With 2007 coming to an end I have to ask: What did you learn this year?Don't bum me out and leave no comments...you know you want to tell me!

"In the end what matters most is...
how well did you live,
how well did you love
how well did you learn to let go."

Sgt. Grumpy has a particularly hilarious satire on Army field manuals...even if you aren't too up on Army vernacular...don't worry there is even a glossary at the end...go check it out and send Grump some love. It's good stuff.

You will bust a gut...Homeschooler and comic Tim Hawkins spoofing Carrie Underwood's 'Jesus Take the Wheel'.

Website if you can't load youtube.

Today, as I drove up the driveway, I noticed two windows to the front of the house never got beribboned wreaths on them. Normally that kind of assymetry would not have been tolerated on my part. Very odd. Maybe OCD is loosening its Kung Fu grip on me...

Matthew's favorite word these days: dumbass. Evidently, he was in the car with Dad at an unusually frustrating moment--for Dad. Interestingly enough, my three year old is well skilled at inserting this word contextually into conversation to the great of delight of siblings and hismale co-creator. This means one thing. Next time we need milk, to return library books or hit a park day, said male co-creator is soooooo handling that with this particular offspring in tow.

Key to a pleasant visit at the inlaws house full of even more inlaws: have something socially acceptable to do that requires little participation in the general conversation...I made candy for jarheads and Spartans and avoided all manner of political and or social interjection. Of course a couple of rum and cokes never hurt.

Books/magazines/CDs on my desk: The Fountainhead, the Bible, the Economist and Texas Farm and Ranch, Tracy Chapman's Fast Cars, the new Eagles CD, Snow Patrol, GooGoo Dolls and some funk stuff whose band name I can't pronounce with lyrics which include: "paranoia will destroy ya" circa 1997.

Recent debates: men vs women, gluttony, why eating marshmallows out of your pants has a downside, best John Wayne movie of all time.

What's been going on with everyone else?

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Operation: Mil-Support

From the Soldier side: (cause nobody wants to hear any cop stories). When asked: "CI-Roller, what can you say about Mil-Support?"
Let me continue my story.

click for the rest of CI-Roller's story

Katana, over at Belleau-Wood is a 2LT, serving her country and sharing her new husband with Iraq for the next 15 months. She wrote a post which I am having her guestblog here. I hope hearing her perspective on the impact we can have on one another will move us to continue to act on behalf of our countrymen one at a time. For more information on how to do that please see the links at the end of this post.

"The boy's stockings came in the mail last night on Christmas Eve. Cool!I felt like Santa tip toeing around the berthing hanging up stockings on their racks."

Email from 1st Sgt. was a great Christmas present!

To those that brought supplies to help fill stockings and Christmas packages,

To Susan, who cut and sewed the stockings in spite of a house under major renovations at the holiday,

To all the folks who have pressed money into my hand for shipping in the last six months or offered an encouraging word,

To the postmaster who got all of the presents on the last truck before deadline,

To everyone who has ever helped get some love to Karmah and to those who helped with some in time for Christmas,

Thank you so much for showing these Marines people in the States are glad they were born, too.

Merry, Merry Christmas!
Let the heavens rejoice and the earth be glad...Psalms 9:11

Most people have heard of basic gang rituals...

There's the jumping in part where the group administers a thrashing which the potential member submits to in order to prove his loyalty.

Then there's the jumping out. This part can be gradual and over time, might involve a move to another town or even a 'boxing in' where they put you in a refrigerator draw pistols and fire into it. If you make it out of the refrigerator and live, you're out. If you don't, well you're REALLY out. Most of the time, they just beat the crap out of you and then they let you out.

In all cases you have to be ready to get out. Sometimes bangers go back. The outside world is too strange or unfamiliar especially if you went into a gang early in life. The gang is their family afterall.

It's 'how they roll'.

I thought about this a little while cruising around in this limo with my parents last night.

There was another couple my parents had picked up--old family friends of theirs. At some point after classic and particularly signature type behavior...someone in the family said to these friends when things got a little harsh, "hey...it's how we roll" It called to mind the banger reference for me.

Families are a lot like gangs.

You've got colors of attitude you wear, behavior you exhibit,like the signs they throw passersby on the corner (which are not generally ignored and can get you shot at) and particular neighborhoods you frequent --in this case neighborhoods of thought. Any infringement or non participation borders on self destructive and the idea you are having a loyalty issue.


It all seems pretty damn stupid and then quite clear the more I thought about the similarities. By a natural process of time away and in the choices I have made with marriage and lifestyle I have 'jumped out' of the 'life'. There has been some assbeatings along the way, but I'd have to say only because I let them.

I'll have to go back to the old neighborhood here a couple more times in the next few days...this time though I'll be ready for them. There may even BE some assbeatings...only mine won't be one of them this time.

My parents called for a dinner out to which my husband declined last night. I decided to go. They aren't in town often, the kids like to see them and I think somewhere in the back of my mind I hold out hope I have grown a thicker skin or given them the benefit of the doubt--maybe this year, I think, they have a new agenda which doesn't require a thicker skin. Their signature bickering, sniping and general disregard and disrespect having magically evaporated through better living or psychotropic drugs.

Word of the day:

WRONG.

I need a NASA Family Flight Manual with part of a flow chart which moves through the questioning process of:
Are your parents ever going to change?

and only goes to these steps:

"Uhhhhhhhhhh NO.

Hell no, Hope.

Fuhgeddaboutit.

next disintegrating into an unladylike snort and
recovering into disbelieving, gasping for air laughter

"You gotta be kidding.

The answer is NO.

What? Do you need this tattooed on your forehead?

I told you.
Get over yourself.

Gheesh!

Why the hell are you still even remotely waiting on this?

That's it.
no more astronaut stuff for you...you're fired."

Yup.
See, I figure a conversational type manual might get my attention a little more.

It's worth a shot...
so far I have been batting zero just making mental notes over time.

I'm game for a new tactic.

Dinner tonight turned into a limo ride around Houston and an interrogation/critique of my current objectives and a review of all poor family dynamics I no longer generally participate in, but because we are blood, I remain privy.

I really need to reconsider just smacking people in the mouth or at least the development of an air which conveys I am capable of it so they stand down a little. Force always worked for them. Surely it would work on them.

'A Road in Auvers after the Rain' 1890

A favorite artist, Vincent Van Gogh and a favorite author, Ann LaMott.

From 'Plan B'

"Hard rain makes a mess, but it also fills in the space we usually walk through without even noticing. It makes the stuff we can't usually see--air and wind--visible, and a lot of what we can see catches the light."

It was a rainy day filled with a few unpleasant people, but the sun is out now and Ann's right-- even they have a way of calling out good, however, unintentionally.

I spent a lot of time in doctors' offices last week.

I have had three 10 pound babies at home with a midwife and still find I have to practically tie myself down for blood work.

When it was time for the ultrasounds and other impressive sounding acronyms I sat in more waiting rooms.

I preferred those kind of waiting rooms even less.

The people there were in various stages of obvious sick.

Some were bald, some complained to the front desk that their chemo was making them very sick and when did the office think they might be getting in for their appointment? You could tell the ones who like me, were the noobs, the ones who had a certain air of incredulity that they were even there. We avoided each others' gaze.

I told a handful of my closest friends, those most likely to kick my ass if something was in fact wrong and I didn't make mention. Nice self preserving criteria, I know, but I had to set a standard somewhere. As I moved through the week I kept trying to shut my eyes and look inside my body. I was a little disgusted that it would be betraying me like this.

The doc visit I remember the most disjointedly was the first one.

Some hair and weight loss and an ever growing inability to sleep finally took me to a doctor after several months of dodging 'Well have you been to a doctor, yet?' kinds of questions. It was the recent and unsightly growth on my eye that drove me actually--okay so it was vanity...who wants to look at something like that? heh.

I remember snips of different things as the doc's face grew a little more serious and she started re asking questions and using words and phrases like:

how long have youhad...?
palpating here on the right side
enlarged
lymph node
and
do you work?

The last one threw me, why does that matter I thought?


"I need you to go in for a scan today or tomorrow, and
go here for this test and
there for that one...
if you work, you need to take some time off...
You're self paying?
Oh... "

She pushed the intercom and called her nurse

much whispering in the hall

what was left of my lunch sat just at the back of my throat.

"Helen, will make the calls to get you in today, go down this hall and tell Christy in the lab that Dr. A, needs these to go out with today's labs and if you have any trouble have them call back up here..."

It was the proverbial voice in a tunnel thing...what is she saying to me?

I looked up and saw this big clock on the wall,
the
tick,
tick,
tick
seemed abnormally loud and the doc's West Indian lilting, floral accent, incongruous with what was coming out of her mouth.

It really didn't feel real at all.

I had a lot of time to think last week, but in most cases I didn't.

I only felt less scared when I finally admitted to one friend outright, 'I'm scared'.

It wasn't that brave of me, this person was 12,000 miles a way and not the type to be especially sympathetic and more the kind to offer to take his Kbar to the problem.

In the end the landing of this flight was as jarring as the take off.

"Your test results are normal Mrs. S., but, I 'd like you to see a psychiatrist."

"Whah??
I thought you said you found some 'abnormalities' not that I was abnormal."

She laughed.
"Mrs. S, your body can betray you, if it's overtaxed. Stress can enlarge lymph nodes and your thyroid for that matter..."

Inside my head:

"Betray? There's that &^%$#word again...

Overtaxed?
Are you kidding me?
I have 4 kids under 10-- overtaxed is SOP lady.
Come on."

Outwardly,
I just stood there.
I wasn't in that relieved place you should be in when someone tells you you aren't growing colonies of cancer cells in your neck.

I was in that space, that up til now I didn't know would make me feel like perhaps a nice physiological illness would trump, what emotions "I'd like you to see a psychiatrist" would.

I'm not crazy.

In my well read, well informed mind I went straight for the unPC let's-associate-the-word psychiatrist-with-NUTS.

I think the doc heard this in my voice and she carefully explained exhaustion and fatigue to me. She offered any number of drugs, ...nonetheless I declined.

After the whole week's adventures, I was finally a little pissed and once I was off the phone and on a little mommy duty, I arrived back to, 'you aren't sick. Call Tony so he can wear his lips on the outside of his mouth again and begin speaking in more than monosyllabic sentences.'

The weirdest thing about this week was how it began and the second was how it ended.

Both caught me off guard.

Both made me think.

Both made me a little mad.

I am glad to be on the other side of the sentence I used all week to anchor myself: "By this time next week, I'll know and I'll do whatever I have to do."

Luckily ,it turns out 'this time next week' doesn't involve anymore needles or bargaining with myself.

IT IS COLD MAN!!! Winter weather south of Houston is a foriegn concept.

So. It's not a newsflash of any kind. Most of my close friends know:
I've been avoiding religion lately.

Actually, I've been a little annoyed with religion-- no, ALOT annoyed with religion.

I've been giving reason some of my discretionary time.
Equally annoying.

For the last few weeks I have successfully managed to both miss Mass AND not come to any satisfactory conclusions whatsoever.

I posted earlier about Tony going sergeant on me. I only let him get away with that kind of behavior on occasion. As much as I LOVE the Corps and every testosterone ridden thing they stand stand for, I have estrogen to deal with and so require restraint from the males in my life from time to time. I was only going to Mass because Tony played the jarhead and grateful cards. He got me where I lived.

I wanted to write about not being settled in my faith and how disconcerting that was as I had and always have been sure.

I wanted to say I went today and God opened it all up for me. Eat a wafer dipped in wine. Poof. I am happily Catholic and grateful for the sacrament of Reconciliation so I can ask forgiveness for questioning the 'Church' and to keep from burning in hell. That little gem of a sacrament can come in handy I tell ya.

All I feel compelled to relate is how the first song of the procession with trumpet and guitar evoked a kind of comfort and familiarity. I want to relate how friends, who have known the kids since they stroked them in my pregnant belly, now stroked the kids' hair and told them how big they were getting as we got ready to move as a community into the church to celebrate.

As we walked into church with banners to Mary flying, Jesus on a gold crucifix and folks lifting their voices as they walked along the sidewalk, I made a few silent remarks to God.

"Well I'm here.
I'm not as steady on my feet about this whole coming to church half assed thing with no clear intent. Don't bust my ass God, I was dragged.

By the way this guy you have leading us is not my favorite person, you know. He has the personality of a houseplant and I think his general outlook needs some serious remediation.

Are you going to be unhappy with my not taking Communion today or taking it and not being all lined up with what exactly I am doing?

I prefer a little more order than this, God. Lately? No order. WTF?

I have kinda been thinking heretical things like:

If I can't reason you or see you, do you exist?

We have some seriously fallible non-sheeploving sheperds in our midst, God. Are you going to stand for that?

Sooner or later we are going to have to talk bout this whole arrogant with the world reputation we Catholics have. I think we should consider another agency handle our PR.

Celibacy, God? Seriously?

You know, we are not illiterate masses only worthy of subjugation or the literate few bent on it anymore. What do you have for us NOW? Well ,can you tell your folks in the front office that? I don't think they got the memo.

If you are going to do anything about your image, Lord, you are going to have to distance yourself from Religion. Sure you've known him a long time, you two were frat brothers and belong to the same golf club,yada yada yada. Dump him.

All in all and after this has been said, if I go in with everybody else right now, God, I'm not going to burst into flames or anything am I?

God has a sense of humor-- either that or he wasn't paying attention. I sat through the Mass listening to what was being said and asking from time to time,
"Okay do I believe that part? Yep.
That part? Nope.
THAT part? Maybe."
There were no epiphanies, but it was good and I didn't internally combust. That was something.

Afterwards we all headed over to the festivities for this very old feast day we celebrate the first week in December. I met all those folks who have been so kind to my boys in Iraq and whose first questions once inside were in fact of them. I was glad I didn't see Tony or get any "I told you so looks". One zoomie vet made a beeline and we talked about his life some more and how he helped buy a that last box of cigars I sent to Karmah and we poured hot chocolate others were bringing in from the kitchen for us to serve to our parishioners.

Soon I took a pot and started to work the room where the elderly sat waiting for the line to go down so they could eat. I smiled and answered questions about my kids and Tony and those Marines of mine and began to feel this kind of quiet thing settle in.

I watched all these people celebrating Jesus and Mary. Mariachis were singing in Spanish and dancing and the mamas who had fussed over my newborns, fighting over turns to hold one or the other over the years were now on the serving line tending to still others.

I was overwhelmed with an instinctive impulse to pour drink, bring food to some or sit and listen to people who had come that day alone and thenby a secondary and very rare impulse to shut the hell up.

After a while I found myself trying on this idea that perhaps I don't have to have everything figured out RIGHT NOW. That I can go to this church and not capitalize it. To 'have a little Jesus' as a dear friend calls it and maybe not believe every doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church at the same time.

But still...I kind of like rules and order...who am I kidding I love 'code'. I love tradition and ritual, probably because I had so little of it growing up. One of my favorite thing about living is enjoying those paradigms where tradition and order are demanded.

Do I have tradition and ritual woobies?
Yup.

Am i ready to give them up?
Nope.

Is it possible I might in the future?
Maybe.

Does it make me mindless?
Are you kidding?
All I HAVE been doing lately is thinking--and trying to find a balance. Tomorrow I am going to try out a Bible study this friend of mine has been suggesting and then come home and watch Fight Club again.

Em gave me this meme to do. The task involves writing a letter from the person you are now to your 13 year old self. Yuh...I know...that's waaaaaaaaaaaay too much material.

Think about it.

What if you try to write the letter when you are explaining to a 3 year old why, while their evil genius is inspiring on many albeit disturbing levels, flinging bodily waste in retribution though obviously effective, may not be such a good idea?

What if you try to write this letter when you are sitting in church and realize, "Whoa I think this guy might be full of poopy" and be talking about the priest and not one of your kids?

What if you write the letter just after you hear from a college roommate, who's stint writing at the Smithsonian has been extended, while you are in the kitchen with a kidlet wrapped a la ankle weight demanding juice and bacon?

Timing would be a factor I think. Otherwise the letter will be really short and start with something like, "Are you out of your fucking mind...don't do it...just off yourself now!"

The other issue with this particular meme involves message delivery.

My scenario essentially revolves around what a little recon would do for you-- you know some series of directions from the deadly and devastatingly handsome point man (gimme a break this is my damn fantasy) to your other wise half cracked, FNG-ridden, internal rifle team. My point man would naturally also be blessed with an expert shooting badge,MAIT training and even perhaps a stint at sniper school...yeaaah sniper school, that's it...

This guy would move stealthily through my future pointing out which people and situations will prove themselves in sore need of a bullet to the head or evaporation into a 'fine pink mist'-- I love that image. (I'd talk about it more in depth with my friends at Park day like we do allergies and behavior criteria standards prompting therapy inquiries, but I'm not so sure it would go over the same.)

Where was I? Oh yes, bullets and mist...so basically this meme is about my point man having the mission of relating the challenges and travails which lie ahead of my 13 yr old self. When he slips back into camp to gimme the gouge, he'll be all sweaty and scratched from the experience and demanding of my full attention upon his return and

I'll likely either:
a) think I know better or
b) be listening to Air Supply or
c) plotting the demise of Mrs. Allen, my mean ass, obviously sexually unfufilled Algebra teacher.

Which might prove a bit of a challenge...he-lloooo I am 13! Remember? I won't be in general favor of listening to anyone--but I have this little glitch worked out. Remember. I did make my point man a man...and up to this point I will have been conditioned to respect a man's opinion far more than a woman's anyway...thanks Dad...and of course, naturally, this guy will be hot--damn hot.

So see? I can't do this meme without RECON. I'm not going to listen to a letter, I'll need the threat of pummeling for insubordination and the possibility of weapon use to increase my chances of taking heed.

A letter would just get swiped by Mrs. Allen and read to the entire class anyway.

My tags go to:
Earthmama
Ci Roller Dude
Belleauwood
Diva 2
Phillipines Phil
Sgt. Grumpy
What would you say in a letter to your 13 yr old self if you could?

I saw an ugly, surprisingly resourceful and slightly scary side of my 3 year old today. He showed premeditation, malice and forethought. The boy took a plastic cup, went into the bathroom, peed into it and then flung it at his brothers.

How did I find this out?

Because of the blood curdling scream followed by the long drawn out shriek, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwww he got it in my mouth!!!!!!"

Childless folk, make note, this is one of those sentences you never want to hear without a spouse around to tell, "I'll give you a million dollars, if you go see what's going on."

Postscript: Pintsize Peepee Flinger's reason for instigating biowarfare? With chin tucked, brow furrowed and lips pursed, he growled,"They mean."

I keep writing posts and deleting them lately. Em, my Aussie friend gave me a meme to do...whew...I love what those can do to get the writing going...thanks mama. I'll get right on that.

I have also been really busy on a mail campaign for my aforementioned jarheads in Iraq. I don't have a blessed thing down for Christmas yet, and the only baking has been quickly vacuum sealed and sent to the Sandbox, but my mail/packing area is consistently busy and Christmasy looking and slightly messy if my 3 year old thinks he needs to help which he does. I'll be back to it after I go run some errands. I have lots of you to visit and a postal clerk who is expecting me. Ha.

PS A couple of extra envelopes of Christmas cards written for the troops and sent to me from my extended network of milsupporters nationwide are up for grabs. All my boys have already been sent theirs. If anyone has a servicemember over in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever let me know and I will post it on to them. My email link is on my profile page.

Today we played hooky.

The night before I had been up and resigned to be up and then for some unidentified reason I forced myself to find the pajamas I hadn't thrown away, put them on, brush my teeth and lay down in my bed. Nothing was on and it was still loud in my head, but I resisted the urge to get up and check email or work. I must have fell into a deep sleep because I woke up having had clear dreams and a unusually restful sleep.

Initially, I thought we are staying home and doing nothing, but our school work. Then at some point within a 'where the heck did you all put all the paint brushes you kids were using for Harry Potter wands' rant which was going to degrade any moment into a 'you know, Hope, you are doing a lousy job teaching your children responsibility' mindfuck, I thought: you could pick what and how you are going to do today.

We played hooky.

We went to a Girl Scout party where I let the children play with fire and eat too many s'mores, hotdogs and frito pies, while I wrote letters and generally screwed around without being particularly social or trying to organize anything.

After, I took my offspring to PT where they had their butts run off for an hour and half while I talked to a good friend uninterrupted and then topped off it all off with a trip out to the Boardwalk with more kind friends who had free passes for all the rides and dinner.

The kids tested most physical laws including gravity and centrifugal force and of course we took pictures of the shrieks, howls and squeals of glee and watched them goad each other into one ride or the other.

Incidentally, the halter systems the park uses to keep kiddos in their seats on some rides were surprisingly inspiring and soon to be adapted here at home, beta tested, turned into a cottage industry, sold to a Fortune 500 company where some childwatch nonprofit will demand their removal, questioning my ability to mother in light of the device and it's obvious cruelty, whereby I'll go on CCN to defend them and demand to know which one of their fuckers picked such unflattering photographs for the magazine expose and finally lose all the profits to defense attorneys. Yep-- I should definitely get right on that.

Anyway, we spent time with good friends, froze our asses off as the day came to an end and the water was beautiful as usual.

Seems like every time I am out on the Bay or the Gulf it calls to mind the general world and the shores all that water will touch, eventually.

When we got into the car to drive home, the sun cast rose and cerulian chiffon dresses on the undersides of the cirrus clouds lazing across the horizon. I thought about my friends on the other side of the world and wondered what kind of day they had had while I slept the night before and what kind of day they were going to have as the sun disappeared behind the horizon on it's way back to them.

I finally heard from someone who takes up a little room in my head and heart. I had been worried about them and how they were doing. Now I know and I'm surprisingly relieved. Damned estrogen.

In terms of this whole full frontal assault thing I have going with stuff --both tangible and intangible, and as of late-- let's just say I am becoming fragilely and moderately optimistic.

This is a war I have waged before, though multiple, contradictory leaks to the media concerning pull out dates and perceived progress in country have sabotaged past objectives.

At this juncture, I am instituting a troop surge on multiple fronts,reassessing goals and working to win the heart of my own person.

As John Nash said, in regards to how he thwarted his deep seated delusions and I now speak of in regards to my own plans for thwarting deep seated old habits:

'like a diet of the mind I chose not to indulge certain appetites.'

Change is an act of the will.

My odds of success dramatically improve with each attempt.
John Nash

Does the quality of attempt have any bearing on the level of success?

Today somebody suggested perhaps I was a pussy.
Today somebody else called me a hero.
Yuh...weird day.

I may or may not be either one--and I leave it at this comment because really--come on-- who wants to be called a pussy??? ESPECIALLY, if you know you are kinda being one and incidentally, who really feels comfortable with the hero word either? I mean your are just as likely to be uncomfortable with either introduction: "Oh hello, So and So. Nice to meet you, I'm a pussy." OR "Hi, X, The name is hero." Either exchange will raise a brow or get you a smack in the mouth. The thing about either one of these is that the person assigned to one description or the other generally hasn't sucked around for either.

I have had some things that weren't as easy to write because they weren't a rant or particularly humorous.

I have been stuck as it were. I can't say I haven't had thoughts. They have been sitting in their seats waving madly from the front row to be called on and I have been looking over them at all my other students hoping to hell they had something to say so I could ignore these more freaky kids who wanted to ask me questions for which I was pretty sure I had no answer.

It's much easier to move in the mad or indignant. The forward motion a good rant can give is momentarily mind clearing. What I have found lately though is blogging has also forced a certain level of accountability to thought and actualization which demands action and stillness--demands grabbing on and letting go and there's the rub.

In avoiding anything other than a rant you also get to avoid the initial sense of free fall when you let something go. Personally, I am not sure I have ever willingly let go of anything. I or someone else has always had to peel my cold, white knuckled fingers off of an idea, concern, slight, relationship or position. The true merits of any of which were never as much of a factor as the value I assigned them mostly based on emotion. Up till now I have been self preserving enough to know to surround myself with smart people willing to help me with the finger prying...lest I would function just a point or two above 'mentally disturbed.'

So back to the whole pussy thing. NO. I am not interested in digressing into the whole pc/sexist implications of the word. For my purposes here I read the working definition of said word 'pussy' as passive or receiving*. Anatomically, you really wouldn't be able to look at it in another way--I mean that's what it does or is. Right? I was only rattled by the perspective potential not the insult potential and I rather like how it did incense me. I suspect that was the intention. I tend to be more spurned to act when I am knocked about the head a little--ok--a lot. Smoke up my ass doesn't have the same kind of effect.

I have in fact been a pussy*. There have been some serious changes afoot for me that completely stroke my fur backwards and so I haven't wanted to touch them with a ten foot pole--well maybe I have given them a poke or two, but that is it.

Pokes:

My faith is not as it used to be. At the moment my religion has left me and I don't think it is coming back.

I need to think about what I am doing that contributes to my happiness and well being. I don't like to do that very much. It's not even societally acceptable if you think about it.

I remain a fighter, but my angst is more focused inward lately-- albeit reluctantly --I love kicking some ass as long as it's not my own, but it's my own that needs it right now.

On the whole hero thing. I have to say that being called that prompted me to cut through the BS as of late and at least be moderately able to try on that label.

I love my boys in Iraq and gal in Afghanistan and in writing them and rallying for them I have been unwaveringly disciplined and willing to champion their needs. Why? Because of their dedication and commitment. Because I came to know they exist. If this has made me a hero to some of them it really would be ridiculous to not apply that same level of discipline and dedication to my own endeavors.

Dear Asshole in the Camry,

There's is something about cold, dreary weather that revves up my maternal instinct which is already a bit on the abnormal side. I'll admit this for a brief moment and for the purposes of this post and then vehemently deny it, if anyone brings it up again--printed word be damned.

Whoop Creed
This is my Whoop.
There are many like it,
but this one is mine.
My Whoop is my best friend.
It is my life...

Okay so really this is a rewording of the USMC "Rifle Creed" google that--lol...and ... maybe Whoop is not my life, exactly, but aside from Tony this is the best thing that came from his stint in the Marine Corps, possession wise as far as I concerned--well, barring those extra estrogen rich times when I claim Tony as a possession...heeeee....

Whoop is an old poncho liner Tony has had since before our introduction almost 20 years ago and something he has tried to lovingly replace on my behalf with no success I might add. The Corps issued this one to Tony out of boot camp in the early 80s..I love this old ragged thing. How it came to be named Whoop I have no idea. I think Tony was already calling it that when we started dating. I only know that once we did, I took claim of it and eventually Tony ceded ownership.

It's like a blanket. It's soft and cool and silky...I looove it. When your are sick and feverish it feels cool and when you are cold it's amazing at keeping the warmth in even though it is thin. One of the kiddos, Matthew, I think, was really hot natured and we kept Whoop out all year for him the year he was born.

Each year it get lumpier and thinner in spots. It's a little like parachute material and it, at one time, was quilted. Like I said we do have the new one Tony picked up at a military surplus store a couple of years back, but you can't buy the breaking in so I keep it grudgingly since sooner or later Whoop is not going to make it out of the dryer in one piece.

We took Whoop out of the linen closet today. Looks like he's going to make it one more year. I moved the computer next to some French doors this year and the draft makes it a perfect excuse to keep him on my lap through the winter.

Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are your own fears.
Rudyard Kipling

Aside from tending to sick kids and writing my jarheads in Iraq, I have done nothing today, but nurse my own cold, read some and have a hormonal fluctuation or two. I should have known something was coming down the pike after that last post. Heh. I would like to point out, while bearing in mind that men may read this next installment of War and Peace, my contention that if there is a God, he is in fact a man and moreover, he's laughing his ass off.

Can't you just see the Big Guy upstairs sitting around the conference table with the boys doing the whole Power Point thing...

"Okay folks, up next up: fertility. Whatcha boys got for me? Huh? Dazzle me.!I'm looking for something catchy."

Some junior vp swallows hard and throws out the whole menses idea and God says..."hmmm-- not bad, not bad...what else you got?

Moodswings?

Bloating?
Good! Good! You're workin' it... you're workin' it. Okay, tell you what. Go ahead and take the development team on this and run with it. Have something firmed up for me by morning.
Now! Somebody call in lunch---we still have that whole forbidden fruit thing to flesh out."


There is no way a woman would come up with this sick little notice of monthly impending fertility...well maybe she would, but it'd be the men getting it. You follow me?


Where was I?

Where have I been? Oh. I've been reading Ayn Rand and Ann LaMott and Thomas Merton. It's an exercise in madness. Well, no, not really, but I am still trying to flesh it out enough to put it into something I can construct, or speak reasonably about, but alas, I'm not there yet.

It calls to ming when I worked as an event designer. My favorite parts of the event process were the very beginning of the project and the very end. For purposes of edification, I am going to cover the latter at another time and just focus on the former.

At the front end of a project, the introductions were made as the long, waxy shipping boxes were opened. Flowers would come in all tight and wrapped in paper and plastic. In my prep room there would be rows and rows of buckets awaiting them. The room itself smelled green and foreign--intriguing even, like the countries where they came from.


The blooms had faces like people--roses and gerbera, open and generous, haughty iris, graceful calla, friendly tulips, shy, exotic orchids. Spools of ribbon and yards of fabric would be yet uncut and stacked up without the light behind it to demonstrate what it's true role would be in my little symphony.


That would be the sound I heard as they took the water back up their stems after their long trips from Holland, Belgium, Ecuador, Columbia and the Pacific Rim. I heard music. As the blooms opened and hydrated themselves this sound in my head was always akin to the sound of an orchestra warming up before their opening piece. Petals like notes unfurling, color intensifying or lightening. It was a promising sound that left little hairs on my forearms to tingle.

My new hires would be initially dismayed at the condition the blossoms seemed to be in out of the boxes and then equally delighted and amazed at the Phoenix action these blossoms had going on after a few hours and some warmish water. You really didn't do anything- just give them time and room in the bucket to gather themselves and make a proper hello to the world.


This was my self indulgent way of saying, I have alot of new boxes of stuff left to open, inspect and prep. Greens to cut away, stems to clean, new faces to learn. The smell, too, is new.

Green, if you will.

Eighty Deuce, I have mentioned this writer before. He is a young 82nd Airborne blogger and he wrote a piece today describing a typical day. He conveys what he sees and hears while on duty in Baghdad and how he internalizes the experience. The sunset he describes is dead on with the one I found. Go check him out.

It seems innocuous. One of five a good piece of journalism will answer or allude to in the lead. In this case, turned inward, you are the only one that can ask this question and you are the only one who knows the answer.

Personal Observation #1: the first answer you come up with will probably be bullshit, maybe even the second and third one for that matter. Keep asking until you are uncomfortable and there I hazard a lot of us find our first real answers.

Do your insides match your outsides?

No?
Yes?

Why?

"...this is your life and it's ending one minute at a time."
Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Okay folks, if you haven't--you gotta.

Sgt. Grumpy had some interesting news today. Go check it out.

Today...wow...today...I went flying in a restored L19 Bird Dog. Some dear friends took all of us up one at a time while the rest of us sat in the hanger and visited or went and looked at all the incredible machines out on the tarmac. It was awesome. It's the only word I have at the moment. My hair is still tied back and in knots from all the wind and I hate to brush it out. You know?

What is an L19 you ask? Well let me tell you:

L19 Bird Dog was used extensively in the early years of the Vietnam war as an observation and a Forward Air Controller (FAC) because it could provide low, close visual reconnaissance and target marking which enabled armed aircraft or ground troops to close in on the enemy. The L19 was later redesignated the O1 Bird Dog. It was feared by the Communists because they knew that opening fire on it would expose their location and invite attack by fighters controlled by the slowly circling Bird Dog. The enemy became bold, however, when they felt their position was compromised and attacked the little aircraft with a vengeance in order to lessen the accuracy of an impending strike.

Translation: I rode around in a plane used to put the bead on a target and call in the big guns...I couldn't help but wonder who the folks may have been who sat in the same seat I sat in today...

Yup that is a B17 we are waiting on to taxi off the runway.

This is one of the biplanes in front of us who was also about to take off.

This is a B25 we were sharing some runway just prior to take off, too. Sure I knew he was going to slow down, but it still made me pucker a little.

Same B25--a closeup--Man! I'm a sucker for bombs and nose guns.

This is what the inside of a L-19 Bird Dog looks like. K., Zen Pilot Philosopher ( I am not sure he is going to like this moniker...hee)here gets us lined up behind those biplanes for take off. It was nice and loud!!!

We are really starting to vibrate as we build up some speed, make the turn and head out into the wild blue yonder...yuh I know trite, but I think there was a lack of oxygen to my brain from all the rush.

First thought: OHMIGOSH!!WE ARE REALLY UP!! Holy crap!

Second thought: OHHHHHHHHHH and here I thought the same guy in the same yellow helicopter spends all day everyday flying over Galveston...doh.

Next thoughts...
No thoughts.

The windows were down. I could hear the chatter from the tower and K. who was laughing at the nut sitting behind him trying to absorb the initial sights and sounds all over VOX. He was so good with this noob.

Galveston Island--west side on the left here and the causeway to the

Mainland on the right. We live about 6 miles up on the right...

Flying east over the East end, in the first picture looking north to The Strand and the port of Galveston and in the second looking east where the Gulf and the Bay are part of the Intracoastal waterway.

Headed back Northwest where we pass over the ferry which takes people from Galveston Island to Bolivar Peninsula...we swing more to the Northwest and head back up the North side of the Island back towards Scholes Field.

Calling the ball with the tower and lining it up...

Touch down...smooth as a baby's butt.... K., Zen Pilot Philosopher, You rock!

Today I was at a breakfast where I spoke on behalf of my Marines in Iraq. (relax B., it was all very un-chicklike). Reporting on how my guys were doing was fitting given the honor and respect this particular day demands. I was glad to do it.

Afterwards, a man I hadn't met before walked up to me. His eyes were steady and his handshake was firm. He said he had served in Vietnam. He said he had rarely received mail or packages and how much of a difference it would have made, if he had had. He said insult was added to injury when he came home and he was no longer simply ignored or forgotten, but spat upon instead.

He was adamant, as well as optimistic as he pressed money in my hand this not happen to our servicemen there now. That while his return had been unkind and cruel, it was a different outcome he wanted to contribute towards now for his brothers in arms.

He went on to ask about these Marines of mine and so genuinely thanked me, I was not only at a loss for words, but also by that point, in a state (I am sure you, B. would have a few choice words for me about that) but, it was unavoidable. This man slayed me with his earnestness. As he left with his wife he promised he would be getting back to me with more backing from his VFW group.

I was humbled by the fact this vet was thanking me when really, the only one that deserved any thanks at all was him and those like him.

Marines, sailors, soldiers and airmen.
We remember you.
We honor you.
We thank you.

HAPPY 232ND BIRTHDAY, USMC!

soldier of the sea. I am cocky, self-centered, overbearing, and do not know the meaning of fear, for I am fear itself. I am a green amphibious monster, made of blood and guts, who arose from the sea, feasting on anti-Americans throughout the globe. Whenever it may arise, and when my time comes, I will die a glorious death on the battlefield, giving my life for Mom, the Corps, and the American Flag. We stole the eagle from the Air Force, the anchor from the Navy, and the rope from the Army. On the 7th day, while God rested, we over-ran his perimeter and stole the globe, and we've been running the show ever since. We live like soldiers and talk like sailors and slap the Hell out of both of them. Marine by day, lover by night, drunkard by choice, MARINE BY GOD!!! EERAH!!!"

Half a dozen people have sent me this personality quiz in the last few days. (It's floating around the blogosphere over at Blog This or something like that. I'll try to remember the source) and wanting to know where I tested so since I am wrung out today I thought I would post my results. Inquiring minds and all that. NOTE:this test is highly scientific and pinpoint in it's accuracy. 3 chimps, a gibbon and an orangutan were behind all the statistical data involved. Postscript: My apologies to the blind marmoset who I so flagrantly overlooked when I first gave scientific credit here . Antibarbie is right. Your contributions were clearly and inexcusably overlooked.
Warrior
You're a strong person and sometimes seen as intimidating.You don't give up. You're committed and brave.Truly adventuresome, you are not afraid of going to battle. Extremely protective of loved ones, you root for the underdog.You are picky about details and rigorous in your methods.You also value honesty and fairness a great deal.You can be outspoken, intimidating, headstrong, and demanding.You're a hardliner who demands the best from themselves and others.

Things I am worried about at the moment.
Pakistan and their northern borders with Afghanistan--things are heating up.
What oil hitting 100 bucks a barrel will mean for all our troops.
The Catholic Church.
What to get on for dinner. It's mundane, but will have a swifter albeit more personal and immediate consequences.

I wonder if any of this I can smite with my sword?