Wha'??

Okay, why is it, that the VA allows the symbol of this upstart little religion (which, by the way has some of the same tenets as Wicca) Konko-Kyo, on headstones, but not the Wiccan pentagram. What THE hey??

There are some religions on the VA site that, I'm sorry, I never fucking heard of....and, quite frankly seem a bit...contrived. Here...Meet David Koresh, you can have his symbol on your headstone when your country sends you off to die in an illegal war, but you can't have the symbol of one of the, collectively-speaking, oldest religions on earth.

The way I look at it is if more than 50 military members are card-carryin' members of a religion, then they should recognize it and allow the symbol...after all..who the fuck's grave is it anyway??

One of the symbols you can have is not even a religion...it's for a building...yes, a building. Granted, it's part of the Shinto faith, but it's still a building.

The VA needs to get its collective heads out of its collective ass.

books and their covers

How many times have we been told not to judge a book by its cover? No matter how long we live, we don't seem to get the message.

I work with a major whom I have dubbed Major Annoying. And for good reason. Dealing with him is often like trying to herd cats. He's presumptuous, needy and a slacker. I'd accused him (out of earshot) of being a suck-up to a retired 3-star who had commissioned through our detachment.

Well, here's where I got my come-uppance. He's known the 3-star since the Oklahoma City bombing, where the major, then a captain, was in charge of the USAF detail that went in and dug people out...the only live person they got out was a 19 YO, black female...whose leg they had to chop off in order to get her out. He's paid his dues. No more Major Annoying.

fuck it

I am sick to death of trying to fight the war that the mistakes of the education system has caused. William just won't do his homework. Won't. Okay, I'm 54 and went to the best public schools in the country in the 50s and 60s, courtesy of Cedar Rapids IA.

Half-day for kindergarten NO HOMEWORK.

9-3 or 3:30 (can't remember now) for 1st thru 3rd NO HOMEWORK.

We had recess BOTH mornings and afternoons, and as I remember 40 minutes for lunch, or was it an hour...and we LEARNED!!!! Fancy fucking that. We learned, with less time in the classroom and no homework. We learned more than kids learn today. We had mastered cursive by the end of third grade (William's 3rd grade class didn't even start), we had mastered the times tables by the end of 3rd grade (well, I hadn't quite, but I still did just fine).

Homework started in the fourth grade, it was a rite of passage, we were big kids now. I am sure my parents had to bug me some, but I just do not remember the ongoing, hair-tearing, nail-pulling, tortuous ordeal that I have to go through with William to get him to do the little piddly bit of homework that he has. And why? Because he's had homework since he was fucking five years old!!! No chance to be a kid, home-fucking-work.

Just when I had made a pledge to stop using the f-word and all its derivatives I finally come to the end of my rope about homework. I also stopped spanking...actually I stopped that some time ago, because all it does is make him angry and in the end makes things worse.

Here's how school worked 4th thru 6th grade for me. Half the kids would have homeroom in the morning, that is one teacher all morning who taught history, social studies, and language arts. The other half of the kids had that class in the afternoon. The other half of the day we had math every day for an hour, and then alternated music with art and science with PE. If you had music and science on MWF and art and PE on TTh in the fall, then in the spring, you'd reverse, along with reversing homeroom--fall morning kids became spring afternoon kids.

It worked, music and art were not referred to as "specials," they were a regular part of the curriculum. And we had homework from homeroom, math, and science. Sure, I was a slacker, and I know I didn't do it sometimes, but I also know I did not have this constant battle with my parents about it.

With a kid like William, and I think a lot of other kids, they are sick and fucking goddamned tired of homework. They've all but done away with recess, the poor kids have to be there at 7:50 in the morning (we got there at 9 and left at 3), and leave at 3:05. For several years he had lunch as early as TEN THIRTY in the morning!!

I won't even get into the whole issue about if you add the white, black, and Asian kids together, it still wouldn't equal the Hispanics, so all the assemblies have to be translated for parents who either can't or won't learn the language of their adopted country, and won't stop talking for teachers and admins who speak at these things...constantly running off at the mouth and letting their smaller children scream and carry on....because of course, if I say anything...I'm labeled a bigot. Which I'm not. I just think that if you move to a new country, do not expect everyone to change what THEY do to suit your laziness.

So, I'm going to sit William down and tell him: Homework is YOUR responsibility, not mine. I can't browbeat you into it, I can't do it for you. So...if you still want to be in the fourth grade at 15...I suppose that's your issue.

I'm sure that makes me sound like a horrible mom...got any suggestions?

hits

LL quotes, randomosity from text messages:

When it comes to laps, there is such a thing as too much cat.

Vitamin bottles sound just like cat treat jars, apparently. I've had Charlie stalking me for the last ten minutes because of a bottle of EPO.

Hey, I get really cranky and stupid when my blood sugar gets low. Who knew?

Am out of half and half. Fooey.

Must teach cats to make coffee.

It's fun watching these boys who are totally gobsmacked by K and just do NOT know how to handle it.

Oh dear. Have gone to Container Store unattended.

I formally apologize for any eyeroll I administered between '84 & '89. Good God.

Teenager, from the Latin "tenagus," meaning "to sass & annoy."

Drunken picture hanging is dangerous. I've lost my nails.

Hey, that movie where the pilots play volleyball is on! [BWA!]

gadflies

* Now that I have resurrected my blog, I find myself analyzing events in blog prose. As something happens, I am writing the blog for it in my mind.

* Oh-dark-thirty and I hear the unmistakeable wuh-uh-wuh-uh-wuh-uh of a cat getting ready to barf on the floor and the written words "IlovemycatsIlovemycatsIlovemycats..." form in my half-conscious brain. I do love my cats, I don't think I could get thru the day without fuzz-therapy as H calls it, but Christ-on-a-popsicle-stick! Who told cats that barfing was acceptable, anyway?? Yah, so you just had to scarf up all the catfood to keep the others from getting it, so suck it up and digest it now, instead of depositing a lump of slimy cat kibble on the carpet! The dogs love it, H thinks that aspect is disgusting,but hey..they're dogs, dogs are scavengers, and it makes it easier for me.... But what they've been arfing lately is not fit for even dogs of non-discriminating tastes. Just stuff that stains and and lies in wait for unsuspecting bare feet.


* I'm getting better, I am on a roll longer in the morning, but still wonk out and can't seem to get restarted any time after about ... oh, say noon. Without the Wellbutrin, there are whole weeks of time missing, I can't remember what I was doing and I find things that should have been done squirrelled away.


* The cat box is clean again...you scoff and say, why is that a big deal? I love my cats, but unlike the stuffed animals come to life that I always wished for, cats pee and poop. I know, why did I have to ruin your fantasy...but it's true, they are walking, purring, mmrrwowing little bags of cat pee and poop. In this day and age of wall-to-wall idiots behind the wheel and sociopaths who don't keep their pitbulls leashed, cats must stay indoors to expect any sort of prolonged lifespan, and that means we catlovers must also be shovelers of feline waste. The born-organized person who has allowed themselves to sink into the sordid life of cat-ownership, keeps the litter box oh-so-freshly-scooped. The rest of us have to plot for days to actually go in there and clean the damned thing out. We keep rationalizing that oh, it's only been a couple of days...until we face the fecal reality that has taken over our sweet little fuzzies' boudoir. Between disposable diapers and catboxes, it's a wonder there's any room at all left in the average landfill. I can only imagine the delightful smell.

* When was I not paying attention? When did clutter eat my house? when did I get clinically obese? When did I get so stiff and sore it's an issue just getting up and down from the couch...when did I get old? When did my mother get even older? I watch her walk, lopsidedly with a cane and nearly burst into tears. She was so nimble, agile...like the proberbial mountain goat. She could dance with my dad all night long, ride horses, climb through the Iowa back country...I don't want to become her, but here I am, at only 54 looking down the barrel of being just like her. And yet I sit here...


* ..W points his “wand” at me and says don’t make me send you to another plane…I’m thinking, like plane of existence and he says, you know like a real plane that flies (hand motion up) and then crashes (hand motion down)…and then there’s another Lost…and you’re in it…

I totally lost it at that point.

He makes me want to change, to go on...the road goes ever on, as the book says...some day, I will not follow the road any longer, but I must walk down it for now, best enjoy it.

(And I didn't really mean to copy LL's last post format, it just worked out that way :P)

players

Everyday brings even more cause to question human sanity and if we really are an advanced species or merely highly evolved cockroaches. Witness the new PS3. First off, it's a flippin' video game console, guys....$600???? And because Sony (or whoever is responsible for this thing) can't see out of its own ass, there aren't enough. Then come the idiots, circling and because they can't see out of their own asses, they become victims . If that weren't stupid enough, yesterday, some complete fool, with more money than sense it seems, paid $10,100 on eBay for one.

Holy mother of infant fucktards...I wish I'd had the scratch and foresight to have bought one at $600....

Ha!

I was right. Compulsion

I like being right. But then who doesn't?

addictions

Kidlet appears to be having "connectivity" issues today. And I'm having withdrawal issues. Her MSN convos are my crack...when she's not online while I am, I jones for the interaction. Somehow, chatting with her, whether happy, giddy, contemplative, mundane, bored, angry, or grief-stricken, she is my lifeline. I've said before, she's my best friend...not sure she sees me that way, but that's okay. Have I mention I have guilt, deep, numbing guilt over the way I raised her? I was far too hard on her. I raised her like my parents raised me...oy vey...

But the other day, I got a card from her that made me break down and cry...with happiness. She's proud of the person she is and I was in no small way to thank....she realized how young I was and that I did the best I could. Nothing, nothing in the entire world could have made me happy and complete like that simple card did.

I love my mother, but we just do not communicate on the same level that LL and I do. The only time I've ever had to hold back from telling my kid what I was feeling was when she was married to the "ex." I did not want to hurt her or my granddaughter, but I have to be honest and say there were genuinely times when I wanted a large rock to fall out of the sky on that man. I tried very, very hard to like him and for awhile we got along quite well. However, from the beginning, through no fault of mine, he thought I didn't like him....and it turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. And now, he can't quite get it through his dense skull that he no longer figures in LL's life...and is baffled that she doesn't think of him first...dude, she'd like to not think of you at all!

I need to get to work. This job really could be handled by a normal person in 40 hours a week, and by me in about 25-30, if I actually worked constantly. I'd love to go part time, but for some reason they think I need to be here all the time....answering the fucking phone (I hate the phone, let it be known...more poetry! If I had my way the things would be banned from existence....although they are handy when you're far away from someone and want to hear their voice), and being the "face" at the front desk. And....I'm not making it on the salary I have now, so going part time would just...suck.

compulsion

I don't understand, having done my bloggerly duty today and made a post, a fairly lengthy one at that, nothing on the order of Jane's posts but none-the-less having some length to it (she cheats, too, having a wider column..wait, maybe I cheat by having a narrower column...don't confuse me with logic right now), why I feel the need to write more. Today's blog was nothing too pithy, more foreshadowing of things to come, I guess. The ubiquitous List. Everyone should have lists...they make handy toilet paper in times of crisis.

Compulsion--or is it compulsiveness? Compelling urges to do...something, anything...I suddenly drove to New Orleans about 8 years ago, I told my boss my mother really needed me. Truth was I was going fucking bat-shit-stir-crazy and ended up scaring the crap out of mum...kinda forgot to call her and tell her I was on my way.

Heh.

At least her German Shepherd returned the favor. I had never met the wondrous Eowyn of Colmar, fondly known as Winnie....she barked once and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. But as soon as I walked in that door, it was like..oh..Nan...where have you been all my life?


I don't much care for GSDs as a rule, but this lady was one of the most gorgeous dogs I've ever seen, let alone German Shepherds.


Winnie in her prime, on the stairs of my mother's house in New Orleans.

Too damned smart for Mum's good, too, I might add. Winnie had my mother very well trained. And the damned dog, who could have been a shining example of what German Shepherds really can achieve, was a spoiled rotten, out of control weiner.

She was finally starting to get some manners and all when she died in my bathroom. After Mum lost her home in New Orleans, thanks to Katrina, Winnie had to come live with us because the apartment mum got wouldn't take HOOGE dogs. I was just getting used to the idea of having her around, even though I really didn't want her (I have two big dogs already--three large dogs in a 1200 sq ft house...um, no.), and the fricken dog DIES!

*sighs* I felt guilty as hell about it, as if I had wished it or something, and I hadn't. I had given thought to how upsetting it would be for Mum if something happened to Winnie in the wake of everything else, but had not wished it. *sighs*

Mother has her in a box in her closet somewhere...well, her ashes, that is. Turns out she died of cancer of the spleen, there was a mass and it bled out internally.

I couldn't quite accept she was dying or I would have just sat and held her head and talked to her...and for that I do feel guilty.

The last picture taken of Winnie, just a few days before she died.

lists

Kidlet once sent me a piece about a woman who constantly made lists. I wish I could find it, about how this woman would fill her workday with the making of lists. Lists of lists, listing lists to be made...it made me laugh, but also take a big sigh and wonder what happened to all my lists. You see I make lists and then do one or two things and forget about the list. I find lists all over, months and years old and chide myself, why can't I finish a list, hell it would be nice if I'd go back and LOOK at the list later.

There are whole websites devoted to lists, lists of lists, list-making, and probably the ins and outs of using lists properly and for some sort of soul-searching. Fire-starting and bird-cage lining come to mind. However annoying lists might be, we make them…perhaps human sentience is, in part, defined by lists. I can’t imagine my big fat flame-point mog making a list…uh, let’s see..

• sleep on mom’s bed for 5 hours, get up
• terrorize the old dog for a bit (which involves attempting to bite her and making the poor old arthritic thing get up from her nice warm spot, simply so said cat can roll around on the doggy warmspot)
• lap water for 20 minutes
• pee
• eat
• poop
• sleep until mom gets home and can refill my water bowl…

Sounds like a life to me.

ANyway…back to my list. I have an ever-expanding list of things I’d like to blog, or journal, or expound upon, dither about…rant? In no particular order:

• Drivers
• Fat…in particular, my fat.
• My passive-aggressive mother
• My passive-aggressiveness..aggressivity..aggression?
• Ferret-face (that is the idiot whose-name-we-shall-not-utter who has squatted in the Whitehouse, and has no resemblance whatsoever to a legitimate inhabitant of said domicile)
• This odd desire I have to squish small Japanese cars with my truck…oh, right, that falls under “drivers”
• My son…ongoing thing there, of course
• Idiots, oh why don’t we just take on most of the world, here?

Okay, picking this up whilst sitting in a senior staff meeting for the college. You can see just how absorbed I am in that, right?

• Have I mentioned I HATE bras?
• Working for The Man and The Man (and yah, I’m making lists for work while I’m sitting her, too)
• Cell phones
• My odd politics
• My odder religion
• Marriage…in general…my marriage, maybe even YOUR marriage, who knows?
• People who shall remain anonymous
• Writing, angst, and inspiration
• The poltergeist in the ladies’ room
• Gardening goblins
• Unfinished projects and books half-read
• Emotion
• Orange Santa
• And of course the ever-popular rants, whines, bitches, and confusions (yes, I make up words, too…but spell-check seems to like that one, hmmm..)

And I don’t care if you don’t like my over-use of the ellipse “ …” get fucking over it.

***

Meeting update. Oh, good-fucking-god, man!! Get your notes together ahead of time!! You are a professional, an assistant dean, for crying out loud, you make at least three times what I do. I should NOT have to waste my time sitting thru your total ineptitude. I’m about to chew thru the ends of my glasses limbs. My coffee heartburn is doing a slow boil to epic, ulcer creating proportions here, my back hurts and I don’t want to be here in the first place, so good work on making me even more eager to be here!! At least 75% of what they cover at these damned things don’t apply to my department…and stop hanging over me, you over-achieving little twat. Like I want you reading my oh, so carefully written notes on your…um..meeting…

it's why you name it afterwards

I really wanted to go to bed early tonight. The NWN server I play on is shutting down at the end of the week. The lead has been driven insane by a stampede of whiny, selfish, annoying children...some of whom are not anywhere close to 17 anymore. My kid teases me that I play RPGs with 17 YOs. Feh. So, I got into a long, 4-way MSN with the two leads, and another admin. Then I got totally distracted by my daughter's blog.

She has a grasp of the written word that I will never have. Part of it, I suppose is that I can see and hear her talking when I read her stuff. One post would have me cackling out loud with unrepressed laughter, and the next..totally dissolved in unabashed bawling. I can see that for most posts, I don't even need to read them...I recall the MSN chats about the same thing, almost word for word...like she's running it by the test audience to see how I'll respond, with a hehehe...or a ... ; what smiley I'll send to counter her silliness or her grief.

My daughter is my best friend, we grew up together, she and I. She doesn't write much about me...and that, strangely does not bother me (it's her blog, after all), and when she does, I figure briefly and that, I suppose is the way it should be....yes, because a lot of her writing is about her own daughter, where mine will be a lot about mine...a very special, talented, beautiful woman who just happens to be my kid...and one who never used to show me her writing because she thought she wouldn't measure up. You have far surpassed me, Kidlet...far and away.

Wish for the day

Kee-rist...I wish I could do this.

She had me totally cracking up.

My kid can write like ... I can't.

I think I'll go hide now.

The new math

Okay...I realize I haven't been in the fourth grade for a very long time now..about 45 years to be exact. But if the method of teaching multiplication that my son just told me is how they've been doing it...it's no frippin' wonder we're falling behind every industrialized nation in the world...and not a few 3rd world ones, as well!

We have a problem...let's say it's

34 times 22....





So the 2 in the ones column "pitches" to the "batter," the 4 in the ones column. then the 2 pitches to the 3 and you cross out the 2 in the ones column because it's done for the day.




Then you draw a smiley face...cuz the two is happy to be done...yes, folks a FUCKING SMILEY FACE!




*sighs* I lost it at this point...

Okay.so...do I qualify for FEMA?

I don't know what date this will show up under but it was originally to follow "...today" posted 11 November 06--I refuse to rewrite it to protect the innocent.

----

That was not only trite, but depressing. That's what happens when you stop to act on a particularly self-abusive idea while trying to make sense of the disaster that is your house. Seriously, this place has gotten to epic proportions. Some readers might tsk and shake their heads--those are the terminally ill, known as "Born Organized." While others will identify and nod and say geez...I'm glad I'm not the only one.

This post, I'm afraid will not be funny, entertaining or in the least amusing...it's mental diarrhea, the flushing of a series of thoughts that strike me as I work.

* This is aimed at the spousal unit...I'd love to just scream it at him, but he'd get hurt and yell back and we'd not accomplish anything. So imagine a nice, PMSy rage and cover your ears, if you like..
Why can't you get off your huge ass and do SOMETHING, anything, constructive?? You sit at a computer all fucking god-damned day at work and the first thing you do when you get home is sit on the computer until 3 fucking AM....and wonder why you don't sleep well, feel well...anything well. Anything that gets done I either have to do it myself or ask you and then wait while you play your game...until it's usually too fucking dark to get the job done right.

I bought the hose hangers...2? 3? months ago, you made a half-ass attempt to hang one and fucked that up...I'm wondering if it ever got done properly. At least you do your own wash.

*throws something large and imaginary and goes back to trying so sort through her own crap* I guess it just annoys me that he can sit, with no apparent guilt, and play the game we both like while I'm working...even if it is on my own accumulated mess.

..today..

I am becoming that which I never wanted to be, that which I ridiculed, that which kills the soul. I am a drudge, trapped by my own lassitude, ennui and inability to take control...by my own clutter, both physical and mental.

I move in my own nightmare, as if mired by quicksand and molasses...how then did I come to this pass? I don't want to dwell on that, only on the remedy. This marriage is a farce. My life in three acts...get married, leave good, hardworking man, be on your own for 14 years and instead of doing something with the freedom you've taken for yourself, bemoan the fact that you are alone and unloved. Then marry a loving, affectionate, but unmotivated, lazy man... At least I raised a daughter who loves me and of whom I am very proud. And I got my college degree...it seems for no other purpose than to have something impressive to hang on the wall and the ability to quote odd, useless bits of outdated information.

15 minutes at a time...I shall reclaim my life, my home, and perhaps even my sanity. Yes, I know, I'm a dreamer...

Disclaimer

Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened. ~Jennifer Yane

I really have no idea who Jennifer Yane is or was, but that quote sums up the way I feel most days.

You see that grinning young thing with long skinny legs? That's me...12 September 1970. I was 18, one month pregnant and newly married. For those of you who know LL, that's her dad, 19 and clueless...as clueless as I.

I offer this disclaimer because middle age takes most of us by complete surprise, at least it does us Boomers. We go along day to day, blithely ignoring the obvious, even though it's slapping us upside the head and yelling HEY....YOU!! Wooohooo...neener...yo, bitch, pay ATTENTION!! Then one day we actually LOOK in the mirror and go SHIT...where did that come from?? As a result, we visit our past. some merely reminisce, others dwell and moan and don't move ahead. I've been to both places.

The warning here is that occasionally you might check in and get a post filled with more than a comfortable dose of graphic description of the aging process. Not just the physical, but the emotional and mental as well. We age. We have only two choices in this. We age...or we don't, if we don't age, well, you're smart, you figure it out. While I have, a number of times, comptemplated that other option, it remains highly unattractive and selfishly motivated.

So, proceed, dear reader, with caution and remember, you, too will age. Don't think you are immune, or that won't happen to you and perhaps you will address the aging process with more grace and dignity than I.

Things that make you say....huh?

The first thougtht I had was wtf is that? You can't see it well in this phone pic, but it's a Fisher-Price type pop-up toy, with little people, big buttons, and a spinny-wheely thing on the side.

My first thought was...eh heh...it's red, it's the first thing dad could find to tie on the back of his truck, in lieu of a red flag. And, truth be told, it IS eye-catching and makes you pay attention.

The second thing I thought of was...my son loved, still loves, to emulate his parents and makes the weirdest set-ups to serve as office, spaceship, time-machine...what have you. Often these lash-ups are just that, pieces and things you'd never consider a toy, tied and/or taped together. So, what if enterprising youngster lashed this up there in the hopes he could do whatever daddy did? Then I discarded that notion. Little kiddo wouldn't (shouldn't?) be out behind dad's trailer and the knots are beyond the average toddler.

So...I'm back to dad madly searching for something red "...red..gotta have RED...HONEY!!! I need something red to tie on the back of my machiny thing with rollers and buttons...and.......oh.......You're kidding me, right?"

Either that or he is brilliant "...Yep! A red kid's toy will get their attention alright."

Whatever the case, it made me laugh on a muggy Thursday morning, when I would have just as soon stayed in bed, thank you very much.

They owe me a dozen roses

I work for a major university and they seem to think that because they're big badasses in football, they need to upgrade the stadium. Fair enough. So...the apron of tarmac at the north end of the stadium is where I've been parking for nigh onto ten years now and it's been taken over by Bob the Builder and his little Builder Boys, and all their toys (hey...poetry, who knew?). It's not bad enough that on game weeks, we lose our parking starting Thursday for TV crews, now we have to contend with construction sprawl (and yes, a flat tire on my truck...whole other long story).

Okay, so construction workers get bored, and hey! who am I to be uncharitable? First performance: The crazy redhead (when I was still trying to keep the color up) drives up in her big black truck and pulls in a spot, problem is, when I come out I'm hemmed in and there's a dumpster behind me that wasn't there in the morning. I pride myself on my driving...I really do and it's been a source of pride at times and a source of embarrassment over the years when I fargel it...and when I fargel something, I can take pride in the fact that I've done the best fargeling there is to be done...

So, to the great amusement of the tired, hot, dusty and mostly non-English-speaking Builder Boys, I back and fill, back and fill...like trying to undock the USS Nimitz. Okay...luke warm overture to the next act.

Next day, I pull in a spot, the hidden ones close to the street. Fine. I come out and sashay over to my truck and hop in and crank the bass up and prepare to show these guys just how a truck is supposed to be driven...rapidly, in reverse...right into the pile of scaffolding frames they've stacked behind my truck during the day. I can't see them, you see...and curse and jump out and say wtf loudly and some big bruiser decides he's going to guide the little lady out...

Wrong move, Bubba. This only proceeds to piss me off more and I say to him as I dash past, I wouldn't need your damned directing if you didn't pile shit behind my truck! (Inside, I'm cringing inside and trying to ignore the Tex-Mex hoohas as I roar off). Thank you..thank you...

But all is not over...there's an encore.

Next morning, I come roaring in and park in a spot and stomp off toward my building...only to discover that overnight, they have placed a fence across the opening....back-tracking I pass a Builder Boy...Man--he's about my age--holding a cup of joe and and grinning at me. Before I have a chance to turn red, I stomp past and tell him, if it were up to me, I'd tear this damned thing down and build a 40,000 car parking garage!!

I didn't stick around to take my curtain call.

The return of the errant blogger

I started one of these blogspot things...oh..at least two years ago, I wouldn't have a clue what I named it or how to log into it. They seem to have streamlined things a lot. Which is a good thing, because, while I *can* do the HTML thingy...I'd prefer not to.

I think of all these funny, witty, pithy things to write while I'm hauling down the highway in my truck...and then promptly forget them when I get within 5 feet of a keyboard. And somehow....in some way, I believe the folks I share the road with might not take too kindly to a 3 1/4 ton Dodge Ram hauling down I-35 at 65 whilst the driver composes on her laptop....

The other thing is that I'm going to make this public this time, for better or worse. Some might read it and leave and some might stay, and you know...I could care less, cuz it's not about you...it's about ME. :)