Flipped on the TV for noise as I blog surfed, and was greeted with the news that they're sure they've caught the serial rapist that's been running loose for the past couple of years here.

I have some ideas what they should do with him, but they're not very nice and would surely propel my blog from a G to a hard R rating...

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!
With thanks for those who've served to get us this far...

We celebrated by taking a bike ride this morning before it got too hot, and it got too hot long before we expected it to, hence a ride shorter than we'd planned. Tomorrow looks to be even hotter, so if we want to ride, we'll have to get up at a normal people hour, and the opening of the garage door is going to wake The Boy.

And why would a motorcycle dealership have a huge 4th Of July Summer Blowout Sale! sign hanging off its roof, and then be closed for the holiday? They totally missed out on a sale today. Well, we would've bought a pair of gloves, but a sale is a sale and now they may never get my $19.99...

I don't know why I was having a yard sale on a cruise ship in a dream this morning, and I especially don't know why Rosie O'Donnell walked up to me, a mass of people in her wake, so that she could pluck hairs from one of my eyebrows.

Just one. Apparently the other eyebrow was tidy enough.

And I really don't know why, as she passed with that wake of people behind her, someone reached out and stole the $4.50 I had earned from selling my collective crap on the cruise ship. But I do appreciate that Rosie herself, upon hearing that the woman with the wayward eyebrow had been ripped off, came back all by herself later and gave me $5 to make up for it.

Oddz N Enz Numero 6,293,890

• The Spouse Thingy has 4 days in a row off next week. Or 4 nights, depending on how you look at it. Now, my first thought was "Niiiice...we can take a couple of long bike rides." Then I saw the forecast for next week.
  
• One hundred nine freaking degrees should be illegal.
  
• As I sat upon the edge of the bed this evening to fold laundry, I pointed at both cats and told them the litterbox was off limits for the next fifteen minutes, as it is directly across the hall and I didn't want to deal with it.
  
• Both cats had massive intestional explosions within 3 minutes.
  
• I think they were both laughing at me, too.
  
• This is evidence that Max laughs at me ===>
  
• While the world mourns the sale of my spiffy black convertible, the world should know we were trying to sell it even before we found out we have to move. The meager proceeds from the sale, however, are no longer going to what we'd originally intended.
  
• It's horrible, but I wish an itchy, nasty rash upon the tender nads of our landlord.
  
• Just in case the house next door is not available in time, the Spouse Thingy and I scoped out a few neighborhoods in and near Sacramento. There's some spiffy stuff up there. Roseville is especially nice now. We'd be near a fricking huge mall and the flea market. But I'm not sure how his commute to work would be from there; it might be even longer than from here, time-wise.
  
• I have not seen Library Bob in a long time. Perhaps he finally read all the books...?
  
• Or maybe he just got tired of no one, including the people who work there, using their inside-the-library voices.
  
• I have a wicked case of the munchies. And there's pie in the kitchen. I think I'm doomed.
  

::Hangs Head:::

A brief moment of mourning.
There will be no more topless driving for Thumper & family.
My spiffy black convertible has been sold.

OK, I'm done.
The idea of moving is now much less stressful.

:::goes back to Snoopy Dancing:::

Happiness is a successful eBay auction.

Or 5.

Now, to dig through boxes for more stuff. It's really fun when everyone pays...

For Wasamonkeytoo...the rest of y'all can skip this one...

Wow... I'm not sure why you pointed me to that other blog post. You wanted to hurt me? If so, congratulations, you accomplished that. It's just a shame that the blogger in question had the details wrong, and blamed me for someone else shutting down their blog.

But, for the record--in case you're reporting back, which I suspect as I can't see any other reason for pointing me her way again--I knew the moment the blogger who quit made his grand announcement (and my dreadful comment on his blog was " :::tiptoes out quietly::: " which was obviously horrid...) that the dynamics had shifted. Yet no one ever bothered to ask ME what the deal was. I knew I'd lost her as a friend--though I hung on for two more years, hoping the ice would melt--and she never treated me remotely close the same. Which was entirely her prerogative.

I have *missed* her for two years, my heart was fucking BROKEN over it and still is. I *still* miss her. It only took one comment that cut far too close to home to break me. So I walked away. I had to.

So report back this: I'm sorry. I really am. She was one of the last people I would ever want to hurt, but after 2 years of feeling like I'd been kicked in the gut and when every comment felt encased in ice, I couldn't take it anymore. Yeah, I caved in to my inner 8 year old, picked up my toys, and went home.

And no one--no one--online will ever get that much of me again. I would never trash her to anyone; to have it pointed out that I am now a laughingstock among some people I thought were friends... well thanks. That just makes me feel so special.

I'm not sure if I'm proud or disappointed in that...

Explain to me why my first thought upon waking this morning was Did they really expect us to believe that Gomer Pyle would have ever made it through Marine boot camp?

:::scratches head, wanders off:::

Keep your fingers crossed...there's a chance that, while we still have to move, it would only be to next door. Seems the house that was for sale for forever recently sold, the new owner did lots of work on the inside, and after having it back for sale for a couple weeks is renting it out. Right now its being rented for 4-6 weeks by his Realtor, which would make it available right about the time we would need it.

Spouse Thingy got to go inside and take a quick peek at it; it's a little smaller than this one, which is fine. It's a little less per month, which is great. AND IT HAS A POOL! The idea of moving is sucky, but I don't think I mind as much if it's just next door. Still have to contend with deposits and the like, but not a truck and stuff.

Once we leave this house, we may take bets on how long it'll be before there's a foreclosure notice on it. Looking at the sale records for it, the guy bought it 2 years ago for around 425K and 10 months later took a 2nd on it for $240K...We're wondering if he's just riding it out until our lease is up so he can bail on it.

We shall see...

But keep your fingers crossed...

Because I Have a History of Pimping...

I threw some things up on eBay today. This is stuff I was planning on at some point but never got around to. Today, I was motivated...

20 GB 4th generation iPod -- it'll hold 5,000 songs and there's over 4500 on there now that I'll leave on. There are some scratches on the front and back, but it works. New earbugs, installation software, and the USB cable included. I have an eclectic taste in music, so there's everything from Barry Manilow to Green Day on it. And there's this playlist, it's one song played out like 10 times...yes, you may laugh at me.

Under Armor Heat Gear Shirt size L new with tags. It's all shiny and slippery feeling, very comfortable and if you don't put anything on under it, you might feel a little naughty/

Under Armor Heat Gear Pants size XXL new with tags. These are shiny and slippery, too.

Draggin Kevlar Shirt, size XL. Probably only of interest to anyone who rides a bike. It's a wicked nice shirt made out of woven kevlar, will help keep your skin intact should the Big Bad happen.

Leather Pants (shut UP!) size 38. These are jean-like leather pants by Xelement. They're unhemmed so you can cut the legs to your own inseam. We won't discuss why I've never been able to wear them...

And somewhere around here I have some rollerblades I got but never used. Those will probably go up on eBay tomorrow or the next day. If I go box-diving, I bet I can find a lot more to eBay. When did eBay become a verb?

And you can still buy my car.

Common courtesy is dead. Or maybe just dying, lying there on the gurney, gasping for breath...

About a month ago, we looked outside and saw the owner of the house taking pictures. The only thing we could thing of was that he was considering putting the house on the market, and the pictures were for the Realtor. So we called the property manager, because our lease ends in August and we wanted a heads up if we were going to have to move.

He called the owner; no problem, the house isn't going up for sale. And Property Manager Guy said he would really be nuts to try to sell right now. It's a tight market and he has tenants paying him money. And if you look up and down our street, at all the houses that have been for sale since we moved in, yeah, he would be a little nuts.

He's nuts.

He's also incredibly inconsiderate. We asked if the house was going up for sale, he assured the property manager it was not. He let the guy know we asked because we had seen them taking pictures, and he lied. Apparently, he admits now that he lied.

For what purpose?

We needed to know. We can only scratch up so much per month, and that 4-6 weeks heads up would have given us just that much more time to try to come up with money to move on. And you know he's not going to just let us have our deposit back upfront to make that a little easier.

Four moves in four years. I am really, really tired of it.

If you buy me a house, I'll bake you some cookies...

You likey?
You hate?
Makes your eyes bleed?
Liked the old one better?
Don't care?

Cuz she said I could share this...

Char, wife of Murf (he who never blogged and then let his blog lapse so now the URL belongs to someone else) rides a 2007 Honda VLX. It replaces her 2006 VLX, which was stolen from in front of their dojang, which prompted many other friends to wonder who would have the balls to steal a bike when just inside that door there happened to be a 7th degree black belt, a 6th degree black belt, and two third degree black belts, along with their assorted sweaty and ready to strike students.

But, that's neither here nor there.

Char was enjoying some alone time, riding her spiffy and shiny new bike, while Murf took the kids to some dad-friendly activity. She zipped along, had fun in the curves, and after a while realized there was a cop car behind her.

Not to worry, she was not speeding. In fact, she was very conscious of the speed limit, as she was on a stretch of road where it was one lane in each direction, with the face of a hill on one side and a drop off on the other. There was also some construction, so the speed limit of 40 had dropped to 30 and was posted with a "Fines Are Double" warning.

She rolled along, aware of the cop behind her, but not concerned. She made sure she would not exceed 30 mph on her speedometer, which meant she was likely only doing 27ish. It would only last about 9 miles, after which she would be able to roll on the throttle a bit and speed up to 45.

Roughly two miles into that stretch of road she heard the crackle of a loud speaker behind her, and a deep voice saying, "Please speed up."

She wasn't sure she heard correctly, but she eased her speed up to 35, knowing that would put her close to an actual 30 but not in danger of getting a ticket.

A half a mile later she heard the speaker again. "Please speed up."

She glanced into her mirror, wondering why. But she wasn't sure she should go any faster. Was it a trick? Was she about to get hosed into a speeding ticket? Was it worth the risk? She shrugged her shoulders visibly, hoping he would get that she just wasn't sure.

"Please speed up," he repeated with a sigh. "I have to pee."

She sped up, and when the road widened a few miles further on she pulled to the far left and left him pass.

She sincerely hopes he found a restroom in time.

For whatever reason, my 9th grade health teacher, Coach Kaufmann chose to share this little presumed factoid with us:

Once you learn to dress yourselves, you develop a preference much like handedness, and for the rest of your life you will put the same side sock on first, and the same side shoe on first. Chances are, if you're right handed, you will always put your left sock and your left shoe on first, and you will do that until the day you die.

This was the same teacher who grabbed a kid out of his chair and forced him to dry-shave with a Bic razor because he had a little bit of stubble at 11 a.m.

He once gave me demerits for mumbling "Dangit" under my breath when I got a quiz back with a grade less than stellar; I wanted 100% and wasn't happy about it. I wasn't questioning the grading, I was pissed at myself. I was never sure why he turned and practically spit venom at me; I know he knew exactly what word I had uttered because he repeated it back.

Wonder-teacher also kept a ruler close at hand, and out of the blue he would whack it hard against the top of his desk, laughing when half the class jumped and squeaked.

For the most part, I considered Coach Kaufmann to be a giant tool. He got the material across, and we learned, but in between soaking up the facts of health and dodging his personality, most of the class was imagining ways to set him on fire without getting caught.

So when he shared that little factoid (something I've never been sure about) I was determined that would never be true for me. I was not a robot, dammit, and I could put my socks on in any freaking order I wanted. I worked at not repeating the order of things.

To this day I still make an effort to mix it up. I thought about that this morning when putting my socks and shoes on. Yesterday it was left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe. Today it was right sock, right shoe, left sock left shoe. And while I was tying them, I actually had the thought Suck it, Coach Kaufmann zip through my head.

Stop laughing. I'm not that strange.

And I bet tomorrow while you're getting dressed, you think about what goes on your feet first...

=snork=

I'm totally ripping off Michele today. Go to Anagram Genius and input your name.

Thumper anagrams to "The Rump" and my real name anagrams to "Spank The Moron."

Yes, it's the little things that make me laugh...

Dear Kitchen Gremlin,

Please return all the missing butter knives, spoons, the spaghetti tongs, serving spoons, and spatulas you have obviously taken. We need them. And it had to be you because there's no other explanation for all these things to suddenly be missing. The cats swear it's not them.

Sincerely,
Wants to make a peanut butter sandwich and has no way to spread it onto the bread.

You don't have to like motorcycles, you just have to have a sense of humor...

It begins with the first notes of Retreat.

Everyone stops. Heads turn in search of the direction of the music. Shopping carts loaded with groceries slow as the baggers stop walking. Cars park in the middle of the road and windows are rolled down to better hear.

Small children take a few extra steps, and then remember.

The strains of Retreat fade; men and women in uniform snap to attention. Kids place their hands over their hearts. Old men whip the hats off heads that they sometimes bow, but more often than not they gaze with a sense of importance towards the notes that have faded to nothing. Other adults stand quietly, hands clasped respectfully behind their backs, chests proudly out, chins held high.

For the next few minutes, there is no movement save the flag in the wind; voices are quiet, motors hum in the background, but no one moves.

For the next few minutes, an entire air force base holds still while the National Anthem plays.

Trust me, even after 23+ years, it's a sight to behold.

=blink=

Whoever designed certain car alarms to be so sensitive that a strong breeze sets them off needs to be kicked in the nads.

My neighbors would surely like a turn at him, too.

Especially at 3 a.m.

=blink=

Damn You, Mrs. Hodge...

In an effort to motivate a class of emerging, disinterested adolescents, my sixth grade teacher split the class into two teams; based on spelling test scores, behavior, participation, and a number of other factors I can't seem to recall, students were rewarded with points, and those points counted towards a team collective score. At the end of two weeks, whichever team had the most points won.

And there were prizes, usually a sucker or candy bar for each kid on the winning team, once in a while it was a can of soda given just before lunch.

Yeah, that wouldn't fly today, with uber-senstive helicopter parents whining about their precious progeny's sense of self esteem. It wouldn't be fair for little Donovanella to have to sit there, a loser, watching while some of her friends got to have a candy bar while she didn't. Why, that might scar her for life!

But it worked. We wanted to be on the winning team, so we made huge efforts to get there. We kept each other in check, we diffused potential fights without having to rely on an adult, we helped each other learn those 12-letter spelling words. We participated in class discussions and learned to not make fun of the kid with the stutter who was just trying to get his answer out without crying; we learned patience. If our team lost, oh well. There was always the next two weeks, always something to look forward to.

And the teacher wasn't stupid; she frequently mixed the teams. Roughly every six weeks she rattled the rosters and new teams were formed. We got to spend an afternoon deciding a new team name, and creating a new team poster. It was a lesson in compromise; we had to come up with more than one potential name, discuss its merits versus its drawbacks, and vote on it. We had to conceptualize a design for our team poster, and then create it. The process helped bring out a sense of fairness and cooperation, and we learned that just because our idea wasn't picked, that didn't mean it wasn't a good one. Sometimes it just meant that someone else's idea made for a better poster.

Towards the end of the school year, the more artistic kids always had ideas ripping through their heads and often had sketched out poster designs ready to go. One kid, I think his name was Ken, noted that we had some really bright yellow poster board, and he had a ready supply of purple markers, and wouldn't it be funny to draw polka dots all over it? And wouldn't it be really hysterical to draw a hehhehehe girl in a bikini on it? We could hehehehe show her belly button on it. And at the top of the poster we could kind of have these hehehehe boobs...just like the bottom half. Then her waist and the bikini bottoms hehehehe.

Thusly did we become the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini Bunch.

I remembered all that yesterday when a commercial popped up on TV; some woman trying desperately to hide her bathing suit clad body as that song played in the background. I laughed, hummed along, and remembered those teams and how much fun they were, even when we lost.

And later on I realized that other song was no longer stuck in my head.

No, now I have It was an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini that she wore for the first time today... stuck in that empty space between my ears.

Over and over and over.

It was there when I went to sleep last night and there when I woke up, and it's still there.

I totally blame my 6th grade teacher.

Upon which I ruminate...and it's not required to make sense...

Today's news: Jack Kevorkian walked out if jail after serving 8 yeas for assisting the suicide of a man with ALS. And yes, I am aware that by the letter of the law he committed murder, because the patient was unable to flip the switches himself. But no, I never thought he should serve prison time for it.

I certainly understand the viewpoint of those who did think he deserved to go to jail. Even burn in hell.

But.

I have a different perspective of it. I still sometimes sting from his actions, yet wrapped around that stinging sensation is a bit of gratitude.

When I was editing Martial Artists Wired, I wrote a piece about a guy named Bill, titled Closing The Door in March 1998. You can go read it in its entirety, or just this snippet:

While actively posting on some boards and lurking on others, I came to know a gentle soul, one who took great pains to not become one of us who was quick to throw the slings and arrows of war, one who would welcome newcomers without fail, would offer unconditional support to all, who would spend great quantities of his own time answering questions privately for those who were having a hard time coming to grips with being told that they have this disease. He was well known for quietly emailing people who had not been seen online for a while to make sure they were okay. He often called some who were having particularly harsh times.

Last week, this gentle soul passed away.

Many of you heard of his death on the news, a quick blurb on CNN, a buried quote on the back pages of a newspaper. His death, his method of death, has become common enough to no longer cause a stir of media interest. A year ago, two years ago, three years ago, his death would have caused a sensation and a media circus to boot. Some of you would have nodded approval for his actions, some of you would be shaking your head in wonder, and some would openly criticize.

Bill, who is already greatly missed, solicited the services of Dr. Jack Kevorkian, and chose his death in the manner of medical euthanasia.

Bill suffered, as do I, with fibromyalgia . His body was also riddled with painful tumors in his head, spine, bladder, and other organs. To say he was in constant pain is an understatement. Everything that could be done for him was done; he was given enough pain medication to not only kill the average human, but probably the average horse as well. None of it touched his pain. He viewed life through a cloud of never ending agony, yet kept a great deal of his focus on other people. There came a point where there was nothing but pain left in his life. With no quality of life to look forward to, no hope of surviving the tumors that had wound through his body, and with no family for support, he made his decision. He chose to die with dignity, on his own terms, before piling pain upon pain just to live a few more months.

Bill was a calm presence in the middle of chaos. He whispered words of hope and was heard above the din. He educated without belittlement, he answered questions without questioning, either directly or by manner, the intelligence of those who ask; he offered support and asked nothing in return.

Yeah, it stings. Bill should have lived a long, healthy, happy life, but because life sucks sometimes, he didn't. Instead, he lived a life that would have had most of us clawing at our eyes and howling at the moon. At some point, enough was enough and he wanted out. And he wanted to go in a way he hadn't lived: without pain.

I know the arguments: it's a sin, it's wrong, we don't have the right to play God.

But hey, we play God every day. Every time we treat an illness, we play God. Every time we allow a ventilator to assist someone breathing, we play God. Every dose of chemo, every tranfusion of blood, we're playing God. Every time I take my DDAVP to quench a violent thirst that forces me to drink copious amounts that in turn makes me pee like a fiend, I'm playing God.

My gut tells me God doesn't mind one bit.

So why would he mind if instead of forcing someone to live in agony, we allowed them to die? If we just stopped pretending that the greater good is to save the life, when it means leaving the person living that life in pain, with no end in sight?

Bill was going to die eventually. He knew that. He didn't want to suffer.

Who does?

Maybe Kevorkian had no right to help people kill themselves, but neither do we have the right to force them to live.

So what's the answer?

I don't think there's an easy one.

In March 1998 Bill was done.

I respect that. I don't like it, on a purely selfish level, but I respect it. Kevorkian is incidental. Kevorkian was a tool that a whole lot of people used, and he was willing to take the judgment that comes with it.

I don't think he was evil. I doubt he was anyone's savior, either.

Just a tool.

But, once upon a time I knew this guy, and he was a wicked awesome soul.

If you like ICANHASCHEEZBURGER, you gotta check out the LOL Presidents thread at FARK. Srsly. Chk it owt. Okthnxbye.

The look she seemed to be going for was Suburban Soccer Mom: blond hair tied back into a ponytail, too-cute t-shirt, jeans, and Keds sneakers sans socks. But...she looked like she was pushing 50, and her make-up was troweled on, rivaling Tammy Faye Bakker, circa 1980-something.

I noticed her standing at the digital card catalog, then went back to scratching notes onto the pages of my manuscript with my nifty red pen, trying to fall back into the story, but not deep enough to keep me from being able to pick it apart.

Then her phone went off, loudly. It was enough to make me look back up. I didn't say anything and barely looked at her. It was nearly a Pavlovian response: phone rings, I look up to see where it's coming from. Apparently looking up implied an interest in her conversation, something she obviously did not wish to share.

"Don't you be gettin' all up in my bizness."

Take a deep breath, look back at the manuscript.

"I ain't tawkin' for yo' enterTAINment."

Glance up, raise an eyebrow. I couldn't care less, really...

She snapped the phone closed and shoved it into her back pocket. "Whatchew doin' anyway?"

"Teetering on the precipice of irony, apparently."

"Huh?"

"I'm writing."

"You writin'? Whatchew writin'?"

A guide to passably correct grammar... "A book."

"A whole book?" No, just the second half. "Wassit about?"

"Right now it's about 200 pages." Please go away...

"Ha."

Another deep breath. "Basically, it's about someone coming to grips with growing up in a dysfunctional family, how she remembers it as opposed to how it really was." I didn't mention the dead guy.

"Oh, like Dr. Phil makin' people seen how shit's their fault, too?"

"Pretty much."

"That's cool," she said, hands going to her hips. I was seriously hoping she would go away; I was feeling rude and abrupt and sure that my mouth was going to catch up with my mood. But then she went on. "I'm sorry I bitched at you. I'm just pissed. My boy got hisself into the air force and now he's goin' someplace I never heard of and I just wanted to come look it up 'n see where he goin', you know?"

She was terrified.

"Where's he being stationed?" I asked.

"Land's Stool?" she asked herself.

"Landstuhl. It's in Germany."

"It ain't nowhere near Iraq?"

I shook my head. "I know people deploy from there, but it's pretty far from Iraq and Afghanistan. I think the base there is Ramstein Air Force Base."

"Says he's goin' be a lab vampire. A pleebo-somethin'."

"Phlebotomist?" I guessed. "Lab vampire is a pretty good description."

We talked for at least half an hour, until her phone rang again and she had to leave. The longer we spoke, the less street her speech became. And I got it: sound tough, and people back off. But really, she was just a Mom, absolutely terrified that her 18 year old son might be headed for war. She only knew bits and pieces from short phone calls and had no clear idea where he was headed and what might be waiting for him when he got there. She was filled with a mixture of anger and pride, and had no idea what to do with those feelings.

Seems I got all up in her bizness after all.