What's On Your Floormats? Jumbo Shrimp? Seahorses?

I know y'all probably get tired of me bitchin' about this, but today was different...

So, I'm standin' here doin' my thing; waitin' for phones to ring so I can explain the difference between "Ford Parts" and a "Toyota Camry Windshield," and I start thinkin', "Hey, I sure am feelin' that big ol' Diet Dr. Pepper I had with my lunch..."

I step around the corner toward the can, and sure enough, the door is closed. Apparently my Diet Dr-P was a little slower kickin' in and somebody else's cheese, bananas, raw potatoes, fried fish, corn, and Metamucil hit him a little faster. So I decide to wait, maybe give "that part of my body" a little stretch so maybe next time I'll be able to wait a little longer -- After all, I am still givin' myself hell about those eight trips to the can in the less-than-half-hour wait at the dentist's office on Monday; even though most of that was anxiety.

I wasted some time, I checked some messages, I looked at some pictures, he was still in there. I waited, I paced, I tried to distract myself -- but this was no ordinary Diet Dr-P, it was a big one from Sonic with cherries and crushed ice and my kidneys were screamin'. We're talkin' about a good twenty-five or thirty minutes here. Does he have some kind of a serious problem? Look, I'z just kiddin' about that whole "building a ship in a bottle" thing, where the hell would he put it if he was? There's no cabinets in there, and we've never seen him carry it in or out; there's no ship, no bottle, no magazines, no Nintendo Gameboy, no knitting needles, and no yarn, so what the hell's goin' on in there while I'm out here dyin' to go pee???

I thought about goin' out back like I did the other morning, but when I got close to the door I could hear the kids playin' outside at the daycare next door. Even though there's a couple tree lines and a creek between here and there, I can still hear 'em, and I worry enough about somebody comin' out of our building and catchin' my ass in the act; there's no way I could "take care of business" while listening to all that -- it would make me all paranoid.

After a little more pacing and squirming, I (finally, duh) thought of the "Emergency Can" I put in the Ambulance and I told the ol' man I'd be right back. That's right, the "Twenty-Bago" is just about the real R-V deal now, 'cause it's got a nearly-self-contained shitter in it. I know that when it comes right down to it, clumping kitty litter just isn't very dignified, but come on, sittin' down behind a closed door is always better than squattin' out in the open or leanin' against a truck tire, right? Besides, this week just isn't a good week for that whole truck tire thing anyway.

Compared to a truck tire out on the yard, it wasn't too bad... Quiet, private, no worryin' about gettin' off-balance and fallin' in what I'd just made, no worryin' about somebody walkin' up and findin' me; just me and a locked door like God intended.

As cat owners know, clumping kitty litter requires maintainence. (Boy, here come the Googlers, huh?) It's only been in there a couple weeks, but I've learned a couple new things from the "Emergency Can" experience, I'll spare ya the major details and skip to the funny parts... Even the biggest of cats (my ShadowCat is twenty pounds, give or take a couple) makes a reasonably small "clump" at any given time. I, being way more than twenty pounds and having chugged a big Dr-P, make a very, very large "clump," large enough that it takes a second scooping to get it outta there.

So, I'd finished up and was relieved, relaxed, and happy; and I started in on the "Maintainence" portion of the ordeal. I went to the back door of the 'Bago, since it's virtually invisible with the trailer hooked on, and I'd flung the first scoopin' about thirty feet out toward the fence. I was almost home-free, just a little more clumpage to get outta there... I used to think my twenty-pound cat could really fling some kitty litter, but lemme tell ya, even though I've never been real good with the sports that involve throwing, a 5'6" woman can certainly fling for distance when it's truly called-for.

I scooped out the second half and was about to try for a repeat performance of my first throw, and when I stepped out of the gap to be sure I wasn't about to back-swing into the front of the trailer, there was My Dad with a rather shocked look on his face. Bless his heart, he didn't say a word; I guess he was checkin' to see where that first flyin' whatever had come from and once he realized what he'd almost walked up on, he just kept quiet. He knew I was waitin' to get into the bathroom, he knew I went outside for something and would "be right back," I guess it didn't click 'til he saw me with the scoop in my hand. Whups...

Seriously though, it can't be as bad as the time he went walkin' out there and found our Grandpa (his ol' man) tossin' a turd off of a floormat. I'd just been peein' in my own well-planned-out space; not pickin' a random car to lay a loaf in.

Shit on a car floormat, can you imagine??? That's just one more reason it's always important in this business to never, never, never ever put your hands into anyplace you can't look and see first.

I guess when ya get right down to it, that's always important no matter what you're doing -- look first, then reach.

More later... _\,,/

PISSED OFF!!!

I had typed out a whole nice long post for today, and when I hit "Publish," Blogger lost it every bit.

I'd seriously consider hosting my own blog on the dotcom, but I do enough hand-coding over there as it is, and I do kinda like the log-in-and-post deal they have here at Blogger. Except when it LOSES all my stuff like it did a minute ago.

Grrrr!!!

A Bird In The Hand...

Alternate Title: "His Eye Is On The Sparrow..."

(I made it home from the dentist and I'm waiting for the 'caine to wear off with Advil and a mouthful of cottony-nastiness. I'm writing about my Saturday Morning on the iBook in the recliner -- and I just happened to catch The Megan Mullally Show for the first time too.)

My Grannie was born in 1912 and raised seven kids; My Mom came along right about in the middle. Mom's youngest brother and oldest kid were within a few months of being the same age. My Grannie saw the rise of amazing inventions like indoor plumbing and the microwave oven. She handled the death of her husband and the scary experiences of raising five boys and two girls in a rapidly changing world. A fairly hairy family in more ways than one, I'm not at all afraid to say that My Mom (the waitress who busted her ass to raise the three of us) turned out to be the straightest one out of the bunch. Her brothers were into everything from cars to carpentry to ranching to military service to recreational herbal pharmaceutical sales... In short, Grannie's boys grew pot in her houseplants (especially after Grannie's eyesight started goin' bad) and helped make Claremore Oklahoma the "Drug Capital Of Oklahoma."

I'm sure I didn't really have the "Traditional Grandparent Experience" like most kids do, but it was an experience nonetheless. I remember a few interesting Christmases, jail visits, and trips to cemeteries in tiny little towns in the middle of nowhere with stops along the way to see family who lived in the dark ages with outhouses in their yards as late as the late eighties. Seriously, if I can look down the street and see the red and white neon magic that is a "Sonic" Drive-In sign, there's no reason any of us should have to use a substandard bathroom! Outhouses! In The Eighties!! It's just wrong!!!

Grannie loved her cat, "Callie," 'til her youngest son's "little anger problem" killed it. She loved her Chow Dog she'd raised from a tiny puppy; a "replacement" for the chihuahua that got addicted to blood pressure pills by eating the ones she dropped in the carpet. Poor little thing got to jonesin' so bad he chewed up the bottle and ate 'em all, all at once. Much like many human drug addicts, he was smart enough to do what he had to do to get his fix; but not smart enough to realize that too much of that shit at one time can kill ya. When she got the Chow Pup, "Taboo," either she was more careful, or the dog was blessed with a higher tolerance for the pills; but not a lot of tolerance for much of anything else.

My Grannie loved moving more than anyone else I can think of. She moved every chance she got; Mom and I tried to count once and I don't even remember how many different houses and apartments we counted up. Grannie lived in just about every place that was ever for rent in Claremore. I'm not sure how many times we loaded up all her stuff, along with that evil "Taboo," and shuffled it all into a different house or apartment; big, small, it didn't matter, that strange smell was always the same. For her last big move, to Foyil rather late in her life, My Grannie turned up with a Parakeet. Up in her eighties and meaner day by day, Grannie was in and out of the hospital but never ever gave in to the idea of "Assisted Living" or a "Nursing Home."

I still think the Parakeet Experience was a big part of what pushed her off of the mental edge...

She was cleaning the cage at the kitchen sink; doing the cleaning with one hand, while holding the Parakeet in the other. The cage slipped, and when it did, she gasped, kind of like an "oops" or an "oh shit," and when she did, her other hand tensed up too and she squeezed the poor little 'Keet to death right there in her own hand. She just wasn't the same after that; she ended up in the hospital shortly after and never made it out. It was the strangest thing; after all the nastiness, she got so sweet and lovey those last couple days but she didn't know who anybody was.

My Grannie died right around my twenty-first birthday, she passed quietly while my Oldest Brother was there with her. She was eighty-five. When the phone call came, I was hangin' out in the living room with Pete (currently of Mothra Stewart, if you're Googling) and my Middle Brother -- My Mom was napping in her room while we messed around with my Stratocaster and the Fender Champ vac-tube amplifier that Pete had just brought me for my birthday. I don't know how anybody else felt about it, but I was relieved not to have to watch My Mom deal with it all anymore...

I had Peanut the Parakeet from about seventh grade until just last summer. Dave and I had Ozzy the Parakeet until we got Shadow Cat; then we gave him to AJ for her class at the elementary school. Did you know that all Tulsa Public Schools Classroom Pets recieve free Veterinary care? I'm sure Ozzy is much better off with a room full of kids than with a twenty pound housecat. I never could get comfortable with the thought of actually clipping wings myself -- I was always afraid I'd mis-snip and end up with a big mess, so both of my 'Keets stayed in the cages most of the time. With Peanut, it was a tremendous fear of the ceiling fan; with Ozzy, it was the cat. I spent my 'Keet time with my hands in the cage instead of the bird in my hands.

Since I've been with Clay and seen a few wing-clipping sessions up close, I still don't think I could do it myself, but I do get to hold the Birdies outside the cages. Heh... I think about My Grannie almost every time I reach into the 'Keet cage to take one out. I'm as careful as I can be becasue I really do not want to know the 'Keet Squeezin' experience first-hand, I just don't.

Clay's Quaker Parrot just fascinates me; they're so cute together. He talks a pretty good bit, and he lets Clay rub in his feathers or hold him any way he wants. I'm glad he liked me enough to let me pet him a bit and talk to me every now and then too...

While Clay was gone to Springfield, I'd just dash in and change the water & seeds and stay a minute or two for a quick chat -- I didn't open any cages except to reach in real quick. I figured I'd be on the safe side, since we'd already had that one weekend of hunting for the missing "Houdini 'Keet."

This past Saturday morning, Clay went to work and I stayed at the house while he was gone. I ran down to QuickTrip for Breakfast and when I came back, the Quaker was chattering away as I sat down and turned on the G4. I'd ate my apple danish and surfed the 'net a bit and since he was still talking, I went over and opened up the door. He only comes to me if he's on top; so I figured I'd give him a minute to get out and play a bit and then see if he'd come to me and sit with me while I was messin' with the computer.

He talked some more, he played with his toy on top of the cage, and when I got up to go over and see if he'd come to me, he flew toward the kitchen. Clay always worries about 'em gettin' behind the fridge; the last time he flew away from me, he got up against the front of the fridge door and knocked off some magnets and pictures and then landed on the floor; he came right to me as soon as I got there though. This time he didn't go near the fridge; he went straight for the laundry room and just as I discovered the french doors were not closed, he disappeared into the gap behind the machines.

Still momentarily calm, I dashed around the corner to the bathroom and grabbed the hand mirror off the nail. I held it up to the wall in hopes I could at least see where he was and maybe get him to step-up without having to pull the machines out away from the wall. I was glad to see him up high on the back of the dryer where I could reach him; so I reached. I had him in my hand, and My Grannie in my heart; I was scared of squeezing too hard, so just as I got him to let go of whatever he was hangin' on to back there, he squirmed out of my hand and disappeared, fluttering into the darkness between the machines and the wall.

My calm faded when I held the mirror back up and couldn't see The Quaker at all. I made sure he wasn't in the gap between the machines, then I un-hinged the french door and pulled the dryer out from the wall. There was not a single squawk to be heard as I pulled the dryer out further and further. I checked the back and there were no openings he could've gotten into; so I pulled the cord out of the wall, and then I saw the hole. I'd left the foil slinky vent connected because I remember what a bitch it was to get it hooked back on last time; but as I looked toward the other end of it, all I could see was that hole in the sheetrock beside the vent pipe.

That hole was all I could see and all I could think about, and I went apeshit. I looked around the washing machine with the mirror one more time, I dumped my purse on the bed to get a smaller mirror out, I tried to look into the hole with the mirror but I couldn't see anything. I cried, I prayed, I begged, I called, I knocked. I ran around to the closet and knocked on the wall from the other side hoping to shoo him out of there. I cried, I ran to my car but couldn't find a flashlight. I ran back to the hole and put my arm it -- all the way in, up to my elbow, and I found nothing. I cried and stared at the hole. I don't know how many times I tried to get Clay on the phone. I cried, I called, I whistled... I stared into the hole and begged God for some little something; a little tan foot, a little green feather, a happy little green bird, or even a sharp little beige beak; but there was nothing.

I was full-on apeshit and ready to start ripping out sheetrock. I figured, what the hey, I was once the Woman behind The Handyman Connection Craftsman Of The Year (Hi Google, E-mail Me!) -- I can fix drywall, it ain't nothin' they don't have a class for at Home Depot, and it ain't gotta be perfect 'cause it's behind the dryer where nobody sees it anyway. I thought about the attic, I wondered how big the gap was at the top of the vent pipe, I wondered if he was flying around in the attic stirring up insulation which would make me sick as hell if I opened that door at the top of the ladder... I went out into the garage and was glad to find a droplight already plugged in and layin' there, and I untangled the cord and was eyein' the ladder, but y'all already know how I am about ladders... I stood there thinkin' that even though I might be able to handle the nailed-to-the-wall ladder, how the hell was I going to handle crawling through the attic trying to catch the bird and what if I fell through? I'd decided that the drywall ripping method was going to be my best bet; but I knew I couldn't just start thrashing the place without at least getting Clay on the phone first.

Still crying and still apeshit, I was staring up at the attic door and wondering if I'd just screwed it all up and turned myself into the worst Girlfriend in the world when the phone rang. Clay called back and I was almost afraid to answer. I'd lost a bird, not just any bird, but The Uber Bird. Sure, I'm the Girlfriend, I've really fallen for Clay, and I think he'd know that, but The Quaker was here before I was... When I picked up my phone, I could barely talk, and Clay said "We'll get into something..." and he was hurrying home.

I went back to the laundry room and stared at the hole and cried some more as I thought about how I really had thought I finally "had my shit together" this time. I thought about how happy I've been with Clay, how nice it is to be so comfortable with him, and how much I care about him; and how I'd probably just screwed it all up. Even if I could shell out a couple hundred bucks to replace the bird, it wouldn't be The Quaker Baby. I'd finally found someone who appreciated me for who I am, someone who didn't bitch about the race car, someone who made me feel girly without bein' intimidated when I'm not-so-girly, someone who knew all the right little ways to make me happy, and I'd totally screwed it all up.

I was standing there crying when I heard the familiar parroty voice that I'd been praying and crying over... "Pretty Quaker!"

He was not in the hole.

He was in the corner behind the washing machine.

I said a quick prayer of thankfulness and ran to find something to stop up that damn hole. After ending up with an armload of socks, even though I knew I couldn't leave them there because of the risk of fire, I just wanted to make sure he couldn't get into the hole while I was trying to catch him... Once the hole was plugged, I called Clay back -- it took a couple more tries; and I'm sure we were both relieved when he answered. I went back to the laundry room and pulled the washer out as far as I could without pulling the hoses; and as I did, The Quaker Baby flew up toward me. I reached out as he got about level with the top of the dryer, and he landed right in my hands.

If that bird ever says "You Scared The Shit Outta Me!" we'll all know where he got it.

And then Clay says, "Well, he's back in the cage, if you hadn't have called me, I'da never known a thing."

Yeah, right...

Fun With Telemarketers...

So... The phone rings, and when I pick it up, it's ringing the other direction; a dead giveaway.

After the third ring, a voice that I'd almost bet was coming from a true Blonde came on the line with "This is April, I'm calling on the photocopy machine that's there in the office..."

How could I resist?

"No you're not, you're calling on the Telephone, and we don't even have a photocopy machine here."

And then before I could get in any laughs with stories of locking trained monkeys in crates with boxes of Crayolas and reams of paper; before I could even get close to going into my usual anti-telemarketer schpiel; she hung up on me.

Dammit.

My Grandma Would've Known Better...

I bitch about people not teaching their kids anything all the time; I can't figure out if it's because the adults don't know any better, or if they just don't give a damn what their kids are doing.

One afternoon at IHOP, I came out the door to find a lovely (ignorant) family standing around near my car; I got there just in time to watch an elementary school age boy attempt a head-dive off the concrete parking bumper and firmly plant both hands on the hood of my car. The Dad of the bunch may or may not have seen my eyes, but I know he heard my gasp.

My dismay with "The State Of Affairs In North Tulsa" (Howdy, Google!) was tremendously emphasized by a lovely experience while we were eating lunch in the car at QuickTrip. Someone in the SUV next to us banged their door into my quarter and then wedged their large ass against it trying to get out; all the while shaking my entire car in their effort to exit theirs. None of them noticed me when I got out to walk around my car and check for a massive cow-rub where the door had been. Seriously, I was sitting in the car when they pulled in and parked there, it's not like they had some score to settle 'cause I'd parked too close. Safety-schmafety, when it comes down to the choice between eating-while-driving or sitting in a North Tulsa QT Parking Lot; unless you have a permit for the gun in your car, just get the hell away from there...

And today, in my own hometown, I am stunned by the supposed adult who doesn't know any better.

Now, deep in my heart, I know that my car probably looks like an anthropology exhibit. I'm sure it's people-watcher heaven, especially when it's sittin' there with the non-tinted windows halfway down. I have stuff, okay? It's not like there's half a burrito and a forgotten order of fries in there -- it's not garbage, it's just stuff; like books or magazines, CD's, my joggin' jacket, an extra t-shirt, all those silly book club mailers I keep forgetting to take to the shredder, my blowgun and a bundle of darts, that hat that I keep meaning to give to Scott... It's not smelly-nasty-garbagey, but it sometimes accumulates a strange assortment of unrelated stuff, so I can almost understand how it might be at least mildly interesting to look at.

I cannot understand why this ol' lady didn't feel the least bit invasive about starting at the shotgun seat and working her way around the back to the driver's door, walkin' slow & easy and peekin' in every window.

I also cannot understand why she thought it might be acceptable to pet the hood of my car as she made her way around the front.

I don't get it at all.

If my Grandma had seen it, she'da kicked that grandma's ass.

Pain as Motivation...

I really don't have much to say -- I guess my brighter ideas flew away shortly after I logged in to Blogger.

I finally gave in and got an appointment to see about my teeth, and get this, it's Tuesday, same as Clay's. Mind you, it's not like we're going to the same office or anything, but still, it should be an interesting little pity-party that evening; if there's an evening at all. He might not want to put up with my whiny ass, especially since he's been there in the last year or so and I've been puttin' it off since junior high... But then again, I guess I never know -- I was just sure I'd be whiny & useless after that other doctor appointment that I put off as long as I could, but I handled that one pretty well. I thought about calling that place that advertises "Oral Sedation" on TV, but it's probably expensive -- I'm sure the Roofie Dentist costs extra; this place I made the appointment with claims to be the best priced deal around. I'm just not lookin' forward to it at all, and yeah, I'm a big wuss when it comes to gettin' my mouth messed with -- but I'm an even bigger wuss when it comes to dealing with pain that close to my skull.

I used to think I had a pretty high pain-tolerance; the dislocated knee experience, racing with a herniated disc, a couple D-I-Y Cartilage Piercings... But when this one tooth chased me out of a movie theater in the middle of a concert last May, I knew I'd only be able to deal with it for so long. I've put off the whole "Wisdom Teeth" ordeal longer than anybody I know, well, anybody except for my cousin, who told me he put it off 'til he was 37. My jaws get to hurtin' every now and then, but it only lasts a little while -- this time it's been about a week, and it's been kinda combining occasional bouts of that knock-me-to-my-knees pain like that night in the theater. So, when I made the appointment, I told the lady on the phone that I thought I might have lost all or part of a filling, but I was concentrating on sounding like a "rational adult" instead of a "scared little wuss," so I neglected to mention it's got to the point that my mouth really doesn't close right anymore. They're professionals, they'll figure that out. Heh... Anyway, maybe after Tuesday I can quit carrying Anbesol in my pocket all the time.

I'd just about bet I'll probably have to look into handling the "Wisdom Teeth" soon too.

Seriously though, it really doesn't seem right. If we grow 'em, they're supposed to be there, right? Did a God who created us in his image really make a little four-tooth screw-up in the mouth of every American?? Surely he didn't mess up each and every one of us! I'm thinkin' it's just a conspiracy! A money-grubbin' conspiracy!

Oh, and look, I even used some "hot" Google words without thinkin' about it... Roofies, Conspiracy, God, Knees, Cousin... Holy Crap.

More later... _\,,/

Somewhere In Between...

Somewhere in between "The Ringer" and "Slingblade," I'm hearing a familiar voice ask "He's not the kinda retard that drools and rubs shit in their hair, is he?"

I can't believe I just typed that.

Seriously, there's not a damn thing goin' on around here today.

Yeah, It's Monday...

This morning just a few minutes before the alarm, I was stirred by the strangest sound... Maybe it's what I get out of taking an actual college psych course on Dreams; I stayed as still as I possibly could and tried to focus and pay attention and see if I was dreaming or actually hearing a sound.

I kept listening, the sound kept going, maintaining almost perfect rhythm.

Remember the big baby doll? Surely every little girl had one -- or, well, before the "Playstation Generation," every little girl who's sneakin' up on thirty now probably had one. She wasn't a particularly pretty doll; but she was huge, she could wear size 2T clothes and even some of those were too short. She had short (but real-rooted) blonde hair and those winky-blinky blue eyes that closed by gravity when she you put her down for a "nap." The big gimmick to my "big baby doll" was that she (supposedly) would "walk with you" if you held her hand (and worked the leverage of her arm just right); and her other arm was perfectly flexed so that she might suck her stiff little thumb through her stiff little smile. She came with a red and white striped dress, red tights, and white Mary-Jane's; and I'd bought her a whole box of clothes at the neighbor's garage sale, and even managed to find her a nice hat to hide that short blonde hair when it all went to hell from being brushed so much.

The sound that woke me up was exactly like dragging a brush through that hair. Exactly like the quick rhythmic strokes of devil-may-care brush-yanking; the kind of frustrated brushing a little girl could only get away with when it involved doll hair; sister hair would've earned a smack, poodle hair would've earned a bite.

Early in my mornings, I'm essentially alone -- Mom leaves the house a little before my alarm goes off. The only dolls left in my room are the Barbie & GI Joe who sit snuggled-up nice & luvy on top of my iMac; and the cats don't go near 'em 'cause they're too hard to get to. I don't have kids; so nobody fished the big baby doll out of the far corner of the spare bedroom closet to remove her lovely hat and brush her wild-n-crazy hair.

The sound continued; I may have dozed a bit while still trying to figure it out. I thought of fun times with "Tina" the big baby doll; like when I tried to stick her on the back of the banana seat of my bike and take her for a ride -- an experience that involved everything from shoelaces to duct tape but still never went quite right.

The sound just went on and on; and when I concluded that I was good-n-awake and not dreaming at all, I opened my eyes to find a bit of sunshine coming in the window.

Then I rolled over to find ShadowCat fervently licking the blanket a few inches from my head.

Lick-lick-lick...

Brush-brush-brush...

Lick-lick-lick-lick-lick.

I don't even want to know why; but I do know I'll be doing some laundry tonight, and there'll be a blanket in there without a doubt.

Jinx-Free Friday...

Last night when we finally decided on Pizza Hut for dinner (I know, I know, "nobody cares what you had for lunch," stay with me, I'm goin' somewhere here), I decided it would be a safer bet to walk in and order and then wait around instead of calling first and then driving in. While it's not the traditional method for the pizza business, when it comes to ordering food, I'd rather talk to a face than a phone. There's less possibility for error that way and I can make it very clear what I want -- and I can see 'em so if they look confused I'll know if I need to explain very slowly.

Owasso has changed a lot in the years since I was in school. Where the original seventies-style Pizza Hut used to be, there's a crummy Mexican restaurant. (Seriously, if they keep that creepy Heinz green ketchup on every table, what's that tell ya?) Food Lion (TP Central) is a Movie Theater now. Tastee-Freeze is completely gone, nothin' but flat green grass now. The old football field is usually crammed with soccer players and the pressbox isn't even Owasso's colors anymore since they built the big fancy one on the grounds of the highschool. The highschool doesn't look anything like it used to, and now the Pizza Hut is right across the street from the blacktop with the football field lines painted on it; the one where we always had band rehearsals 'cause the actual football field was a couple miles West and too far away to make it back to regular classes on time.

Last night when I went to the fantastic-new-modern Pizza Hut, I happened to catch a Band Rehearsal in progress, and it was fascinating. Last year, Clay and I went to the Homecoming game (mostly just to see the band), and I was rather disappointed. It was nothing like the shows we busted our azses for when I was in Band; nothing like the marching contest videos that still make me get emotional after all these years. I spent most of the half-time performance with tears in my eyes and a hand over my gaping mouth.

I'm happy to report that this group looks good in rehearsal; from what I could see. Bear in mind that sittin' in my car across the street was about like what one would see from the visiting team's bench, but still, it looked good compared to last year's "here's a flag, now run and wave it."

I can't wait to go to a game... Maybe there won't be any crying this time...

;)

Fascinating...

I'm gettin' a kick outta this:

"Indexed"

Are These People For Real?

A couple days ago, The Pissed Kitty wrote a little post about the MySpace crowd in shich she coined the phrase "MySpace Cadets." Heh heh... I like it; and when I signed onto MySpace today to check and see if there were any more people from my highschool that I hadn't heard from yet, I liked that phrase even more.

Yup, MySpace Cadets.

I had two bulletins about "The Crocodile Hunter," from two separate friends, and I don't think they know each other... They were both of the "re-post this..." variety, and no, I am not re-posting the bulletin because I, personally, think he's a Darwin Award Candidate.

I know, I know, I sound cold-hearted there, but seriously, think about this with me -- he knew those things (croc's, rays, whatever) were fecky dangerous. If he was the all-knowing animal expert, why didn't he figure that out? "Hey, that can kill ya, don't feck with it."

My heart goes out to his wife -- I know first-hand that losing a mate is hell. Even though I knew he'd been sick before and there was always a chance that it could happen again -- losing the lifepartner was still hell on a stick, in a bag, on a rope, in a tree; yes indeedy Dr. Seuss, it certainly was hell any way you slice or dice it.

The whole Crocodile Hunter schtick was all about harassing & taunting deadly critters; he had to know that what he was doing was dangerous, didn't he? Firemen kiss their wives and leave the house with the knowledge they could fall in a burning building and not come home. Cops kiss their wives and leave the house with the knowledge that they could get shot by a tweeker and not come home. Construction workers kiss their wives and leave the house with the knowledge that they could get hit by a car or knocked off a scaffold and not come home. Any of those wives would probably say "Please be careful," or maybe even "Please think about getting a safer job." I know, Mrs. Irwin probably wouldn't dream of asking her man to quit doing what he loved; but seriously, it was obviously dangerous and everybody knew that!

Just my two cents worth here, but I think one more Darwin Award Winner probably isn't worth the effort of a MySpace Bulletin.

Two more cents here, the Personal Hell that Mrs. Irwin is dealing with right now is way, way more than a MySpace Bulletin could ever even touch.

Remember "Wayne's World?"

That's what Saturday night was like -- I kept hearing Dana Carvey's voice from the scene with the "Suck-Cut," screaming "Turn it off, man, turn it off, it's sucking my will to live!"

The pictures of the Transmission Shrapnel are on My Dropshots Account...

Quick Little Bit...

It's Friday.

The new motor is in, and there's only a 30% chance of rain tomorrow. If it does rain, I won't complain because I know that anticipation will only make it more exciting...

The new motor is in... Yeah, that one, the one out of the ol' X5 car. I've yet to take any pictures to see if it's involved in any "Orb Occurences," but let's just hope that if it is, they're positive forces. It sounds sweeet, even sweeter than I remembered; and they've been markin' up the concrete every time they take it in and out of the building.

I went to the airport for fuel this afternoon -- it's pretty & blue as the sky and it smells real nice, almost like B-32.

The real kicker: When I pulled up to the pump and got outta the truck, "Seven Bridges Road" came on the radio...

The next night of racing will be good, it's got to be good. Whether it's tomorrow night, or the rain makes me wait another week, it's gotta be good.