I saw this over on another blog,courtesy of Mizmell, http://mizmell.blogspot.com/ Don't worry it's short and to the point.
Leave your comments and heebie jeebies.
What is a Yankee?
The same as a quickie, but a guy can do it alone.
Why is air a lot like sex?
Because it's no big deal unless you're not getting any.
What do you call a smart blonde?
A golden retriever.
I'll get back to posting soon. I am up to my ears in flat rate boxes, letters for my jarheads, Halloween festivities and the like! The vomit comet hit our house big a few days back so things are a little appropriate-for-the- season-gross around here...Happy Halloween everyone! Deb thanks for the forward! By the way...you ALL need to read Rolando's post today--it will balance out my current run at crudity. Thanks again Rolando!
What's the difference between a northern fairytale and a southern fairytale?
A northern fairytale begins "Once upon a time ..." -A southern fairytale begins,"Y'all ain't gonna believe this shit....
Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex?
Mace will do that to you.
Sgt. Grumpy posted a really great story from Michael Totten an independent reporter in Iraq...he and Michael Yon ROCK the indie news outta there.
THEY FOUND MY WALLET!!
It was in the mail--no address ...seems a postal worker from my post office saw someone in the store parking lot pitching my wallet after they took the money and the silver change out of it......since I am at the post office so much sending mail to Iraq he recognized my mug on the license and dropped it off at the house at some point today...how cool is that??? and weird, too...huh?
Whew....I despise going to the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles...getting a new license is akin to a rectal without the KY jelly around here--worse...at least in there's a waiting room at the doc's office...at the DMV you just stand in line after line between each personal violation.
Backstory....
In the last three or four months (friends who know me in real time may beg to differ as comments may soon show here) I have been in this perpetual "spoiling for a fight" mode. If the chip on my shoulder WERE to fall off I think it could flatten a small import. The penchant to fix situations and beat stupid people down is palpable somedays. Therapy is out of the question---no coupons for that kind of thing.
This general attitude has required so much self control I keep wondering if sooner or later I'll trip up and be demanding my right to a phone call and needing someone to come down and bail me out--well..for the most part. I don't know what it is...I have been impatient and driven and sleepless. Anyway...given my present state I LOVE when someone wants to throw down in my extra stable moments.
Case in point.
I am a avid couponer. I have a Saturday store circuit I run which is what was I doing yesterday.
First I ran into trouble at Target...my first time to have a problem there. Since it was a 50 dollar problem, uhhh yeah!!!-- I ventured over to customer service (usually a contradiction in terms). My bill had been about 250 bucks, but I knew it should have been more like 40. No matter-- the clerk won't be able to handle it at the register and the people in line behind me were over their curiosity at how much the total was dropping so I thought it best to move along before they tried to slam my head between of couple of their baskets.
I go to the Target counter and tell them that I want to go through my ticket, because something is WRONG. The ticket is about 5 feet long and so the woman looks at me like she's waiting for a punch line. In the meantime I am whipping out my calculator and putting my elbows on the counter in front of her.
Her expression goes from bemusement to ohshitment.
Lots of "hmmms" "ah has", "I sees" and "wells" follow as I start my spiel.
"Um well, ma'am, Target's computers register every coupon and your bill was 250.00 and with coupons it's 89.00. That is really good."
"Umm thanks, you can call me Hope by the way, but it should be about 40.00..(looking at her name tag), Lori.
Blank stare from Lori.
" O....kay...(backing away)...I..think.. I need to get someone else on this."
Lori scurries over to Tall Scary Mama With Braids
Whispering loud enough for me to hear.
"This lady just saved like 160.00 with coupons and says her bill should be like 40 or something. I told her yada yada yada blah blah blah. "
TSMWB comes over and feigning short term memory loss or perhaps some magnanimous ploy to see if I change my story says, "Can I help you? What seems to be the problem?"
"No problem. I would just like you all to run this ticket again because it is wrong."
Wrong?
"Yup. Wrong."
"Well ma'am we are very busy today."
(Ahhhh I can feel the throw down coming from a mile away, but I am not feeling especially aggressive. I have been shopping my A game all day alone. My care packages to my devil dogs in Iraq are going to be killer and so are the donations for Chronicle House. I'm feeling magnanimous, too. I think I'll just play this Smilingly Stubborn today.)
"Ok. I'll wait."
"Ummm,"says TSMWB.
Well, I'll have to go get your coupons from the checker's drawer...sigh... what register were you on?"
"I don't know. Check the ticket."
"Sigh, where's the ticket. Do you have it?"
"No.
You have it in your hand."
"Oh."
"No it's okay.
(Smile)
I don't mind.
I can wait.
Where would you like me to stand?"
"Well ma'am, we will have to audit this ticket and the computers are slow..."
"Yeah, I know," pointing to her helper with my hand up by my shoulder , "she mentioned you were swamped, but see I have four vomiting children at home with their Dad and about a 50 dollar mistake on that ticket you are holding.( Wrinkling my nose, another grin...)--I can wait."
TSMWB raises her eyebrows at me. I know she was hoping for some sort of flack that would demand some attitude on her part, but it just didn't come. Her shoulders kind of relaxed. She got on her radio moved some checkers around, called for help and crooked her finger at me to another register to one side.
An hour later we were done. My bill came to $38.90.
I found out TSMWB has 3 kids, is working towards her criminal justice degree, her boss LOVES her, no way would she move to the new Target they are opening in a nearby town and hell yes, she would love some coupons.
I walked out of there hit two more stores, where I got paid .08 and .52 respectively to take my groceries out of the store. I was feeling pretty freaking smug and then lest my britches get too big the universe worked it out for me.
Someone stole my wallet.
Warning...
The week and all it entailed has left me hormonally challenged at the moment and capable of breaking out into Air Supply songs with little to no provocation.
The light gently knocked me over as I walked out into the yard a little while ago. The moon is so bright you could almost moonbathe. A night like this or a gorgeous dawn or dusk horizon...these are three things fully able to pull my mind out of the the mundane and slap me around a little.
See, I was working on Halloween costumes and lost track of time this afternoon. When I went into the house it was light and when I came out it was moonlit. Ordinarily I like loosing track of time like this. I feel like I am out in the universe without a hallpass or with Potter's invisibility cloak. Anytime I am making or creating I go to this timeless place--I really do like it. I forget that it even exists until I come out of it and realize this is where I was to begin with--I feel the same way I do when I wake from a decent dream and I want to head back in--a little dejected to return to a normal state (yeah... yeah--- allow me some latitude on the definition of my normal here..)
As an aside, I need to quit worrying about stuff I can't help or reach. Though I am all about knowledge not imparting behavior, I can't actually get comfortable with the fact. Ever wonder why we always lament that one lost sheep when we have the other 99 in the pasture? I can worry a lost sheep to death. Jesus could be getting born and I'd be the sheperd telling the angel to hold on a second cause I can't find my damn sheep. It's a gift.
The full moon really must corollate to a restless, wound up state. It's where I have been for the last few days.
A man from Egypt sent me an email the other day that implored me to look at his part of the world as a place that is also peaceful. A mama in Britain related her struggles with an abusive husband and all she has endured and triumphed over. A quilter in Canada sent me tips on working with my kids on their first quilt and a compliment on how much she enjoyed reading my blog. Another man told me thanks for telling him how beautiful his pictures were. Still another young soldier wondered if all his efforts in Iraq were for naught--his leave had brought him a renewed love for what he had and a sense of disquiet with those here who he protects. I have heard this a lot this week in one way or another from the warriors I support and it bothers me that maybe I cannot impress upon them how important their hearts and minds are. Just like my friends and family's. I think of people like this when I looked at the moon tonight---the same moon they look at.
We all struggle, relate, stumble and triumph under the same moon.
It's just too damn easy...Georgie is at a press dinner and gets help from his doppelganger...
cut and paste this if the Youtube feed doesn't work well...
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1921276117304287501&q=George+Bush+impersonator+dinner&total=16&start=0&num=10&so=0&type=search&plindex=0
Dude, I'd have given this guy some money on general principle.
He's hilarious!
The day was beautiful. A crisp fall day, a perfect backdrop for the birthday I took my son, Jake to out on Clear Lake. About half way through the festivities the hostess of the party and I notice a young man--by young, I mean late twenties. His clothes were irregular and layered, his jean jacket too small, paint smattered around the bottom of old jogging pants and yet I recognized a familiar bearing to him. I often saw it in the same stance and carriage my husband and other members of my family had.
The hostess and I said nothing to one another, I was already walking back toward the table where the food was she came back to help make a plate for him. She said she had asked him if he was traveling and if he would like something to eat. She explained that his gaze shifted to the present and he smiled and said yes.
His hair was cut close to his head and as he walked, his eyes swept back and forth across the park as he met us to get his food. After he took it he started to turn to leave and then turned back again to my friend and asked her what her name was. She replied that it was Elizabeth and he extended his hand to her and said, "Thank you, Elizabeth. My name is Sterling."
After that he moved onto a nearby gazebo where he put down his rucksack and sat and ate looking up from his food to glance right, left and behind from time to time. I sat down to keep him company while he ate, but only smiled and said nothing. I knew I didn't look it, but I was overwhelmed by the dichotomy. He was hardened and yet vulnerable. Watchful, but looking for harbor, for rest.
In a little while he returned to thank Elizabeth again and motioned towards a chair asking to sit down. His conversation was stilted like you sometimes see on the news when someone is on the other end of a satellite feed only it was obvious it was't technology that was slowing him down--that it was his own mind doing it. sometimes he just sat and opened a worn book with pictures it looked like he had drawn and had conversations with others only he could see. On his forearm you could see part of a military unit tatto.
When I got home I told my husband about it and he looked up from the stove and said, "Well? Where is he? Out in the car?
Would that I could.
I am angry that this vet was in a park and that somehow he has fallen through the cracks. I am sad that we can't get our crap together better than we are as a nation. There has got to be something we can do about this. Pretty soon ,when this war is over, there will be more of these young men in parks in real time, but still on patrol in their minds.
We have to do better than this.
O-u-t-t-a h-e-r-e.
Before something breaks off.
For the safety of those around me and myself.
To think.
To be still.
To drive fast.
(when I think I can get away with it.)
To play car music at eardrum bleeding levels.
I am outta here.
I suggested to a friend I might be headed her way.
I have a friend in Austin I might look up.
or I simply might just make it my mission to hit every Chik Fila between here and the Hill Country and call it good.
I don't know.
I don't have a map.
I'm not packed.
I haven't been to the bank.
I haven't told my kids
and I just got some form of acquiescence from my significant other before we got out of bed this morning. Or I assume it is acquiescence--he's out checking the oil and the tire pressure as I type this.
I figure if I have no clear aim when letting go of the rubber band stretched tauter and tauter between my fingers over the last few months then I can't be disappointed with it's eventual target.
Worst case scenario:
I'll need a new rubber band when I come back.
I have those.
Then there is checkout.
At seven thousand feet and looking back, running lights
A lot of the guys sat around playing card games, dreaming out loud about what they’d do once we made it home, or they “racked-out” (falling asleep, usually on the floor, using their assault pack as a pillow). There were occasional mortar attacks — the enemy knew we were in a “target rich” environment — but as long as we were inside, the possible threat felt very remote. We were simply bored, tired, and eager to get home.
The woman mentioned near the poem’s end is not fictional: she was the wife of a man we apprehended in Balad, near the very beginning of our deployment. I saw her crying as we put him in a truck to be taken away (R.P.G.s had been confiscated from the home, along with other military equipment). An elderly woman stood beside her, cursing us, waving the bottoms of her sandals at us (a huge insult in that part of the world), and spitting at us. As I wrote this poem inside that bunker, I already knew that specific moments would revisit me over the years, and vice versa."-Brian Turner
Nathere loads the brush with river-blue oil,
I come from California’s San Joaquin valley, a place that gets fairly hot in the summertime. June through August, you can drive out on any country road and often see heat waves rising off the asphalt in the distance. This painting is ironic in the sense that, in a country that is incredibly grounded in its connections to place and history, the summer heat visually lifts distant colors and shapes in a way that seems to erase those connections.
Many of the poems I wrote in Iraq, like this one, were attempts to learn about this historically and culturally rich country, as I was experiencing it."-Brian Turner
I am putting this up from Zen Traveler's blog. It speaks to the experiences he has had living so long with Iraqis in Baghdad. Given the conversations I have been having more and more often with friends and acquaintances I felt it worth reposting on my blog. You can link to his blog just below or off my link list to the right. Reading all of Eric's blog is a worthwhile endeavor. The following were his findings after having been invited to Iraqi homes in celebration of Ramadan, a Muslim high holy season recently.
- 99% of Iraqis are profoundly grateful for what America has done for them.
- Sadam had brutalized this country and had crippled its development for years to come.
- In the past people did what they were told or their families were thrown in jail.
- There is a massive brain drain flowing from Iraq to neighboring countries.
- Other Arab countries like the Emirates or Jordan have developed nicely while Iraq has gone in the opposite direction.
- There is hope now for the younger generation.
- All children are now going to school from 8:30 in the morning to 12:30 in the afternoon.
- They accept the violence as an aberration and go about their daily lives trusting everything to God.
That last statement I found poignant,brave. Hope for themselves is still burning with their candles and offerings at Ramadan in spite of the horrors they have witnessed or rumors heard--rumors often cruel enough to the spirit all by themselves. It's a treacherous time for non-Muslims to be in this part of the world,true, but it is also a treacherous time for Muslims who want to live peacefully with Westerners. We really don't fathom this aspect. Media has polarized this war to suit our fast food media diet.
Michael Yon, an independent reporter in al Anbar, or the Wild, Wild West, has described scenes of evil and inhumanity not on Americans, but on local Iraqis by Al Qaeda. These are the atrocities which have galvanized American and local Iraqi forces at war with one another less than a year ago in the same area.
AQ catalyzed that galvanization in the following ways. Food and water supplies were cut off to villages only to be reintroduced weeks later by AQ, who perpetuated the mini embargos using sympathetic locals. When they weren't decpatitating men, women and children and leaving the bodies out in the open to reinforce the terror, they used dead bodies to contaminate local water supplies. Soon, after softening up a village for a few weeks in this way, AQ would come in, under the guise of humanitarian aid, and begin filling the food and water needs for said villages which often culminated in feasts of seeming celebration. Families singled out for not likely being onboard with AQ party lines would have special lunches where they would be served their baked children to encourage them to rethink their stance.
If your desire to know what is going on in Iraq outweighs the effect it will have on your heart, Michael Yon or Michael Tottens sites will literally dilate your pupils from all the light they shed on this country and her burdens.
Iraq is not Jihad.
Iraq does not wish Westerners' death.
Jihad does.
They intend without apology to eradicate any and all who are not aligned with their principles. They believe this is demanded by their God and they are willing to die and kill to do it. It is plain and heartless and unlikely to ever change in this long enduring culture, but these Iraqi people--they still have hope, they must if they see what has come to pass there as an aberration.
I won't try to explain him. The man just has to be experienced. The innocence he captures of this child playing amidst filth contradicts what you may think about professional security in Iraq. Though the word ZEN in his blog title may give it away a little.
http://zen-traveler.blogspot.com/2007/10/socks.html
I used to have this 67 Chevelle in highschool that was a monster. I loved it. My pop put a governor on it so I wasn't going 100 mph with my hair on fire... which of course I promptly learned to take off before school in a Dairy Mart parking lot each day and to put back on in a bank parking lot before I got home...teach him to make us learn all that car crap just because he never had boys...served him right... although that car did singe my hair... a little.
http://www.vajoe.com/candidate_calculator.html
