The ugliest wallpaper in Texas

is GONE.

Gone gone gone.

Of course, now we've got the endlessly attractive bare drywall look going on. That's popular these days, y'know.



That's Casey, dreaming of a nice, neutral theme for the kitchen. Like, oh, I dunno...off-white paint.

Things that make you say "huh."

You come home from the Harry Potter movie, and find this:



Huh. I think Casey was trying to tie Jack up with the goal of dumping him in the pool. Or there was a home invader and our return interrupted binding-and-gagging.

"High-traffic areas"

The ones referenced in the post about the chore list? Well, it seems that Sparky in particular has taken to shitting...well, not in the grass. He likes to keep his feet dry and clean, so he prefers to stand on the pavers and shit right over the edge. Or to squat on the edge of the pool deck and shit in the crushed stone border.

[sigh]

It also doesn't help that Casey is the poopingest dog I have ever encountered (must be how she eats like a horse and keeps the lean figure), and thus always races three feet past the patio and dumps a steaming heap in the yard.

My Mom is waaaay into dogs (I come by this naturally), but I still didn't want her to encounter a canine landmine within her first ten minutes here. I made that clear to the kids - "Hey, minute 16, she steps in dog crap, that's cool. But not the first ten minutes."

Of course, now she's been here a few hours, and I think she had to leave her shoes out back. Oh well - one hangs out at Bad Dog Central at one's own peril.

That's better

Mom is on deck and the cleaning frenzy has officially ended. I didn't have to beat any children - they followed simple instructions to a "T."

Mom looks good - which is especially wonderful since I haven't seen her since Christmas, when she was just getting into the chemo and things were rough. Now she's got hair, and looks just plain better - kinda the way you'd expect someone to look like when chemo is in the rearview and the oncologist says things look clear.

That's pretty freakin' awesome.

This part is always an adventure

I'm not much of a housekeeper. Ok, actually I suck. And, fortunately, I have a mother who isn't overly judgemental. But I don't know if there's a woman in America who doesn't feel the need to clean, and a certain domestic fear, when her mother is enroute.

So that is what we've been doing. Every guest we host here has been an excuse for another major push toward "moved in." I think we finally got the last box out of the house about an hour ago.

Of course, with the kids and the Bad Dogs home all day, there can be no finishing touches until tomorrow afternoon. This necessitates a list for the chilluns.



Mr. Abby will pick Mom up from the airport tomorrow, and I will try to convince my Evil Corporate Masters to cut me loose an hour or so early.

ugh...

Sorry, y'all. We're not a year old here yet, so you all haven't been through this part of the summer with me yet. We're now at the point where I haven't really watched the news in weeks. Unless I catch something on my brief morning web surf, I have no idea what's going on in the world.

They say there was some sort of debate last night - I didn't watch it. The candidates all make my eyes bleed, and there's more than a year left until they go away. For once I didn't mind the cartoons.

There's also apparently some article in the New Republic about the faceless hive mind that is The Troops, and rumor has it the article would make my blood boil. I thought about reading it, but realized TNR is a subscription website and I don't give enough of a shit about reading some numbnuts' take on the world to out and buy the current magazine. I'd rather give my money to Home Despot or an ammo company.

I'll have something for y'all eventually, I swear. Until then, I'm just going to be running in the morning, working in the daytime and hiding from the cartoon network in the evening.

Oh yeah - and cleaning. 'Cause Mom is coming to town Thursday night. Ugly wallpaper, your days are numbered.

I need a helmet

I drink coffee all day, so I was in the restroom at work (again). I was tucking my shirt in and glanced down.

Something didn’t look right with my dark green T-shirt. I paused, mid-tuck. Huh – thought I – is this on inside out?

Why, yes. Yes, it was.

This particular shirt has those semi-pronounced seams and no tag, so there’s really not much difference. And the people I work with are…less than observant.

But I had a cup of coffee and a couple of cigarettes with the Mister this morning before I left. I would have expected better.

Paying the piper

Abby's Mom is coming to town at the end of this next week. And Abby's Evil Corporate Masters were starting to look as though they thought working on a Saturday might be a Good Thing.

Better to be in control of one's own destiny, so I volunteered to work this Saturday instead of waiting to be volunteered to work next Saturday. This netted me last Monday off, but now I have to jump in the shower so I can go work noon-til-2100.

Ick.

Upside? Gets me out of the house, bails me out of home improvement and provides an excuse to avoid a new-guy type social function the Mister is participating in. Downside? Another day spent indoors behind a desk doing nothing much even remotely important.

Then again, the place I work does not have the constant, neverending, incessant, fingernails-on-chalkboard background soundtrack of shitful cartoons 24/7. Silver linings, and all that. I best go wash my filth so I can leave...

Speaking of T-shirts...

This morning, Mr. Abby is wandering around in one I bought him half-in-jest a few years ago.

It's an awful turquoise blue and says in big white lettters across the front, "Feminist Chicks Dig Me."

I don't self-identify as a feminist (or much of anything else, for that matter), but the poor guy definitely didn't marry what would probably be considered a conventional woman.

Mostly, though, it's just fun to watch people take a second look on the rare occasion he wears it in public. Mr. Abby doesn't look like the sort of who feminist chicks would dig, it seems.

Team player

I got a call from one of my coworkers this morning as I was wandering around sweating after my run.

"Try to wear red today!" she reminded me.

[sigh]

Somehow, the place where I work has developed some sort of collective "habit" of wearing red shirts on Friday as a visible demonstration of our support for our troops.

Can we just stipulate that the Bad Dog household, and Abby specifically, has got our troops' collective back? Love 'em. Been 'em. Sleep with one of them on a nightly basis. Troop support - covered.

But! I strive to be On The Team, and certainly want to encourage those who demonstrate their support in some of these more esoteric ways to go ahead and do so - hey - it's better than ignoring our troops.

So off I went to closet. Neither Mr. Abby nor I wear a lot of red. I had a Santa hat, a leather motorcycle suit, and a shirt depicting the famous work of art Dogs Playing Poker.

After much searching, I found an atrocious old red Marine Corps recruiting T-shirt. With weird sleeves. But hey - I'm on the team.

Hatin'

I'm having a cranky evening. I could kick puppies. But I won't.

In the interest of not sowing hate and rage around the internet, I will share, instead of my rage, a picture of what I ran across this morning when, as I was wandering around with my coffee, I noticed I had only one dog.

Apparently, they believe that Girl Child's futon is just perfect for group sleeping.



A smarter woman than I would have stolen a bed dog and returned to the rack. Alas, I didn't. But to spare y'all any more griping, I shall go now.

Oh! In good news, my Texas DL did arrive today. Crappy picture (although not the worst ever, by a long shot), and I think it's the flimsiest driver license I've ever had. Old Lone Star State ain't wasting any taxpayer money on those, let me tell you.

Okay - one more gratuitous black dog pic. He's trying wearing his ear in the European style.

Sanity Check (new posts below this one)

I'd become utterly certain that some major manufacturer either is, or recently was, making a lever gun in .30 carbine. Am I insane?

I tried to price check this mystery rifle (which I think I thought Marlin made in a 336-style) tonight, and it appears I may have dreamed it up. I found Marlin's model 62, but that's not what I was thinking of.

Can anybody help me out, or am I just nuts?

I'm going to leave this on top for a while to give total strangers the greatest possible chance of straightening me out.

Family Values, Bad Dog Style

"Hey, honey," I said. "Where are you taking the boys? We're eating soon."

"We're going to go throw knives in the back yard."



Oooookay, then. Girl child consented to be dragged out to throw one knife, which she found anticlimactic. I took a smoke break and stood on the back patio and watched (you cannot beat this for cheap entertainment).

"Hey, Abby!" they chirped. "Do you want to throw a knife?"

"Nah, that's cool, guys. If I want to put holes in cardboard, I have my ways."

Knife-throwing as quality father-son time? Hey, you take it where you can get it these days, I think.

Finally! An answer

Many of us gun people run into folks who ask tiresome questions like, "why do you need all those guns?"

Most of us are, in truth, kinda lost with this one. Really, there's a basic idea that about four firearms ought to pretty much cover every real need (your shotgun, your centerfire rifle, your sidearm, and your .22).

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have here the perfect answer.

Abby, they can ask, why do you need all those guns?



Because we're short, and bringing the ladder in from the garage to open a vent is a pain in the ass, that's why.

Feel free to use this one in your own life.

And in one, final burst of usefulness...

we did a Home Improvement Project (we're really not this productive, usually, but Mr. Abby checks in at the New Duty Station tomorrow, so we thought we should knock this one out).

There was a path from the back patio to the pool, but it consisted of those 12-by-8 thin concrete rectangles. And it was apparently laid out by Big People, so everyone in our household had to leap from rectangle to rectangle. Funny, perhaps. Convenient, not so much.

So we wandered down to Home Despot and had a pallet of things loaded in the truck (props to the Despot - like the one in Tampa, the one here provided a 10% military discount). Then the fun began.

We removed the stupid rectangles, laid out the pavers, wetted the ground, picked a trench along each side, removed the pavers (setting one of them in a steaming pile of dog poo, which made for much fun when we picked it up again), picked the entire area, removed the dirt and grass, leveled the dirt, scraped the dirt, tamped the dirt, added sand, leveled the sand, scraped the sand, tamped the sand, laid in the pavers, leveled the pavers, added more sand, spread out the sand, and then went out for tacos.

That last part is vital.

And now we have...a path. We'll give it a few days and see how the sand settles. Ideally, the pavers will stick up maybe half an inch. It's flush now.



The pavers are heavy little suckers, too. Not so bad to carry, but scooting them around on the base layer of sand was tiresome.

The kids were even forced into productivity, carting the unwanted dirt away in the Rubbermaid containers you see in the background. Somewhere in the last five years, we lost track of our wheelbarrow. Which is a pity, because although other things can be made to work, there's really no substitute for a wheelbarrow.

So, as part of my ongoing effort to tell you which home improvement project you might want to undertake yourself, I give pavers a "lots of work, but very do-able." As opposed to tiling large rooms, which is rated, "highly hazardous to a happy marriage." Or cutting and installing baseboards, rated, "super easy if you have the right saw. Goddam impossible if you don't."

We're here to help, really.

Notes from a range trip

1 - WalMart still rocks on ammo prices, but availability was limited. However, y'all Texans have something called "Academy," and that's pretty cool. I got bent over on the soft point .30 carbine (but we knew that was coming). I got some cheap SP 55 grain 5.56 cheap, though. That was a winner.

2 - Alpine shooting range. I'd heard some grumbling around the internet that I seem to recall indicating the place sucked, but I thought it was fine. Not fabulous, but fine. The range officers were non-annoying, and it wasn't crowded. My only complaint - I was shooting with kids (of limited skill) and had a new gun, so I'd have appreciated a 25-yard line.

3 - I didn't pay any extra, and I didn't send along a 12-pack, but the Civilian Marksmanship Program sent me a carbine that shoots. I did a fast cleaning on all the metal bits, and put the M1 stock on after a couple of (far too) quick coats of BLO. My stripping job was good, but I'm going to need to use a little steel wool and more (slowly applied) BLO to make up for shoving it in a case tackey.

3b - I mean, it really shoots. I fired ten rounds and made some sight adjustments (all grouping nicely, although vertically, since I was dropping the sights), then Mr. Abby whined his way onto the bench. He fired five rounds that one could have covered with a quarter (I should have saved that target) just a shade to the right of the bull. It was 50 yards and off the bench and he's a good shooter, so I'm more impressed with the rifle than the shooting. But I'm happy with it.

4 - If you've been letting the kids shoot seven or ten yards with pistols, then suddenly all that's available is 25, it's a little rough on them. Particularly when they're out of practice. I'll have to find somewhere indoors with adjustable lanes to rebuild their militant self-esteems.

Oh, good lord.

Via the Brit-watching Kim du Toit, we hear about this horror: Scary Cows Spark Rescue Mission

Seven schoolgirls have sparked a major search and rescue mission - after being frightened by a herd of cows.

Huh? Well, then I assume they're small children. Very small. Because if you're very small, cows could, I guess, seem scary. They are, after all, quite large.

The terrified pupils, aged 14 and 15, were on a geography field trip in Swanage, Dorset, when they sent out an SOS.

They were dropped off three miles from their outdoor centre and told to find their way back using a map.

But the teenagers, from St Albans in Hertfordshire, got stuck on a hill when they came across a herd of cows in a field blocking their way

Point 1 - that's actually a pretty freakin' cool school assignment. Land nav rocks. I wish I had gotten to do things like that when I was in school.

Point 2 - what the Hell? "a herd of cows...blocking their way???"

Official Bad Dog Position Statement follows: no child of mine, nor any stepchild of mine, nor any child with whom I remotely associated, better ever turn into a giant sniveling pussy at the mere prospect of cows.

"Someone from the centre went out to meet them and persuaded them the cows weren't dangerous.

"They got to the other side of the field but were feeling tired and it started to rain so someone from the centre called the coastguards."

The Year 10 girls were on a residential field trip run by the Allnatt Group as part of their geography coursework and were staying at the Chatsworth Centre in Swanage.

Maire Lynch, the headteacher of Loreto College in St Albans, said: "None of the girls suffered any injuries, although one girl who complained of feeling cold was taken to hospital to be checked over by medical staff.

Seriously - I wouldn't take that phone call. If that were my child, I'd answer the phone, and it would get ugly.

"You what? Because of what? They had to call the Coast Guard? Because of cows? Hell no, I'm not going to come and get you. Walk you happy ass home. I don't care if it's 25 miles, maybe it'll give you a chance to get over your idiotic fear of cows!"

Which is probably why I don't have any children of my own.

Monday morning...running like Hell and gunfire

And I do not have to be doing the evil "working." I picked up Saturday, so, because my Corporate Masters frown on overtime (as do I, in general), I have today off.

Mr. Abby and I went running this morning - he took Jack, who seemed to enjoy the whole outing and who is sacked out on the floor now.

We're going to the range today for some Quality Family Shootin' Time. We're trying a place called "Alpine," which I will declare either Good, Mediocre or Evil once I've been. I did make the phone call down there to ask about what, if any, ammo restrictions they have on the rifle range.

"No FMJ - only hollowpoint or softpoint."

Okaaay. I'm not entirely sure what the theory behind that one is, but since the last range was FMJ only ("no hollowpoint or softpoint!") I'm a little low on practice-grade ammo of a fitting sort.

So - off to WallyWorld! People, unless you're shooting strange calibers or can find everything from those odd manufacturers in the former Soviet Republics, you should be buying your ammunition at WalMart. Yes, yes, I know. Evil soulless conglomerate...support your local gunshop...etc etc blah blah blah. People who say things like this are either wealthy, or reloaders (or both - and I don't hate them, that's just not where I'm at). If they carry it, WalMart beats what you can pay anywhere else, and significantly.

They should have what I need in .223 (the boys are simply enamored of the AR15). I have the softpoint 6.5 Carcano (Precise Boy's weapon of choice). I'm going to take it on the chin with the .30 carbine in a softpoint, but that's OK - I'm tough. Or stupid, as might be evidenced by the fact that I'm about to take off to the range with multiple 13-year-old boys.

We shall see.

For my own reference

Xavier talks about DIY parkerizing...

I just had to make a note of this, because I think if I stick another firearm or firearm part in the oven, Mr. Abby is going to stab me in the neck. However, eventually he'll start traveling again...

Abby's Tips for Decent Customer Service

I just got off the phone with Auntie M, who has been going through her own special Hell with AOL.

Considering the holes in walls and my dashboard from various recent interactions with Kenmore/Sears, Sprint/Nextel, the Title Company From Hell, and a wide variety of other largely Satanic entities, I thought I'd throw out a simple set of concepts that might be helpful to any of my loyal readers who are thinking of starting their own business that might require, you know, customers.

1 - Everybody has a supervisor. If you are not empowered to help whomever you're talking to, you're also not being paid enough to cover for the people who can. Don't tell me you don't have a supervisor - I bet you don't own the company, and given that, I bet there's someone who ensures you show up and put on your headset every morning.

2 - Greet people. I know that some customers like to rattle on a little, but I bet you're being paid by the hour. Answering a call with an abrupt "ThankyouforcallingEvilConglomerate, GiveMeYourTenDigitPhoneNumberAreaCodeFirst," is a no-go. Particularly when you're passing a customer up the food chain - if I've been on the phone with you for an hour, you're aware of my phone number. Stop asking for it.

3 - Don't give your phone reps a stupid script. If I've been struggling mightily to resolve an issue and your representative has been unhelpful for twenty minutes, I do not want to hear "thank you for calling EvilConglomerate, I hope you've had a wonderful interaction with our company today!" Are you fucking insane? My interaction with your company has been the customer-service equivalent of a nasal hysterectomy. It's bad enough if you're evil, please don't also be stupid.

You know, there seems to be a theory out there that providing a lot of terrible customer support is as good or better than providing good customer support. But it ain't so. Putting people on the phone who are not empowered to do anything might allow you to hire people who cost next to nothing, but wading through human ferns costs you money by pissing off customers. 100 useless monkeys could probably be replaced by 20 empowered and functional representative who can operate without a script, and they won't create an entire demographic of people who are entirely willing to burn your headquarters to the ground.

I cannot think of a single company I deal with, whether buying gas, ammunition, internet access or plane tickets, that is a sole source. I can always go somewhere else. So can everyone else in the world. Dealing with large companies is slowly becoming so painful that we're all going to start building our own shit rather than doing it. When you think about the red-hot-poker-in-the-eye that is, say, NorthWest Airlines, it doesn't make getting a pilot's license and buying a plane sound so crazy, does it?

It's all too much. I'm going to take my grumpy ass off to bed. Perhaps I'll take a nice warm shower (water heated by Atmos Energy - where the ladies who answer the phone call you by name and act like they give a shit), then read a little (light provided by Commerce energy, who turned my power on with a minimum of drama, exactly when they said they would). But first I'll lock up the gunsafe (made by Sentry, who will send you replacement parts if you break your shit and be cheerful about it), and ensure my bedside handgun is where it belongs (which I purchased from Kastle Keep Firearms in Largo, Florida, because the sales guys are smart and helpful).

I'm seriously just focused on the day when I can be a hermit in a cabin and don't have to deal with anyone ever again.

Annoyances

Another lovely Texas morning. The Mister and I ran this morning - with my work schedule, running from 0730-0800 (or thereabouts) is a winner, and I'm trying to get in that habit.

I showered, am enjoying a bowl of Raisin Bran and listening Pot O' Coffee #2 brewing.

So what, you ask, could cause me to title this one "Annoyances?"

The world outside my house, of course.

We're trying to cancel our old cell coverage (provided by Sprint/Nextel). We've had two lines with them since Nov 03, but made the grievous error of replacing a phone (which I lost in a little fire in Iraq) in Nov 05. Now, of course, we're being told we must pay not just one $200 cancellation fee, but two.

After talking to four different people, I managed to get a direct number for "corporate escalations" (yes, let us escalate your annoyance) and confirmation that they'll talk to Mr. Abby (although my name is on the account).

Oddly, every person I spoke to on the subject insisted on first asking why we wanted to cancel our service with them, and what they could possibly do about it. Duh. Stop being evil.

[pounds head on table]

Additionally irritating is my continuing lack of a driver's license. All the Texans I talked to spoke highly of their state's ability to get a license out quickly once one went down to the DMV for that joyous experience.

I guess Texas has a differnt concept of "quickly" than I do. I'm only bummed because there's a gun show this weekend, and although we know Abby doesn't buy many guns at such events, there's one firearm in particular I'm looking for, and I'd like to go and cruise for it. Alas, unless the mailman is on my side today (and how often does that happen, really?), the FFLs of North-Central Texas will have no chance at my hard-earned cash this weekend.

Which is fine, really. I'll just buy more ammo.

Alright, I'll stop bitching and go to work now. Just thought I'd share the morning's cause for eye-rolling.

House votes and drunken old soldiers

I'm thinking about this House vote...

...House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, a California Democrat, said Thursday's mixed report on the progress of the war shows it's time for American troops to come home.

You know, I came up in the Marine Corps, which we all know has a slightly different outlook on excuses, quitting and mission accomplishment. But hey...

"President Bush continues to urge patience, but what is needed -- and what the American people are demanding -- is a new direction," she said.

And what we've all learned from the Democratic Congress is that any time we're not sure about a strategy and we think a "different direction" is in order, that direction should always be capitulation.

[sigh]

Two nights ago, one of my old Army buddies from Iraq was in town for business. He dropped by for some beer drinkin', steak eatin' and bullshittin'. It was a good time.

This guy's a thinker, a real smart guy. He ran our "projects" side in Iraq - the money, the contracts, the payouts, etc. A lot of vision, probably should have been an officer, you know the kind.

He and I were sitting outside enjoying about our 71st cold beer of the evening.

"What do you think," he said, "about..." and he let it trail off.

"Iraq? Shit, man...I dunno."

He nodded. "Me neither."

And folks, my old buddy and I are two people who always "know" (or at least "know" enough to ramble on at length, even if we're full of it). But, we agreed, the political shitstorm surrounding the entire Iraq situation is pretty much unprecedented. I still feel about the war, and I still think about the war. But I no longer have a fucking clue what is going on with the war.

I'm a Petraeus True Believer. If there's one swinging Richard in a uniform who can fix this, it's him.

He was approved, and he was sent. And he implemented a plan that finally kicked off at 100% strength last month. I was under the impression we were expecting a "benchmark" report in September. However, apparently halfway between full manning on the surge and the "benchmark report," we decided we were not sufficiently progressing toward the point where we wanted a progress report.

So, said House Democrats and assorted other fools, we must not wait. We should make plans with little regard for what may or may not be going on in Iraq.

But...I note...this pullout date is about seven months before the November '08 election. Coincidence? I think not.

Here's my prediction. The Senate passes something similar. The President vetoes. Neither chamber will be able to override. Of course they won't override - that's a phenomenally stupid thing to do.

But - throughout the entire election season, everyone who voted for the precipitous pullout will be able to say, "I tried to get them home. If I'd had my way, they'd be grilling in the back yard."

And, if everything is not sunshine and roses and Liberation-of-Paris-style success (and would the modern media even allow the Liberation of Paris to be a success today? Perhaps, but the pictures would be of US GIs pissing in alleys), those who opposed the "pullout" will be castigated. Every bomb, every fatality, every setback, every Reuters photo of a big-eyed grubby urchin, will be turned on those who chose "the harder right over the easier wrong" and voted to stay and try to finish what we started.

I would have more patience for the Loyal Opposition's yammering if they were really seeking a "better direction." There are a lot of strategies out there, and I'm always open to hearing smart people try to find better ways to do things.

But they're not seeking a "better direction." They're seeking a way to appease the shortsighted American public, to find a painless answer.

Sometimes, there are no painless answers. And the worst thing about this kind of debate is that there is no debate. There's no search for the best way to win, to accomplish our goals. There's an embattled President who couldn't articulate why one should look both ways before crossing the road, a VP with the charisma of Darth Vader, and a few gutsy legislators trying to hold the line. That and a few hundred thousand GIs and some real smart generals, none of whom play a tune half as appealing as that the surrender monkeys are cranking out on their newsprint organs.

Tell you what, it's enough to make a couple of old soldiers sitting outside drinking beer say, "ah...fukkit. I don't know anymore."

Settling in - the battle continues

If moving in is a campaign (martial type - not election), then we've had the invasion. We're beyond the beach and spread out around the countryside, we've beaten back all their organized formations, and we're doing the last bit of mopping up before we declare victory.

In more realistic terms, we received our second TMO shipment, so we have all our shit, and we're down to a couple of rooms and the garage that are still a wee bit out of control.

I have my books now, and they're in the bookshelf. Reject books have been banished to Goodwill. I am left with this:



They're all on the shelves, but I'm still trying to get them arranged. It's one of my favorite things to be obsessive about, but it takes some work. We start with military history and theory on the left, and it should gently segue through other history, bios, politics, conservation, bird, guides, travel, then fiction in roughly the same subject groups. We're not there yet, but it does give me something to do - walking over and shuffling books around.

On the other side of this room (the Study/Armory), we have this - My First Gunsafe.



We broke on of the handle "leaves" off moving it - but gotta love Sentry, because they're sending another one at no charge and it's pretty easy to just stick the new one in.

This will probably not be the last gunsafe, since I still have this lurking in a third corner of the same room:



But the first safe is a good start. If we stumble across another used one of the same size at a decent price, we might pick it up. The first one accomplished the primary goal, though, of holding everything we really don't want to have to replace and of ridding us of loose guns lying around in stacks and on coffee table.

And yes - we can get away with the antlers next to it at that height. Neither Mr. Abby nor I are tall enough to put an eye out. Kind of a bummer, hey?

Coolest. Object. Ever.

Mr. Abby doesn't have to check in for another week or so, so he's been running wild around the greater DFW area, buying shit and generally being out of control.

He apparently found the Used Classic Lighter Store, which masquerades as a gas station. While there, he picked this up for me.



What the Hell, you ask, is that? Ladies and gentlemen, that is a fishing lure lighter, butane type. It works fabulously. Here's an "open" picture.



How groovy is that? An envelope of Casey hair as a prize to whoever can identify the lure this lighter is based on. This is an easy one.

Giggling...

Y'all know I just love this kind of thing.

We've politicians, folks, who are Defenders of the American Family (voting NO on spending federal money on anti-teen-pregnancy education). They stand for all that is Right and Good For the Moral Fiber of America (YES on a consitutional amendment to prohibit "flag desecration.")

These are men who know about Family Values (NO for American women being allowed to pay for abortion services in overseas military hospitals).

I just love it when one of these guys gets busted with hookers.

"This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible," Vitter said in the statement. "Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife in confession and marriage counseling. Out of respect for my family, I will keep my discussion of the matter there -- with God and them..."

You know, I'm not 14. I didn't learn the term "hypocrite" three days ago, and a little bit of failing to live up to one's rhetoric doesn't shock and offend me.

But listen - there's a hierarchy of bad form here. Running around on your spouse is a Bad Thing. Running around on your spouse with your interns or subordinates is Slightly Worse. Running around with WHORES (that is, hookers, escorts, dancers, etc) is Worse Yet. From there it's a quick slide down to sexual assualt of juvenile kittens.

Hey - Sen. Vitter, I wasn't going to judge. But once you claw your desperate little way up on that pedestal and try to legislate your judgement onto my choices...well, you're fair game.

Loser. Your wife oughta leave you and take all your shit. Then you can try to get a real job to pay for the ass that apparently nobody is willing to give you (seriously - if you're a Senator and still have to pay for it, that says something about your skills).

Salesmanship

Mr. Abby sent this one along - apparently he was cruising the "bikes for sale" ads on MySpace...

serious inquiries only please--- i do not wanna haggle with you over price for 3 hours on something that obviously isn't new.. i love the bike/ride it every day to work, and could care less if i sell it so don't come to my house thinking you're gonna pitch me down. save that junk for the garage sale in your neighborhood.

Well, that's one approach to selling something, I suppose. Nonetheless, I am now curious. Just exactly what does this bike look like? What is it this man is selling, but does not particularly want to discuss?

Well, here it is.



Huh. Not exactly pretty and shiny. But maybe if I were a college kid or something, you know...low on cash...

*special note to college kids--i know it's the summer and you REALLY want a motorcycle to tool around town on and be cool and stuff but i don't give a rat's ass if you're poor, i do not do payment plans. i am not a dealer, i'm an individual dude tryin to make enough money to buy a bulletproof vest so i can run around at night pretending to be batman and not get my ass shot off in the process.
make sense? good. now come buy this bike.

Well, ok, then. Just in case any of y'all in the North Texas area are in the market for a bike exactly like this one.

The world's most expensive dog toy

That would be the swimming pool. I'm pretty much content to sit by it and drink, but the kids and the dog...



We had some folks over yesterday, and one of our guests was amazed. "I have never seen a dog that liked to swim that much," he said. "That one just swims and swims and swims."

Yes. Yes he does. But the upside of that it, once we let him back in the house, he sleeps and he sleeps and he sleeps.

The carbine issue

I keep pulling the carbine out and looking at it. I just do not care for that M2 stock. Yes, yes, it's cosmetic. But I'm a shallow woman.

Here's a better picture I just took in the driveway. If this entry ends suddenly, it means the neighbors got weirded out and called the popo. I'd be disappointed by that, seeing as this is Texas.



So. It's pretty, but I can't get over the unsexy stock. I need something like this one.



But not that one, because that's the one that came with my Plainfield, which means it's not the original GI. And that, my friends, is part of the adventure. So. In between doing the things I should be doing with the new house, and pretending to be a decent stepmom and at least a mediocre wife, I am working on this:



That's an original GI stock (in a bag). It's sweating out the old cosmoline and other nastiness (hence the bag and the sun), but it shows signs of cleaning up nicely. I have a big ol' can of boiled linseed oil waiting in the garage. This stock has a nice Ordnance Corps acceptance stamp, and a couple of other nice markings that are becoming clear as I remove the ick.

I think, in the end, it will please me. Which is really all that matters, I think.

Nature is cruel

and often, critters with injuries, defects or deformities don't last too long in the wild.

That's how we know that this is one badass tiger.

The tiger was captured twice on camera -- once in March and again in May -- roaming the forests of the Tesso Nilo national park on Sumatra island with the lower half of his right front leg missing, said a WWF official, Sunarto.

The time span makes it seem as if said tiger is getting along just fine. "Yeah," he says. "I've got three legs, and I can still do all that tiger shit."

Color me impressed.

Warm fuzzy firearm goodness

I'm sure you don't want to hear me whine about the issues I've been having recently with the camera and my laptop. Suffice it to say I have to weasel my way onto the desktop to deal with images. It's a mystery.

[pauses to interact with pictures. sighs in frustration]

Then, of course, it turns out the pictures suck. Oh, well. I've been yammering about this M1 carbine for so long you're getting the only decent picture. They sent me an M2 stock, which is in great shape, but it's not the sexy, slim stock I so adore.



I have a standard M1 stock from the Planfield Frankengun, but I haven't even had an opportunity to take the carbine apart for its Big Cleaning yet, so that can wait. I'm sure if I poke around, I can find a GI M1 stock, too. Not a big deal. The metal is all good, and the cosmoline isn't that bad, other than around (and in) the rear sight.

Since I only have one workable carbine shot, I'll share something else. A while ago we talked about guns that are not suitable for attempting murder, because they're wimpy and you end up with rounds lodged between the skin and skull of your intended victim. Didn't know I have one of those useless guns, didja?



I picked up this .25 Galesi for next to nothing in one of those I-love-this-country parking lot transactions a couple months back. It actually hits where you point it (more or less) at the sort of ranges at which one might have to use it. I get failures to feed pretty often on the last round in the magazine, which could probably be fixed with a new magazine spring if I were so inclined.

I bought it more as a curio than anything else, and so I haven't done anything other than a little cursory cleaning. But it's cute. And shiny.

Stealing a meme

...from Rachel Lucas, because my Inspiration Meter is bottomed-out.

WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
WHAT INSULTING NICKNAMES WERE YOU CALLED IN CHILDHOOD? Dude...y'all know my name. Crabby Abby, Gabby Abby, Flabby Abby (although I was not a pudgy child)...alas, nobody ever called me "Stabby Abby," which would have been kinda cool.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? WHEN YOU CRY, DO YOU LOOK UGLY, OR DOES IT GIVE YOU A BEAUTIFUL SAD GLOW? Ugly. There's no such thing as beautiful crying. That's why I try not to do it.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? ARE YOU FORGETTING HOW TO WRITE BECAUSE YOU SPEND SO MUCH TIME ON THE COMPUTER? That's not a problem for me - my handwriting has always sucked. I simply print now - my third grade teacher would be appalled at how much I do not use the cursive skills she so thoroughly beat into me.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? DO YOU THINK VEGETARIANS ARE INSANE? (BECAUSE THEY ARE.) No. Just misguided. But that's okay, because it means more meat for me.

DO YOU HAVE KIDS? DO YOU LIKE KIDS? IF SO, WHY? WHY, IN THE NAME OF GOD? We've been over this.

IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? IF YOU WERE A DOG, WOULD YOU LICK YOURSELF JUST BECAUSE YOU COULD? DON'T TRY TO DENY IT. Yes. Constantly. I'd be that dog that embarassed you and which you lock in the back room when there's company over.

DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? ARE YOU AS FRIGHTENED OF CLOWNS AS YOU SHOULD BE IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU? Yes. I'm the fourth clown-hating female generation of my family. And we're all alive. And we all still hate clowns. Even my 104 year-old great grandmother.

DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? IF YOU COULD BE EITHER VERY BEAUTIFUL OR VERY SMART, WHICH WOULD YOU CHOOSE AND WHY? Very beautiful. I've been reasonably bright for a while now, and that hasn't done a whole lot for me. So I think it would be fun to be reasonably hot for a while.

WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? HOW MUCH MONEY WOULD YOU REQUIRE TO HAVE INTIMATE RELATIONS WITH MICHAEL MOORE OR ROSIE O'DONNELL (DEPENDING ON YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCE BUT DOES THAT REALLY MATTER WITH THESE TWO)? Let's see...a night at a decent beachfront hotel in the Keys runs about $200. I can consume $200 in booze and chow in beachfront bars in 24 hours. Add in $100 a day for smokes and gas... We'll say $500 a day minimum to hide out in the islands, plus a little for fishing and boat rentals and such... 500 x 90 days is $45,000...plus say $10,000 for the incidentals...that's $55,000...plus another $50,000 to take care of my bills and responsibilities while I'm livin' the dream...that's a little more than $100,000....double that so I don't come off sounding TOO easy...add a little for the horror...call it a quarter million, and Michael has to bring the quart of whiskey.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CUSS WORD? I love them all. Every single goddam one of them.

DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?IF YOU'RE A MAN, HAVE YOU EVER CAUGHT YOUR JUNK IN YOUR ZIPPER? HOW BAD DID IT HURT? IF YOU'RE A WOMAN, HOW GLAD ARE YOU THAT YOU'RE NOT A MAN? I dunno. Pantyhose suck ass. Then again, we don't have to wear ties. Then again, they don't have to wear heels. It's a wash.

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING TO GROW OLD OR DIE TRAGICALLY YOUNG? I don't think about it a whole lot these days. However, I'm reasonably sure it won't be anywhere nearly as dramatic as we all like to think of our deaths as being. I'm thinking starving to death trapped beneath a bookcase I tip onto myself, then having my corpse devoured by stray dogs. Or something like that.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? DESCRIBE YOUR MOST RECENT NIGHTMARE. I don't have nightmares. I haven't had them in years. I occasionally dream about something unpleasant, but I don't wake up afraid. Sometimes sad, never afraid.

WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? DO YOU WISH THAT, INSTEAD OF PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION DEBATES, THEY INSTEAD HAD TO BOX EACH OTHER, BECAUSE THEN THERE'D NEVER EVER BE ANOTHER DEMOCRAT IN THE WHITE HOUSE? I wish the debates were moderated by some crotchety old lady who would simply slap a candidate each time he/she sidestepped a question or repeated a meaningless soundbite. Or...how about if all the candidates had to have four drinks right before walking onstage? THAT would be interesting.

RED OR PINK? ABBA: THE BLONDE OR THE BRUNETTE? Huh?

WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? WHAT DISEASE DO YOU MOST FEAR CONTRACTING? I dunno. But as a child I always wanted to contract malaria, because it seemed to be a disease only suffered by intrepid explorers of weird and wild places.

WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? WHO DO YOU MISS THE LEAST? The reason I don't keep a specific hate list on the blog is because once I start, I don't think I'll ever stop.

WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? ON A SCALE OF 1-10, HOW MUCH DO YOU HATE SHOPPING FOR NEW CLOTHES (10 BEING SO MUCH YOU'D RATHER CLEAN THE CAT BOX WITH YOUR BARE HANDS). Depends on the clothes. If we're talking about Columbia shirts and park ranger shorts, I enjoy it. If it's "grownup clothes," well, show me the catbox.

WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE BEFORE THE LAST TIME YOU THREW UP? I dunno, but I'd had a bottle of red Gatorade shortly. That I remember.

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? NAME FIVE "CLASSIC" POPULAR SONGS YOU HOPE YOU NEVER HEAR AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE. Hotel California. Times five.

IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? IF YOU WERE A DOG, WHICH BREED WOULD YOU BE? Hmm...what's like a Rottweiler, but less effective? Some vicious terrier, I'm afraid.

FAVORITE SMELLS? FAVORITE BODILY FUNCTION? (COUGH, SNEEZE, BELCH, POOP, FART, YAWN, ETC) I love a good sneeze.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU HAD A HUGE FIGHT WITH, WHAT WAS THE FIGHT ABOUT, AND WHO WON? Duh. I'm married. Once you're married, it's just many variations on the same fight, and nobody ever wins.

FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? AS WE ALL KNOW, PRO FOOTBALL IS THE ONLY SPORT WORTH CARING ABOUT. IN LIGHT OF THAT FACT, WHO IS THE BEST NFL QUARTERBACK OF THE LAST 10 YEARS? BEST RUNNING BACK? BEST WIDE RECEIVER? BEST DEFENSIVE PLAYER? BIGGEST PRIMA DONNA? WHINIEST BITCH? I've moved too much in the last ten years to have kept up on football. I prefer baseball, anyway. Football is fine, but it just requires no real...discipline to be a fan.

HAIR COLOR?? BALD MEN ARE VERY SEXY. DISCUSS. It's hard to tell - lots of the bald guys I know probably aren't bald - they're just military guys who shave their heads. I think it runs about 50/50 sexy/goofy.

EYE COLOR? THE INVENTION OF THE PILL IS A GOOD ENOUGH REASON TO BELIEVE IN GOD. DISCUSS. Agreed. I'm not entirely sure I'm a big fan of all the hormone-based stuff, but the whole birth control concept is fabulous. Plus, there's a certain type of person that is driven to distraction by the idea of women having sex and enjoying it, and even more insane by the idea that these women are having this sex and NOT having babies. Driving that group of people nuts is also wonderful.

DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? DO YOU HAVE PERFECT VISION? IF SO, RACHEL LUCAS ENVIES YOU WITH THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND GALAXIES. Actually, yeah. I do. 20/20 at every test from childhood til now. But my time is running out. Mom and Dad both ended up with glasses around 40, and I'm pretty sure I'm on the same track.

FAVORITE FOOD? FOOD YOU FIND SO REPUGNANT THAT YOU SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE OTHER PEOPLE PUT IT IN THEIR MOUTHS? Those jelly beans that aren't fruit flavors, but spices. There aren't many foods I'll spit out - those I will. Clove-flavored jelly beans? Who the fuck thought that up?

SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? WHEN YOU GO TO THE MOVIES AND THE JERK BEHIND YOU KICKS YOUR SEAT CONSTANTLY, DO YOU IGNORE/MOVE OR DO YOU CHALLENGE THEM TO FISTICUFFS? I'm getting a little meaner as I get older. I turn around and scold these days. I jumped out of the truck and gave some young asshole a stern talking-to the other night after he threw a soda cup out the window. This will probably get me shot some day.

LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED THAT MADE YOU GET ON YOUR KNEES AFTERWARDS AND BEG GOD TO GIVE YOU THE LAST TWO HOURS OF YOUR LIFE BACK? I dunno. I don't watch a lot of movies, and the ones I do I watch mostly at home. If they suck, I read. I watched that new Pixar one with the rats the other night.

WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? DO YOU EVER PUT CLOTHES ON YOUR PETS? Yep. Just the rat dog. But he has a Hawaiian (sp?) shirt, a Bush/Cheney '04 shirt, and a Vikings jersey.

SUMMER OR WINTER? BEER, WINE, OR LIQUOR? D - all of the above. On the same night if I'm on a roll.

HUGS OR KISSES? FALL ASLEEP OR CUDDLE? Check to make sure the little dog at the foot of the bed didn't get hurt.

FAVORITE DESSERT? FAVORITE FOOD THAT YOU KNOW WILL KILL YOU EVENTUALLY BUT YOU DON'T CARE BECAUSE IT IS JUST SO FREAKING DELICIOUS? Bacon cheeseburgers. But a life without them is a life I don't want to live.

WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SO DISGUSTED BY A BOOK'S ENDING THAT YOU VIOLENTLY DESTROYED THE BOOK? Yes, but you know what? I cannot for the life of me remember which book - just the rage.

WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? DO YOU HAVE P0RN ON YOUR COMPUTER? DON'T LIE. Okay. I won't.

WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? TRUE OR FALSE: "REALITY" T.V. IS THE BEST REASON FOR THE REST OF THE WORLD TO HATE AMERICA. True.

FAVORITE SOUND? FAVORITE DRUNKEN SLATTERN: PARIS, LINDSEY, OR BRITNEY? I'm not sure if it's brunette solidarity or what, but I find Lindsey's bad behavior much less tiresome than the other two. They seem like career whores, Lindsey seems to be an ass just like any of us would have been at her age with that kind of money and fame.

ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? MOST DESERVING OF CHUCK-NORRIS-STYLE ROUNDHOUSE KICK TO THE THROAT: AL GORE OR JESSE JACKSON? You know, I kinda like Al Gore, to be honest. He's like that neighbor who goes on and on about the paperboy throwing his paper in the bushes. And Jesse Jackson? Well, he read Green Eggs and Ham once on Saturday Night Live, thus redeeming himself for all eternity. It was that good. I want to kick Wolf Blitzer in the teeth, though.

WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? WHAT HAPPENED THE FIRST TIME YOU GOT DRUNK? 'FESS UP. Absolutely nothing exciting. Seriously.

DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? IF YOU COULD HAVE MAD SKILLZ IN DANCING OR IN SINGING, WHICH WOULD YOU CHOOSE AND WOULD IT BE FOR YOUR OWN PERSONAL SATISFACTION OR TO IMPRESS OTHER PEOPLE AND POSSIBLY GET SOME ACTION? I think it would be a hoot to be able to dance well. I can't even dance badly, and really, it's not something that seems learnable. But I wish I could.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?? IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPERPOWER, WHICH WOULD YOU CHOOSE AND WOULD YOU USE IT FOR GOOD OR EVIL? I'm dull beyond belief. I just wanna be able to fly. I don't have much of a capacity for evil, but I'd probably use my power mostly to entertain myself.

WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? IF YOU NEVER SEE ANOTHER Q&A MEME AGAIN, WILL IT BE TOO SOON? Yes, it will. But this gave me something to do this evening beyond just fondling my guns and smoking in the garage.

Wow - that was a couple hours of my life. I think this will be the last time I do that whole line-through-text thing. But if I'd had to dream up a topic on my own, I think it would have been hateful.

Cool!

We were sitting down with our grilled meat this evening when we heard fireworks. I glanced up and out the front door. Hey - they were right there!

So the Bad Dog Family took our plates out the front door, sat on the front lawn and enjoyed a fabulous view of the fireworks over Fort Worth. Can't beat a deal like that.

Perspective

We were having a Normal Rockwell interlude a little while ago. I was frosting a cake while my stepdaughter hovered. One of the boys was washing dishes and the other was on the couch with his portable video game thing.

Mr. Abby picked up the puppy's Tire Bite toy and a spirited game of "take the tire from the person" ensued. For two or three minutes, Mr. Abby and Jack alternately chased each other around the couch, laughing and barking.

I looked up and saw the son on the couch with the video game while his Dad played chase with the puppy in a circle around him. And I thought, C'mon boy - put down the game and play with your Dad and the puppy.

Of course, that's not how it works. Dad (or the puppy) wore out and moved on to more important things, and the game player never even looked up.

Car bombs in Britain

Although my TV has been almost entirely taken over by short people watching fucked-up Japanese cartoons, I am aware that savages have been trying their luck with car bombs in Great Britain. It appears that the madness has spread to Brisbane, where the Forces of Good just snatched up another plotting fucker.

The Official Bad Dog Position on car bombs is, not surprisingly, one of disapproval. But see, it's real strong disapproval.

I saw one of these once. About 20 yards to my immediate right. And although it winged a couple of my guys, it killed a fucking truckload of civilians.

Civilians are not targets. They are not targets. Not targets, not targets, not targets.

The days are long behind the Western Powers when we thought that killing the shit out of non-combatants was a good and honorable strategy. However, for our enemies, killing civilians is the cat's ass. It's the thing to do.

I always thought that was wrong. I always disapproved of the targeting of civilians in a detached, conceptual way. Ain't right, y'know?

But then I saw it, and now it turns my stomach. The fact of the thing is vile. But the implication are worse. Because that sort of violence does bad things to a society.

Parents don't drop kids off at the county fair with a $20 bills and a pick-up time in places where savages drive explosive-packed cars into crowds of children. And you don't have "sidewalk sales" in towns where the sidewalks are killing fields. You don't stand and chat with friends in front of the grocery store when doing so makes you a target. There are no high school football games, no teenagers clustered at the local Dairy Queen in that sort of society.

You live with fear in that kind of society, where that random death can intrude anywhere. Americans do not now live with a lot of fear - nothing like the fear that's out there when this sort of thing shows up.

These suicide bomb attacks - they're like mini 9/11s. The same things are horrifying - why those victims? Why this morning? Why that building? And after a while, it ceases to shock, and it's just another horrifying part of life.

But I tell you what, the idea of that mindset coming here is hard to stomach. Which kid do you send to the grocery store? The post office? Is an earache worth going to the hospital?

I don't want it here. I don't want that thought process in my wonderful country. But it's close. Britain is close. Australia is close.

It's a war, folks. Said it before, and I'm saying it again. We take it to them to keep them from bringing it to us.

And I'd do anything to keep that from coming here.

Tales from the office

I work at a company that sells things. The kinds of things I like. Mostly, I spend my day fixing the royally fucked-up situations that crop up in every sort of sales. However, the last hour or so of the day I occasionally hop on the phone and take inbound calls (we don't make outbound sales calls).

I took one this evening.

"ACME distributing, this is Abby. How can I help you tonight?"

After a little discussion, we established that Mr. Guy was a return customer, and wanted to place an order. As I waited for the Evil DOS-based sales system to pull up the "new order" screen, I made a little small talk, since Mr. Guy seemed friendly.

"How's the world treating you tonight?"

"Oh, it's alright, considering I have a daughter I don't ever see," he sighed.

"Oh. Gracious. That's too bad, sir." You know, the idea behind small talk is that it's not supposed to be anything soul-baring.

"Yeah. I've never seen her. She lives in Texas."

"Oh, my. Can I get your first item number?"

"Yeah, I'll take #123XYZ. You know the singer Jewel?"

"Ummm..yes, sir. One of those #123XYZ's?"

"Yeah. One each. And two ABC789's. I'm Jewel's biological father. I tried to go see her once when she was a baby, and I ended up in a straitjacket. That was the year I dropped out of high school."

I'm not sure how I managed to finish that one, but I did. 'Cause even crazy people deserve to order our shit, I guess.

Oh, yes. This job is so on borrowed time.

Finally! A use for children!

If I haven't at any point spelled it out, y'all have probably figured that I'm not the world's biggest fan of kids. I didn't even like being a kid, fer goddsake. My stepchildren are good kids, but they're still kids, and it confuses me.

I do believe in making children do things, and making them do them right. This is, of course, annoying, because it is the natural inclination of children to do shockingly substandard work in order to more quickly get back to the important things in life - namely, drinking all the soda in the house and staring at cartoons on my TV.

So the best way to employ children is in what I think of as "Yoda tasks." You know (and I parahrase) - "do or do not. There is no try."

Found one the other night. Came into house with box, grabbed Precise Boy.

"Hey, kid. Wanna make five bucks?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. Pay attention, because I'm only demonstrating once. This is what we call a stripper clip....the ones with green tips go in this box, the other ones go in this box. Got it?"

250 or 300 rounds later, I think he has it down. Good. I need to rebuild my stockpile.

The funny part, of course, was when he knew he had a job opportunity on his hands, and I took him into the Armory.

"You want me to clean your guns?"

"I don't think so, child."

Just a thought

If you're the Department of Motor Vehicle, and you open at 0730, and you normally have a big old line of people out front when you open the door, it might not be bad idea if your employees start work at 0730. Or even 0800. Having two people on duty unti 0830...well, it just doesn't make much sense.

Anyway...ID was duly presented, paperwork was filled out. Unlike Florida, you cannot leave the DMV here with a license. I left with a piece of paper and a promise of a license in the mail. Rumor has it they're pretty quick about that, which would be nice.

Then, once I have the license in my sweaty little paws, all the good prices I've been seeing on used firearms are fair game.

Mwaaah haaa haaa!!

Because there isn't enough rage

I'm off to the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles to get me a driver's license. I have several pieces of paperwork to prove I'm not an illegal Mexican, and if I'm lucky, I'll have a small piece of yellow paper (or something similar) in an hour or so.

Wish me luck!

Grownup Places

I was hanging out at Rachel Lucas' place earlier, and she had a blog rating widget posted.

Oooh! I said. I wonder what Bad Dogs is rated!

Well, duh.

Mingle² - Online Dating

Yes, we do use some adult language around here. But you what? I think that's a feature, not a bug.

There aren't a lot of advantages to being a grownup, but using salty language, drinking beer and playing with guns are a few real pluses. I think we should take a moment every so often and revel in the fact that although we have to pay taxes and buy car insurance, the trade is the ability to drink gin at noon while organzing our pistol ammo. Butt nekkid, if we so desire.

BUT...speaking of things which blow about being a grownup, I need to brush my teeth and drag myself off to the Most Mindnumbing Job On Earth.

News Flash

I'd stop with the news from Florida, but it's just too damn fabulous. Today we have...Man With Headache Finds Bullet in His Head.

Michael Eugene Moylan, 45, awoke around 4:30 a.m. Tuesday in his home with an extremely painful headache, St. Lucie County Sheriff Ken Mascara said. Moylan told police the affliction was so painful, he thought that his wife had either elbowed him in the head or he was having an aneurism.

Apparently Mrs. Moylan throws a mean elbow. But, of course, that's not the end of the story.

...April Moylan eventually told investigators that she had accidently shot her husband. She was arrested Tuesday afternoon on charges of possessing a firearm by a convicted felon and could face attempted murder charges...

Attempted murder?

Nah - attempted murder would have required the use of a serious round. If it can lodge behind one's ear, it is not, I think, attempted murder.

Quick shot

Well, we're back. I'm at the kitchen counter, on a barstool. The desktop computer is occupied by some child, and this is the only other chair in the house.

[sigh]

Anyway, I've been sending house pics to relatives all evenings, so you guys are (yet again) getting the short end of the stick. I have but one for y'all.



That's the dog beating the kids in a race down the pool. And he keeps swimming and swimming...

happy happy joy!

Mr. Abby has, with his own two little hands, built us an INTERNET!

Stand by, folks, ‘cause it’s nothing but dog pictures and full front M1 carbine shots tonight!

garage battles

(In case you haven’t figured it out, there’s still no internet at the new Bad Dog Central. But I can do this cut-and-paste in about 25 seconds)

Today’s question is: How much crap can you fit in the average two-car garage? Mr. Abby, in his infinite fear of incurring the Wrath of Abby, wasn’t entirely clear that he was expected to send the old couch, love seat and chair to live with Jesus. So he brought them along. They are in the garage. Along with:
a motorcycle,
a dining room table and three chairs for it,
two lawnmowers (yet again, he brought the old, dead one),
a weedwhacker,
fifteen or so packing cartons,
five toolboxes,
two Stanley job boxes AND
a couple of 30-gallon trash cans.
Oh yes – and a chest freezer.

Did you notice I didn’t say anything about two vehicles? His truck is in front of the garage and I don’t anticipate getting the Jeep in there this evening.

We’re easing toward being “settled in,” but getting this garage issue under control is going to be a major sticking point. Fortunately, the municipality collects trash twice a week, so we can offload another stack of collapsed boxes tomorrow.

I’m still holding out for the possibility that the Internet Fairy will swing by the house this afternoon. Several of my neighbors have wireless, but they’re all smart enough to have secured their networks. Bastards.

I'm not dead

Advance apologies for any weird formatting we have going on here. We’re still without internet at the new hacienda so I’m going to cut and paste from Word while at work.

I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, but things were a little crazy and there hasn’t been time for me to go driving around to steal me some wireless.

The pack arrived without incident. Well, actually, after several incidents. But they’re here so it’s all a wash. Entities which have been added to the Beat With Stick list include the title company, Sears (bringing you Appliance Delivery Fiascos since 1920…), AT&T and possibly the gas company.

I have learned that if one has a pool and a lab puppy, the lab puppy will be in the pool. On one hand, this wears him out – he hasn’t eaten any household objects since arriving. In bad news, I have a wet puppy who needs to be hosed down about twice a day (I want to rinse the chlorine off).

Things that rock – having my own washer and dryer again. It was downright anti-feminist, the joy I took in washing clothes yesterday. “Look, honey! I’m putting things in the dryer without inserting quarters!”

Also rocking is my M1 carbine, which is in very nice shape. The stock isn’t original, and due to the internet drought, I haven’t been able to look anything up. Which chaps my ass, but I’m trying not to hate.

OK. I’ll try for some pictures later, but I had to hang this out so y’all didn’t think I’d become one of those bloggers who found better things to do. I don’t have THAT MUCH of a life.

Staying calm

I have two major appliances being delivered sometime between 1030 and 1230 (should be three, but the dryer had an unfortunate incident and will arrive Monday).

Of course, the Title Twit of earlier fame is not yet in the office, and the lenders are hiding from my calls. I assume that's because, since the Title Woman works banker's hours, she has not yet sent them whatever they require.

But I'm calm. I have no choice - at 1015 I have to leave here, go over to the house, and let the appliance people in. Whether or not anything has been "funded." I shall, it appears, become a squatter. In a house I have shelled out a significant amount of money for.

How's that work, anyway?

Note to self: People involved in the home/property buying process are not actual professionals. They seem to be people who completed some correspondence courses or a long weekend seminar at the Sheraton out by the airport. Thus, one should not expect a level of ability equal to that expected of medical personnel, accountants, or union carpenters.

In happy news, there will be electricity at the house, because I most definitely got that locked on. And phone service tomorrow. No phones until the Pack shows up, but phone service.

Freakin' Outstanding

I'm giggling down deep inside.

Y'all need to head over to Chris' place, and see the results of his family's what-do-guns-do-to-a-refrigerator experiment.

There's a video. Watch it.

I felt as though I'd gotten vengeance, if only vicariously, for every wrong done to me by a shitful refrigerator in the past three years.

That's good shit. Wonder if it's too late to have Mr. Abby bring the fridge from Florida?

Did you know

that if you're closing on a house, and using a power of attorney, on the space provided for your spouse (or whoever) you write "[Mr. Abby] by Abigail B. [Last name]," and the title agent will say that's what you're supposed to do.

Then you'll leave, assuming you'll get the call saing the closing has been "funded" in two or three hours.

Instead, however, you will get a call at 1647 during which you will be told that every time you signed for your husband, the words "attorney in fact" should have followed. That, it will be explained, is very important.

It is, in fact, so important, that the lenders will not "fund" the closing until those words have been appended to every single page.

Thus motivated, you drive around Fort Worth like a bat out of hell (after more or less just jumping up and leaving your desk at work) to get to the title place by 1713.

"We close at 5!," they had chirped.

Only if you want me to burn your fucking business down, kill your pets and slash your tires, you explain. So they stay open for you.

You write "attorney in fact" 7,492 times. Then, as you leave the title place, you call your lender and explain about the place of business, the pets and the tires. It would be best, you explain, if "funding" this transaction is the first thing that happens in the morning.

Then you drive back up to North Fort Worth and check in to yet another motel. Where you sit, and you smoke, and you hate.

It's here!

Or, rather, it's THERE!

Phone calls we love involve Mr. Abby opening a box-o-carbine for us. Of course, it arrived as the movers are at the Crackhouse collecting our stuff, so they must have thought that was odd.

(Then again, the movers already think we're nuts. They called me this morning, trying to get ahold of the Mister. When the phone rang, I assumed it was Mr. Abby, and answered, "hey, baby!" The moving guy, it seems, does not normally get addressed that way. "Uhhh..." he responded.)

For all his expertise, my husband is not very helpful with this. I asked him to open it and ensure the wood was intact, since apparently there's an occasional cracked stock. So he did.

[sounds of box opening, etc]

"Hey, it looks great," he said.

"Great?"

"Well, about like your other one."

[sigh]

So apparently it's intact, and the stock isn't an utter dog. But the movers have taken his computer, and so it will remain a mystery until they show up out here.

Question for my relationship experts - how bad is it, when your family and pets roll up to your new house, to simply nod and say, "hey" to them, then shove past and burrow through the truck to find and fondle your new gun?

What? You want MORE HORROR?

I got your horror RIGHT HERE, folks. The kitchen wallpaper is bad, but I don't know if it can hold a candle to the Death of A Zillion Red Flowers.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...the guest bathroom.



These two locations are the only offensive wallpaper areas in the house. We have paper in the Grownup Bathroom, but it's normal.

Worst about the wallpaper situation is this - it's very well done. See, I know about these things.

My mother is a Wallpaper Woman. And she's always had a pack of Wallpaper Friends. Whenever there was a redecoration or a new house, I was dragged to Kid Hell. Kid Hell is any store that sells nothing but wallpaper. And they exist. Anyway, I'd get dragged to Kid Hell, often several times, while she plotted the exact paper and border the situation required.

Then the Wallpaper Ladies would descend with their dipping trays, and there would much swearing and use of razor blades.

And when all was said and done? What did you have?

Fucking wallpaper. That's what I thought even as a kid. All that effort and you end up with wallpaper. Bummer deal.

But I did learn enough to know that whoever put this crap up did a good job. Images meet neatly enough at the seams that they're hard to see. Even the switchplates are sharply done. Too bad it sucks.

I just don't get it. But one of the great things about being a grownup is...I don't have to. That wallpaper is on borrowed time.

Through the storm

we occasionally catch a little ray of sunshine.

I was slogging through another day in the Salt Mine of Stupid, field phone calls as surreptitiously as possible and darting into the bathroom to get updates and give feedback.

(We'll keep it short tonight - thank God they accepted the power of attorney because they did NOT get their shit together in a timely manner. Bastards)

Then I sat through a meeting.

Then I real quick and sneaky pulled up the CMP E-store.

SHIPPED! Hitting Tampa tomorrow! Little ol' 5,107,518, made in '44.

It actually got me through the rest of the workday, past the part where I had to find a place to stay near the closing place, and past the part where the underwriters suddenly decided they needed more documentation of what was apparently a questionably large deposit (which was, actually, a CD that matured). This required me to bring the printer in from El Jeepo (which I really did not want to do), hook it up, print pages of bank records, scan them, and send them off.

Of course, would any of that have been remotely possible ten years ago?

But, more importantly, who gives a shit if it may have been possible? My M1 carbine shipped!

Now excuse me, I must go do the Happy Gun Dance.

By the way...

0801 CST - I receive a cc of an email from Mr. Abby with scans of the power of attorney sent by the lender, and of your standard gov'mint "special" power of attorney for redundency.

Then I got a phone call as he was on his way to the FedEx drop box with the originals.

The potential rage level is high today. It's probably a good thing I tend to let any calls that come in on my cell at work roll over to voicemail, or you guys might catch me on the evening news.

Packin'

and no - not the kind that involves any sweet shootin' irons.

The kind that involved schlepping all my shit back out to the Jeep. Mostly done in the wee hours of the morning, my shit has migrated out of Ye Olde Cheape Motel. I'm outta here. Since they only charge a weekly rate here, the next night (or, god forbid, two), will be spent in an equally cheap normal motel.

I did not get enough sleep last night - might have had something to do with the pot of coffee and bottomless pit of boiling rage about this whole closing thing.

Am I going to be a treat at work today or what?

Off to load the last of the Great Pile of Crap.

Huh?

So my new job...well, it is involving the serving of the customers. You buy things from my company, we screw up, and I fix it.

It's dull as hell, but provides the occasional moment of levity. I am, however, not comfortable enough there yet to start sharing stories. Perhaps when we have a minimal acceptable amount of furniture and getting fired would anything but financial suicide...

But we do have a company inbox. And since it's a public address, just hangin' out there on the web, we get spam.

Today I got one titled lumberjack untangle. Although I was a little concerned it would contain naked picture of my Dad playing Twister (pardon me a second while I go boil my eyes), I opened it.

I'm married to your cousin, so . I'd be delighted to attack it all from a different direction...

Huh? Well, I guess being married to any of my cousins would be enough to make anyone think about a different direction. I skimmed on.

What are the physicians doing or saying that you are thinking of as resistance? There are a few reasons that could be argued against as being a bit disingenuous, but for the most part, the reasons seems believable, even if some would be relatively short term problems.

Okay. Sorry. You lost me again. Let's try one more paragraph.

As a result of the simulation, participants learn to apply the principles of visibility, feedback, communication, and collaboration to increase their rate of delivery. A flexible reporting tool has been implemented to provide the information needed by decision makers and with unprecedented levels of grannularity.

Now I can't tell if we're dealing with some sort of hippie shit or something involving spreadsheets. And WTF is "granularity," if we're not talking about making Jell-o?

I totally fail to get it. But it did provide me with about 20 minutes of entertainment in my otherwise boring-as-shit day.

And I promise I'll never subject y'all to my spam again.

It's been a long time

since I've said, on the phone, "that is fucking unacceptable."

And to a civilian, no less.

Even I am aware that one of the things you need to close on a house is a survey. A current survey, really, since I don't know anyone who's ever gotten a house without getting a new one.

It seemed, however, to come as a surprise to our title agency (that would be Land America Title Co., for all my Google monkeys). Which is how I found out today that our closing was in trouble because the survey - which the title people had ordered Thursday - was "not in."

Ordered Thursday? Like four days ago? When we set this closing date like two weeks ago?

It was not a happy discussion that I had with ol' Title Lady when I got out of work today and headed to the walkthrough.

"We can push it back a day," she sniveled.

"No. That's not an option. We are going to close Wednesday, and I don't give a shit what you have to do to make that happen."

You gotta understand, people, I'm not a rude person. I've worked with and for folks with a lot of different styles and, Parris Island aside, confrontational, browbeating interactions really have a limited role in getting things done.

However...Mr. Abby is a very nice man. Cheerful, happy and always looking for ways that he can help you help him. Heck, hint that you can't do your job and he'll probably find a way to do it for you.

Occasionally, I am therefore required to be the member of our household you don't want to talk to. Perhaps after a couple of conversations with Abby the Raging Bitch, you'll be a little more amenable to dealing with Mr. Abby the Very Reasonable.

It's worked before.

But now, since our immediate situation is being theatened by blinding incompetance, we've had to be proactive.

The big problem here is there's FedExing involved. Let's reverse-plan. In order for the documents to be here for a 1030 closing on Wednesday, Mr. Abby needs to send them out of Tampa by around 1800 Tuesday night. Which means he should probably get them by 1400 on Tuesday. Which means they need to be sent...well, see? That already doesn't work.

I didn't get a warm fuzzy from Title Twit about the whole 21st century thing either.

"But emailing is harder," she whined. "He might not sign in all the right spots..."

I was not entirely polite when I pointed out that my husband is phenomenally more competant than the title people, and thus I trusted him to do his part if they could do theirs.

So there I stood, in the driveway of Target House, with the realtor. We'd concluded the walkthrough, during which I had been required to low-crawl through insulation in the attic.

We traded remarks about the level of distrust we had in the Title Agency of Satan. Then a light came on...

"Hey," said I. "Just curious, but can Texas people deal with a power of attorney?"

Her face lit up, and she got on the phone with the lender (who, because it's a good, professional company, was still at her desk not making excuses, but trying to find a solution). Conversation ensued.

Long story slightly less long - yes. It appears they can. Which simplifies things greatly. I immediately received a PDF of the appropriate document, forwarded it to Mr. Abby, and followed it with a phone call. Seeing as he is a pretty bright guy (entirely capable, I remain convinced, of signing in the right places on emailed documents), it will be no problem for him to sign it, get it notarized and return it via FedEx in time for the scheduled closing.

I feel much better when the slippery bits are in the hands of those I know won't fumble.

Fucking idiots.

Anyway. I felt y'all deserved a picture of what was distracting me from the normal posting. And, just because I think it's funny, I have a picture for you.

You know how no matter how much you like a house, there's always something that makes you wonder what the hell was up with the previous owner. Well, in this one, it's the kitchen wallpaper.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll laugh, you'll cry. May I present...the Most Hideous Wallpaper in Texas!

Blah.

Sorry for the weekend silence - I had a bit of the melancholy, so I just picked up a stack of paperbacks and read.

I think it's all related to the fact that I did not receive a tracking number from CMP on Friday. [sigh]

But! Onward and upward - there are many things to do this week and many moving parts. The potenital for hilarity and/or disaster is high.