Veteran's Day 2008

My good friend Trelvix completely inspired me by posting his own tribute to Vets today. At a time when our country is in financial upheaval and the world around us sometimes seems like it's spinning out of control, it's so easy to forget about the sacrifices that all our servicemen and women around the globe make day-in and day-out. My thoughts and prayers go out to them, and their loved ones, for a safe return. Wherever they are, I hope they know they are missed and appreciated.

My Dad served in World War II, part of a battalion that suffered heavy casualties in France. Their division was referred to as "Trail Blazers". Dad was wounded in battle. A bullet entered his shoulder in the front, exiting the rear. He was EXTREMELY fortunate to have received medical care from a doctor who was willing (and had the knowledge) to piece him back together and send him home with a functional (though scarred) arm. My mom used to say how lucky he was... other men with similar injuries had met with the unfortunate result of an amputation. The photo above was taken in Paris in 1945 - that's dad with the pipe... doesn't he look adorable?

I remember as a little girl when we would rough-house, he would sometimes yell and grab his arm if I landed on it or it got twisted oddly. I could tell he felt sorry for startling me and making me feel bad, but the old injury obviously still caused him some pain, even 20+ years later.

He made friends in the Army that would be friends for life. It taught him to be a leader of men. And how to have courage when it seems all hope is lost. He also saw friends die. He saw unspeakable things, the memory of which would make him yell out in the middle of the night so violently that it would wake me from a sound sleep. He experienced things that made him never want to wear the color green again for the rest of his life.

I have a book called "Snow, Ridges and Pill Boxes" written by a fellow soldier in his unit - Dad is mentioned in the book when he is shot. The horrors of the battles they saw is described in glaring, mind-numbing detail. Soldiers carrying their own severed limbs. If you've seen "Saving Private Ryan" you get the idea. It's no wonder he never liked to talk about it.

He was proud to have served his country, and continued to do so in the reserves for many years after the war. He was a wonderful father to me, and I'm proud and thankful to call him my hero.

On this Veteran's Day, I'd just like to say, "Thanks, Dad." I miss you.

Friendship

I saw my old friend Sarah on Sunday night -- I haven't seen her in over a year. Maybe even more than a couple years -- time goes by so quickly any more. She and her husband and their kids just moved back to the Minneapolis area after being in Pennsylvania for 14 years, and she drove down to my neck of the woods to visit her Mom and Dad. I was surprised and happy to get the phone call that she was in town and wanted to get together.

It was strange. The two of us look so much older now, and I'm definitely so much fatter. (DAMMIT). But it was like we'd never been apart. We've known each other since we were in high school (25+ years ago), and we were part of a VERY tightly-knit group of a dozen or so kids who did EVERYTHING together. The strangest part is, most of us still keep in touch.

We're spread as far away as Las Vegas, Houston, Chicago, and until a couple months ago, Pennsylvania (but now Minneapolis). Yet when someone comes "back home" to visit family, everyone makes it a priority to try and get as many of "the gang" together for drinks and fun.

Recently, one of our group was hit by a car while crossing the street on foot. He was pretty severely injured and he was unable to work for several months. With no insurance and no savings, his prospects were looking bleak. One of our crew took it upon themselves to open up a savings fund at the local bank in this guy's name. Word got out, and before you know it over $8,000 was in the account. Pretty amazing.

Sarah and I pondered the value of these old friendships, and wondered why we knew so few others who had "old friends" to whom they were still close and on whom they could rely. We concluded that it's just the pace of today's society. Everyone is so mobile; folks don't stay in one place long enough to make friends any more. I feel sorry for them.

I'm thankful to have so many people in my life that I consider "good friends". I treasure and value the richness they add to my life.

Old Hippies Can Still Rock

Last night was fantastic. The weather -- perfect. Our seats, on the exclusive Budweiser Deck -- perfect. The company - all three of my brothers, my hubby and assorted friends -- perfect. The pre-concert pig-out at Famous Dave's -- perfect. And the concert... Crosby, Stills and Nash at the outdoor Stir Concert Cove -- extra perfect.

I can't believe how great they sounded. Granted, they had 75% of their backing band helping out on harmony vocals, but it was still the rich, full sound of their great music from the 70s. Carlos was correct in his guess that they wouldn't attempt Suite: Judy Blue Eyes ("those are some complicated and hard high harmonies" he admitted). But they played nearly everything else that mattered.

The best part, though, was the people watching. The majority of the crowd was greyer and more wrinkled than I, but their smiles were just as big, if not bigger. At one point, I looked down to the lawn beneath our deck to spy a chubby 50-something fellow stretched out on his blanket on the lawn, eyes closed, his hand on his wife's back (she was sitting up and watching), tapping out a tune on her spine.

"You think he's having an acid flashback?" I whispered to Carlos.
"Well, if he's not, he's definitely recalling a moment in time when he was younger and hipper than he is now," he chuckled.

I know this wasn't a Grateful Dead show, but somehow the crowd was less tie-dyed and pony-tailed than I was expecting. Nonetheless, I still saw a good share of Birkenstocks and swirly gypsy dresses and bandannas and such. Many danced, many bobbed their heads while they sat in their lawn chairs and some just sat quietly and observed.

But everyone seemed to soak in the good vibe of the beautiful evening and the wonderful music with a message of peace and love. That's definitely a groovy night in my book.

The Value of Alcohol in Live Music

"Ain't no amount of money in the world worth this bullshit," the drummer groused at me.

"For the first time ever, I think this actually feels like WORK," the soundman lamented.

Yeah, I think caged rats accurately describes the band's experience at the gig at one of the large local casinos this past weekend.

No drinking, period; not while you are playing, not during breaks. No swearing. No smoking. No jeans with holes and no t-shirts. No playing loud. No light show. No girls getting up on stage and dancing. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. The red zone is for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. No stopping in the red zone. Look Betty, don't start that zone shit again. (sorry, a little "Airplane" humor there). I digress.

It was weird seeing them without a beer or cocktail in hand, goofing off and oggling girls. I think they really missed singing the songs with all the bad words in them, like "Crazy Bitch" and "So Hott" and "Cold Hard Bitch" and... well, you get the idea. It was just awkward.

Anyway, they got through the gig, collected the large paycheck, and collectively decided that no amount of money in the world could make them go back there to play again.

Apparently there are some things that money can't buy. For everything else, there's mastercard alcohol.

Damn cats

Why do they always frigging BACK UP? WHY WHY WHY?

Don't you love when you hear your cat making that horrible gurgle sound, that "here comes a wonderful new pile o' hot, steamin' vomit" ack-ack-ack-ack noise they make?

You know what's coming, so, you frantically reach to grab to the nearest paper, piece of plastic, dirty towel, empty container... WHATEVER - just something to shove under their chin so maybe you don't have to - - YET ONCE AGAIN - - go get the carpet cleaner and scrub up vomit.

And what do they do when you manage, in the final seconds, to find something to fling on the floor in a last ditch effort? They take a f&*king step or two backwards. Always. Just enough so that 85% of the hairball-juice-soggy-food-bile-spit misses the paper.

I know they do it on purpose. Damn cats.

Fresh Air Makes Food Better

Asparagus on the grill has now become my favorite summer food. It's almost like candy to me. The way my brother cooks it to perfection, lightly coated with olive oil and tossed with salt and sugar... the outside caramelizes on the grill, and the sweet, salty goodness demands that I just pick up each piece by the base and run it in to my mouth like a downed limb through a wood chipper. mmmm.

Combine that with his brilliantly-smoked brisket, corn on the cob, a fresh green salad and a tall, cold mint iced tea with rum, enjoyed amongst friends on the patio, while watching the sun set. How can you top that?

What is it about eating outdoors when the weather is just right? It just makes everything taste better. Soon, it will be too hot and the bugs will be swarming, but right now is perfect.

Care to join me?

Clog

"The kitchen sink's stopped-up again," she said as she appeared around the corner.

He looked exasperated, and not at all pleased that he would obviously soon be abandoning his scotch and smoke for knuckle scraping and wet dish towels. "Whu... who... Well, how the hell did that happen? Did someone put something down the disposal?"

"Just a few baked beans from the edge of a plate," she said sheepishly.

"SUNNUVABITCH!" he exhaled loudly and angrily, and strained to get out of his comfy chair.

"Well why the hell do we have a disposal then?!?" she exclaimed, and muttered under her breath as she followed him back to the kitchen..."asshole."

After they rounded the corner, Carlos and I looked at each other and tried hard not to laugh too loudly. "Sounds like our house," he said.

I continued giggling, "mmm-hmmm. Only I'd be the one going in to fix the sink."

"Ouch!" he said. "I think my dick just shrank an inch."

I giggled and patted his knee. "Yup."

"Asshole" he grinned at me.

"I love you too, asshole" I grinned back.

Divorce

"Well, you were right."

"Right? About what?" I queried.

"You were right. I told her this weekend, and you were right about how she'd react."

"Oh... Dude. She totally wigged on you? I mean, it's not like this hasn't been coming for a long time."

"Yeah," he sighed. "She told me to get out of the house right now. I told her to just calm down... we still need to talk to the kids about it. So, she said 'Fine. We can tell them tomorrow and you can be out of the house after that.'"

"Wow. Sorry. You know it's only going to get worse from here. I told you last week all the horrible shit I've seen happen to other friends who have gone through a divorce. I don't know what it is, but 9 times out of 10, the dumpee does a complete train wreck and tries to put the dump-ER through living hell, emotionally, physically, financially... you name it. And then..."

I trailed off because I didn't want to overload him with negativity. I wished I could offer him some words like "things are going to be fine" or "she'll realize that this is really the best for both of you" or "this has been a long time coming; your two kids are old enough that they might not be too surprised". But I knew what he was in for. I've seen it too many times. Women are crazy, and vindictive. I should know, being one of them... even though I don't consider myself to be either of those things. I've just seen too many other women who would just as soon rip a man's nuts off and choke him to death with them than be civil during a divorce.

He's in for a rough ride.

Awesome Lunch Dialogue

So, this afternoon I hit the Taco Bell on my way back to work from running an errand. As I'm pulling out of the drive-thru, I see a young kid in a big, muddy pickup truck off to the side of the parking lot heave his empty taco trash bag out his car window.

I pull up beside him and roll my window down. "Hi," I smiled cheerfully. "I think you accidentally dropped something."

Puzzled, he says, "Bwuh?"

I said again, "I think you dropped something by mistake from your car."

"I what?"

"That bag there, on the ground, I think you dropped that by mistake."

He looked out the window and to the ground, with the dead carcass of trash by his door. "Oh, yea, I meant to hit the truck bed." (which was a gigantic lie). He gets out of the truck and pitches the garbage bag into the back.

As I pull off and get about 10 feet away, I hear him mutter, "Mind your own business, bitch."

I slammed my car into reverse and pull up alongside him again. Smiling, but obviously pissed, I say "I'm sorry - I missed that. Did you say something?"

He stutters and fumbles for a moment, then says, "I said you should mind your own business."

"DUDE!" I offer. "You don't need to LITTER, right?"

"Mind your own business, bitch."

The conversation degenerates at that point. "Fuck you," I growl as I shake my head at him. "Fuck YOU!" he retorts.

My only consolation is that as we pull away and end up at the stoplight together, I glare at him but he doesn't glare back. I fully expected him to flip me off, but I think he was actually intimidated by "some crazy bitch at the drive-thru".

YES! Victory is mine!

Some Good Left in the World

I left the following as a comment on my buddy Trelvix's page today. I'm going to re-purpose it here as a reminder to MYSELF of the importance of keeping a pair of pants within arm's reach of the bed. It saved my butt this morning...

Foaming dogs, good. Doorbell ringers, bad. Today, however, proved me wrong.

I was awakened (ON A FREAKING SATURDAY MORNING, MIND YOU) at 8:40 a.m. by my two insane braying labradors trying to eject themselves through the picture window (if it had been two hours later, I would have ignored it as it would have been the mailman). The doorbell rang.

I rolled over and looked at the clock one more time... WHAT THE FUCK?? I had to see what kind of ASSHOLE would be at my front door at that early hour on a SATURDAY, just so I could give them a solid tongue lashing.

Standing there were two of THE MOST ADORABLE boy scouts I have ever seen. All decked out in their scarves and badges, holding empty plastic garbage sacks.

"Good morning ma'am, my name is Billy Blabbedyblah from Troop 29, and we are collecting food donations for the homeless shelter today. Would you be able to help us?"

Of course I melted immediately, emptied my pantry in to their sacks, and watched as they handed the sacks to Mom in the car and RAN up the hill to the next house.

It was a good way to start the day, albeit an EARLIER way than I would have preferred.

Taxes

This is all I've got to say about that:
Don't ever willingly agree to do your Mom's taxes.

Anchovy Paste

So tonight I'm meeting up with some good friends for our (somewhat) monthly "supper club" group. The host tonight is preparing prime rib. Each course will be paired with a wine of the host's choosing. I have opted to take the "salad" course this evening, bypassing my usual "dessert queen" title because someone else asked if they could make the desert (time will tell if this was a good choice for Monica... she has big footsteps to follow in!).

SO, per the host's request I'm taking Ceasar Salad. I borrowed my brother's large wooden salad bowl (protocol requires that a Ceasar salad be made in a wooden bowl whose sides have been freshly rubbed with garlic). I also made the dressing from scratch - the recipe from our family's cookbook. I have to say, the dressing is PERFECT. My idea of a great dressing - tangy but not too tart, with a CRAP-load of garlic and pepper. YUM.

But that brings me to tonight's quandry. What the hell else does one do with ANCHOVY PASTE??? My recipe called for PASTE (and not actual anchovies, thank goodness), and I bought a new tube at the grocery store knowing full well that I'd be throwing out the barely-used tube in the refrigerator when I got home. I'm sure it was purchased the LAST TIME I made Ceasar salad, and since that's definitely not in recent memory I think it was best just to pitch the old stuff.

I could certainly look up "anchovy paste" on the food network website and see what matches might result, but I'd love any suggestions anyone might have on other uses, so I don't have to throw out a whole friggin' tube 2 years from now. Now I'm off to chow down! wheee!

SICK AND TIRED!!!!!!!!!

So, this is the SECOND time I've had the SARS/Black Lung/Typhoid that's being passed around the cube farm I fondly refer to as my office.

It sounds like a WWI infirmary from 8:00 to 5:00... coughing, sneezing, soft whimpering, cries of anguish. We just keep passing it from one person to the next; around and around it goes until it comes back to me again. My lungs feel like they've been stuffed with steel wool, and I'm friggin' exhausted from lack of sleep.

DAMN IT I AM SO SICK OF WINTER!!!!!

Scots and Scotch

Last weekend we went to Fremont, NE to a Sunday morning church service my Aunty Mary had put together... the "kirkin' of the tartans." It was great. She's traced my Mom's side of the family back to the McDonald's, and is very much into the whole "Scottish" thing.

Most of the folks that came to church that day wore some form of plaid, even if they weren't Scots. My Aunt looked great in her garb, and both my hubby and brother wore kilts. We then went out to my Aunt's house for an outstanding lunch of roast lamb, good single malt scotch, and fellowship.

Here's the origins of a "kirking": http://www.clansofscotland.org/descriptions/kirkin.html

Can't wait until next year!

Borat??

So. Last weekend my hubby's rockin' band played at the Whiskey Roadhouse venue at the local casino. Fun joint, cheap drinks, good place to people watch while listening to some kick-ass music. And the people watching was INDEED amazing. The great thing about casinos - they really do attract the unwashed masses.

The highlight of Friday night was this gentleman. I call him Red Hat Guy, although I should probably call him Dance Like a Maniac with Your Zipper Down Guy. He danced for an hour straight with his normal-looking wife, all the while wearing the sunglasses and stocking cap. And all the while with his fly open.

The highlight was at the end of the night, the lights come on and she heads for the bathroom for one last pee before they leave. He reaches over, grabs her sweater or jacket thingy (couldn't tell for sure what it was from where I was sitting), and TOWELS HIMSELF OFF with it, then puts it back on her chair. Awesome.

I can't wait until they play there again.

New Year

So I hired a personal trainer last week, as obviously I am too weak and lazy to get my ass to the gym by myself on an ongoing basis. Oh, I'm motivated for a couple weeks, but after that I lose interest. Eventually, I am lucky to make it in to work out once a month. Hence my gigando booty and jabba-the-hut-like chins. I HATE IT!

The first session with my trainter was last week after work, on a Thursday. It was good. We discussed a lot of things: nutrition, schedules, goals, etc. Went through a pretty basic workout that was good, but I especially enjoyed pulling the sled and swinging a sledge hammer.

Yesterday I met with my trainer on Tuesday morning. At 7:00 a.m. YES, I said 7:00 a.m.

I am SO not a morning person, yet the weight of knowing that someone is WAITING for me got me out of bed and there on time. It sucked for the first 5 minutes, but after that I'm thinking "man, I LIKE working out in the morning!" But I'll tell ya, that inertia when the alarm goes off is WICKED. I'm hoping it gets easier the more I do it.

Today, I feel like I got run over by a truck. We did a TON of upper body work yesterday. I could barely brush my teeth this morning, my arms were so rubbery. But I'll tell you what - I LIKE being sore. Not so much the sore part itself, but the knowledge that I'm sore because I'm DOING something to make myself healthier. I have a really long way to go. A REALLY long way. But I'm trying to keep my goals small and near-term. Now, if I can just heal up enough for my session tomorrow. Ouch.