For whatever reason, my 9th grade health teacher, Coach Kaufmann chose to share this little presumed factoid with us:

Once you learn to dress yourselves, you develop a preference much like handedness, and for the rest of your life you will put the same side sock on first, and the same side shoe on first. Chances are, if you're right handed, you will always put your left sock and your left shoe on first, and you will do that until the day you die.

This was the same teacher who grabbed a kid out of his chair and forced him to dry-shave with a Bic razor because he had a little bit of stubble at 11 a.m.

He once gave me demerits for mumbling "Dangit" under my breath when I got a quiz back with a grade less than stellar; I wanted 100% and wasn't happy about it. I wasn't questioning the grading, I was pissed at myself. I was never sure why he turned and practically spit venom at me; I know he knew exactly what word I had uttered because he repeated it back.

Wonder-teacher also kept a ruler close at hand, and out of the blue he would whack it hard against the top of his desk, laughing when half the class jumped and squeaked.

For the most part, I considered Coach Kaufmann to be a giant tool. He got the material across, and we learned, but in between soaking up the facts of health and dodging his personality, most of the class was imagining ways to set him on fire without getting caught.

So when he shared that little factoid (something I've never been sure about) I was determined that would never be true for me. I was not a robot, dammit, and I could put my socks on in any freaking order I wanted. I worked at not repeating the order of things.

To this day I still make an effort to mix it up. I thought about that this morning when putting my socks and shoes on. Yesterday it was left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe. Today it was right sock, right shoe, left sock left shoe. And while I was tying them, I actually had the thought Suck it, Coach Kaufmann zip through my head.

Stop laughing. I'm not that strange.

And I bet tomorrow while you're getting dressed, you think about what goes on your feet first...

=snork=

I'm totally ripping off Michele today. Go to Anagram Genius and input your name.

Thumper anagrams to "The Rump" and my real name anagrams to "Spank The Moron."

Yes, it's the little things that make me laugh...

Dear Kitchen Gremlin,

Please return all the missing butter knives, spoons, the spaghetti tongs, serving spoons, and spatulas you have obviously taken. We need them. And it had to be you because there's no other explanation for all these things to suddenly be missing. The cats swear it's not them.

Sincerely,
Wants to make a peanut butter sandwich and has no way to spread it onto the bread.

You don't have to like motorcycles, you just have to have a sense of humor...

It begins with the first notes of Retreat.

Everyone stops. Heads turn in search of the direction of the music. Shopping carts loaded with groceries slow as the baggers stop walking. Cars park in the middle of the road and windows are rolled down to better hear.

Small children take a few extra steps, and then remember.

The strains of Retreat fade; men and women in uniform snap to attention. Kids place their hands over their hearts. Old men whip the hats off heads that they sometimes bow, but more often than not they gaze with a sense of importance towards the notes that have faded to nothing. Other adults stand quietly, hands clasped respectfully behind their backs, chests proudly out, chins held high.

For the next few minutes, there is no movement save the flag in the wind; voices are quiet, motors hum in the background, but no one moves.

For the next few minutes, an entire air force base holds still while the National Anthem plays.

Trust me, even after 23+ years, it's a sight to behold.

=blink=

Whoever designed certain car alarms to be so sensitive that a strong breeze sets them off needs to be kicked in the nads.

My neighbors would surely like a turn at him, too.

Especially at 3 a.m.

=blink=

Damn You, Mrs. Hodge...

In an effort to motivate a class of emerging, disinterested adolescents, my sixth grade teacher split the class into two teams; based on spelling test scores, behavior, participation, and a number of other factors I can't seem to recall, students were rewarded with points, and those points counted towards a team collective score. At the end of two weeks, whichever team had the most points won.

And there were prizes, usually a sucker or candy bar for each kid on the winning team, once in a while it was a can of soda given just before lunch.

Yeah, that wouldn't fly today, with uber-senstive helicopter parents whining about their precious progeny's sense of self esteem. It wouldn't be fair for little Donovanella to have to sit there, a loser, watching while some of her friends got to have a candy bar while she didn't. Why, that might scar her for life!

But it worked. We wanted to be on the winning team, so we made huge efforts to get there. We kept each other in check, we diffused potential fights without having to rely on an adult, we helped each other learn those 12-letter spelling words. We participated in class discussions and learned to not make fun of the kid with the stutter who was just trying to get his answer out without crying; we learned patience. If our team lost, oh well. There was always the next two weeks, always something to look forward to.

And the teacher wasn't stupid; she frequently mixed the teams. Roughly every six weeks she rattled the rosters and new teams were formed. We got to spend an afternoon deciding a new team name, and creating a new team poster. It was a lesson in compromise; we had to come up with more than one potential name, discuss its merits versus its drawbacks, and vote on it. We had to conceptualize a design for our team poster, and then create it. The process helped bring out a sense of fairness and cooperation, and we learned that just because our idea wasn't picked, that didn't mean it wasn't a good one. Sometimes it just meant that someone else's idea made for a better poster.

Towards the end of the school year, the more artistic kids always had ideas ripping through their heads and often had sketched out poster designs ready to go. One kid, I think his name was Ken, noted that we had some really bright yellow poster board, and he had a ready supply of purple markers, and wouldn't it be funny to draw polka dots all over it? And wouldn't it be really hysterical to draw a hehhehehe girl in a bikini on it? We could hehehehe show her belly button on it. And at the top of the poster we could kind of have these hehehehe boobs...just like the bottom half. Then her waist and the bikini bottoms hehehehe.

Thusly did we become the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini Bunch.

I remembered all that yesterday when a commercial popped up on TV; some woman trying desperately to hide her bathing suit clad body as that song played in the background. I laughed, hummed along, and remembered those teams and how much fun they were, even when we lost.

And later on I realized that other song was no longer stuck in my head.

No, now I have It was an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini that she wore for the first time today... stuck in that empty space between my ears.

Over and over and over.

It was there when I went to sleep last night and there when I woke up, and it's still there.

I totally blame my 6th grade teacher.

Upon which I ruminate...and it's not required to make sense...

Today's news: Jack Kevorkian walked out if jail after serving 8 yeas for assisting the suicide of a man with ALS. And yes, I am aware that by the letter of the law he committed murder, because the patient was unable to flip the switches himself. But no, I never thought he should serve prison time for it.

I certainly understand the viewpoint of those who did think he deserved to go to jail. Even burn in hell.

But.

I have a different perspective of it. I still sometimes sting from his actions, yet wrapped around that stinging sensation is a bit of gratitude.

When I was editing Martial Artists Wired, I wrote a piece about a guy named Bill, titled Closing The Door in March 1998. You can go read it in its entirety, or just this snippet:

While actively posting on some boards and lurking on others, I came to know a gentle soul, one who took great pains to not become one of us who was quick to throw the slings and arrows of war, one who would welcome newcomers without fail, would offer unconditional support to all, who would spend great quantities of his own time answering questions privately for those who were having a hard time coming to grips with being told that they have this disease. He was well known for quietly emailing people who had not been seen online for a while to make sure they were okay. He often called some who were having particularly harsh times.

Last week, this gentle soul passed away.

Many of you heard of his death on the news, a quick blurb on CNN, a buried quote on the back pages of a newspaper. His death, his method of death, has become common enough to no longer cause a stir of media interest. A year ago, two years ago, three years ago, his death would have caused a sensation and a media circus to boot. Some of you would have nodded approval for his actions, some of you would be shaking your head in wonder, and some would openly criticize.

Bill, who is already greatly missed, solicited the services of Dr. Jack Kevorkian, and chose his death in the manner of medical euthanasia.

Bill suffered, as do I, with fibromyalgia . His body was also riddled with painful tumors in his head, spine, bladder, and other organs. To say he was in constant pain is an understatement. Everything that could be done for him was done; he was given enough pain medication to not only kill the average human, but probably the average horse as well. None of it touched his pain. He viewed life through a cloud of never ending agony, yet kept a great deal of his focus on other people. There came a point where there was nothing but pain left in his life. With no quality of life to look forward to, no hope of surviving the tumors that had wound through his body, and with no family for support, he made his decision. He chose to die with dignity, on his own terms, before piling pain upon pain just to live a few more months.

Bill was a calm presence in the middle of chaos. He whispered words of hope and was heard above the din. He educated without belittlement, he answered questions without questioning, either directly or by manner, the intelligence of those who ask; he offered support and asked nothing in return.

Yeah, it stings. Bill should have lived a long, healthy, happy life, but because life sucks sometimes, he didn't. Instead, he lived a life that would have had most of us clawing at our eyes and howling at the moon. At some point, enough was enough and he wanted out. And he wanted to go in a way he hadn't lived: without pain.

I know the arguments: it's a sin, it's wrong, we don't have the right to play God.

But hey, we play God every day. Every time we treat an illness, we play God. Every time we allow a ventilator to assist someone breathing, we play God. Every dose of chemo, every tranfusion of blood, we're playing God. Every time I take my DDAVP to quench a violent thirst that forces me to drink copious amounts that in turn makes me pee like a fiend, I'm playing God.

My gut tells me God doesn't mind one bit.

So why would he mind if instead of forcing someone to live in agony, we allowed them to die? If we just stopped pretending that the greater good is to save the life, when it means leaving the person living that life in pain, with no end in sight?

Bill was going to die eventually. He knew that. He didn't want to suffer.

Who does?

Maybe Kevorkian had no right to help people kill themselves, but neither do we have the right to force them to live.

So what's the answer?

I don't think there's an easy one.

In March 1998 Bill was done.

I respect that. I don't like it, on a purely selfish level, but I respect it. Kevorkian is incidental. Kevorkian was a tool that a whole lot of people used, and he was willing to take the judgment that comes with it.

I don't think he was evil. I doubt he was anyone's savior, either.

Just a tool.

But, once upon a time I knew this guy, and he was a wicked awesome soul.

If you like ICANHASCHEEZBURGER, you gotta check out the LOL Presidents thread at FARK. Srsly. Chk it owt. Okthnxbye.

The look she seemed to be going for was Suburban Soccer Mom: blond hair tied back into a ponytail, too-cute t-shirt, jeans, and Keds sneakers sans socks. But...she looked like she was pushing 50, and her make-up was troweled on, rivaling Tammy Faye Bakker, circa 1980-something.

I noticed her standing at the digital card catalog, then went back to scratching notes onto the pages of my manuscript with my nifty red pen, trying to fall back into the story, but not deep enough to keep me from being able to pick it apart.

Then her phone went off, loudly. It was enough to make me look back up. I didn't say anything and barely looked at her. It was nearly a Pavlovian response: phone rings, I look up to see where it's coming from. Apparently looking up implied an interest in her conversation, something she obviously did not wish to share.

"Don't you be gettin' all up in my bizness."

Take a deep breath, look back at the manuscript.

"I ain't tawkin' for yo' enterTAINment."

Glance up, raise an eyebrow. I couldn't care less, really...

She snapped the phone closed and shoved it into her back pocket. "Whatchew doin' anyway?"

"Teetering on the precipice of irony, apparently."

"Huh?"

"I'm writing."

"You writin'? Whatchew writin'?"

A guide to passably correct grammar... "A book."

"A whole book?" No, just the second half. "Wassit about?"

"Right now it's about 200 pages." Please go away...

"Ha."

Another deep breath. "Basically, it's about someone coming to grips with growing up in a dysfunctional family, how she remembers it as opposed to how it really was." I didn't mention the dead guy.

"Oh, like Dr. Phil makin' people seen how shit's their fault, too?"

"Pretty much."

"That's cool," she said, hands going to her hips. I was seriously hoping she would go away; I was feeling rude and abrupt and sure that my mouth was going to catch up with my mood. But then she went on. "I'm sorry I bitched at you. I'm just pissed. My boy got hisself into the air force and now he's goin' someplace I never heard of and I just wanted to come look it up 'n see where he goin', you know?"

She was terrified.

"Where's he being stationed?" I asked.

"Land's Stool?" she asked herself.

"Landstuhl. It's in Germany."

"It ain't nowhere near Iraq?"

I shook my head. "I know people deploy from there, but it's pretty far from Iraq and Afghanistan. I think the base there is Ramstein Air Force Base."

"Says he's goin' be a lab vampire. A pleebo-somethin'."

"Phlebotomist?" I guessed. "Lab vampire is a pretty good description."

We talked for at least half an hour, until her phone rang again and she had to leave. The longer we spoke, the less street her speech became. And I got it: sound tough, and people back off. But really, she was just a Mom, absolutely terrified that her 18 year old son might be headed for war. She only knew bits and pieces from short phone calls and had no clear idea where he was headed and what might be waiting for him when he got there. She was filled with a mixture of anger and pride, and had no idea what to do with those feelings.

Seems I got all up in her bizness after all.

You would think that being downstairs, where the doors and windows are that would be mostly likely broken into were some nefarious soul decide to invade our space, would make me sit up in bed all night, wondering about all the different little sounds that create the symphony of night time. Embarrassingly, I have spent more than my fair share of time wide-eyed and heart pounding in bed, thinking someone who didn't belong here was tip-toeing through the house at night. They never have caught Vacaville's serial rapist, and we have a problem with vandals in the neighborhood. And we do live close to the prison. Really close.

Heck, I've slept better the last couple nights than I have in a long time.

I think it's because from downstairs, where all those sounds originate, I can tell what they are and I don't lie there worrying that the odd little bang is someone slipping in through a broken door. No, I can tell that it's Buddah, his little head banging into the wall after sliding 5 feet across the wood floor as he chases a toy mouse. Or it's Buddah chasing Max, simply for the sheer joy of ticking Max off. Or it's Buddah sharpening his claws on one of the few things he knows he's allowed to scratch on.

Buddah, it seems, is a very noisy little guy at night.

Speaking of the little guy, we're pretty sure he's going to wind up with a raging headache over the next couple of days. The Spouse Thingy put up a bird feeder right outside the window by the chair he likes to lounge on, and he'll probably be running head first into the glass 15-20 times per day as he goes after his little feathered friends.

You think he'd learn after the first 5 times, but no...one of those times the glass might magically vanish, and he could catch himself a tasty little snack.

With my luck, he'll find a way to get himself a bird, and he'll bring me half.

At night.

In bed.

So much for peaceful sleeping.

Post #1001...Seriously...1001

I love the look of these stairs, especially with the bookcases placed Just So (ok, it wasn't asthetics that made us line the stairs with the bookcases, it was the cats. We did it so the cats could have someplace fun to play.) (Shuddup)

AS nice as I think they look, those stairs became the bane of my existence. Bedroom upstairs, office upstairs, everything else downstairs... It got to where I was planning chunks of my day around going up and down those stairs, finding every possible way to avoid it.

Yes, I am lazy. But mostly, it just fricking hurts to manage stairs, especially going down them. When you find yourself complaining to one of the cats that life would be so much better if he learned to fetch like Murf's dog Stoner--he'll open the fridge and get you a Coke if you just say "beer please" (LOL yeah, I guess whatever can he can get his mouth around is the can you get)--and then feel a bit put out when the cat's response is to sit back and lick his junk, then it's time to move the office downstairs.

OK, it's time to get the Male Type People with whom you reside to move the office downstairs. Then there will only be a couple of stair trips daily. Doable. (And it gets the Bowflex out of the living room and into the garage. The living room will look better, even though the garage will be cramped.) (Yay for the living room.)

But then, because the Boy is no longer 12 years old with his head wedged up into the buttcrack of puberty, even though he had specifically wanted that downstairs space, he moved his bedroom upstairs, and the rest of my personal effects, including the tres spiffy I-love-you-and-I-hate-you Tempurpedic bed, was moved into his room.

Bonus points: he gets 2 rooms to spread his stuff throughout, instead of the cramped 9 x 9 room he was in.

Double bonus points: I no longer have to go upstairs.

-1: I now sleep across the hall from the Kitty Litterbox Room, and both of them made sure to leave me aromatic little gifts last night.

The only thing that really bugs me is that I'm 45 years old and have trouble with stairs. I don't even want to think about what it'll be like in 10 or 20 years...

75 degrees is not hot. In fact, 75 degrees is down right nice; warm enough for t-shirts and shorts, cool enough to be comfortable.

However.

Park your car in direct sunlight. Turn the engine off, leave the windows rolled up, and wait. It doesn't take long for the heat to become uncomfortable, and not much longer for it to be painful. I wouldn't do it to a dog; I certainly wouldn't do it to a kid.

But...

For the record, the commenter in the last post who made light of it was (I think; he has a good sense of humor) being tongue in cheek, but it sure as hell is filling my email. And one of those emails pointed out that in the biggest of the big pictures, my reaction of nausea and dizziness and what-the-hell-do-I-do was not because the imaginary kid was going to be cooked alive in the car; it was because even the hint of an idea that someone with ill intent could snatch that kid was fizzing in the nether regions of my brain.

When my son was 2 months old, he was snatched while in his stroller, right next to me. Granted, his would-be snatcher didn't get far, paid a pretty hefty physical price, was a little nuts, and we didn't pursue civil charges, but it left an indelible mark. [July 25, 2002]

I'm a little touchy about kids in danger, it seems.

But the commenter was right; times are so very different. Thirty five years ago it wasn't uncommon to leave your kids in the car for a few minutes. We'd be threated with bodily harm if we so much as twitched wrong, the windows were rolled down for fresh air, and alone we were. We sweated, we moaned, and no one had any idea how close we probably were to dehydration.

When we were kids we rode our bikes without worrying we'd fall off and split or heads wide open; hell, most of us probably heard more than once from an irate parent to knock off the stupid stuff, or else just that very thing would happen. Your skull is going to split and your brains are going to roll right out! I still don't like to wear a bike helmet. Heck, if I survived all those years, I can pedal my way through a few more. My son was on the periphery of bike helmets; they weren't required by law, just by strong suggestion. I didn't make him wear one until it did become law. And then he stopped riding his bike.

Thirty five years ago we also spent most of our free time outside exposing ourselves to dangerous levels of UV rays. We played in the streets. We risked intestinal distress by drinking from the neighbor's hose, even when we knew the dog had licked it just the day before. We played tackle football on concrete, for Pete's sake.

We survived.

I think we go overboard with kids sometimes these days, but that's the nature of time. It flows towards the future, not towards the Good old Days. In thirty five years today's kids might be sending their young ones outside covered from head to toe in protective suits that inflate with automatic airbags at the slightest bump. They'll be slathered in 567 SPF sunscreen and their vitals will be monitored and adjusted electronically for optimal health.

Maybe there won't be cars to leave the kids in. Who knows?

If I'm still around then, cars or not, safety features out the wazzoo or not, I'm probably still going to be a little touchy about the potential for a kid to be yanked right off the street, even right out from under a parent's nose. Because if it could happen with me standing right there, it could happen to anyone...especially to a kid asleep in a car with no responsible adult in sight.

Before I headed off to the library to get some work done, I stopped at Tarzhet Booteek in search of memory foam insoles for my delicate little size 10 feet. I did not find any, and my delicate little feet stopped being important 1.3 seconds after I opened my car door and dropped my tired ass into the driver's seat.

Something was amiss; I blinked and then realized that someone left a kid, slumped over and asleep, in the backseat of the SUV I had parked next to.

My first impulse was rage, the sort of which, when you act upon it, can get you 2-3 years in County. Well, I'm guessing that's how long it would get you. It might be more, depending on exactly how much blood was drawn, and how loud the screams were.

I blinked again, and quickly realized I needed to assess the situation. It was not hot out, maybe 75 degrees; if I called 911 and the kid's parents were only in there for 2 minutes, they were stupid and negligent, but not necessarily criminal in the life-altering way that gets you hauled off in handcuffs while your kid is screaming in fear and crying giant tears with boogers streaming out of his nose. A strong verbal ass kicking would probably suffice. I sat in my car without the air on, using that as a comfort gauge; if I was just a little uncomfortable, a kid would be very uncomfortable. At 75 outside, I figured it would get to 85 inside, but I wasn't sure how quickly.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, ready to use it.

And then my brain began to make attempts at higher functioning. Target has a security guard up front, right? So I could write down the license number and make and model of the SUV, run in there and get him, and have some backup against what could potentially be some 6'5" beer-addled 5th degree black belt. Confronting a stupid parent might not be my best idea; going and getting the guard might be.

But what if while I was sprinting to get inside the store the parent(s) returned and just took off?

I reached into the glove compartment for a pen and pulled my ever-present notebook from the pouch behind the passenger seat. I would write down the license number, yes I would, and I would either run into the store and get the guard, risking the parents taking off, or maybe I could find an employee outside who would either go watch the car or go get the guard while I went back to watch the car.

And my brain wandered some more. What if I called 911 and it turned out the kid was only in the car for 5 minutes and was just fine; I would turn this kid's life upside down. Sure, his parents deserved the hell that would cause, but did he?

I watched the door for people headed my way. If that ONE PERSON would just walk over and open the SUV's door, I would spring out with a mighty You are such a sucky person! and a lecture on how quickly a car heats up and how easy it would have been for any random kiddy freak to break into the car and steal your kid, but the few people who wandered my way came no where near.

Oh yeah, I am a shy person and don't care to speak until spoken to...but this is different. I'm pretty sure I could wind up into Crazy Lady in about 2.2 seconds under those circumstances.

I then realized I was sweating like crazy, was a touch dizzy, and I felt a little sick to my stomach; I wasn't sure if it was heat building up in the car or nausea from blinding rage--I was reaching the point of I will do you bodily harm if I see you--so I got out of the car with cell phone in hand. Screw getting the guard, I was going to camp my ass on the bumper or the hood and not let them go anywhere until the cops arrived.

I flipped the phone open, had 9-1 dialed, and something poked at my brain again. Something still wasn't right. That kid hadn't so much as moved a fraction of a fraction of a millimeter.

Holy crap, I waited too long and he's dead!

I lifted a fist, ready to bang on the window, hoping to wake the kid up as my finger started to press that last -1.

But I stopped and flipped the phone closed. My nausea passed, the sweating stopped, and the urge to kill abated.

It was a child-sized mannequin head.

All righty...let's try this again. Apparently, if you mention the word "cash" in an eBay listing, they think it's a solicitation for payment with cash through the mail or wire transfer service. Even when the listing specifically says "If you are local to the area..." before mentioning the word "cash." Hopefully, rewording the listing will allow it to stay on for the duration of the auction.

In other news, sometime next week the guys are moving my office downstairs. They are not thrilled about it, since it requires heavy lifting (heh...my desk weighs a ton...) but the stairs are no longer kind to me, and I only want to have to deal with them twice a day.

I don't think the cats will be thrilled either since they like hanging with me in the office, all curled up on their climbing trees where they can gaze out the window, but they'll learn to deal with it. And maybe, if they're good, the climbing tree fairy will get them another one for downstairs...

I do not spoil my cats!

Last year we sold the Boy's Mazda on eBay, so we decided to give it a try with the convertible. There are already a couple of bids on it, under the reserve price, but at least someone's bidding. I was reluctant to go this route since we don't own the title, but I made sure I stated that in the auction. The buy-it-now price is well under the blue book price, and the reserve is just over what we owe on it...so we'll see.

And...I listed it on Craig's List back in March, which was a little ahead of the convertible season, I think. If it doesn't sell on eBay, I'll give it a try again. If that doesn't work...maybe we're destined to keep the car. I had a dream last week that we sold it and the next day the Hyundai blew up. That would be inconvenient.

And...On the house front...the property manager did determine the owners are not looking to sell the house. He doesn't know why they were taking pictures, but they're not selling. So hopefully that means we get to stay another year, and without a huge freaking hike in rent.

And...I still have that damned song going through my head.

And... one time, at band camp...

:::blink:::

• I have had How To Save A Life stuck in my head off and on--mostly on--for at least a month. It's not just floating around in the back of my brain like a pleasant little melody; no, it's pounding away in there, like a lyrical hammer and chisle, chipping away at my sanity. I wake in the middle of the night to ...And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life... and if I blink wrong the order of the lyrics reverses and I have ...Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness... I like the song, but it's starting to seriously make my head hurt.


• I looked out the window today; the owner of the house was taking pictures. I do not know why and he did not come to the door...but I can't think of any reason to take pictures of a house you own and don't live in other than in preparation to sell the house. Our lease is up at the end of August, so now we're a teensy bit worried. Spouse Thingy even called the property manager, who did not know anything but said he would certainly find out if our lease will be renewed, and made the point that this is a horrible market to try to sell a house and lose that rental income. We hope he's right, because we're not in the position to move. And we don't want to, we really like this house.


• Maybe the lottery fairy will come through...? But then I would have to buy a ticket, and I never seem to remember to do that.


• Anyone ever sold a car on Auto Trader? We're wondering if this would be worth the $70...

:::blink:::

Odds N Endz # 6,938

• The chicken fajita pita at Jack In The Box only has 280 calories, so that makes it taste a whole lot better than a burger.


• Guy in line ahead of me told his wife she couldn't order onion rings because she's fat. I wanted to kick him in the nads and point out his 48 inch waist and the fact he ordered a Large Combo, but I didn't. I just stared death ray needles into the back of his head.


• Yesterday was my Bike Anniversary Day, and I did not buy my favorite toy a present to remember the day, nor did I take it out for a ride. And I feel bad about that, because surely it deserved to be ridden on its anniversary. It's the wind's fault; I don't mind it up to 23-25 mph, but those 40 mph gusts would have had it all over the place.


• I could have ridden the Spouse Thingy's heavier bike, but that would have defeated the Happy Bike Day thing...


• A lady at the library offered me $50 for my spiffy NEC MobilePro 780 PDA. I told her I could only sell it for $1500, because it's that valuable, and for 10 seconds I think she believed me. I won't sell it for $50, but I will for $1500, so I suppose I wasn't really lying...


• The piece I've been working on for 2 years may be kind of close to finished; it's not nearly long enough to be a novel, but that's all right. It's not as good as I would like it, either, and rewrites might help, but right now I just want to be done.


• I'm going to miss the dead guy in it.


• The small chocolate shake at Jack In The Box has 880 calories. I don't think I will ever have one again, even if they are tasty. Between the calories and the lactose intolerance, I just don't see the Want ever developing again...


• Well, not anytime soon. We'll talk when it's 100 degrees outside...

Dear Car Sales Fairy,

Please steer someone towards the Travis AFB Lemon Lot, and bonk them over the head with your mighty Buy That Car wand. My convertible is lonely out there, and is pining away for its next owner. If that's not possible, please speak with the Lottery Fairy and arrange for us to win it, because we have things we need to do, and we either need the car sold or a winning lottery ticket to do them. Oh, and I would also appreciate it if you would put in a word with the Nutrition Fairy, and make chocolate calorie free.

That is all.
Thank You.

Hahahahahahaha...



Ok, it's funny to me...

One, it should be illegal for the Diet Coke to be out in a McDonald's drink fountain. Some of us need a Diet Coke fix while we're waiting for the Walmart pharmacy to open from their lunch break. It's very inconsiderate for them to have it break on the very day I want to sit there and nurse a cold one.

Two...as I sat there, grumping over the Lite Lemonade I was forced to sip upon instead, an older woman came in with what I assume was her grandson and granddaughter. She held their little hands, one on each side, and as she gazed up and the menu she asked what the usually had at McDonalds.

Little Boy: We've never been here.
Grandma: You've never had McDonalds?
Both kids shake their head.
Grandma: Well, chicken nuggets are good. Do you want a soda, or juice, or milk?
Little Boy: We never had soda before.
Grandma: mouth gapes for a moment, then she recovers Well, juice or milk?
Little Boy: Milk!
Grandma: White milk or chocolate milk?
Little Boy: What's chocolate milk?

What's chocolate milk? What's chocolate milk???!!?!? Those poor, deprived children. Who makes it to 5 or 6 years old without tasting chocolate milk?

Grandma, to her credit, rectified that parental oversight.

Rock on, Grandma.

Note To Self:

Sitting down and catching up on 3 weeks worth of stuff recorded on TV is not an accomplishment of which one should be especially proud...

...right?

From The Things You Don't Expect To See File;

A guy on a bicycle, getting hit by a pickup truck.

He seemed ok; just got knocked off the bike (the bike is toast, though) but the EMTs still hauled him off in the ambulance. No damage to the truck (it was like a 3 mph hit...) Just not what we expected to see on our way home from the DMV...