason to go into Iraq; if they’re not connected, then it’s a piss-poor reason. If they are connected, we need to know, and we need real facts, not rhetoric.
I also realize there are probably things, because of National Security, that we can’t know. But we definitely need some really good reasons to support a war with anyone, and I’m just not hearing any.
But I wonder… and I don’t really know what to believe.
I’m ready for spring.
The snow was nice, all white and fluffy and pretty, but I’m ready for warmer weather. I want to decorate the yard, plant flowers, grow nice, thick, lush grass.
That’s as in a lawn, peoples.
Not that kind of grass.
Well, not that I’ll admit to.
Send warmth.
Shortly after I filed for a business license, I started getting “offers” from various banks to apply for a line of credit; now, this is an Essential Business Item, as much of what I do will require having a credit or debit card. On the whole, I’d rather use a credit card simply for the liability protection. So I read these offers carefully, because at some point I will need to apply for a card.
Now, these banks got my company name and address from the state, obviously. They know it’s a new business. Yet on nearly every application is a little box asking how much money the business makes every year.
Well now. I don’t really know that yet. I won’t officially launch until April, so all I really have right now is outgo, not income. You think they’d realize this and create a whole new application for Brand Spanking New Businesses.
Really.
I don’t think there’s any question about it: we’re going to war sooner or later.
No one wants war, not even those who support the effort. In the end, everyone wants peace, but some believe that the road to Greater Peace is war.
I don’t know what to believe.
I do know that to me it feels as if this war is being shoved down our collective throats without any apparent justification. It feels as if our Esteemed President is posturing, whipping up the Cowboy Mentality and poking his finger in the faces of our allies, trying to bully them into going “our” way. Even if there is good reason to go into Iraq, he’s alienating those with whom we must cooperate by his actions.
That said, I haven’t been given a Really Good Reason why anyone, much less my Active Duty Spouse, should gear up and head for a war. I keep hearing thinly veiled references to the events of 9/11, but nothing to substantiate a connection between Iraq and Al Quaeda. It just seems like Bush wants to use 9/11 as a reason to go into Iraq; if they’re not connected, then it’s a piss-poor reason. If they are connected, we need to know, and we need real facts, not rhetoric.
I also realize there are probably things, because of National Security, that we can’t know. But we definitely need some really good reasons to support a war with anyone, and I’m just not hearing any.
But I wonder… and I don’t really know what to believe.
I’m ready for spring.
The snow was nice, all white and fluffy and pretty, but I’m ready for warmer weather. I want to decorate the yard, plant flowers, grow nice, thick, lush grass.
That’s as in a lawn, peoples.
Not that kind of grass.
Well, not that I’ll admit to.
Send warmth.
Sunday
White Stuff Redux
You gotta admit, it sure is pretty.
We got 9 inches night before last, a couple more during the day yesterday, and they predict 5-10 more today. It’s a pain in the ass, it’s crippled the county, but it is definitely pretty.
One picture here to admire, and a few more on a web page.
You gotta admit, it sure is pretty.
We got 9 inches night before last, a couple more during the day yesterday, and they predict 5-10 more today. It’s a pain in the ass, it’s crippled the county, but it is definitely pretty.
One picture here to admire, and a few more on a web page.
Saturday
SnowBleh
We had plans for Valentine’s Day, we really did. For once the Spouse Thingy had the whole freaking day off, which meant that we would be able to see the very first showing on the very first day of a brand new movie, after which we would find other things to do, and then go out to an early dinner (early because I, having a few brain cells left, was not going to brave a restaurant after 5 pm on Valentine’s Day.
This was sweet… made even better by him not having to work the weekend, or even Monday. Four days of no work, and Fun Stuff to do.
Then we saw the 5 pm news Thursday evening, and began to doubt our plans.
Then we saw the 6 pm news, and doubted even more.
By the 11 pm news, we figured we’d better scrap the plans and stay home. Every freaking station was predicting an ice storm to hit the area around 11 am, and it sounded nasty. Rush to the store and buy bread and milk nasty. We’d just done commissary shopping, so we were all right on that front—no standing in long lines to buy food to last the weekend. We could stay home and be nice and toasty warm.
By 4 pm yesterday we were curing the weather people. It was cloudy all day, but no ice. No snow. We could have at least gone to the movie. Probably even dinner.
It started sometime yesterday evening; by the time the storm front hit it was cold enough that what hit was all snow. THEY said we’d get about 3 inches of it.
We got 9.
And more is coming.
=sigh=
For once we had plans, dammit! Those plans did not include shoveling the driveway off today, just to make sure there wasn’t too much to shovel off tomorrow. They sure as heck didn’t include standing in the driveway with the neighbors, staring up at the roof, wondering when the snow was going to slide off and bury the front porch, and quite possibly my car.
Yet… this is our fault. We know this. We have brought the wrath of Our Stupid Bad Weather Luck to the Dayton area, and everyone else has to suffer.
Sorry, Daytonites.
Really.
We had plans for Valentine’s Day, we really did. For once the Spouse Thingy had the whole freaking day off, which meant that we would be able to see the very first showing on the very first day of a brand new movie, after which we would find other things to do, and then go out to an early dinner (early because I, having a few brain cells left, was not going to brave a restaurant after 5 pm on Valentine’s Day.
This was sweet… made even better by him not having to work the weekend, or even Monday. Four days of no work, and Fun Stuff to do.
Then we saw the 5 pm news Thursday evening, and began to doubt our plans.
Then we saw the 6 pm news, and doubted even more.
By the 11 pm news, we figured we’d better scrap the plans and stay home. Every freaking station was predicting an ice storm to hit the area around 11 am, and it sounded nasty. Rush to the store and buy bread and milk nasty. We’d just done commissary shopping, so we were all right on that front—no standing in long lines to buy food to last the weekend. We could stay home and be nice and toasty warm.
By 4 pm yesterday we were curing the weather people. It was cloudy all day, but no ice. No snow. We could have at least gone to the movie. Probably even dinner.
It started sometime yesterday evening; by the time the storm front hit it was cold enough that what hit was all snow. THEY said we’d get about 3 inches of it.
We got 9.
And more is coming.
=sigh=
For once we had plans, dammit! Those plans did not include shoveling the driveway off today, just to make sure there wasn’t too much to shovel off tomorrow. They sure as heck didn’t include standing in the driveway with the neighbors, staring up at the roof, wondering when the snow was going to slide off and bury the front porch, and quite possibly my car.
Yet… this is our fault. We know this. We have brought the wrath of Our Stupid Bad Weather Luck to the Dayton area, and everyone else has to suffer.
Sorry, Daytonites.
Really.
Wednesday
Friday
Here, Have A Bite…
Evidently, there’s a vampire on the lose in Dayton. Being that I’m night blind, I’ll probably never run into him, seeing as how we’re on polar opposites of the outside-wanderings thing. I have to be home before 6 p.m. (if I’m out alone) these days—it starts getting dark around 6:15. I’m sure he can’t go outside until 6:30 or so. That gives me a half hour window of safety.
Of course, if he’s anything like the vampires on Port Charles, he has some mystical, magical water he can drink to make himself impervious to the dangerous of being a vampire in daylight. He’d also avoid the pesky hunger pangs that seem to go with being a vampire… you know, the gut wrenching, agonizing torture that makes those neat little fangs appear. No, of course I never watch that show. I work diligently during the day.
Just like I never, ever get online during the day and surf a part of it away.
But, if you’re in or near Dayton, keep your eyes peeled. You never know when you might be on the receiving end of a bad case of the munchies.
Evidently, there’s a vampire on the lose in Dayton. Being that I’m night blind, I’ll probably never run into him, seeing as how we’re on polar opposites of the outside-wanderings thing. I have to be home before 6 p.m. (if I’m out alone) these days—it starts getting dark around 6:15. I’m sure he can’t go outside until 6:30 or so. That gives me a half hour window of safety.
Of course, if he’s anything like the vampires on Port Charles, he has some mystical, magical water he can drink to make himself impervious to the dangerous of being a vampire in daylight. He’d also avoid the pesky hunger pangs that seem to go with being a vampire… you know, the gut wrenching, agonizing torture that makes those neat little fangs appear. No, of course I never watch that show. I work diligently during the day.
Just like I never, ever get online during the day and surf a part of it away.
But, if you’re in or near Dayton, keep your eyes peeled. You never know when you might be on the receiving end of a bad case of the munchies.
Thursday
Pass The Soap
Apparently, in my last blog entry, I said the word shitload. And apparently, some people don't like the word shitload and feel I should refrain from typing the word shitload lest I offend my readers. All three of you.
Well, yes, I sometimes have a potty mouth and shitload is a term that often tumbles from my lips, and whilst I type, from my fingers. In real terms, I don't know how one goes about measuring a shitload, but I'm sure it's a significant amount, and, well, shitload is just an appropriate term for a significant amount of... whatever.
However, in the interests of those who find the word shitload inappropriate and offensive, I shall refrain from typing shitload in my blog, and see to it that shitload is instead an implied term. And I offer warning to those who find the word shitload offensive to not read either of my books, nor my forthcoming one, as shitload is probably found somewhere in each of the tomes, as well as other colorful words such as fuck, fucking, and motherfucker. As well as an occasional goddamn.
So, yes, shitload shall henceforth be banned from this blog.
Until I say it again, of course.
No mo' shitload.
Apparently, in my last blog entry, I said the word shitload. And apparently, some people don't like the word shitload and feel I should refrain from typing the word shitload lest I offend my readers. All three of you.
Well, yes, I sometimes have a potty mouth and shitload is a term that often tumbles from my lips, and whilst I type, from my fingers. In real terms, I don't know how one goes about measuring a shitload, but I'm sure it's a significant amount, and, well, shitload is just an appropriate term for a significant amount of... whatever.
However, in the interests of those who find the word shitload inappropriate and offensive, I shall refrain from typing shitload in my blog, and see to it that shitload is instead an implied term. And I offer warning to those who find the word shitload offensive to not read either of my books, nor my forthcoming one, as shitload is probably found somewhere in each of the tomes, as well as other colorful words such as fuck, fucking, and motherfucker. As well as an occasional goddamn.
So, yes, shitload shall henceforth be banned from this blog.
Until I say it again, of course.
No mo' shitload.
Sunday
Holy Thunder Thighs, Batman!
I wanna go to fat camp.
Yep. Fat Camp.
While avoiding anything that resembled work today, I channeled surfed onto MTV while they were running something called “True Life.” This one followed a group of teens (and a 23 year old) during six weeks at fat camp. Nope, not being politically incorrect; they were pulling any punches, they called it fat camp.
Damn, they looked like they were having fun. For six weeks these kids had a shitload of things to do, from Tae Bo to water skiing to tennis—all physical activities, sure, but it looked like fun.. The kind of fun you don’t get slogging through a workout on your own, trying not to cry from the terminal boredom of a treadmill or elliptical trainer. The kind of fun we had as kids, when it wasn’t working out, but playing.
I wanna go.
I’m sure there are fat camps for adults, but being adults, we wouldn’t want to call it that. I suppose they’re called “spas” or something equally nice. And I suppose they’re not nearly as much fun, more working out and very little playing. And I’m willing to bet they’re hellaciously expensive.
I probably just spelled hellaciously wrong.
There’s about 80 pounds of ugly body fat clinging to my frame that I’d like to lose. And I want to have fun doing it. Six to twelve weeks at camp sounds like a great way to go about it. No worries about being home to feed and drug the dog, clean the cat box, do dishes and laundry and vacuuming… Just a whole bunch of playing tennis and hiking, taking a Tae Bo class here and there. Eat what someone else cooks for me.
Yeah. I wanna go to fat camp.
I wanna go to fat camp.
Yep. Fat Camp.
While avoiding anything that resembled work today, I channeled surfed onto MTV while they were running something called “True Life.” This one followed a group of teens (and a 23 year old) during six weeks at fat camp. Nope, not being politically incorrect; they were pulling any punches, they called it fat camp.
Damn, they looked like they were having fun. For six weeks these kids had a shitload of things to do, from Tae Bo to water skiing to tennis—all physical activities, sure, but it looked like fun.. The kind of fun you don’t get slogging through a workout on your own, trying not to cry from the terminal boredom of a treadmill or elliptical trainer. The kind of fun we had as kids, when it wasn’t working out, but playing.
I wanna go.
I’m sure there are fat camps for adults, but being adults, we wouldn’t want to call it that. I suppose they’re called “spas” or something equally nice. And I suppose they’re not nearly as much fun, more working out and very little playing. And I’m willing to bet they’re hellaciously expensive.
I probably just spelled hellaciously wrong.
There’s about 80 pounds of ugly body fat clinging to my frame that I’d like to lose. And I want to have fun doing it. Six to twelve weeks at camp sounds like a great way to go about it. No worries about being home to feed and drug the dog, clean the cat box, do dishes and laundry and vacuuming… Just a whole bunch of playing tennis and hiking, taking a Tae Bo class here and there. Eat what someone else cooks for me.
Yeah. I wanna go to fat camp.
Saturday
There Are No Words…
Just this last week there was a discussion on WWDN about where we were when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. None of us could have ever predicted anything remotely close would happen just 4 days later.
Most of us were aware, I’m sure, that the Columbia was up there; most of us probably assumed they would come home safely.
There are already people online scoffing and sneering, asking what the big deal is; they point out that more people die in car accidents every day, declare it to not be much of a tragedy. After all “only” seven people died.
If you don’t get it, I truly feel sorry for you.
If you don’t get it, you probably never will.
High Flight
by John Gillespie McGee, Jr.
No. 412 Squadron, RCAF
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Just this last week there was a discussion on WWDN about where we were when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. None of us could have ever predicted anything remotely close would happen just 4 days later.
Most of us were aware, I’m sure, that the Columbia was up there; most of us probably assumed they would come home safely.
There are already people online scoffing and sneering, asking what the big deal is; they point out that more people die in car accidents every day, declare it to not be much of a tragedy. After all “only” seven people died.
If you don’t get it, I truly feel sorry for you.
If you don’t get it, you probably never will.
High Flight
by John Gillespie McGee, Jr.
No. 412 Squadron, RCAF
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Thursday
Write On
I have this thing about needing to change my environment while I write; I take my PDA and wireless keyboard and go over to the BX Food Court – or sometimes just a notebook and pen – where I grab a soda (diet, or course, out of the machine to avoid saccharine), pick a nice quiet corner, and sketch out whatever chapter I’m working on.
For whatever reason, this works for me. Just getting away from my computer seems to clear away whatever cobwebs are getting in my way, and I’m able to make real progress. Once in a while I grab lunch while I’m out, but paying heed to my weight (which is a rant all by itself… though I’m not really ranting right now), I don’t do that often.
The BX Food Court, even when there aren’t many people there, is usually pretty noisy—which makes finding that nice quiet corner a bit odd, but even with all the noise, I can usually find it. I can lose myself in the din of conversations, kids crying or laughing or even just yammering away with the same questions, over and over and over. It’s a different kind of quiet; it’s a loud, boisterous, in your face kind of quiet.
It’s being alone in a crowd. And it works.
When I first got my PDA and keyboard (at Travis AFB) not too many people had seen the combo and often interrupted to ask questions. Now, at home, if I’m on a writing streak and someone interrupts, I feel a little annoyed. Okay, quite a bit annoyed. But it never seemed to bother me there. It was a curiosity, and those not too shy to ask wanted to know what it was, where I’d gotten the keyboard. It inspired a few birthday and graduation gifts. I’d talk to whomever a bit, and was able to ease right back into what I was doing.
Today I went to the BX Food Court and sat there with my diet Pepsi and a notebook, scribbling notes about the current chapter I’m working on, when I heard a small child, about 5 years old, a few tables over, asking his mother what I was doing. They spent at least five minutes discussing the possibilities, and came up with everything from a letter to my mother to a grocery list.
And then he asked—loudly. “Lady, what are you doing?”
I looked up and smiled, mostly so his mother would know I wasn’t perturbed by the interruption. “I’m writing.”
“What?”
“Just some notes for a book I’m working on.”
“Does it have dragons in it?”
“No, it’s not that kind of book.”
“What kind is it?”
“It’s a book for grownups. It’s about a boy and a girl…”
He snorted. “That’s boring.”
I was snorted at.
By a five year old.
He made my day.
I’ve tried writing other places – the bowling alley, Taco Bell, McD’s (though I have had some laughs there listening to people) – but the Food Court seems to be the best. Maybe it’s the ebb and flow of people. Maybe it’s the kids, or the fact that on a military base people feel a bit more free to approach someone. Maybe it’s just me.
But whatever works, I’ll keep doing it until I’m done with this book.
And it’s about half done.
That’s gonna be a lot of days at the Food Court.
I have this thing about needing to change my environment while I write; I take my PDA and wireless keyboard and go over to the BX Food Court – or sometimes just a notebook and pen – where I grab a soda (diet, or course, out of the machine to avoid saccharine), pick a nice quiet corner, and sketch out whatever chapter I’m working on.
For whatever reason, this works for me. Just getting away from my computer seems to clear away whatever cobwebs are getting in my way, and I’m able to make real progress. Once in a while I grab lunch while I’m out, but paying heed to my weight (which is a rant all by itself… though I’m not really ranting right now), I don’t do that often.
The BX Food Court, even when there aren’t many people there, is usually pretty noisy—which makes finding that nice quiet corner a bit odd, but even with all the noise, I can usually find it. I can lose myself in the din of conversations, kids crying or laughing or even just yammering away with the same questions, over and over and over. It’s a different kind of quiet; it’s a loud, boisterous, in your face kind of quiet.
It’s being alone in a crowd. And it works.
When I first got my PDA and keyboard (at Travis AFB) not too many people had seen the combo and often interrupted to ask questions. Now, at home, if I’m on a writing streak and someone interrupts, I feel a little annoyed. Okay, quite a bit annoyed. But it never seemed to bother me there. It was a curiosity, and those not too shy to ask wanted to know what it was, where I’d gotten the keyboard. It inspired a few birthday and graduation gifts. I’d talk to whomever a bit, and was able to ease right back into what I was doing.
Today I went to the BX Food Court and sat there with my diet Pepsi and a notebook, scribbling notes about the current chapter I’m working on, when I heard a small child, about 5 years old, a few tables over, asking his mother what I was doing. They spent at least five minutes discussing the possibilities, and came up with everything from a letter to my mother to a grocery list.
And then he asked—loudly. “Lady, what are you doing?”
I looked up and smiled, mostly so his mother would know I wasn’t perturbed by the interruption. “I’m writing.”
“What?”
“Just some notes for a book I’m working on.”
“Does it have dragons in it?”
“No, it’s not that kind of book.”
“What kind is it?”
“It’s a book for grownups. It’s about a boy and a girl…”
He snorted. “That’s boring.”
I was snorted at.
By a five year old.
He made my day.
I’ve tried writing other places – the bowling alley, Taco Bell, McD’s (though I have had some laughs there listening to people) – but the Food Court seems to be the best. Maybe it’s the ebb and flow of people. Maybe it’s the kids, or the fact that on a military base people feel a bit more free to approach someone. Maybe it’s just me.
But whatever works, I’ll keep doing it until I’m done with this book.
And it’s about half done.
That’s gonna be a lot of days at the Food Court.
Tuesday
Change The Channel, Baby
Ok, Our esteemed President is going to hijack every channel on TV here in a little bit to give his State Of The Union address. It’s supposed to go on for, what, about an hour? Since GWB’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard to me, I think I’ll skip it and find something else to do.
I’m sure he’ll have some important things to say, and hey, who knows, maybe he’ll give us a decent reason why we’re heading for war. Being married to a military guy, I have a vested interest in that; after all, every day is another day to wonder if he’ll get the call, and find himself sitting on some mountain in some country he can’t even tell me about.
And yes, we signed up for this. That doesn’t mean I want that call to come. It doesn’t mean I want someone else to get deployed in his place. It means I don’t want things to get any worse than they already are. I don’t want anyone to die unless the cause is clearly, profoundly, and undeniably just.
And vested interest or not, I just can’t bring myself to watch Junior give this speech. There’s something about him that creeps me out, even more than the freaky eyes on my MRI image. Before he was elected, I said he’d get us into a war one way or the other; it was a hunch based on nothing but gut feeling. My gut said we’d get there, and here we go… I never could have predicted how, but damn.
I wanna go bowling. At least that makes sense.
Ok, Our esteemed President is going to hijack every channel on TV here in a little bit to give his State Of The Union address. It’s supposed to go on for, what, about an hour? Since GWB’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard to me, I think I’ll skip it and find something else to do.
I’m sure he’ll have some important things to say, and hey, who knows, maybe he’ll give us a decent reason why we’re heading for war. Being married to a military guy, I have a vested interest in that; after all, every day is another day to wonder if he’ll get the call, and find himself sitting on some mountain in some country he can’t even tell me about.
And yes, we signed up for this. That doesn’t mean I want that call to come. It doesn’t mean I want someone else to get deployed in his place. It means I don’t want things to get any worse than they already are. I don’t want anyone to die unless the cause is clearly, profoundly, and undeniably just.
And vested interest or not, I just can’t bring myself to watch Junior give this speech. There’s something about him that creeps me out, even more than the freaky eyes on my MRI image. Before he was elected, I said he’d get us into a war one way or the other; it was a hunch based on nothing but gut feeling. My gut said we’d get there, and here we go… I never could have predicted how, but damn.
I wanna go bowling. At least that makes sense.
Saturday
Thursday
Just When I Thought My Nipples Were Safe…
It is farkin’ cold out there today! Cold I haven’t felt since we were in NorthDakota (though, admittedly, not as cold as it used to get there.) My intention was to spend today inside, warm, sitting at the computer working, perhaps wrapped in this nice blue feather filled lap blanket my sister-in-law sent for Christmas. I had no reason to go outside, where it topped out at 9 degrees with a wind chill of about fifteen below. No reason at all.
Then the dentist called. I’ve been on their wait-list for getting my teeth cleaned, and they had an opening this morning, so I took it, before I remembered how cold it was. So I bundled up and went outside, and thought, “This isn’t too bad. Not bad at all.” I started the car and began to brush snow off my windows—and then felt the wind.
The wind was light, but it was cold.
Very cold.
I swear, my nipples puckered.
I braved the cold and went anyway, leaving their office 45 minutes later with bright shiny teeth and an appointment for February 11th, because I have a small cavity. And a fractured tooth. Ick. I headed home, thinking warm thoughts, looking forward to being toasty the rest of the day.
Then I got email from The Boy. “I lost the check you sent. Um, can you cancel it and resend it? And today, because I need it for a deposit on a new apartment…” He lost the check. A five hundred dollar check, he misplaced it. As if he gets one every day, no big deal, nothing to keep careful track of.
A. Five. Hundred. Dollar. Check.
Back out into the cold I went, to get to the post office to send him another check, after emailing him back that he had to go to the credit union to take care of the original. It was colder, the wind stiffer, and as I walked from my car into the post office I could feel the hairs inside my nose freezing (now, granted, this is a unique feeling and not altogether unpleasant, but it does make you realize how cold it is). I realized on the way home that I was no longer just feeling chilly, I was cold, very cold… numb fingers and toes cold.
Frozen nipples cold.
A short time after I got home the phone rang. It was The Boy. He found the check. In his laundry. Laundry that had already been washed. Basically, he found what was left of the check. In his pants pocket. In pieces.
A Five. Hundred. Dollar Check.
I could have gotten mad, but there was no point. He found the check, which means it wasn’t floating around there, waiting for someone else to find and attempt to cash. I had other things to worry about, anyway.
Like the cold.
And my nipples.
And what happens if I sneeze, and they go flying off.
Gesundheit.
It is farkin’ cold out there today! Cold I haven’t felt since we were in NorthDakota (though, admittedly, not as cold as it used to get there.) My intention was to spend today inside, warm, sitting at the computer working, perhaps wrapped in this nice blue feather filled lap blanket my sister-in-law sent for Christmas. I had no reason to go outside, where it topped out at 9 degrees with a wind chill of about fifteen below. No reason at all.
Then the dentist called. I’ve been on their wait-list for getting my teeth cleaned, and they had an opening this morning, so I took it, before I remembered how cold it was. So I bundled up and went outside, and thought, “This isn’t too bad. Not bad at all.” I started the car and began to brush snow off my windows—and then felt the wind.
The wind was light, but it was cold.
Very cold.
I swear, my nipples puckered.
I braved the cold and went anyway, leaving their office 45 minutes later with bright shiny teeth and an appointment for February 11th, because I have a small cavity. And a fractured tooth. Ick. I headed home, thinking warm thoughts, looking forward to being toasty the rest of the day.
Then I got email from The Boy. “I lost the check you sent. Um, can you cancel it and resend it? And today, because I need it for a deposit on a new apartment…” He lost the check. A five hundred dollar check, he misplaced it. As if he gets one every day, no big deal, nothing to keep careful track of.
A. Five. Hundred. Dollar. Check.
Back out into the cold I went, to get to the post office to send him another check, after emailing him back that he had to go to the credit union to take care of the original. It was colder, the wind stiffer, and as I walked from my car into the post office I could feel the hairs inside my nose freezing (now, granted, this is a unique feeling and not altogether unpleasant, but it does make you realize how cold it is). I realized on the way home that I was no longer just feeling chilly, I was cold, very cold… numb fingers and toes cold.
Frozen nipples cold.
A short time after I got home the phone rang. It was The Boy. He found the check. In his laundry. Laundry that had already been washed. Basically, he found what was left of the check. In his pants pocket. In pieces.
A Five. Hundred. Dollar Check.
I could have gotten mad, but there was no point. He found the check, which means it wasn’t floating around there, waiting for someone else to find and attempt to cash. I had other things to worry about, anyway.
Like the cold.
And my nipples.
And what happens if I sneeze, and they go flying off.
Gesundheit.
Sunday
Is She Frigid?
I sat here today, freezing my nipples off. I had the thermostat set to over 80, and still I shivered. My legs were painfully cold, chilly even to the touch. The heat kept coming on and I checked the vents to make sure it was actually blowing -- and sure enough, it was. Nice, warm, blowing air.
I checked the thermometer in the living room -- it was down to 65 and dropping. In the fifteen minutes I snooped around, checking vents, it went down another 5 degrees.
What the hell?
Knowing not what else to do, I went back into my office--the warmest room downstairs--and decided to suffer. Upstairs was much, much warmer, but Hank can't go up the stairs, and it didn't feel right to leave him all alone. In the cold.
Eventually, Hank had to do what dogs have to do, and headed for the back door. I got up and followed. And then it hit me.
I hadn't locked the door after he went out this morning.
Our back door doesn't stay closed if it's not locked.
I pulled the curtain back, and sure enough, the back door was open about 3 inches (making me very glad PsychoKitty tends to stay upstairs during the day, and that he didn't discover the open door and go out to investigate the world.)
Now, it was about 15 degrees outside.
The door blew open.
Duh, of course it got cold inside. I locked it after Hank came back inside, and within an hour it was nice and toasty--and then I remembered how high I'd turned up the thermostat.
I really am losing my mind.
Bleh.
I sat here today, freezing my nipples off. I had the thermostat set to over 80, and still I shivered. My legs were painfully cold, chilly even to the touch. The heat kept coming on and I checked the vents to make sure it was actually blowing -- and sure enough, it was. Nice, warm, blowing air.
I checked the thermometer in the living room -- it was down to 65 and dropping. In the fifteen minutes I snooped around, checking vents, it went down another 5 degrees.
What the hell?
Knowing not what else to do, I went back into my office--the warmest room downstairs--and decided to suffer. Upstairs was much, much warmer, but Hank can't go up the stairs, and it didn't feel right to leave him all alone. In the cold.
Eventually, Hank had to do what dogs have to do, and headed for the back door. I got up and followed. And then it hit me.
I hadn't locked the door after he went out this morning.
Our back door doesn't stay closed if it's not locked.
I pulled the curtain back, and sure enough, the back door was open about 3 inches (making me very glad PsychoKitty tends to stay upstairs during the day, and that he didn't discover the open door and go out to investigate the world.)
Now, it was about 15 degrees outside.
The door blew open.
Duh, of course it got cold inside. I locked it after Hank came back inside, and within an hour it was nice and toasty--and then I remembered how high I'd turned up the thermostat.
I really am losing my mind.
Bleh.
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