"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?
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.
Morale = Letters from Home
While training in Fort Lewis, WA I had the pleasure of being guided by an officer who honed my leadership compass and showed me what good, humble leadership could do for a platoon. He taught us how to be good leaders, how to know the difference between spot-checking and micro-managing and how to take care of our soldiers without turning into parents.
One of the many lessons he taught us was that a soldier's morale depended on the Letters from home. He said it casually, and I gave it little thought, but as the long days and longer nights passed I came to realize how right he was.
The first week, I got no letters. Not having any word from home wasn't so bad.
The second week, I got no letters. My heart would leap, then sink as each mail call yielded no letters for little Katana.
The third week, letters came in earnest as the mail from my boyfriend in Korea had finally crossed the ocean and made its way to Fort Lewis. Each time my name was called for mail call, I felt such giddiness! Letters meant someone took time out of their day to write and mail something to you. Letters meant someone thought about you. Letters meant someone cared about you even though I had been displaced from reality and put in an environment that was away from my loved ones.
The fourth week I received three packages – cookies, cookies, and did I mention cookies? This training was the first lesson I had in the importance of support from home. This was only a month-long training and miniscule in comparison to the long Deployments that our soldiers experience now. It's important, now more than ever, for our soldiers to receive support from home.
Kat
A life in Pictures and Words
http://blog.belleau-wood.org
A blog and Photo Gallery.
I have been doing milsupport since early summer. It started out as something I had been meaning to do for some time and but the intention had evaporated again and again with the pressure of 4 kids, a household, homeschooling and a couple of support groups I ran.
At some point I found this passage and others like it while doing some surfing on the net. Watergate Summer, one of the first blogs I ever visited, mentioned working with these folks coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan and so I finally found myself on site that matched troops with individuals and groups.
"Public opinion and material and emotional support have been shown to affect the impact of deployment sacrifices and exposure to trauma" (Bolton, Litz, Glenn, Orsillo, & Roemer, 2002; Koenen, Stellman, Stellman, & Sommer, 2003)
Support was something I could do and so it began for me, my homeschool group and my family. We haven't looked back.
In milsupport, you can bring a little peace to a few folks at a time. Is there an impact? Is your time wasted or are you just holding back the ocean with a spoon? I leave this to Katana and those like her to answer. --Hope
Tips for letter writing and packages Adoptaplatoon AnyMarine AnySoldier AnySailor AnyAirman
"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
I am a grand niece of this man, General Lucian King Truscott. He started a tradition of generational offerings to the Point including my sister, who had the appointment from Tom DeLay in 1987, but opted for an Air Force enlistment instead, much to my parents shock and dismay.One of the things we had been talking about in the limo last night were how those at war now chose to be and therefore deserve little special consideration from people in the states. Extra commentary was related to this disdain in light of the fact that those who predominantly recieve my support are jarheads...though Sgt. Grumpy is no slacker.
I really wanted a shot at them, but I hadn't been drinking the champagne and so I managed some level of self control. (hush Lana, Marci and Jeanni) I had some help since Ethan managed to keep intermittently passing enough gas to break up this sorry ass thread of conversation with other more general topics reflective of this family.
Let's hear it for domestic biowarfare.
Eventually conversations completely ended--they had to stop the limo eventually-- and as I drove home I thought about it. I sat up to write some email and look at some of LKTs old letters, this magazine I inherited and his papers online. I came across a quote that I plan on taking to my folks tonight. I'm going to tell them Uncle Lucian reminds me of this MARINE I know. He said this to his son, Lucian King Truscott, II:
"Let me tell you something, and don't ever forget it. You play games to win, not lose. And you fight wars to win. That's spelled W-I-N ! And every good player in a game and every good commander in a war...has to have some son of a bitch in him. If he doesn't, he isn't a good player or commander....It's as simple as that. No son of a bitch, no commander."
This resonates in ways I am only now beginning to grasp. It is applicable to not just success in war and military life, but also in how you successfully live your life as a civilian.
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.
Merry Christmas, Kilo boys. We are thinking of you in Texas.
This is LCpl "King".
Proud 1Sgt with 'ZOOM' at his promotion to Cpl. Matthew can't pronounce his real last name and this one has kinda stuck...
Cpl 'ZOOM' being inspirational-- work those stripes, Marine!
1Sgt at a Kilo Company formation
1Sgt with his XO
1Sgt with his Captain, a couple of members of Kilo Gentelman's Club, enjoying a good cigar and some rest and relaxation at the end of a long day.
'Weemer' with some grenade launchers. Matthew mangles his name, too.
Another one of my Kilo boys out on patrol. Matthew says his name perfectly and until I get a call sign for him for OPSEC reasons we will just say he's one squared away Marine. 
Speaking of squared away Marines...1Sgt Living Barrier against the Forces of Evil..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?
