Firefox

While The Boy was home, he downloaded and installed Firefox for me. Not that I wasn't able to do it myself. I think he did it because he likes using it and was, at that time, hogging using my computer. But maybe he did it because when we had been talking about it earlier, I mentioned I had been wanting to check it out. Either way.

I really like it. Everything loads faster. The tab feature is cool. Instead of multiple separate windows, multiple windows in a tabbed format. Nice and neat.

But Firefox doesn't seem to like my blog template much. I think it is due to my "imperfect" html.

Imagine. My html is imperfect. I know, I know. Hard to believe.

I have been surfing Blog Explosion using Firefox to see if other blogs have display issues similar to the kind I experience with my own. There are a few that are squirrely, particularly with columns.

So if you've surfed here using Firefox: my sidebar is NOT supposed to look like that! There are things missing. And it looks different every time I load it. If you've got any clues as to what I can tweak to make it appear it does in IE, I'm all ears. Help me!

Does the phrase "help me" cause anyone else to have the image of a fly with a tiny human head pop into their mind?

To Your Right

Yeah, look over there.
Or down. Look down.
The flower is celebrating.
And when the flower celebrates, it's always a good thing.

Yay me.

Views from Above

Friday morning, I took this picture of the view from the upstairs bathroom window. I could wake up to this view every day and never tire of it. But waking up to that view would necessitate me living with my parents.

The picture will have to suffice.

Earthwind Moreland

Wendy says: There's this football player named Moreland.
M-O-R-E-L-A-N-D.

I reply: Oh?

Wendy says: His first name is Earthwind.

I reply: What? (Thinking I was sure I must have heard her wrong.)

Wendy says: The announcer announced his mother named him after her favorite band, Earth, Wind & Fire.

I reply: WTF?



What, just what, was his mother thinking?

Order!

Wendy is craving order. And when Wendy craves order, I just stand back and stay out of the way. Actually I'm hiding in the office. Same net effect.

Closets are being emptied and reorganized. Bags are being filled with clothing to give away. Winter clothes are being rotated in. Random "stuff" that accumulated in the wrong place is being relocated to the right place.

Wendy is craving order.
It's a beautiful thing indeed.

Things We Did

Last Thursday we trekked over the river and through the woods to celebrate Thanksgiving with the grandparents. The Boy's grandparents. Our parents.

We ate. We drank. We watched football.
We ate. We drank. We played dominos.
We ate. We drank. We did dishes.
We ate. We drank. We napped.
We ate. We drank. We read books and newspapers.
We ate. We drank. We laughed.
We ate. We drank. We watched "Survivor".
We ate. We drank. We stayed up too late and got up too early.
We ate. We drank. We played with the cats.
We ate. We drank. We chatted.
We ate. We drank. We celebrated my step-father's 69th
                                     birthday and my sister's 44th. We
                                     celebrated Wendy's birthday too. A
                                     few days early.

We also raked leaves. The kind of leaves that fall from trees each Fall. Yeah. Those. We gathered them using a variety of means and stuffed them into large bags. The joy! The rapture! You know what they say after all: The family that rakes together... well... hmmm... what do they say? Aches together?

I thought Wendy and I had stuffed an impressive number of bags full of leaves while cleaning up our own yard. I was mistaken. Impressive is the 89 bags of leaves we stuffed at my parent's house.

Back To the Future

A long holiday weekend sans blogging. Until Sunday. That's today. Sunday signals the end of that long holiday weekend. Sunday signals the return of all bodies to The Places They Now Belong. Sunday signals the return of normalcy. Whatever normalcy may mean. I know what it means to me.

This morning, we hugged and waved farewell to The Boy as he hopped into his suitemate's automobile to brave the teeming highways and byways as they return to The Place They Now Belong. He carried with him a mountain of clean and sweet smelling clothing. I'm sure when he gets back to the dorm, it will once again be strewn on the floor and flung in whatever direction it happens to fly. Not my problem! And that's a good thing. He also toted two turkey sandwiches, two Fugi apples and two bottles of water. Boys get hungry in the car. Boys get hungry everywhere.

Do I miss him yet? Silly me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'll be back after I've digested my share of turkey and pie. Oh, and after I've raked and bagged my share of the leaves in my parent's yard.

Y'all behave!



PS: Happy Birthday to my dear sister Sherab Khandro. We love you and wish you were here with us!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love Ya, Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the day our college students start arriving home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

I have the privilege of picking up Jacqueline (ummm... how do you pronounce your name?) at the train station at 9:25 in the morning.

The Boy is getting dropped off tomorrow evening, right on our doorstep, by one of his suitemates. I love delivery.

Day Off Without Pay

Wendy and I spent yesterday afternoon out with our friends. Drinking beer and gorging on healthy foods such as hot wings and onion rings. These are our fantasy football playing friends. The league in which I am the big loser. Except for the past two weeks. And maybe I'll pull out another win this week. It's going to be close.

The restaurant had about 35 televisions, all tuned in to the assortment of NFL games playing that afternoon. It was more than a little frenetic. And noisy. And fun.

I never thought I'd say this. I was grateful for Montgomery County's new regulation banning smoking in all restaurants and bars. Our smoking friends had to go stand outside to smoke.

Wendy and I didn't. Have to go stand outside that is. Because we are non-smokers. :)

Back Where It Belongs

And in time to go watch football with our friends.
Booyah!

The Stars Might Lie, But the Numbers Never Do

The title is a favorite quote of mine. Anyone know the source of it besides the Mary Chapin Carpenter song "I Feel Lucky"?

So I am sharing some numbers herein. Because numbers are almost as cool as words. Almost.

My NaNoWri word count has been displayed to the right since I began. But there are so many more interesting numbers to share relating to that endeavor. All statistics are current as of today at 8:00 pm EST.

• Words Behind Schedule: 3,222
• Percentage Complete: 56.89%
• Percentage of Time Used: 63.33%
• Words Left to Write: 21,553
• Days Left to Write Those Words: Ten

Now how about some non-NaNo statistics? How about some bathroom renovation statistics? Oh yeah, baby. Try to contain your enthusiasm.

• Days Since Renovation Began: 173
• Number of Times Wendy and I Have Previously Done This Type of Work: Zero
• Days We've Had to Shower in the Skanky Downstairs Bathroom: 172
• Days Spent on Demolition: One.
• Days Spent (So Far) Putting It Back Together: Oh please. You do the math. But not all of those days were actually spent working on this. We have lives, after all, as pathetic as they may be.
• Pounds of Debris Hauled to the Curb: Unweighable. An f'ing ton.
• Number of Windows Replaced: One
• Rolls of Insulation Used: Two
• Sheets of CBU Installed: Five
• Sheets of Drywall Installed: Seven
• Number of Tiles Set: 700, give or take a half
• Bags of Thinset Used: 2.5
• Cartons of Grout Used: 1.5
• Number of Acetaminophen Tablets Swallowed: Less than 300, but not many less
• Trips to the Hardware Store: Too many to count
• Lunches From Popeyes Picked Up On Our Way Home From the Hardware Store: Too many to count less five or six
• Number of Times We've Used the F-Word During This Project: Many many many f'ing times (Our mothers would be so proud? ha!)
• Number of Times Knuckles Have Been Scraped and Bleeding: Any number greater than zero is too many. We've surpassed that by a large margin.
• Number of Mosquitos Fed By Wendy While Washing the Tile Saw: 50, give or take a few and not counting repeat diners
• Mistakes Made: Get real. Who counts those?
• Amount of Time Spent Contemplating How to Resolve "Issues": Lots. Lots and lots. It's all part of the process, dontcha know.
• Number of Times We've Considered Giving Up and Hiring a Professional: Zero. We're tenacious.
• Number of Times Friends Have Said "You Still Haven't Finished That Project?": Too many to count. (Friends, don't ask questions like that! Have a heart!)
• Number of Times We've Looked at Our Progress and Said "Wow, This Is Going to Be Gorgeous!": A zillion at least. Positive reinforcement is essential.
• Days Until We Can Pee Upstairs Again: ONE! *knock on wood*
• Days Until We Aren't Brushing Our Teeth in the Kitchen Anymore: Approximately eleven.

See? I told you. Numbers are fun!

Playing Dress Up Is Akin to Doing Drugs.... Who Knew?

I'll borrow a headline from a regular feature in Sports Illustrated:
"This Week's Sign of the Apocalypse".

From Reuters.com, 'Cross-Dressing' Out, Camouflage In:

HOUSTON (Reuters) - Camouflage was in and cross-dressing was out at a rural East Texas school district after a Christian legal group complained a long-standing school tradition of reversing social roles for a day would promote homosexuality.

Students in Spurger, Texas were encouraged by school officials to wear camouflage hunting gear to class on Wednesday after they called off their annual "TWIRP Day" in which boys dressed as girls and vice versa.

... Delana Davies, who has two children in the Spurger school, complained this year that the tradition could promote homosexuality and got the Liberty Legal Institute, a right-wing Christian legal group, to take up the cause.

"It might be fun today to dress up like a little girl -- kids think it's cute and things like that. And you start playing around with it and, like drugs, you do a little here and there (and) eventually it gets you," Davies told reporters.

WTF is wrong with people? Do they also believe if their children spend too much time swimming they'll turn into fish?

Not-So-Fortunate Cookies

Next to the coffee pot were three chinese fortune cookies left over from when we had delivery food for dinner one evening last week.

As I poured my second cup of coffee this morning I opened one up. And then I opened up another because the fortune in the first one was more stupid than the typical fortune inside a fortune cookie.

After I cracked all three of them open in search of a decent fortune, all I was left with were crumbled fortune cookies and boring fortunes.

Does anyone really enjoy eating the cookies that hold the fortunes? Nice crunch but not much flavor.

May all of the 365 dreams you have this year come true.

A thrilling time is in your immediate future.

Promote literacy. Buy a box of fortune cookies today.

If you are in need of a fortune, please feel free to help yourself to one of the above.

Ancient History

I drove past a building today that I've driven past, oh probably a million (not kidding) times in my life. Sometimes buildings fade into the background and I don't even notice them any more. I mean, I know they are there. But I don't really look at them.

But today I looked at this particular building. A brand new shiny sign out front caught my eye. The sign has two words on it, but I only remember one: Carwash.

A childhood memory of that building relates directly to the old sign. When it was a carwash of a different name. Back then, the sign regularly displayed Christian messages like "Jesus Loves a Clean Car" and "It's a Sin To Drive a Dirty Auto". Who knew?

I'm rather slothful about keeping my car clean. It's never been a priority. I mean, as soon as it gets washed it just gets dirty again. Like immediately. The rain rinses it well enough every so often. I don't feel the same about the interior. I like the interior fairly clean with minimal debris and/or clutter. It's much easier to keep it that way with The Boy away at school.

The Boy tends more after his father when it comes to the interior of the car, yet not to his dad's extreme. His father, BG, has always has the most clutter, the most crap, the most bizarre collection of shit in his car that sometimes there is only room for the driver. Seriously.

BG had an accident many years ago and his only severe injuries were caused by the incredible amount of absolute junk important personal possessions flying around inside the car.

Way way way way back, I had cause to borrow his car one evening. I was taking two friends out somewhere. It was a cold winter evening, the kind where you can see your breath when you talk. We piled into the old Ford Pinto stationwagon, the three of us. I started the engine and as we sat waiting for it to warm up a bit, we were laughing and yucking it up. Naturally the windows fogged up.

We were ready to roll, but the defroster hadn't geared up enough to clear the windows. I reached over into the passenger foot area to find something to wipe it off with. My searching hand brushed against something soft and I deemed whatever it was to be a good window-wiping-off thing.

As I started rubbing the windshield with it, however, I realized what it was. It was a freaking banana peel. On the floor of the car. Just left there. It had been there a while. On top of a pile of could-be-anything other crap.

We three found it incredibly amusing. Our laughter fogged the windows again.

For reasons unknown, it's one of my favorite stories to tell about BG. I don't tell it in a mean way, more in a "here's an endearing BG story" way. I mean, if you know him, you just have to laugh. Because it's so him. And that's okay. Because I don't have to live with it!

Change of Plans?

I wanted to start a fire in the fireplace. Wendy had a late meeting, so I thought it would be nice for her to come home to a cozy cracking fire with the house feeling warm and welcoming. We would eat leftover roast beast from last night's dinner and share all the boring little details of our day with each other.

When I say "boring little details" I'm mainly referring to my day. My days overflow with boring little details. She probably has some interesting details to share about hers. Oh! I do have one interesting thing to share with her. Something she'll find fascinating because it's medical and she loves medical stuff. It's gross medical too. She'll be in heaven.

But back to the fire.
I was going to start a fire.
But a bird thwarted me.
At least for now.

For the second time in as many months, there is a bird on our screened porch. This time it's a female cardinal. I watched her for a while, as she perched prettily on the edge of the table. She seemed calm. Then. Until Dudley romped out through the open door and onto the porch where he immediately knew something was up! (Alert! Alert! They are coming to kill all us! Dogs can be such drama queens.) So the bird got frantic and started flying all around trying to find the way she came in so she could go out.

The porch is between the house and the firewood. I have to walk through the porch to get to the wood. The bird was flying all around. I thought of this woman and her interesting experiences with birds. I would prefer not to have experiences like that. So I cowered inside the dining room, looking out into the darkness and wondering if the bird had found the door yet.

I know, I know. I should help that poor bird find the door. But it's dark. And I can't see it except when it flies right by my head at like 30 mph. Some help I'd be.

Eh. She found her way in, she'll find her way out.
In the meantime, starting the fire will just have to wait.

Get Up. Get Out of Here. Enough Already! *

Wendy and I attempted to enjoy almost two full days of laying around being not-very-productive members of society. The attempt was made more difficult due to the guilt which constantly poked at us for being lazy unmotivated slugs. That's right. Catholics don't have the market cornered on guilt. Neither do those of the Jewish faith. We not-totally-godless heathens feel guilt too.

Actually, Wendy had three full days of laying around. But she has an excuse. She had a bit of a bug. Because I was and have been perfectly healthy, the first day she spent laying around I was at work. Working. Or whatever it is I get paid to do.

Of course, those next two days I could not leave her on her own to lay around. What kind of a partner would I be if I didn't keep her company and bear some of the burden of laying around? Why I'd be a crappy one, that's what.

But today.
Oh today.
Today we broke out.
Big time.

I can't share with you in detail all the productive things we did today because I'm supposed to be working on my NaNo word count, not exalting over all our accomplishments in a blog entry. Suffice to it say the leaves that were once scattered ankle deep all over our yard are now in one of two places: a) stuffed into one of the twenty-two bags bulging leaf bags piled next to the old oak tree, or b) reuniting with relatives whom last year had relocated to the wildlife refuge in our backyard.

We are also this close (picture me holding up my hand, with my thumb and my forefinger positioned just a pinch apart) to putting the toilet back into the upstairs bathroom. It's been residing in the guest room for several months now and with company coming for the holidays, well, someone just might notice.

It's amazing what one can accomplish if one just gets out of bed.




* title of this post shamelessly borrowed from an Alanis song. Can't remember the title, but the words are definitely hers not mine.

Warming Up

It's been cold here. While Dudley has always enjoyed sitting in front of the fireplace, this is new behavior for our old one-eyed cat Figero. Cosine, on the other hand, is not allowed near the fireplace. Her unsteady gait and diminished spacial awareness can be a danger. Several times we've had to jump to catch her from walking right into the fire. I'd call her a dumbass, but I love her. Actually that doesn't stop me from calling her a dumbass. But only as a term of endearment, of course.

Fish in a Can

I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday. But the weather was not conducive to leaving the house: 40 degrees, raining hard, cold splishy-splashing heavy driving rain. Just miserable. I did not want to go out in weather like that. I was in my jammies. I was cozy. I was warm. I did not want that status to change. Plus my girlfriend was home too. In her jammies. Cozy and warm. So I didn't go to the grocery.

But then it came time for dinner. All my previous thoughts on dinner had been pushed off into the "I don't need to think about that now because I'm going to the grocery store later" place. I neglected to re-visit the issue after changing my mind about leaving the house. I did know there was not much food-food in the house. We had plenty of snack food on hand. But not dinner-making-food-food. So when dinner time came along, I was stymied. Should we phone out for food? And if not the phone, then what to make for dinner? Suddenly everything fell into place.

Last night we dined on tuna patties. Ayup. Tuna patties.

I don't even know where the idea for tuna patties came from or how such an idea ever made it into my not-so-imaginative mind. The first time I made them was an act born of desperation. It was another situation similar to the one in which I found myself last night. People to feed and no real idea of what to feed them. Down to canned goods and a few odd ball left-over items but not enough left over to be of any real use.

I don't know about your household but in our household invariably there are at least six cans of tuna fish on one of the pantry shelves. It's just one of those things we don't seem to run out of. So I mixed together the same ingredients I use to make meatballs, substituting canned tuna fish for the usual ground beef, omitting the milk and changing the seasonings a little. And then formed patties instead of balls.

You may be thinking, "Oh big deal. I make tuna patties all the time! Why does she think tuna patties are anything special?"

Because in our house, they are special. Turns out Wendy really enjoys them. And they are easy to whip up when there's really no dinner-making-food-food left in the house on those too lazy to go grocery shopping days. So I win despite having been a slug hanging around in my jammies all day.

Yay for tuna.
Yay for jammies.
Yay for rainy days.

Random

Writing dialogue is hard.
It is raining like crazy here today.
Like cats and dogs.
Whatever that means.
It's a good day to stay home.
Which I am doing.
Which we are doing.
I slept wrong on my shoulder the other night.
It still hurts.
I feel slightly whiny and hope it will pass.
Did I mention it's raining like crazy here?
Our dogs don't like to poop outside in the rain.
Neither of them.
I don't think I'd much like it either.
Writing dialogue is hard.
I'm procrastinating again.

Serving Oneself

Am I the only one who thinks the pay-at-the-pump option at gas stations is the coolest thing since sliced bread? The convenience of not having to interface with another human while making a purchase is something I appreciate. Sometimes I just don’t feel like talking to anyone, or having to muster up the energy for a smile or small talk. Places to go! People to see! Things to do! No time to stop and exude even the tiniest bit of humanity!

My enjoyment of that feature may also relate to the whole not having to walk all the way to wherever it is the cashier is to be found. No it’s not really laziness, it has more to do with being in a hurry. Paying via a cashier not only requires walking the extra distance but also standing in line behind other patrons. And mustering more smiles or small talk. Places to go! People to see! Things to do! No time to stop and exude even the tiniest bit of humanity!

While I haven’t seen them up here in Virginia, when we visit The Boy we always get gas at a station where the pumps also take paper money in addition to credit or debit cards. Options are good.

My parents who live in Oregon do not have such options. Oregonians evidently cannot be trusted to pump their own gasoline. Also, although I don’t know if the whole state is like this, when one stops for gas on the New Jersey Turnpike, it is not an option to pump one’s own gas there either. Around here, if I want gas the only way to get it is to pump it myself.

I must now apply self-censorship before I include an off-color comment about pumping it one's self.

World Faces

Check out the gallery.
Quite a crowd there.

I'm sorry too.

It's Official: Corn Goes Both Ways!

Thanks to the insominiacal research by The Brown Cow, I am no longer confused by corn. We can all now sleep well at night secure in the knowledge that corn is both a vegetable AND a grain. The following is from a link s/he provided entitled What Counts As a Vegetable:

"When corn is sitting there on the cob, all yellow and squishy, it's a vegetable. However, when corn is taken off the cob and dried out, it's a grain. Cornbread is made with corn meal, which makes it a grain. Popcorn is made with dessicated corn kernels, and so is also a grain. Canned or frozen corn, on the other hand, goes out of its way to retain corn's various ... on-the-cob qualities, and therefore qualifies as a ... vegetable."

Thanks again to The Brown Cow!
(I'd give them a link except s/he is evidently one of the more anonymous types. Bummer.)

Corn Confuses Me

What is popcorn?

And before you say "It's popped corn, dumbass", let me point out that I'm after something deeper than a mere literal definition. I know what popcorn is.

Now I want to know what it is.
As in where does it fit on the food pyramid?

My friend Tina, who was munching popcorn at the time and is therefore responsible for this thought rattling around in my head, opined it's a vegetable. Being that it's corn and all.

But popcorn? A vegetable?
That doesn't seem right.

I looked up the food pyramid. One that I found had a graphic of a little ear of corn tucked amongst the vegetables in the vegetable and fruit section of said pyramid. Confirmation that corn is indeed a vegetable on the food pyramid. Perhaps I am the only one who appreciates visual confirmation of something we all already knew.

But does that mean anything made from corn, such as popcorn, is also a vegetable? Because by that logic, there are many other foods that would be considered vegetables while at the same time cannot logically be considered vegetables. Despite being made from corn.

Like grits. And tortillas. And Fritos. And Corn Pops.

A corn dog could then be considered a well-rounded meal. Even moreso if one eats it with ketchup applied. But that's just wrong in so many ways.

Yet I just cannot escape the logic Tina applied to popcorn. It is corn. Just like you'd get off a cob or out of a can or from a frozen box of Green Giant Niblets Corn & Butter Sauce. And it tastes better with butter and salt, just like grits.

Obviously a vegetable.
Has to be.

"Poker? I Just Met Her!"

So sayeth our friend Bud, as the opening of the email sent inviting us to poker night at his home in Woodbridge. Quite an appropriate greeting for the locale. You'd understand if you'd ever been to Woodbridge.

We, of course, said yes. Poker is fun. Getting out for the evening is fun. We packed up our nickels, dimes and quarters. We made dip, bought chips and were not the first nor last ones to arrive.

The games were fun. I neither won big nor lost big. Wendy came out up a little. However I must admit a small something. There were several games where the winning pot would be split between two players, such as in the case of Low Chicago. One game, she and I were the winners. Instead of splitting the pot as we winners were supposed to, she took her ante and gave me the rest because she knew my pile was low. She's nice like that.

What really fascinated me was the people. Oh the assortment of people our host brought together for that night of poker! Start with Wendy and me, typical suburban lesbians. Mix in a wiseass UPS driver. Add a quiet fellow who makes a living building computer networks (which one could surmise immediately after meeting him... he had that aura, but in a good way). Lavishly sprinkle with high school strings teachers.

Yes. You read correctly. High school strings teachers. As in orchestra. Violin, viola, bass. Yeah, you know. Waving the baton. Tuning the strings. Three of them. At one poker table. What are the odds?

And for icing, one was in his first year of teaching. We think he was maybe, oh, 23 tops. Last year he was a student teacher for the other woman at the table. We called her Pumpkin, because she was wearing a bulky orange sweater and therefore resembled, albeit remotely, a pumpkin. 'Tis the season and such. The young man: good hair, good highlights, two earrings, good shave (or lack thereof), BoSox t-shirt. Good is subjective of course, yet really quite a pleasant young man.

But he teaches strings. Three of them at the table that night do! Yes, Bud's one too! They'd pop out with some orchestra-themed joke every so often and they'd laugh amongst themselves. The rest of us just kind of looked at each other like "WTF did that mean?" Orchestra-themed jokes! Jokes that actually made them laugh!

I ask you.
What are the odds?

Yes, I'm Procrastinating. So What?

Here's the obligatory post-show family-in-the-lobby pic. The Boy's required 1885 hairstyle is weird. You can't see it in this picture, but he's sporting some long-ass bushy sideburns too. Much like Hyde (no relation to Edward) on That 70s Show.

(More on our trip and the show later, after I somehow get caught up on my word count. I'm only 3,800 behind schedule. No nagging necessary, I'm on it!)

Pasta Perfection?

Is there some secret formula for measuring uncooked pasta to ensure that a) one doesn't cook too much and b) one doesn't cook too little?

I have always had the problem of cooking too much. "Oh, gee. That doesn't look like nearly enough pasta!" So I'd dump half the economy-sized package in the boiling water, only to end up either a) eating leftover pasta for a week or b) tossing it out the next time the refrigerator was purged.

Tonight I tried very very hard to properly estimate the amount of penne pasta to cook for our dinner. I did not want leftovers. I had a set amount of meat sauce. I wanted to cook just the right amount of noodles to go with the sauce. I carefully read the box. I even pulled out a measuring cup.

"Two ounces equals one serving," I read. Carefully I measured two ounces of dry pasta. Didn't look like much. I needed two servings anyway, so I added another two ounces. Still didn't look like much. So I doubled it to eight ounces. Still didn't look like much, but oh well. The box said two ounces. I was cooking eight. It should be plenty!

So we had an appetizer-sized dinner tonight. The box lied. I am so confused.

Don't Look Now...

... but I do believe Hell Hath Frozen Over just became my fantasy football team's new name.

Yes yes, it may be silly to keep changing a team's name. But for me, the only fun I've had so far is changing their name as an indicator of their fortunes as the season progresses. You see, up until now their record, no matter what I called them, stood at a mortifying 0-8.

My team optimistically started out as the Marauders.

Then, in Week 7, their name changed to the Miami Dolphins, when the Dolphins were 0-6 and their record matched that of the former Marauders. But that same week, Miami had the nerve to actually win a game. My team didn't bother. Oh they tried, but their hearts obviously weren't into it. They seemed to feel winning isn't everything. WTF? I fired my coach and hired someone new. Hopefully someone competent.

Along with the new coach came a new name: Could Use An F'ing Break.

And yesterday they got one. A break, that is.
1-8 baby!
Hell Hath Frozen Over.

**happy dance***




PS: We're home! More later.

Heading South

Okay, so it's our lucky weekend (although a large part of me would feel pretty damn lucky if I could just curl up in bed to nap and read and read and nap all weekend).

Wendy and I are traveling to see The Boy's show, departing this afternoon. This evening, we'll be joined by my mom and her friend. Saturday, they will depart for home and my step-mother from Oregon will arrive.

Shuffling grandparents. Yippee! Last weekend The Boy was inundated with parents and grandparents from his father's side. Followed by our double-strike this weekend. Mwuha. It's rather like payback for the time he blew out his diaper and used it as fingerpaint back when he was about nineteen months old.

Yet I think he enjoys our visits. I hope he does. I know he enjoys being slipped cash. He is my son, after all. And parents and grandparents are usually good for at least a little of that. Eases the pain and such.

You'll have to do without my exceptionally insightful commentary whining for several days. Try not to miss me too much.

If you need a chuckle, or even if you don't, go read this blog. Unless, of course, you already do. And if you already do, go read it again. You know it's worth it.

Bring It On!

I woke up this morning with the Ramones' song "I Want to Be Sedated" kicking around in my head.

Now if that's not a sign that today is going to be one rockin' fine day, I don't know what is!

Equality Is a Fantasy?

I, like 48% of other Americans, am disappointed with the results of the elections.

While I’m disappointed with the outcome of the presidential race as well as the increased republican control in both the House and the Senate, I am even more distressed by the overwhelming passage of same-sex marriage bans across our nation. Imagine.

Down deep inside of all that is my being, I truly believed in the inherent fairness of the American population. I believed tolerance of the differences in people would eventually equate to acknowledgement that ensuring equal legal rights for all Americans is the proper thing for our country. Tolerance despite differing religious and personal beliefs. Acknowledgement that Americans treasure freedom and equality for all our citizens above all else. But this election has proven how wrong I was.

I have been spoiled I guess. Because I am personally surrounded by people who accept Wendy and me as a couple without imposing their own standards of how they define morality on our lives. People that know me, that know us, that know our Boy. Those people have spoiled me and led me to naively believe that one day our citizens would stand up and allow me and my family equal access to and protection under our laws. For no other reason than because it’s the right thing to do. I am obviously a fool.

I am damned tired of hearing strangers preach about how immoral my relationship is. Of hearing how much of a sinner I am because I am homosexual. I am damned tired of people who don’t know squat about me or my family or my sexuality sitting in moral judgment of who I am. In judgment of who I love. In judgment of the bond of our family. In judgment of the quality of my parenting. In judgment that the structure of my family is a detriment to American society.

What the hell am I missing here?
Why is my sexuality such a threat to so many Americans?




Tomorrow is my 42nd birthday.
And how does that relate to this post?
It doesn’t.
I thought changing the subject may help me feel better.
It didn’t work.

Good Morning America

Mission accomplished?
Blech.

"Pardon me while I burst into flames."

---Incubus, "Pardon Me"

Hell Freezing Over?

It's 32 degrees and snowing.
In Amarillo, Texas.
Yet another reason this is an historic day.

Wendy and I just returned from the polls. We waited an hour in a serpentine line to cast our votes. Folks with last names beginning with A-K kept getting pulled out of line and taken to the front. Evidently the people checking their names were more efficient than the folks checking those of us who are L-Z.

There was a family of four in line ahead of us. Both parents were wearing Kerry buttons and the kids had Kerry stickers on their shirts. A polling place person tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to remove the Kerry button affixed to my purse. Evidently it is against the rules to display such things within a certain distance of the polls. Yet the family in front of me was not asked to remove their buttons. What's up with that? I wondered briefly what they were going to do with the big burly guy in line behind us who was wearing a Bush t-shirt. Make him turn it inside out maybe? Or maybe nothing, like was done with the family of Kerry supporters in front of us.

It sure is going to be a long day.

I Am Aware Now

November is National Disability Awareness Month.

Wendy just told me that after I shared with her the fascinating bit of information that October had been National Stamp Collecting Month.

Her bit of news is more relevant. I never have been able to get that excited about stamps. Except when I need one and don't have it. Then I can get excited. But disabled persons? They are everywhere.

You, too, are now aware.