A few of you may have noticed the following tweet on Friday:
Person I don't know sent me spam about the military with a poem. Asked them not to, they got nasty, called me unpatriotic. I hate idiots.
That one tweet devolved my Friday into a series of e-mails, phone calls, investigation into HOA financials, and general fussing and faffing about.
This all started when I received the usual image-heavy/God-Bless-Our-Country/pass-this-along-to-9,000-of-your-closest-friends spam mail. I hate spam. And I especially hate spam that has been forwarded to 19 other people before getting to me, so that before I can even see the tear-jerker images and read the cheesy poem, I have to view the To:, From:, and Subject: lines of everyone else. And I really hate spam sent to me by total strangers who just assume everyone in their contact list loves spam of all shapes and sizes and just forwards this crap along willy-nilly.
So I did what any self-respecting hater-of-spam would do in this situation. I replied to the sender, informing them that I didn't know them and would prefer not to receive future spam chain letters.
And this? Is what I received in return:
I don't know how you got into my address book but I thought those therein (my friends) would be interested in patriotic information regarding the state of our wonderful country. Evidently you are not. Rest assured, I shall remove you from my address book immediately. Enjoy your life.
What? The frak. Like I snuck into his address book and tried to pass myself off as a friend. And then accused me of a lack of patriotism because I don't like forwarded spam e-mails that clog up my Inbox.
I? Lost it. And out of my keyboard came the following:
You know what? I don’t need your nastiness about my supposed lack of patriotism just because I don’t care for unsolicited spam in my Inbox, spam that contains large image files and clogs up my Internet connection. Spam that I didn't sign up for. I attended a military college. As did my husband. Several of our good friends serve in the military. We vote in every election and fly the American flag on the front of our home. We are about as patriotic as you can get. That is the last I have to say to you. Please, buggar off and don’t make assumptions about people simply because they request “No spam.” You, as well, enjoy your life.
Yeah. I was pissed. And then I racked my brain, trying to figure out who the heck this idiot was and how he got my address. I called my mom and let her know I'd ticked off a Red Hat friend. Nope. Wrong. And at that moment I paused and thought What if it's one of my neighbors? And sure enough, when I checked our HOA financial statement for May, there was the name of my culprit.
Yet another reason for me to want to run screaming from my neighborhood.
30 June 2009
26 June 2009
Do You Want a Beer?
I grew up in a typical, residential neighborhood in West Virginia. They were sixty-year-old homes (your typical three small bedrooms, one bathroom, single-level houses) that were nothing special, except for the people who lived in them. Across the street from us (and still living there to this day) were Clyde and Goldie. Seriously. Those are their names. They met as young barely-out-of-their-teens at the beginning of WWII and are just the sweetest people ever. And on their front porch is just the most awesome swing. We would sit on the swing and talk about WWII and Clyde's years in the Navy, and dish on the neighbors (GOD! Could Mrs. Hubbard's hair get any BLUER?). When I moved to Georgia I envied my mom and dad, and later just mom, and their time on Goldie's and Clyde's porch swing.
The Ty-man and I are currently in our second house since our wedding 14 years ago. And in neither home have we had our own Clyde and Goldie. We've never sat on our porch with neighbors or on the porches of others, sharing news of our lives, neighborhood gossip, and experiences.
Until last night. The HOA President (and my immediate next-door neighbor) and I have a lot to talk about and not just HOA BS. We both have interests in science (Me=physics, Her=chemistry), we read the same books, we have similar political philosophies, and we laugh about the same stupid crap. When I noticed that she and her husband were on their porch, I just damned the torpedoes and went over. And Mr. HOA President asked, Hey! You wanna beer?
And I drank that beer. I talked and commiserated and laughed and so did they. We sat on their front stoop and just were.
It wasn't a porch in West Virginia. There wasn't a swing. Neither Clyde nor Goldie were there. And we didn't talk about WWII or Mrs. Hubbard's blue hair. But that moment last night was just as good as all the other moments from my fading memory.
And I can't wait to have more.
The Ty-man and I are currently in our second house since our wedding 14 years ago. And in neither home have we had our own Clyde and Goldie. We've never sat on our porch with neighbors or on the porches of others, sharing news of our lives, neighborhood gossip, and experiences.
Until last night. The HOA President (and my immediate next-door neighbor) and I have a lot to talk about and not just HOA BS. We both have interests in science (Me=physics, Her=chemistry), we read the same books, we have similar political philosophies, and we laugh about the same stupid crap. When I noticed that she and her husband were on their porch, I just damned the torpedoes and went over. And Mr. HOA President asked, Hey! You wanna beer?
And I drank that beer. I talked and commiserated and laughed and so did they. We sat on their front stoop and just were.
It wasn't a porch in West Virginia. There wasn't a swing. Neither Clyde nor Goldie were there. And we didn't talk about WWII or Mrs. Hubbard's blue hair. But that moment last night was just as good as all the other moments from my fading memory.
And I can't wait to have more.
25 June 2009
What? What Did You Say?
I'm pretty sure my kids are deaf.
And after extensive and exhaustive research (read: watching my three hooligans for 24/7 over the past almost-four years) I'm pretty sure 99.999999% of all children are deaf. I believe the onset of said deafness begins at about age two and continues through the adolescent and teen years, gradually becoming selective. Eventually, the female half of the species loses the deafness altogether at about age 18, coinciding with the exit from the familial nest, and regains all hearing in both ears. Male selective deafness continues throughout life, until he learns that sex will be withheld or until he is beaten to death by his wife.
How do I know this? Example 1:
Bubba. Time to brush your teeth.
Bubba continues playing with no indication of having heard me.
Bubba! Let's brush your teeth! Come on!
Bubba turns, having sensed vibrations coming from my general vicinity, but obviously senses no danger and continues crashing his trains.
BUBBA! BRUSH! TEETH! NOW!
Bubba turns, looks, takes two steps forward, then is stopped by the scary look on my face. Finally, I make a strangled, gurgling noise as I run screaming from the house. Bubba? Merely looks on, confused.
Example 2:
Miss-Miss. Take your plate to the sink, please.
Miss-Miss plays with her hair.
Honey, take your plate to the sink, 'kay? Please?
Still, with the hair.
MISS-MISS! PLATE! SINK! NOW!
Miss-Miss sighs with resignation, gets down from the table, and takes her toy cookie to the playroom. I? Begin mumbling to myself.
Eventually, we all know how to work around the deaf child. We just do it all ourselves. Then, once it becomes selective (doesn't hear Take out the garbage but hears Watch TV just fine), you can negotiate with video games or water parks or, you know, bodily harm. But after this milestone has been attained, the irreversible side-effects have already taken their toll on the mother:
Gray hair.
Permanent frown-lines.
Permanent scowl.
Constantly repeating herself and mumbling to no one in particular.
Random fits of eye-rolling and frustrated sighing.
Please, everyone, be aware of these side-effects and remember the effective treatment:
Liquor.
Banging one's head on a brick wall.
Chocolate.
Repeated showings of anything starring Jensen Ackles.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go color my gray, eat some Godiva, and mumble at the floor.
And after extensive and exhaustive research (read: watching my three hooligans for 24/7 over the past almost-four years) I'm pretty sure 99.999999% of all children are deaf. I believe the onset of said deafness begins at about age two and continues through the adolescent and teen years, gradually becoming selective. Eventually, the female half of the species loses the deafness altogether at about age 18, coinciding with the exit from the familial nest, and regains all hearing in both ears. Male selective deafness continues throughout life, until he learns that sex will be withheld or until he is beaten to death by his wife.
How do I know this? Example 1:
Bubba. Time to brush your teeth.
Bubba continues playing with no indication of having heard me.
Bubba! Let's brush your teeth! Come on!
Bubba turns, having sensed vibrations coming from my general vicinity, but obviously senses no danger and continues crashing his trains.
BUBBA! BRUSH! TEETH! NOW!
Bubba turns, looks, takes two steps forward, then is stopped by the scary look on my face. Finally, I make a strangled, gurgling noise as I run screaming from the house. Bubba? Merely looks on, confused.
Example 2:
Miss-Miss. Take your plate to the sink, please.
Miss-Miss plays with her hair.
Honey, take your plate to the sink, 'kay? Please?
Still, with the hair.
MISS-MISS! PLATE! SINK! NOW!
Miss-Miss sighs with resignation, gets down from the table, and takes her toy cookie to the playroom. I? Begin mumbling to myself.
Eventually, we all know how to work around the deaf child. We just do it all ourselves. Then, once it becomes selective (doesn't hear Take out the garbage but hears Watch TV just fine), you can negotiate with video games or water parks or, you know, bodily harm. But after this milestone has been attained, the irreversible side-effects have already taken their toll on the mother:
Gray hair.
Permanent frown-lines.
Permanent scowl.
Constantly repeating herself and mumbling to no one in particular.
Random fits of eye-rolling and frustrated sighing.
Please, everyone, be aware of these side-effects and remember the effective treatment:
Liquor.
Banging one's head on a brick wall.
Chocolate.
Repeated showings of anything starring Jensen Ackles.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go color my gray, eat some Godiva, and mumble at the floor.
24 June 2009
Sod Off!
I hate solicitors. I'm too much of a wuss to say no to the college student selling newspaper subscriptions even though I loathe the local newspaper. And when the handyman ringing my doorbell looks like a serial killer? I still let him clean out my gutters for a ridiculous price. Of course, when the young Mormon missionaries visit, I just want to sit them down to a pot of coffee and to some Skinemax, even when I know the Jesus talk will inevitably follow.
And when they all leave, I'm bitter about the whole process. I'm pissed that I've just bought six months of the AJC that I'll never read. I'm irritated that those Jehovah's Witnesses just gave me a copy of The Watchtower that I'll throw away. And I've rolled my eyes at the handymurderer so many times that he's bound to come back at 2AM and set fire to my cats. I hate being mean to people. And I hate confrontation. And I can't stand having my doorbell rung when I'm in the middle of a diaper change.
So? I went the passive-aggressive route. Observe:
Yep. This sign hangs outside my door. And believe it or not? It works. I've seen people walk up to my door, clipboard in hand, pamphlets in pocket, reach for my doorbell, pause, then walk away. Quickly.
Please, feel free to copy it and hang it next to your door and watch the solicitations disappear!
Now, if I could just get rid of those pesky Republican National Committee phone calls...
And when they all leave, I'm bitter about the whole process. I'm pissed that I've just bought six months of the AJC that I'll never read. I'm irritated that those Jehovah's Witnesses just gave me a copy of The Watchtower that I'll throw away. And I've rolled my eyes at the handymurderer so many times that he's bound to come back at 2AM and set fire to my cats. I hate being mean to people. And I hate confrontation. And I can't stand having my doorbell rung when I'm in the middle of a diaper change.
So? I went the passive-aggressive route. Observe:
Yep. This sign hangs outside my door. And believe it or not? It works. I've seen people walk up to my door, clipboard in hand, pamphlets in pocket, reach for my doorbell, pause, then walk away. Quickly.
Please, feel free to copy it and hang it next to your door and watch the solicitations disappear!
Now, if I could just get rid of those pesky Republican National Committee phone calls...
23 June 2009
You Say You Want a Revolution
Warning: I ramble in this post. A lot. You have been warned.From my perspective, Iran is imploding. Good or bad? I don't know. I'm not Iranian, I've never been to Iran, and can't judge. I just know that if I was protesting an election in America, the military wouldn't kill me and the President wouldn't tell me to shut up. All those needless deaths sadden me.
From my perspective, North Korea is itching for a Korean War Part Deux. True? False? From their perspective, I can't judge. From here, it's a certainty.
And both of these countries and their issues effect me. Personally. They make my heart race and my stress levels freak. Because I have familial connections to both countries. Both histories.
My father was drafted during the Korean War and served in the Marine Corps, in Korea, as a telephone lineman. His older brother, my Uncle R, worked for Westinghouse and was living in Iran (with his family) and working for said company during the 1979 revolution. They barely got out in one piece.
I worry about things I can't control. I'm an idiot that way. God-forbid I actually worry about the little things, like Dang, do we have enough toilet paper to last the week? or Shoot, are my kids going to lose their shit at Monkey Joe's? No, I worry about the things that are out of my control, things like death, entropy, North Korea and Iran.
My father wasn't a big talker about the Korean War. I don't think it's because he had a horrific time, I think it's because he really had nothing to say about it except Dang! I wish those Korean women hadn't put their squid out to dry under the telephone poles! It really stunk on hot days! Seriously, that was the extent of his description of the Korean War. There was also, Going over on that Navy boat sure made me sick and not to forget the whole I went turkey hunting with a visiting general and he spoke in glowing terms of the friends he made, but for him, the war was just there. It wasn't fun but it wasn't bad, either. The pictures I found were pictures of the people, the landscape, and of himself and his buddies:
The description, in Dad's handwriting, reads Becker, Shipp, myself, & (unreadable) in front of guard shacks with Thompson sub-machine gun. Yup, that's my dad holding the firearm. Bless him.
But I know if he were alive today, North Korea's actions would have him twitching. Dad was a hater of all people and things Communist. True, red-blooded American he was and anytime any one or any entity threatened our existence as a democratic-republic? Oh, he was on it like white on rice. This was the first Father's Day since losing him 11 years ago that I was happy he was gone. Happy because he would have spent Sunday glued to the TV muttering about crazy reds and the like. And I know he would have felt disappointment that the job he was drafted to help complete never came to fruition. The job of keeping communism from the Korean peninsula.
And Uncle R and Iran? My brain barely remembers those days back in 1979 when my parents and Uncle C were whispering about Uncle R and his family. The memories are hazy, but I remember the three most important adults in my life being worried about something to do with Uncle R and his getting out of somewhere. Uncle R and I don't talk much since our September scuffle, and we keep the conversation light, but I know he's shaking his head, thankful that he, his wife, and daughters aren't having to relive that nightmare. And shaking his head that Iranians whom he called friends are having to relive 1979 all over again.
I know I can't fix the problems of the world and I know I can't affect them. I just know they worry me. Constantly. Was it coincidence that this weekend was Father's Day? That we found Dad's Korea pictures? That the US Navy began stalking a North Korean ship? That Iran went nuts? That Uncle R called me to ascertain if I was attending our family reunion? I don't know. I just know that all those irrational fears are closing in, as are events on the other side of the world.
And I can't do a damned thing about any of it.
Thanks for reading my vent.
22 June 2009
They're Baaaaack!
The last two weeks have been, well, weird.
Two weeks ago, I was all Holy crap! The kids are leaving in a week! I have to wash clothes! And pack! And run around in a tizzy, freaking the hell out!
One week ago, I was all Holy crap! The kids are gone! For ten days! Spackle walls! Iron curtains! Clean carpet! SLEEP IN!
And this morning? I woke up nauseous, not wanting to drive two hours to the north Georgia mountains to get the kids. I felt rotten and I'm sure it was a combination of nerves and of not drinking enough water the night before while out gorging on BBQ in the 104-degree heat. I was missing the kids terribly, but I was having a really good time rediscovering my life before kids. I wasn't sure I was ready to jump back into motherhood.
But I soldiered on (with the assistance of some dry-heaving, MickeyD's fries, and iced tea) and got vertical in the car. Luckily for me, Ty-man was completely understanding and took it easy up the mountain. I was wary about seeing the kids, wondering if I would truly be happy to see them, wondering if they would remember us, and recalling that the past week together as just Heather and Ty was so very nice.
And then we walked through the door, into the kitchen, and rounded the corner of the dining room. And there they were, all smiles and giggles, shouting Mama! Papa!, and tripping over their words as they excitedly told us about their week with Grandma and Grandpa.
We drove the Gator!
We fed the tadpoles!
We went on a hike!
We played in the sandbox!
We ate at Pizza Hut!
And on and on. And as I touched their faces, smelled their hair, and listened to their sweet, sweet voices, I knew I was so very glad to be there. So very glad to be their mother. And so very glad to be with them after a long absence.
They're home, in bed, and sleeping peacefully. My life is complete again and I'm happy. Those days of just me and Ty will return again far too soon and for now I will cherish these all-too fleeting moments of my precious children.
Ah...
Two weeks ago, I was all Holy crap! The kids are leaving in a week! I have to wash clothes! And pack! And run around in a tizzy, freaking the hell out!
One week ago, I was all Holy crap! The kids are gone! For ten days! Spackle walls! Iron curtains! Clean carpet! SLEEP IN!
And this morning? I woke up nauseous, not wanting to drive two hours to the north Georgia mountains to get the kids. I felt rotten and I'm sure it was a combination of nerves and of not drinking enough water the night before while out gorging on BBQ in the 104-degree heat. I was missing the kids terribly, but I was having a really good time rediscovering my life before kids. I wasn't sure I was ready to jump back into motherhood.
But I soldiered on (with the assistance of some dry-heaving, MickeyD's fries, and iced tea) and got vertical in the car. Luckily for me, Ty-man was completely understanding and took it easy up the mountain. I was wary about seeing the kids, wondering if I would truly be happy to see them, wondering if they would remember us, and recalling that the past week together as just Heather and Ty was so very nice.
And then we walked through the door, into the kitchen, and rounded the corner of the dining room. And there they were, all smiles and giggles, shouting Mama! Papa!, and tripping over their words as they excitedly told us about their week with Grandma and Grandpa.
We drove the Gator!
We fed the tadpoles!
We went on a hike!
We played in the sandbox!
We ate at Pizza Hut!
And on and on. And as I touched their faces, smelled their hair, and listened to their sweet, sweet voices, I knew I was so very glad to be there. So very glad to be their mother. And so very glad to be with them after a long absence.
They're home, in bed, and sleeping peacefully. My life is complete again and I'm happy. Those days of just me and Ty will return again far too soon and for now I will cherish these all-too fleeting moments of my precious children.
Ah...
16 June 2009
Kentucky Borderline*
ConFab, Baby? Awesome. Me? Spent.
Allow me to elaborate via random bullet points:
Brad? Liz? The weekend was amazing and unforgettable. I will cherish my shot glass (and its faint smell of hooch), my photos, my memories, and especially my friendship with the both of you. ConFab, Baby RAWKED!
*An awesome bluegrass song by the even more awesome Rhonda Vincent.
Allow me to elaborate via random bullet points:
- First? Fab and Turnbaby have a beautiful home. And the room in their basement that houses the air hockey table? Has a particularly comfortable floor. My foam pad and Eddie Bauer sleeping bag were quite happy in there. As was I.
- I enjoyed talking to everyone I met over the weekend. I only knew a small handful of people before going and I worried there might be one or two in the bunch I didn't know who would end up driving me nuts or whom I would drive bonkers. Not even. Everyone was gracious and talkative and friendly and made my job as "blogger who knows abso-frakking-lutely no one" a lot easier.
- Fab and Turnbaby are the most gracious host and hostess I've ever met.
- When the nice Asian lady asks if you want flowers on your big toes? Do it. Especially if you pick black as your color. Makes your toes go from "Goth" to "OH! They're so CUTE!"
- Fab, you must, MUST, MUST wear the Mickey Mouse ears. Every day. Forever. Seriously.
- Hilly, Britt, and Becky may not all be named Heather, but they are more Heather than me, the obvious, plain, too-quiet Veronica of the group. But they welcomed me anyway! You ladies made my weekend!
- Turnbaby, you're even more beautiful in person.
- It's because of you Fab that my love of moonshine has returned full-force. Must find a Georgia supplier...
- The black dye stains on my hands? A badge of honor. Loved every second of it.
- Turnbaby's tenderloin. Mmmmmm.....
- Shelli, Laci-Loo, Bubblewench, John, Lynda, Janelle, Kim, Karl, Metal Mom, Marty, Shiny, Sybil Law, and everyone else whom I can't remember off the top of my head at 11:39PM? Had a great time meeting every single one of you and hanging out.
- Um, Fab? Your flamingos were humping. You may have babies soon. I'm just sayin':
- It really sucks driving back home, six hours, with a migraine. I'm not kidding. Full-on light and sound sensitivity and nausea. I stopped in Lenoir City, TN, downed two Aleve, a gallon of iced tea, and about five biscuits sopping with honey. I managed to go from Athena trying to break loose from my brain to a dull thud. Ladies? We soooo shouldn't have talked about migraines just the day before.
- And finally? It is completely possible to karaoke Baby Got Back. As a white stay-at-home-mom. And while completely sober.
Brad? Liz? The weekend was amazing and unforgettable. I will cherish my shot glass (and its faint smell of hooch), my photos, my memories, and especially my friendship with the both of you. ConFab, Baby RAWKED!
*An awesome bluegrass song by the even more awesome Rhonda Vincent.
12 June 2009
Hi! You've Reached CofaCMGD!
We're sorry she can't come to the phone right now, but her kids have begun their 10-day stay in the north Georgia mountains with their grandparents, her Ty-man is at Lowe's picking out carpet for the basement, wax for the hardwood floor, spackle, paint, blah, blah, and Heather? Well, she's off on a drunken blogger week-end karaoke spree in Lexington, Kentucky.
Otherwise known as ConFab, Baby!
Please leave a message and she'll return your call when the lyrics from the following song finally get out of her head.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Otherwise known as ConFab, Baby!
Please leave a message and she'll return your call when the lyrics from the following song finally get out of her head.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
10 June 2009
The One Where Fox Mulder Jumped Out And Said "Boo!"
Allow me to preface this post with six little words:
I'm not making this stuff up.
Ahem. Now then. This past Saturday night, amidst my stuffy nose and hacking cough, I went on an investigation. I was one of three investigators signed up to go and didn't feel right dropping out. Plus? I hadn't been ghost hunting in over a month. I was in need of a fix.
Guys? Seriously? I'm ready for just about anything when it comes to investigating the paranormal. I've had a few unexplainable things happen to me that have made my hairs stand on end, my heart race, and my voice utter, What in the frak was that?!? Paranormal things. Ghostly things. Never client things. Until now.
My fellow investigators and I spent five hours in the middle of an X-Files episode. The client is convinced that UFOs and aliens are visiting his neighborhood and his home in particular. He's seen the UFO. He has a picture of a 3-finger hand print on the dust of his bookshelf.*
And he is freaked the frak out.
John Keel, author of The Mothman Prophecies, Disneyland of the Gods, and Our Haunted Planet posits that UFO/extra-terrestrial sightings and paranormal/psychic experiences are linked and are basically the same thing.** He feels that if there's an uptick in UFO sightings? Then ghost activity is probably skyrocketing as well. And vice versa. And if that's the case, then a paranormal investigative group should be digging into UFO cases as much as ghost cases.
Is this client truly being visited by extra-terrestrials (or ultra-terrestrials, for that matter)? I don't know. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary occurred during our investigation, but it was clear that this gentleman, a very level-headed, intelligent, retired military officer, is absolutely convinced that he's in the middle of, and a subject of, a secret alien genetic collection field trip.
And how do we help him? Whether we believe him or not, whether we believe in E.T.s or U.T.s or UFOs, we can't just discount him based on his beliefs versus ours. Regardless of any of that, what he's feeling is valid. The events he has described to us may not have actually happened, but his sleep-deprived eyes, his loaded firearms, and his paranoia are happening right now.
And that worries me.
* Saw it. It's a freaky photo. Seriously.
** Now, before I get comments that scream, OMFG! You believe that crackpot about anything?!? let me just say that a few of Mr. Keel's ideas are noteworthy. His descriptions of what happened in Point Pleasant, WV in the late 1960s? Dead on. But, I agree that some of his ideas are a bit out there.
I'm not making this stuff up.
Ahem. Now then. This past Saturday night, amidst my stuffy nose and hacking cough, I went on an investigation. I was one of three investigators signed up to go and didn't feel right dropping out. Plus? I hadn't been ghost hunting in over a month. I was in need of a fix.
Guys? Seriously? I'm ready for just about anything when it comes to investigating the paranormal. I've had a few unexplainable things happen to me that have made my hairs stand on end, my heart race, and my voice utter, What in the frak was that?!? Paranormal things. Ghostly things. Never client things. Until now.
My fellow investigators and I spent five hours in the middle of an X-Files episode. The client is convinced that UFOs and aliens are visiting his neighborhood and his home in particular. He's seen the UFO. He has a picture of a 3-finger hand print on the dust of his bookshelf.*
And he is freaked the frak out.
John Keel, author of The Mothman Prophecies, Disneyland of the Gods, and Our Haunted Planet posits that UFO/extra-terrestrial sightings and paranormal/psychic experiences are linked and are basically the same thing.** He feels that if there's an uptick in UFO sightings? Then ghost activity is probably skyrocketing as well. And vice versa. And if that's the case, then a paranormal investigative group should be digging into UFO cases as much as ghost cases.
Is this client truly being visited by extra-terrestrials (or ultra-terrestrials, for that matter)? I don't know. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary occurred during our investigation, but it was clear that this gentleman, a very level-headed, intelligent, retired military officer, is absolutely convinced that he's in the middle of, and a subject of, a secret alien genetic collection field trip.
And how do we help him? Whether we believe him or not, whether we believe in E.T.s or U.T.s or UFOs, we can't just discount him based on his beliefs versus ours. Regardless of any of that, what he's feeling is valid. The events he has described to us may not have actually happened, but his sleep-deprived eyes, his loaded firearms, and his paranoia are happening right now.
And that worries me.
* Saw it. It's a freaky photo. Seriously.
** Now, before I get comments that scream, OMFG! You believe that crackpot about anything?!? let me just say that a few of Mr. Keel's ideas are noteworthy. His descriptions of what happened in Point Pleasant, WV in the late 1960s? Dead on. But, I agree that some of his ideas are a bit out there.
09 June 2009
She's a Wonder!
There will be no decent posts until I get this out of my system:
Yes. I'm watching Wonder Woman. All three seasons. Blogging will cease until I form a coherent thought that doesn't include spinning, golden lassos, and red, gold, blue, and white superhero costumes.
Damn. That Lynda Carter was bad ass.
Yes. I'm watching Wonder Woman. All three seasons. Blogging will cease until I form a coherent thought that doesn't include spinning, golden lassos, and red, gold, blue, and white superhero costumes.
Damn. That Lynda Carter was bad ass.
05 June 2009
Misuse of Ancient Egyptian History
Egyptology is a hobby of mine.
Now, allow me to set the record straight. I'm not an "Egyptologist" by any means. I don't have a degree in said discipline. I don't even have a degree in archaeology or anthropology. But, I do have an Associates degree in "Recognizing Stupidity." And this just jumped out at me yesterday:
OK. First of all. The Christian-right-wing web news-blogger sites had a field day with the above picture of an Egyptian man holding this sign during President Obama's trip to Cairo. Oh! This just proves that Obama is a Muslim! This just proves that he's the Muslim World's best buddy! This just proves that he's taking all us non-Muslim Americans to Hell in a hijab!
Seriously? Because some random guy puts Obama's mug on a golden cartouche with a nemes headdress around his head... he's suddenly a Muslim? Wha? Did I miss something? Doesn't he attend a Christian church? And why would it be bad if he is a follower of Islam? I mean, what, no national Christmas tree for four to eight years? I think we'll all survive. If anything, the above sign just gives President Obama a great Halloween costume idea and? Declares our president as a worshiper of Amun, Horus, Seth, Osiris, Isis, Ra, Ra-Horakhty, etc., blah, blah, ad infinitum.
If this is the case, sounds like a temple to Thoth, the god of scribes and knowledge (read: the ancient Egyptian god of geeks), is in order for our nation's capitol.
Whatever.
Secondly, the sign declares OBAMA: New Tutankhamon (sic) of the World. Now, what I'm guessing is that this sign is trying to say that Obama is a visionary of change. A change from the old guard. A change from the last eight years of America's government.
Um, nice, well-meaning Egyptian man? Tutankhamun was not a change. He wasn't a breath of fresh air. Not in the slightest. He was actually an instigator of the old guard politics. Now, Tut's father? He was a man of change. He was Akhenaten and he tore down the old politics of Thebes (the seat of the priests of Amun, the real power in ancient Egypt, and the old gods) and created a new religion (worship of the sun-disk Aten), built a new city (Akhetaten), and ushered in a new era of more realistic art. He was change. Tutankhamun? Not so much. He was a child-king, ruling for just ten years (age 9 to 19), and doing what the old-guard Amun priests told him to do: put the old religion and the old gods back into place, give us back our power, and we'll allow you to be pharaoh.
Definitely not change.
So, now that we've got that squared away, let's summarize:
1) Putting Obama's face in a pharaoh's headdress does not pronounce him a Muslim. It, in fact, simply proves he looks damned good in a nemes.
And...
2) Obama = Change. Tutankhamun = Wuss. Akhenaten = Change.
Therefore: Obama = Akhenaten.
Therefore: The sign should have read OBAMA: New Akhenaten of the World!
Simple math and history, people. You're welcome. Now quit mangling my ancient Egyptian history and I won't have to make like Ammut and eat your dishonest hearts.
Now, allow me to set the record straight. I'm not an "Egyptologist" by any means. I don't have a degree in said discipline. I don't even have a degree in archaeology or anthropology. But, I do have an Associates degree in "Recognizing Stupidity." And this just jumped out at me yesterday:
OK. First of all. The Christian-right-wing web news-blogger sites had a field day with the above picture of an Egyptian man holding this sign during President Obama's trip to Cairo. Oh! This just proves that Obama is a Muslim! This just proves that he's the Muslim World's best buddy! This just proves that he's taking all us non-Muslim Americans to Hell in a hijab!
Seriously? Because some random guy puts Obama's mug on a golden cartouche with a nemes headdress around his head... he's suddenly a Muslim? Wha? Did I miss something? Doesn't he attend a Christian church? And why would it be bad if he is a follower of Islam? I mean, what, no national Christmas tree for four to eight years? I think we'll all survive. If anything, the above sign just gives President Obama a great Halloween costume idea and? Declares our president as a worshiper of Amun, Horus, Seth, Osiris, Isis, Ra, Ra-Horakhty, etc., blah, blah, ad infinitum.
If this is the case, sounds like a temple to Thoth, the god of scribes and knowledge (read: the ancient Egyptian god of geeks), is in order for our nation's capitol.
Whatever.
Secondly, the sign declares OBAMA: New Tutankhamon (sic) of the World. Now, what I'm guessing is that this sign is trying to say that Obama is a visionary of change. A change from the old guard. A change from the last eight years of America's government.
Um, nice, well-meaning Egyptian man? Tutankhamun was not a change. He wasn't a breath of fresh air. Not in the slightest. He was actually an instigator of the old guard politics. Now, Tut's father? He was a man of change. He was Akhenaten and he tore down the old politics of Thebes (the seat of the priests of Amun, the real power in ancient Egypt, and the old gods) and created a new religion (worship of the sun-disk Aten), built a new city (Akhetaten), and ushered in a new era of more realistic art. He was change. Tutankhamun? Not so much. He was a child-king, ruling for just ten years (age 9 to 19), and doing what the old-guard Amun priests told him to do: put the old religion and the old gods back into place, give us back our power, and we'll allow you to be pharaoh.
Definitely not change.
So, now that we've got that squared away, let's summarize:
1) Putting Obama's face in a pharaoh's headdress does not pronounce him a Muslim. It, in fact, simply proves he looks damned good in a nemes.
And...
2) Obama = Change. Tutankhamun = Wuss. Akhenaten = Change.
Therefore: Obama = Akhenaten.
Therefore: The sign should have read OBAMA: New Akhenaten of the World!
Simple math and history, people. You're welcome. Now quit mangling my ancient Egyptian history and I won't have to make like Ammut and eat your dishonest hearts.
04 June 2009
02 June 2009
Open Letter 10
Dear Nasty Neighbor:
I'm sorry you couldn't drag your better-than-everyone-else ass down to the Clubhouse at any time during the seven separate sessions totaling 13.5 hours that the HOA board offered during May to sign off on your pool keycards. I'm sorry you didn't thoroughly digest the e-mail which stated If you don't make it down to one of these times, you'll have to turn in your pool form at our property management office and the activation of your keycard could take up to two weeks. I'm so very sorry that you turned your form in to property management yesterday and expect the keycard to be activated today. I'm sorry that you think I and the other board members are here for your verbal abuse and servitude. I'm sorry that you must assume we're being payed an extravagant amount of money to put up with your bullshit. I'm sorry that you're a mean, nasty bitch who has nothing better to do with her time than belittle others and make them feel less than you.
But?
I'm not sorry that I can't stand your bitch ass and I'm not sorry that I can smile with glee knowing that no matter how many nasty e-mails you send? The HOA President will make damned sure your keycard activation will take three weeks.
Because she's as deviously evil as me.
Love,
HOA Goddess
Dear Northside Hospital and Atlanta Center for Puppetry Arts:
I appreciate that you're thinking about kids and wanting to do fun things for them over the summer. I appreciate the invite, Northside Hospital, to Zoo Atlanta to celebrate that my kids are alumni of the Northside NICU. And it's sweet, Puppetry Arts, that Thursdays this summer are free.
BUT...
Your party at the zoo, dear Northside, is from 6:30 to 8:30 PM. The time when my kids start to lose their minds because we're close to bed time. And your free shows, Puppetry Arts? Are Thursdays 1 to 3PM. My kids' nap time. I've tried to go without nap time for outings before. Not good. Thermonuclear meltdown not good.
I get that you guys are trying to make this convenient for the parents? But guess what. It's not convenient for me when my kids are losing. Their. Shit.
Please. I beg you. Start making these activities available in the morning. Before lunch. When kids are typically at their happiest.
Love,
Insane Mom of Three Who Desperately Needs to Get Out of This House
Dear Sweet Children of My Loins:
Thank you so very much for quietly playing in your pool this morning with no trauma of He took my Nemo!!! or She's got my dump truck!!! and allowing me to catch some sun and read my Wonder Woman comics.
I greatly appreciate it. From the bottom of my ovaries.
Love,
Mama.
I'm sorry you couldn't drag your better-than-everyone-else ass down to the Clubhouse at any time during the seven separate sessions totaling 13.5 hours that the HOA board offered during May to sign off on your pool keycards. I'm sorry you didn't thoroughly digest the e-mail which stated If you don't make it down to one of these times, you'll have to turn in your pool form at our property management office and the activation of your keycard could take up to two weeks. I'm so very sorry that you turned your form in to property management yesterday and expect the keycard to be activated today. I'm sorry that you think I and the other board members are here for your verbal abuse and servitude. I'm sorry that you must assume we're being payed an extravagant amount of money to put up with your bullshit. I'm sorry that you're a mean, nasty bitch who has nothing better to do with her time than belittle others and make them feel less than you.
But?
I'm not sorry that I can't stand your bitch ass and I'm not sorry that I can smile with glee knowing that no matter how many nasty e-mails you send? The HOA President will make damned sure your keycard activation will take three weeks.
Because she's as deviously evil as me.
Love,
HOA Goddess
Dear Northside Hospital and Atlanta Center for Puppetry Arts:
I appreciate that you're thinking about kids and wanting to do fun things for them over the summer. I appreciate the invite, Northside Hospital, to Zoo Atlanta to celebrate that my kids are alumni of the Northside NICU. And it's sweet, Puppetry Arts, that Thursdays this summer are free.
BUT...
Your party at the zoo, dear Northside, is from 6:30 to 8:30 PM. The time when my kids start to lose their minds because we're close to bed time. And your free shows, Puppetry Arts? Are Thursdays 1 to 3PM. My kids' nap time. I've tried to go without nap time for outings before. Not good. Thermonuclear meltdown not good.
I get that you guys are trying to make this convenient for the parents? But guess what. It's not convenient for me when my kids are losing. Their. Shit.
Please. I beg you. Start making these activities available in the morning. Before lunch. When kids are typically at their happiest.
Love,
Insane Mom of Three Who Desperately Needs to Get Out of This House
Dear Sweet Children of My Loins:
Thank you so very much for quietly playing in your pool this morning with no trauma of He took my Nemo!!! or She's got my dump truck!!! and allowing me to catch some sun and read my Wonder Woman comics.
I greatly appreciate it. From the bottom of my ovaries.
Love,
Mama.
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