[grumble grumble]

Well, the fabled "busy season" seems to have kicked off at work. There are three people back in our little section, and one of them is already out with some extended medical issues.

Of course, this is the point at which the Army decides they need me for four days scattered among the next ten. My boss actually had kittens yesterday when I gave him copies of the orders.

"Why couldn't they do this in January?" he asked.

"Because if it's not screwing up your life, it's not the Army."

However, because I like the remaining coworker who has no issues preventing her from working, and because I am on the team, I agreed to work some extended hours on the days I am available so we can keep our heads above water. And so my nice coworker doesn't have to shoot anyone.

So I'm off an hour early, and will stay an hour later. It's certainly not the worst thing ever, but it will make for an annoying week.

Army Dorky

I am sitting here in my kitchen, awaiting the arrival of the in-laws.

I just finished the laborious process of assembling my Class A uniform.

Since I have to wear the nice uniform, that means I cannot scam out of wearing the black Army beret.

It's a new beret, so I had to shave the thing. I spent 15 minutes hunched over the bathroom sink, shaving a piece of military headgear.

Now I'm wearing it. Because they need shaping, you know.

Did I mention that the beret is wet? Because they take a shape better that way.

[sigh]

Pig mania!!!

Okay, not really, I justed wanted to use that as a post title.

The Super Swine Supper Source (henceforth referred to "the feeder") is in place. In fact, it should have spewed forth sweet, crunchy, delicious corn just shy of three hours ago.



First, we filled it. 350 pounds of dry corn fills a 55-gallon drum, for those who might be interested.

Then we tested it.



We were not expecting such immediate success, but the North American subspecies of Blackus Labdumbass is not known for its intellect, and in fact appeared at the feeder while we were standing right there.

Now...we wait. I think next weekend shows promise for camping and hog stalking. This weekend, on the other hand, includes drill and in-laws, so chances are posting will be scare.

Under Siege

I work next to a bunch of phone sales agents. They're paid on commission, and there's some low flat hourly rate to supplement that when they're not making sales, as I understand it.

Of course, this is the month preceding Christmas, so business has picked up a little.

I'm not sure what sort of paid time off setup they have, but I think someone needs to look into the compensation for "sick days" for them. Because they're dragging in with every kind of coughing, hacking, snurfling and moaning ailment known to humanity.

Apparently, nobody wants to be out sick and miss the opportunity to make big sales. Ugh.

I, however, would love to miss the opportunity to catch all of their nasty viruses.

Alas...fortified with extra vitamin C, dressed warmly and well-hydrated, I'm going to work. I have to stop at Tractor Supply, and perhaps I'll see if they have some sort of agricultural protective clothing that I can wear. Maybe a calving/lambing suit and a respirator, and some sort of dairy barn disinfectant I can spray the entire office with?

Mr. Perry

The mention of using a spotlight as a hunting accessory in the last post reminded me of a story...

My sophmore year at Small Town High, I took World History with Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry was a big guy, about 1,000 years old, and a character. He had been teaching history since Christ was a corporal.

First day of class he went through the class list, taking attendance.

"Abby [Oldname]?" he barked. "[Oldname]? You Bob's daughter or Chuck's?"

My Dad and my uncle. It was a small town. My Dad and my uncle had been lively (that is, pain-in-the-ass) students and athletes back in the day.

"Bob's my Dad."

Mr. Perry peered at me. "Yeah, I remember Bob."

Mr. Perry had been a coach years ago, and retained the figured. Stoop shouldered and wrinkled, he was a big - not fat, just big - old man. In the summer, he supplemented his income by working as a part-time DNR ranger.

The man had a gift for gab. He taught the Norman Invasion of England in 1066 in two days of lecture. Just stomped back and forth across the front of the room, occasionally gesturing at a map of the British Isles, and telling a story.

It was a good story. You have to be a good storyteller to keep 25 high school sophmores hanging on every word for two days, and he did.

The Norman Invasion, though, was possibly the only subject that I don't remember him working poaching into. Like a lot of small-town woodsmen, he seemed to delight in those who operated just outside the game laws, even if he spent a portion of each year enforcing them.

"So these cave paintings, they'd have deer in them, right? Because deer were a food source for a hunter-gatherer population. Of course, they hunted with spears..."

A gleam would come into his eyes, and we'd know what was coming.

"And now spears, they aren't an easy way to hunt deer. We all know the easy way to put deer on the table..."

And by the end of the year, we could pretty much chant the next part right along with him.

"You get you a million-candlepower spotlight and a good .22 magnum, and you get in the back of a pickup and find somebody to drive you. And you drive these backroads real slow a couple hours after dusk and you shine that light out into the field until you pick up two eyes...."

Mr. Perry also did a mean moose impression, but I cannot for the life of me remember how that came up.

Mr. Perry was a widower, and it was a shame to think of all that personality wasting away alone at the end of the day. However... At the other side of the school, in the library, worked Mrs. Murphy.

She was the benevolent second-in-command at the high school library (which doubled as the town library), a tiny woman who radiated kindness and gentleness. That was fortunate, because the library was run by an ony-slightly-benevolent dictator who none of us were bright enough to appreciate at the time.

A few years after I left high school, Mr. Perry and Mrs. Murphy were married. I smiled when I heard the news - it was nice to think of her being kind to him, and of him making her smile with his jokes and stories.

It was still nice a couple years further down the line, when word reached me that Mr. Perry had died. He left behind, in addition to one very kind woman, thousands of former students who remember not only the Norman Invasion of England, but the best way to spotlight deer.

Oh goodness

So the gentleman who owns the property where we were hunting was talking to to Mr. Abby. He decided that he liked deer, and was rather bummed about having primarily pigs.

He would not be at all opposed, he said, if the Mister and I employed less-than-sporting measures to try to reduce his pig population.

Well...

(we fully recognize that on a rarely-occupied property, effectively reducing an established population of wild hogs is pretty unlikely. They breed like rats.)

We are game to try. So the Mister hatched himself an idea, which is never a good sign. We spent our evening in the garage, and ended up with this -



That would be a Phase I do-it-yerself hog baitin' feeder. If you look real close at the 55-gallon drum, you can tell it originally held grease for a restaurant. How much fun do you think cleaning that was?

Next steps include the mounting of the actual feeding/timing device, possible extension of the legs, and a paint job.

Then, of course, comes the math part, wherein one figures that if said drum can hold 300lbs of dry corn, how often can one run the feeder and for how long before the tank is empty? Ick. Math for grownups.

However, the any means necessary mandate implies, at least to me, that we're cleared hot for million candlepower spotlights. Which really appeals to my inner redneck.

All this is socially acceptable, of course, because feral hogs are an environmental disaster. Like starlings and Asian carp.

Doggery

Well, the Guest Dogs just took off, and Jack is wandering around whining, pining for his girlfriend.



It was cute, but at the same time...two young labs is a bit much.

Casey is thrilled she doesn't have to wait two more turns for people food treats. She's used to the normal distribution pattern - senior dog, puptard, ratdog, senior dog... and so on.



In other news...remember Little Broke Dog? We've been calling in and checking on his status. He went up for adoption on Wednesday, and when I called the shelter yesterday, they told me he'd been adopted that morning.

It always makes us happy when homeless dogs get adopted, so bravo for whoever out there has a nice new dog.

Poor Mr. Abby

I cleaned the bathroom the other day. They sell that shower spray, but you know, just spraying that around after each shower does not mean you never have to clean beyond that. Who'd'a thunk it?

Anyway, inspired by my shower scrubbing, vanity beautifying frenzy the other day, Mister Abby decided to take his day off (yesterday) and do the floors. We have tile throughout, so it's not that hard, but, like the shower, it actually must be done periodically.

So he swept, and he ran the vacuum, and then he mopped. Mopped a couple of times. It looked nice. Smelled kinda funny, but that was really the result of an unfortunate choice in cleaning products during a recent shopping trip (Pine Sol lemon smells like wet cat pee, it seems).

So we had a nice, clean expanse of floor.

Then we woke up to rain and a wild pack of dogs who were playing in the yard, then racing back in through the dog door. Leaving smeared muddy prints everywhere.

I secured the dog door, but I think the damage has been done. Poor Mr. Abby.

I shall now take him to the exchange and buy him some boot socks or something to take his mind off the floor.

Black Friday?

Not so much, at my little salt mine. Rumor has it Big Retail did well, though, but I don't pay much attention.

The guy who sits next to me at work took calls throughout the day from his mother, who had started shopping at midnight. It turned into a passtime for all of us - where is coworker's Mom?

She started out here in the DFW area, was in Waco by the afternoon, and I think she may be in Mexico City by now. Rio by morning.

I love Christmas, but I cannot stand this shopping madness.

Something different

I'm off to work. I haven't worked even remotely near retail since high school, and so I'm interested to see how the legendary heights of consumerism will impact our small, phone-and-mail/e-commerce business.

We shall see.

Turkey Day Part V (after the nap)

[yawn]

Hey, that goose was pretty good. I'm happy with that.

You know how they say there's no white meat on a goose? By God, they're right. Since white meat is normally a dry and foul thing, I think that's pretty cool.

Anybody else in Northeast Texas get snowed on today? Also a pretty cool occurance. Nothing stuck, of course, but it was still neat.

Turkey Day part IV

Well, we know how that all turned out with the Lions.

Mom commented in on the first post today, but she's out serving chow to the hungry with World's Coolest Grandma today.

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was, honestly, another day of Deer Season. As a family, we'd maybe go to a movie, or get Chinese food. The big family turkey thing was for either the Sunday before or after. Shiftwork is what it is, and we worked around it.

Then Thanksgiving got crazy.

I went downrange, and we went out on Thanksgiving, and things went bad.



Then there was last year, when I went home to be there while Mom could fight Breast Cancer. (She won, too. She beat the living shit out of Breast Cancer - I am beyond proud).

The Mister hurt himself, and Mom had surgery, and I ate turkey and was thankful that I was there to do so.

This year...no drama. No so much on the craziness.

Looking toward next year, it's hard to tell.

I am not a religious person. But...

Thank you for this year. Thank you for the improvement over last year. Thank you for watching over me two years ago. I am thankful for those who are not where they wish they were this Thanksgiving. I am thankful for all of those folks for whom is is just another day of service.

Turkey Day Part III - Denial

The Detroit-Green Bay is on, but...umm...watching it is proving painful. So we're going to pretend that's not happening.

I went out for a smoke. The Dog Guests, who have been a having a bit of confusion about the dog door, decided to come out with me. A good thing, right? Well, apparently that door is trickier than I thought.



Jack pointed out to the Mister that our guests seemed confused. He passed the camera out to me.

Fortunately, outside waited the helpful input of Casey. She's old, she's cranky, she cannot understand how the dog door could be confusing.



We finally resolved the issue with a combination of shoving and dragging. Now everybody is sacked out on the floor, with at least one eye on the progress of the goose.

Turkey Day Part II

So. The goose is in progress. We googled "goose," and apparently the tricky thing is de-greasing the goose sufficiently. I put it on a rack, poked a few holes hither and yon to expedite draining, and cooked it uncovered 22.5 minutes on a side at 375.

This yielded grease. Lots of grease.



This is an 11-pound goose, folks, and that's two cups of fat.

Now it's wrapped up with herbs and onions and goodness, so we'll see in a few hours.

The dogs are waiting like vultures, hoping the goose goes very badly indeed. The herding dogs and Sparky are waiting patiently, but the shiny black labs...well...not so much on the patience.

Turkey Day

We've got a goose ('cause sometimes you just have to try something different), five dogs (in case the goose goes badly), and the Domino's Pizza phone number (in case the goose goes really badly).

Life is good, and for that we're thankful.

Oh. My. Goodness.

We're watching a friend's dogs while she's out of town for the Thanksgiving Turkey Ritual.

I have five dogs running around. Mine, a female black lab a few months younger than Jack, and an Australian shepherd a little more than a year old.

I'd post pictures, but I'm writing this while huddled in a closet, whimpering.

The most bummed puppy on earth

is the one who does NOT get to go running with me. I have to run for time next month, so I figured I should plot a course and get an idea of where I was. This pretty much ruled out taking Puptard.

So this morning I got dressed and put on my running shoes, and he started doing backflips, and then I slammed the door in his face.

I think we can safely assume he's going to eat all my stuff while I'm gone. Retaliation is a mother around here.

Off to ensure the gunsafe is locked and all shoes are in our room.

Totally

gratuituous lab pic!



That is all, you may all continue on with your daily routines.

Range trip!

Finally got the Garand out to the local range. The place was packed, but it was a nice day for it.

I was shooting at Alpine and, like most ranges right around here, they're anti-FMJ ammo, so I had to pick up another box of 150 grain softpoint.

The older gentleman behind the counter was helpful, after we got on the samge page.

"Need targets?" he asked.

"Yes, please. And if you have a large target, that would be nice. I have a new gun."

"You boresight it yet?" This, folks, is the part where doubt crept in.

Boresighting is a process wherein you line up the crosshairs on a newly mounted scope with the barrel (or "bore") of your rifle. You can do it Old Skool and simply remove the bolt from a bolt-action rifle and line up the crosshairs with what you see peering down the barrel, or you can get all high-tech and use a laser device stuck in either your chamber or in the barrel of your rifle. You can save a lot of time, energy and ammo that way.

I've never heard of anyone boresighting with iron sights, but you know, logically, it could be done.

This whole thought process resulted in me standing in front of the gentleman at the counter like an idiot for several seconds before saying, "no."

He pointed out that they could do that for me for $5, but I declined and pointed out that I was not using a scope.

"I've got a new Garand," I explained. "Well, an old Garand, but new to me."

Only at this point did the gentleman behind the counter decide I was not a maniac, and that, in fact, I should hear all about his Garand-related experiences. He was a nice guy, so that was fine, but I did finally have to break away while there was still daylight outside.

Ladies and gentlemen, to paraphrase Larry the Cable Guy, this looks like a good time no matter who you are.



And it is a good time, oh yes. The poor gentleman several benches down from me with his deer rifle was a good sport until after shot number eight, when the ping and clatter of the clip hitting the concrete made him look over with great concern.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," I giggled. "That's a good sign."



I started out low, and slowly adjusted. After getting pretty close, it became clear to me that I don't think I've got the rear sight tensioned correctly. This will either require much reading, or a pathetic call to Charley.

But in good news, it shoots realiably and straight, and works wonderfully as a conversation starter. And since it works, I'm now all about getting a good sling (leaning on Santa about that issue - tan and numbered, if you're reading, Santa), figuring out the rear sight, and then finding somewhere where I can back off the target a little more.

I hate working Saturdays

but it allows me to peruse the news.

Which occasionally makes you feel good about your life choices. For instance, it was not at my house where Oregon Police Find 8 Dogs in Freezer, 24 Running Loose While Serving Child Porn Warrant

Lt. Jim Anglemier says investigators today found two dozen poodles running loose or in cages, some near death. Eight puppies were found dead in a freezer.

That, for instance, makes me feel okay about having three dogs running loose, and only some sausage, frozen veggies and lemonade concentrate in my freezer.

Anglemier says trash was strewn throughout the place and dog feces were caked on the floor, beds and clothes. The odor was so strong, that some detectives needed to wear breathing respirators.

And although there may be "dog feces" in my backyard, and possibly even "caked on" a pair of sandals, it is not caked on the floor, bed or clothes.

Sometimes you just need a pick-me-up, and the horribleness of others can provide it.

Supply meets demand

...and it's a bummer.

I love Blackhawk. I've used their thigh rigs (I roll, when forced, with an Omega), and I like them. I scored one of their range bags on clearance, and it rocks.

(If you don't cruise the Blackhawk clearance section, you lose. Great gear, great prices.)

Anyway, I was checking them out a few days ago, and clicked over to "new products" or "pending products."

And found this.

“At Blackhawk we get up every morning dedicated to using our resources to help save lives,” explained Noell. “When medics and doctors that deal with combat and tactical medical needs see the system, they at once understand the immediate life saving potential. Four tourniquets in the pants and four tourniquets in the shirt (two in the short sleeve version), correctly positioned and oriented to the upper and lower extremities, are immediately accessible under existing gear and can be operated by the wearer, their buddy, or a medic.

Heh. That's only laughable if you've never given serious thought to rolling out the gate with a tourniquet on each limb, and not done it only because your unit didn't have enough to pull it off.

Dear Santa, this year, all I want for Christmas is for all the warriors to keep all their limbs.

Watchin' the politics

I'm tuned into the Democratic debate on CNN, but this is requiring the consumption of beers, so I won't....

...hold on....

who is this freakin' Marine who is letting his mother trot him out to yap about our future policy in Iran?

Alright. Nevermind. I'm just going to watch, and drink, and not blog about politics.

Critter magnet

I took off down the road at a blistering trot this morning, with my trusty shiny black running buddy doing his best to drag me. Glancing over into the neighbor’s yard, I noted a small dog there.

Huh, I thought. They don’t have a dog. I trotted on.

I swung out onto the trail behind the house and picked up the pace from trot to painfully slow shuffle. I was just settling in when one of the other morning regulars, a gentleman of maybe 70 years or so, flagged me down.

“Have you seen a dog that might have been hit by a car this morning?” he asked.

I shared that I’d seen a small dog in the neighbor’s yard and didn’t know the story behind it. The old man continued on his way, and I continued on mine. Jack and I finished our run (poorly), after we were forced to take two pee breaks and one poop break. None of these, I point out, were for my benefit.

As we passed the neighbor’s house, I noted the small dog was still in the yard. Startled by a large truck passing, he got up, and I could see he was holding a rear leg off the ground. Ahh…the injured dog.

I shoved Jack in the house, found a phone, and went back outside. He was gimping at a good pace, headed back into the open area behind our row of houses. I called the animal people, since they pick up injured critters. And if it was my injured dog, I’d want whoever saw it to call it in.

After letting them know the dog’s description, condition and location, I went out in the back yard to scoop some poo. As I finished, it occurred to me that the little gimp may have been wandering toward the busy road. Taking a cup of coffee out the front door, I went walkabout around the perimeter. There, on the strip of grass the separates our side fence from the busy road, was Injured Dog.

I placed my coffee cup in the grass and said, “hey, come here.” And he did. I looked him over, seeing an obvious case of road rash on the right back leg. “You going to bite me if I pick you up?”

He looked at me, and I scratched his ears. I scooped him up, and rather than flail or bite, he snuggled up against me, shivering. I carried him into the garage – he only weighed maybe 12-14 pounds. I made him a little bed out of a towel and an old sheet, then went in and called the Broken Animal Division of the local PD.

“Hey, this is Abby. I called earlier about an injured dog in the area. I found him next to my house, and he’s in my garage.”

I handed him off when the Broken Animal Lady showed up (I want her job). She looked at him, “We’ll get you to the vet for some good drugs!” She looked at me, “He looks like a pit bull puppy, but he’s got adult teeth. I don’t know. I hope he’s not a pit – because…well, we don’t adopt out pits. We’d have to put him down.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hope not, too. He seems like a nice little guy, and I think he might be an adult.”

There was a collective shrug, and she carted off the little injured guy.

I hope he does okay, and I hope the verdict is not “too much pitbull,” because he sure seemed like a sweetie. Honestly, I’d be inclined to think he was more of a smaller terrier, but I’m not sure what sort that would be.

T'ain't all bad

...when the Mister is out of town. Last night's dinner - tuna sandwich and root beer. Tonight? Polska kielbasa and a pot of coffee.

The downside? He normally gets home first and the dogs do their major spazz at that point. When he's gone, they have to amuse themselves an extra 90 minutes or so (for a grand total of nine hours of time during which nobody is fussing over them).

I thought someone had been doling out cocaine dog biscuits by the time I came through the door.

I got nuthin'

Does anybody want to read several paragraphs on why I'm thrilled to have new checks from my new bank? No? I didn't think so.

Interested in another breathless discussion of the whole Supreme Court Parker vs. DC possible pending potential maybe-gonna-happen decision? I really don't want to write it - sorry. Go here - it's done very well.

I thought about writing about the desecration of what sounded like a very nice veteran's memorial in the Kansas City area - but it was so soul-sucking that I decided to let it lie.

I guess I shall just head off to work and hope to run into, rather than a non-merging DFW driver, a metaphorical caution cone of inspiration.

Creepiest thing ever

A few years ago, I went to Madagascar with World's Coolest Grandmother, my Mom and one of Mom's Nursing Buddies.

One night, we were camping...somewhere. We'd been out trudging through a national forest in the dark, spotting lemurs with our flashlights by looking for eyeshine. This was highly cool, since some of the lemurs were inclined to leap around in the treetops, and you could follow their eyes.

Our guide seemed pleasantly surprised that four women from somewhere called "Michigan" were really, really good at spotting glowing eyes, and had no clue what we meant when we explained that years of looking out for roadside deer had left us very hip to shining eyes.

We returned to our camp, and Maurice (the guide) wanted to point out just one more very cool thing. He shined his flashlight around the tall grass in the clearing, revealing dozens of bright, shining points.

I, foolishly, had always assumed this was drops of dew. But I was wrong.

They were spider eyes. The eyes of what we call here Wolf Spider. Dozens and dozens of sets of spider eyes in that one patch of grass.



Ugh.

I shined my light around now when I'm out at night, and I really, really regret that I know what all those shiny points in the grass and on tree trunks are.

(image above courtesy of SpiderzRule.com, a very nice site owned by one of those odd people who really believe that all spiders are not vicious and evil)

Oh yes...

And a public thanks to Texas State Trooper Harn (or Hearn? Or Hern? - his handwriting sucks), who passed up the opportunity to hit the Mister with a decent speeding ticket at mile marker 583 this morning and let us proceed with a warning. Even though we were filthy and smelled like a campfire.

Appreciated, Trooper. And yes, we kept the speed much more reasonable for the remainder of the trip.

Question for any of my LE-types out there - is it normal now for an officer to approach the passenger window during a side-of-the-highway stop? It seems like a good idea (that is, the officer does not have to stand on the same side as traffic), but I don't think I've seen it done like that before. It's sorta awkward, though. I mean, I'm in the passenger seat, and although I understand the officer needs to speak to the driver, it seems rather rude for me to ignore him.

I opted to go with the "good morning, sir," then just leaned back and ignored him. Which must not have been too offensive.

We have returned!

And, yet again, all the happy little animals of the area where we hunted are safely still in their homes, distinctly unshot. Hell, they were distinctly unseen. Fortunately, we are easily pleased, and a weekend in a tent with a campfire was just dandy, even if we did get skunked.

However, things did get a little horrifying yesterday evening when I was perched in my tree stand, waiting for that last magical hour fading light when, according to people who occasionally hunt successfully, animals come out and walk around and are easy to shoot. I looked left, noted something moving on my arm.

Ick! Green hairy spider about the size of nickel. Brushed it off, continued to sit, and wait. Was mildly creeped out, but carried on. These things happen in the great outdoors.

Looked right...there was another green hairy spider about the same size hanging out on my right arm. Brush/fling...I was safe, but disturbed.

I caught another one on my arm, then one on my back, then I climbed down out of my treestand and got the hell away from that tree.

Edit to add: I guess there aren't any images of this critter on the internet. Just your standard jumping spider, it seems, but white and green. [shudders]

I dislike spiders, and I dislike hairy ones especially (hair should be reserved for mammals).

Admin note before departure

[ahem]

Attention to orders!

Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy 232nd birthday, US Marine Corps,
Happy Birthday to you!

That is all, you are dismissed.

More camping!

This time, without the help of the US Army.

The truck is loaded, the Bad Dogs have a reservation at Dog Camp, and we are duly licensed. That's right - we're off to attempt to fill the freezer.

Ok, Mom, you can stop laughing now. We have so got this hunting in Texas thing figured out. It's going to a smashing success.

Unless there's an unexpected source of unsecured wireless acress out in the sticks of east Texas, we won't be posting until Monday.

The Madness Never Ends

It’s not that I don’t love you all – I’m just lazy. And the insanity level has been high.

The Mister came home last night to two big dogs, no small dog, all the interior doors open, and a city police officer’s card on the counter.

Long story short, it appears I neglected to throw the deadbolt in the front door when Jack and I came back from running yesterday morning. It further appears that sometime between 0940 (when I leave for work) and 1015, the front door went from closed-but-not-locked to wide-freakin’-open.

Not a thing was missing from the house, but all my dogs were milling about the apartment complex parking lot across the busy road from my house.

My theory is that someone watched me leave, then tried the front door. My Bad Dogs appear to have earned their keep and chased the potential thief away.

Cops returned the big dogs to the house. Sparky wasn’t wearing his collar, so he went to Doggy Jail, where the Mister picked him up after work.

The front door is now, of course, locked. I was sorely tempted to leave in a normal and conspicuous manner, then park nearby and walk back in through the backyard and wait in the house for visitors. However, I think that my canine sidekicks have discouraged unwanted visitors for the time being.

Cool stuff from the internet

I was cruising the internet today, wasting my employer’s time and money, looking at Wilderness Tactical Belts. I like the titanium ones, and I think I might spring for one the next time I play Army for an extended period.

You got your people who love all this odd, tactical crap. Loves our pouches, and our carabiners, high-dollar flashlights, and all that. Have been heard to utter phrases like, “flat dark earth is the new black!” You will hear these folks referred to in less-polite company as Gear Queers.

Then you’ve got your crazy dog people. That’s those of us who have all the sizes of the Cuz toys, and a collapsible water bowl in each vehicle.

As I was clicking around the Wilderness Tactical website, I found the strangest thing. I found an item that can satisfy both the impulses of the Gear Queer and the needs of the Crazy Dog Person at the same time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the Wilderness Tactical Kong Belt Pouch!

Constructed of tough 1000 denier Cordura® with a signature Wilderness quick-detachable wraparound belt loop. The wide, stay-open mouth is reinforced to allow easy retrieval, yet affords a secure housing for the kong or other reward treat. Available in black.

You don’t need to thank me – I’m here to help you out with those hard-to-buy-for folks on your Christmas lists!

You thought I was lying

I was out cleaning up the yard in the morning light, and found this disturbing array back behind the pool.



Good lord. I apologize for the poor quality of the picture - I had to use my phone because the real camera temporarily MIA. Either the Mister took it on his road trip, or they've stolen that, too.

Discussion of stock work on the M1 this evening. There's a possibility I'm actually going to have time to shoot it this weekend, so I'm quite excited.

Blaah.

I'm blaming this lethargic melancholy on the time change. Or maybe it's melancholic lethargy. Either way, I've been dragging around the past couple days feeling mildly grumpy about not much of anything.

Then again, it might be because the Mister is out of town (in the military sense), and I seem to spend every moment I'm awake and in the house collecting the socks and other objects Jack is dragging around.

You know, I've been trying to work on this whole thing where you exercise your dog, and so then they're like all calm and mellow and nice to have around, right?

That's a giant load of crap. You know what exercise has done for my little puptard? I have a really really fit Bad Dog. He's like a damn triathlete. Jump on the dining room table? No problem! Streeeetch way up to pull the household copy of FMFM 6-5, The Marine Rifle Squad, off the book shelf? No problem! Race tirelessly around and around and around the yard with my favorite pair of boot socks? No problem!

(This is of course an entirely separate issue than trying to figure out why, of all the books on the shelf, he wanted that one. Is he plotting something? A coup?)

Major bummer

This whole time change thing catches me off guard every year. I walked out of the office tonight and it was dark.

Ick.

Temps are still nice here (although the Texans tell me it shall soon be cold - colder than you can imagine, they promise, because this is Texas, and everything is more something than one could ever imagine, it seems).

But I grew up in the north, when the time change was the final nail in the coffin for the year. There was no going back, it was hibernation season, and you were going to be hunkered down and cold for months. Although I like winter, it was always a bit of a downer when the dark started falling early.

So, for some reason, I was made grumpy by walking out into the darkness tonight. In a few days it will seem normal and the spring time change will feel decadent, like we're getting too much light.

Home again

Well, that was fun.

Postive things about camping with the Army:
1 - it's camping with lots of guns
2 - lots of group lifting and shouting in the early morning hours
3 - there's always coffee
4 - no dogs stealing your socks
5 - boots, boots, boots

Not positive things about camping with the Army:
1 - 0500 is not a decent hour for anything other than fishing
2 - cots
3 - not allowed to shoot giant deer seen near the M9 range
4 - $5 zillion in communications gear, and we're using walkie-talkies from WalMart because they're the only things that work
5 - general disapproval of addressing officers as "dude."

Off the net'

I'll be off the next few days, as I am going camping. Back Sunday night.

Heart Stoppage

Slow day at the office, until my ass vibrated at 5:55. Whipped out the phone, had a text message from the Mister.

Dogs out loose. Found boys. Missing Casey. Getting laundry then continuing search.

At 5:55:43, I punched out, and was enroute home.

The last half-mile was the worst - we live on the corner of a busy road and a cul de sac and I really, really didn't want to find my dog on the side of that busy road.

I didn't.

Got home to find the mister in the road with the super-ancient neighbor who had seen them go through the front window. He had, using his walker, corralled Jack and was wrestling him up the driveway when the Mister arrived home. Dude cannot really walk and I have never seen him past his driveway, and he was out rescuing my retards.

That left Casey.

I lost my childhood dog to a busy road years ago, and that was all I could think of. The Mister went in the house to listen to messages (the house number is on the tags) while I hit the road.

Not 200 yards from the house, my ass vibrated again.

"Found her." I flipped around and headed home to find him on the phone with a woman around a mile away who had my girl in her backyard. We drove over and found a middle-aged lady in scrubs, whose son, after school, had pointed out that he'd found a rather hairy friend while playing football in the yard.

[insert giant sigh of relief]

They're back. The screen has been replaced and the window is now closed over it. We owe the neighbors a cup of coffee and a game of cribbage.

Sniveling weasels

So I see the State Department is having some trouble filling some of its not-exactly-Paris posts.

And so the Department is telling its employees to fill posts in Iraq, rather than asking them. Not surprisingly, some agency employees are less than thrilled about that.

"It is one thing if someone believes in what is going on over there and volunteers," [State Dept. veteran Jack Croddy] said, "but it is another thing to send someone over there on a forced assignment. And I'm sorry, but basically that is a potential death sentence and you know it. Who will raise our children if we are dead or wounded?"

Y'all will please forgive me if I'm not weeping along with these whining turds, won't you?

Goodness gracious - you have a job with U.S. State Department (which doesn't pay all that badly), which at one point or another you applied for. Then, when you got that job, you did have a little oath you signed off on (all Executive Branch employees do this - I did it for my position with the Furry Critter Management Agency).

Most of the 250 jobs to be filled in the next rotation over the coming months will go to volunteers, he said. But about 50 remain open.

The State Department has relied solely on volunteers to fill overseas jobs in recent decades. Forced assignments have not been used since the Vietnam War era.

"We cannot shrink from our duty. We have all agreed to worldwide availability," [FS Director General] Thomas said.

So out of all the Foreign Service employees out there, 50 are going to be ordered to serve in Iraq.

Let's just do a quick review - certain things come with the territory. If you work for the State Department's Foreign Service, you can expect that all sorts of things are on the table. This includes lions, natives, war, people who hate America, being held hostage, having eggs thrown at you, getting malaria and shortages of American dairy products. All on the table.

Further, nobody is forcing anybody to go anywhere.

Those chosen will be given 10 days to respond, according to last week's announcement.

Unless they have a valid medical reason to refuse, those who decline to go could face dismissal, it said.

Welcome to real life, whiny State Department employees. You've got good jobs, and you can either serve where you are ordered to serve, or you can go find another good job somewhere else.

Ass monkeys.

What I think I find most disappointing about this story, beyond the sheer lack of character revealed by public whining, is that it undermines my blissfully uninformed opinion about Foreign Service types.

I like to think of these folks trooping gamely around the world, having pet monkeys, drinking gin and playing polo. Perhaps I need to stop reading historic novels about the British Empire.

Happy Halloween!

From the Bad Dogs! We're all set for Trick or Treaters here, although I don't know how many we'll get.

I thought I had it all under control.



But then Mr. Abby was all like, no...scare the parents...blah blah blah...police...blah blah blah....paperwork....

SO we ended up using Plan B, which doesn't appeal to me quite as much, but which he promises will go over better with the neighbors.



Yes, he did buy sugar-free gum. God love him.

Local news!

One of our fine North Texas residents held an impromptu class on how not to carry a concealed handgun today.

After arriving at work, the man draped his jacket over the back of his chair, [Lake Worth Police Chief] McGuire said. The .45-caliber automatic was in the left jacket pocket.

As the man got settled in his chair, the gun discharged, McGuire said.

The man was likely doing something to the weapon when it fired because "that particular weapon doesn't just sit there and go off," McGuire said.

The bullet passed through the man's left leg and then his right leg and through the corner of a bookcase before lodging in the wall of a cubicle occupied by a startled female co-worker, McGuire said.

"Startled female co-worker?" Yeah, I'd say so. It seems that the shooter/shootee was not licensed to carry a concealed handgun, but there are no indications he was plotting anything foul.

We also note the police chief pointed out that "particular weapon doesn't just sit there and go off." That, friends, is why they should list specifics. I want to make sure my .45s aren't the ones that do "just sit there and go off."

In other news, a local trucker erred on the side of caution when he warned police that they might be a bit taken aback by his freight when they searched his vehicle during a routine traffic stop.

Police in Royse City hope that a routine early-morning traffic stop Sunday won't become a Halloween tale, even though the tractor-trailer was carrying an estimated 20 human heads.

The rig was stopped for speeding at about 2:30 a.m. Sunday on Interstate 30 in Royse City, said Lt. Jim Baker, police spokesman. ...

The driver was acting suspicious, Baker said, so officers asked permission to search the vehicle, Baker said.

But, he said, the driver warned them first.

"He said, "You're going to see some body parts back there,''' Baker said.

The heads, apparently, were being transported either to or from some sort of legitimate medical research facility.

The driver did not have his paperwork in order, but once he got it all squared away by fax, the local police let him proceed on his way. Because really, playing games with the severed head guy is really only fun for a little while.

Go, Navy!

We know there are brave Sailors running around Iraq and Afghanistan, but for the most part it's an Army and Marine Corps show.

So it's nice to see the Navy getting down with its bad self.

American warships battled pirates Tuesday who had seized a tanker off the coast of Somalia as well as another vessel northeast of Mogadishu, combined reports said.

In the waters off Somalia, the warships reportedly sunk two pirate vessels and pursued a hijacked skiff carrying some of the fleeing hijackers.

That's our Navy - while everybody else is engaging in a no-fun grinding series of insurgent conflicts, they're killing pirates.

It's no Battle of Leyte Gulf, but actions like the Navy's are vitally important in what is probably the least-recognized theater of operations in the Global War on Terror.

Whether or not the warships engaged in pirate sinkin' today were technically, at that moment, acting as part of Joint Task Force Horn Of Africa (JTF-HOA), is not immediately apparent. However, that JTF is doing the hard work now that will prevent the rest of our military from having to do ugly work in the region later.

They're training troops, supporting communities and building infrastructure in a very touchy area in an effort to deny that territory to Al Qaeda. A lot of that is medical outreach and school building in those nations. And some it is law-and-order work.

Which includes whacking pirates off the coast of Somalia. So, Go Navy! Keep killing pirates - in addition to being a vital part of the war effort, it's really damn cool.

This is a gimmee

We all know the Official Bad Dog Position on Children - they're necessary, but not particularly enjoyable. However, we have also recognized that if one happens to have children, one must make a good, honest effort to ensure nothing godawful happens to them.

Which brings us to this new story - Baby Drowns In Bucket Of Bleach

A 9-month-old Quincy girl drowned Saturday morning after she climbed into a bucket filled with bleach, the Norfolk County District Attorney’s office said.

The Boston Herald reported that the baby’s mother Lee Ann Auperlee, 20, was watching three children inside her Sumner Street apartment when her daughter Mya crawled out of her sight and into a bucket on the kitchen floor.

Now, again, I don't have any children of my own, and the stepweasels were past bucket-drowning age by the time they started hanging around with me. Nonetheless, I am aware that babies are somewhat prone to die, and thus one has to take certain precautions if babies are in the area.

Theses precautions, as I understand it, include (but are not limited to):
no loaded firearms on the floor,
no knives on the floor,
no razor blades on the floor,
not leaving them alone in a bath,
not leaving them in a car with the windows up on a hot day,
not leaving them in a car with the windows down in the winter,
no leaving them unsupervised with packs of strange dogs,
no rat poison on the floor,
no gin in their bottles,
no access to hazardous substances,
no unsupervised time with liquids deeper than .5 inches,
no unsupervised time with buckets of hazardhouse liquids.

Good lord, people. Do not leave your crawling baby with access to a big old bucket of bleach. That doesn't take a rocket scientist.

Curran said Auperlee told her the baby was in the living room just before the drowning.

“She said Mya was tapping at the TV then she just crawled away toward the kitchen,” Curran said.

[...]

No charges have been filed by police. Toxicology and other tests are still pending.

Poor child. We disapprove.

Finally, an urge I am resisting

The evil CMP Sales Update email arrived today.

The last time this happened, I was forced to order a Garand. The time before that, an M1 carbine.

Needless to say, I opened it with no small amount of dread - what fiendish plot, I wondered, could they have come up with to make me spend even more money?

Nada.

Garand receivers and barrels...don't need those. Sights for .22s...don't need those. Rack grade M1 carbines...tempting...but I don't need one of those, either.

I feel so morally superior for resisting all that temptation that I think I should be allowed to order a field grade Garand.

[ducks as Mister Abby throws a coffee cup at my head]

Okay, maybe I'll hold off on the field grade another month or so.

Not just for companionship anymore!

Dogs - the new tabletop decoration!



We're going to use him on the dining room table for Thanksgiving this year.

Not sure how I feel about this one

Here's a head-scratcher for all my armed folks out there - Blind Man Shoots Home Intruder In Neck

Of course, it happened in Florida.

The 75-year-old retired taxi dispatcher, who's been legally blind for the past 61 years, opened fire on the would-be-thief who kicked down his door, police said.

Police said Williams shot Curtis, who tried to flee but collapsed on the front porch, inthe left side of the neck. He was taken to a hospital in stable condition.

As we know, every time one of these home-invading vermin is shot, it's cause for celebration. And, of course, as a good Second Amendment supporter, I'm all about everyone having the right to defend his or her home and life.

But you know...I'm really hoping that the phrase "legally blind" means this dude could see at least a little. 'Cause otherwise, frankly, that's a little scary. Glad it turned out well and all, but still....

Out of pocket

I was on the road all day.

Just a quick thought, after 585 highway miles with Texans.

Why can't these people merge? The roads are nice and big, and the drivers are pretty friendly. But when it comes to changing lanes at any speed above "crawl," the default Texan reaction seems to be panic. Or drive-into-guardrail, which significantly delayed my return time.

For the love of God - Miami residents can merge at 95 mph (and Miami residents are generally performing voodoo rituals or swapping out their oxygen bottles while merging) - can't Texans do it at like...55?

Most depressing news story

Ever.

Okay. You've been warned.

From here in lovely Texas, we have - Pit Bulls Kill Miniature Horse Donated To Cancer-Stricken Child

That really gives you the salient details right there. Boy with cancer is given miniature horse, which is then killed by pit bulls. Downer.

AMARILLO -- A miniature horse given to a boy with brain cancer by the Make-A-Wish Foundation was killed by a pair of pit bulls who were found roaming in his yard, authorities said.

The 31-inch tall horse, Anniversary, was donated by the foundation to 3-year-old Christian Vasquez in late August.

Christian, who was diagnosed in January with a malignant form of brain cancer, received a pull cart, a blanket, a halter and a bridle set from the foundation on Saturday, said Jelaine Workman, executive director for the foundation's Amarillo chapter.

The dogs chased the boy's father up a tree, where he managed to call police on his cell phone (one of the few really good reasons I've heard lately to carry a cell phone). One dog was captured, the other escaped and is at large. No word on anyone who may have owned the dogs.

Workman said the foundation won't be able to supply a second horse but was getting calls from residents who wanted to donate money for a new one.

Anniversary [the horse] cost $1,300, and the foundation included free feed, training and veterinary care for a year in its gift.

On that cheery note, we'll end this.

My next pets will be CATS

Why, I thought to myself, does the TV in the living room not work?

The TV in the bedroom worked. But the error message in the living room was a new one, and so I dispatched the Mister to futz with the wires. Sure enough, something had come unplugged, and that fixed the problem.

I was sitting here this morning with my coffee, when I noticed Casey and Jack, apparently in pursuit of a toy, pawing behind the entertainment center. Reach back, paw around, pull paw out, peer behind furniture, repeat.

Well, that explains that. I extracted the toys and pushed the entertainment center as close to the wall as possible.

And went out for a smoke.

Where I noted, along with the Cuz toys and Kongs in the backyard, and the two socks, something black. And, near it, something clear.

Did you know...if one neglects to fill the Kong toys with peanut butter and other tasty goodness, one's pets might just decide to improvise?

In this case, they appear to have taken my turkey baster out of the sink and out into the yard, where they dismantled it and enjoyed all the day-old pork juice goodness they could lick out of it.

I'm going to go retrieve my socks and my baster, and see if there's anything else out there I need to be aware of. It's a pretty sturdy turkey baster, so it's possible it's just a good wash away from being back in the regular use rotation.

EDIT TO ADD: No. The turkey baster did NOT survive.

Not easy being Abby

I came home to a NastyGram in my email from one of the full-timers at my Reserve unit. "Your name has been passed to the Battalion Commander," it read, "because you have not yet completed the Post Post Deployment Health Survey."

[sigh]

Kudos to the Army for caring about Soldiers after deployment, and all that crap. I went online, found this form, and filled it out.

Before deployment, we all filled out forms that more or less consisted of: are you happy, or sad? are you in good health, or bad? etc etc

When we came back, the forms were a little more complicated:
I have seen dead people -
a - often
b - sometimes
c - rarely
d - never

I have been exposed to depleted uranium -
a - often
b - sometimes
c - rarely
d - never

And so on and so forth. The Post-Post-Deployment form basically boiled down to - felt like hurting yourself or others lately? How ya doin'?

But after you fill out the form you have to call in and speak to a provider. I called, experienced a short wait, talked to a very nice woman, and then a very nice man. The very nice man was the actual provider, and as I was speaking to him, I was in the bedroom so I could change out of my work clothes.

So, said Mr. Nice Healthcare Guy, how's re-adjustment? You doing okay?

At that very moment, Jack raced into our room. He stuck his head in an open dresser drawer, yanked out a sock and took off.

My normal reaction would be to curse wildly and pursue him across the house, making wild threats about chainsaws and beatings.

Except I was on the phone with the Army Medical Guy.

Me? I said, gritting my teeth, I am fine. Mellow and happy.

I finished the call after explaining how mellow and stable I was, then threw the phone on the counter and took off after the dog, ranting like a madwoman. I hope I hung up effectively...

Just in case

I just found one of those odd little government agencies that may, someday, under some circumstance, be really, really useful.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Mutilated Currency Division of the Bureau of the Treasury.

This is the coolest thing - these people, if something very bad happens to your cash, will take it, verify that it was cash, and send you a check.

[Mutilated currency is] Currency notes which are:

NOT CLEARLY more than one-half of the original note and/or, in such condition that the value is questionable and special examination is required to determine its value.
Currency can become mutilated in any number of ways. The most common causes are: fire, water, chemicals, explosives; animal, insect or rodent damage; and petrification or deterioration by burying.

Now that is a useful government function, and an agency to keep in mind just in case.

Nods to Bankrate.Com, where I found this info. It's a most handy site for when you find yourself having to do some unexpected grownup thing regarding your personal finances.

It pains me

but I think I have to say good things about California.

They seem to have their act together for handling this whole fire issue.

They've already got more than 12,000 people holed up in Qualcomm Stadium, and things seem to be moving fairly smoothly.

Among the volunteers was a corps of doctors, nurses and emergency medical technicians who set up shop in the stadium's four major restaurants on the club level, which are climate-controlled.

There, some 600 senior citizens and sick people were being cared for, cordoned off from the general hustle-bustle common throughout the rest of the stadium.

The stadium also had makeshift pharmacies stocked with prescription drugs through donations from Costco and Target, Biagi said.

Now, it's a given that this really doesn't compare to the whole New Orleans/SuperDome/Katrina nightmare, since the entire city is not being hammered. That's true, but San Diego is showing admirable planning and preparation, and that should be recognized.

In addition, a shelter was set up for 200 pets brought to the stadium by evacuees, while an infant area was stocked with plenty of diapers and volunteers manned a daycare center...

It seems like a small thing, but lots of people will not evacuate without their pets, and good emergency planners must take that into account. We approve.

Of course, San Diego is a miltary town, and the folks in uniform are pitching in, even as some of them are scooting out of the way of the wildlifes.

In an effort to make room for more civilians who have had to evacuate their homes, sailors stationed in Southern California are abandoning their barracks.

"Orders have been given to all sailors ashore in barracks to move to shipboard billeting to provide room for evacuees," said a Tuesday statement released by the U.S. military.

Well, sucks to be those Sailors, but good on the Navy to support a city that so wholeheartedly supports them.

In a personal note, my sister-in-law and her family (and dogs and cats) have been evacuated from their home, and are staying with other family in the area. My mother-in-law is safe in her current location. However, she's a good cook and a dog lover, so I think the Bad Dogs are hoping she has to evacuate all the way to Texas.

Fabulous weather

Yesterday was cold and rainy, but this morning is crisp and sunny and...looking at my indoor/outdoor thermometer (which I do not assume is overwhelmingly accurate), I see about 46 degrees.

Wonderful.

I'll need to do some schedule juggling, since there is no way I'm running anywhere on a cool morning when I could be drinking coffee in a bathrobe, but other than that...I hope it stays this way or gets colder.

Casey adores the cold, has never forgiven us for leaving Minnesota, in fact. She had a dog door there and would lay in the backyard as snow piled up on her. Here, though, she just seems to be happy to not be hot. She's been dashing around the yard looking for squirrels to bark at.

The Boy Dogs, on the other hand... Sparky is still in bed, and I think Jack went out for about ten minutes, and now he's looking at me like I stole September and hid it, along with his chew toys.

Uniform nonsense

I was clicking around yesterday and found this little gem on Military.com: Marine Dress Code Changes Communities

Long story short, the Marine Corps is "clarifying" and "reiterating" the degree to which it frowns upon anyone seeing a Marine off base in "cammies" (the utility uniform). Seeing as the Marine Corps has recently spent 18 bazillion dollars on a new, fancy, digital uniform, you think they'd want people to see it, but...that's my Marine Corps for you.

Under the new regulation, Marines in camouflage cannot get out of their vehicles to run an errand or grab a meal on their way to or from the base. No pumping gas, running into the post office or picking up a cup of joe, either.

Although Marines were always largely prohibited from wearing uniforms off base, they were allowed to make brief stops during their commutes. Now they can stop only for a medical emergency, a traffic accident or a breakdown.

This reminds me of a story.

Back in 1999, I was living and working on Camp Hansen, Okinawa. Our main office was on Camp Foster, and we ended up down there several days a week. I had a couple of junior Marines assigned to me, and the three of us shared custody of one "GOV" (Government Owned Vehicle).

I can't remember which of my boys was with me, nor exactly which GOV we were driving, but one night the vehicle just flat-out died on the highway right before the Kin Exit (where you got off to go to Camp Hansen). We took one good look at the van, diagnosed it as way beyond our mechanical ability, and decided to hoof it home it in the dark.

Camp Hansen is perched atop a fairly large hill. It's not a long walk - all the way from the derelict to our barracks was probably not even two miles. But it is uphill all the way, and there are plenty of Marines driving up and down the hill.

My Marine and I set to trudging. It had been a long day, and walking the last couple miles home wasn't high on either of our lists, but we were strolling along and shooting the breeze.

A car pulled over, and the door nearest us opened.

"Hey! Who's senior there?" The Marine driving barked at us.

"That'd be me. Corporal [Abby]," I leaned down and extended a hand in to shake.

"Devildog, are you not aware that cammies are not to be worn off base? You are an NCO, and you should know -"

"Pardon me - our vehicle broke down on the expressway and we're walking back to camp. We really don't have a choice."

"Well, I suppose that's alright." He slammed the door again and drove off. Just. Like. That.

I looked at my Marine, and my Marine looked at me.

"What an asshole."

"Yeah. Let's go."

I was a very junior NCO at that point. These days, I'd be more inclined to engage in a shouting match, or to start taking off my clothes in the middle of the road in order to make my point. (Just because I am not so junior does not mean I'm any more reasonable, I'm just louder.)

Unfortunately, along with all that's wonderful about the Marine Corps, that stuck in my mind as an example of the pettiness that lurks in an organization so obsessed with its own rules.

I don't know who that NCO was who stopped on the side of the road with the express purpose of being a dickhead. He had that senior sergeant/junior staff sergeant look to him, but it's hard to tell in the dark. He is, however, a cousin to those joyless bastards who used to lurk at the WalMart nearest 29 Palms and accost young men with short hair who weren't wearing belts.

However, I imagine, that when this "new" regulation was being written, he or someone very like him was there.

Andrea Cerda, who works at Dorothy's Military Shop, a tailor shop, said it is not uncommon to see Marines changing clothes in their car, wriggling out of their pants and boots and into civilian wear.

"You see them bending around their steering wheel or moving back and forth in the driver's seat and you know what they are doing," she said.

It's the Marine Corps, and you know what you're getting into when you sign up. I don't think that sort of regulation is evil, or unreasonable, or draconian.

But it is silly and tiresome. One would think there'd be a middle ground between the Army (where it's socially acceptable to wear your utilities everywhere - I've seen Soldiers bowling off case in utilities - do they not own civilian attire?) and the Marine Corps' do-not-let-the-world-see-your-uniform weirdness.

(Note for those confused - the appropriate response from the jackass Marine who pulled over would have been a lecture about how we should have been carrying a change of clothes in case something like this happened, and it would have been delivered as he was giving us a ride back to the base - which was three minutes away by car)

Bad Behavior

I only point this out because...well...tell ya in a minute. In what could be described as a "perfect storm" of tackiness, Waffle House brawl lands Kid Rock in jail.

"He and five members of his entourage were involved in a fight with a male customer inside the Waffle House," said Mekka Parish, a spokeswoman for the DeKalb County Police Department.

The customer recognized a female with Kid Rock's party and exchanged words with her, Parish said.

Same old story, I guess. Georgia Boy gets worked up because Georgia Girl has decided to be Georgia Groupie for the evening, and things go downhill from there.

This jumped out at me for a couple of reasons.

1 - I have a picture of Kid Rock on my mantel. He and the Mister posed for shot together some years ago, and we needed something to put on the mantel. So Kid Rock it was. That gets some interesting looks from the rare guest.

2 - There's family lore that involves a Georgia Waffle House brawl and police intervention. But it wasn't me, so I'll leave it at that.

[speechless]

What in the Blue Hell is this? From Texas?

Liberty County Veteran's Grave Vandalized

The family of a fallen Marine is dealing with another shock -- their son's new grave was vandalized.

Lance Cpl. Jeremy Burris, 22, of Liberty, died in Iraq and was buried at Cook Memorial Cemetery earlier this week.

Let's just go over this one time, in case anyone out there missed this.

Graves are for families. There are exactly zero circumstances under which it is acceptable to cause a grieving family further pain. Zero.

Bill Offutt, a Vietnam veteran, was one of the people who helped clean up the mess before anyone could see it.

"It was trashed," said Offutt, "The wreaths that had been around the grave -- they ripped them apart and stuff was strewn everywhere."

Well done, Mr. Offutt. And well done to those individuals who cleaned up the AO before the vandalism became a spectacle.

Somewhere in Liberty County there are some young folks (that's just a guess on my part, but I think it's a good one), in need of the mother of all ass-whippings. Then they need to marched down to the local VA hospital like five year olds who stole candy, and made to apologize to every patron of that medical facility.

Godspeed, LCpl. Burris. Pay no attention to vandals, there are so many more of us who are simply thankful.

Money lines

Coming, thus far, from John McCain, who tossed out the following two rimshots in quick succession:

"I'd rather lose an election than lose a war," was good. Very good. At least one member of one party feels that way.

That was followed by a discussion of Hillary Clinton and some Woodstock museum boondoggle. McCain was making a point of how much he didn't know about Woodstock, pointing out that he hadn't made it, because, "I was tied up at the time."

Well, now everybody's whacking the ball out of the park, because their instructions for this speaking period were more or less, "Why does Hillary Clinton suck and why should people vote for a Republican instead of her?"

The crowd, at least, is into it.

Fabulous Sunday

The stomach injury appears to be improving, removing my concerns that it may have been a tear. I think we can declare it a strain, and that's a win.

Slept late, put thatch on tiki bar, napped, did laundry. I'd call it a win all the way around.

Now I have the Republicans on Fox, and it's shaping up to be at least remotely entertaining. Fred Thompson is making jokes about Ted Kennedy's girth, and Mitt Romney has some weird hairstyle going on that leads me to wonder if he's spent the weekend thus far drunk on a beach in Miami. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Cranky old men

Tam's post on the socially unacceptable Nobel prize-winning scientist motivated me to take at the story a little more closely.

First, we have the line that got Dr. James Watson in so much trouble.

The controvery began with an October 14 interview Watson gave to the Sunday Times, which quoted him saying he was "inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa" because "all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours, whereas all the testing says not really."

Yep. That would be one of those statements one should probably not make in a newspaper interview.

I do, briefly, have to confess to a little annoyance about the way we react to this sort of thing, though. I haven't heard or read anything about why the doctor is wrong, just about what an awful thing he said. What is "all the testing," Mr. Watson? Cite sources, sir, so that we may decide how you, as a reknowned biologist, interact with data.

But that isn't how we do things on the public stage these days. Watson said something mean, and now he shall be shunned. Which is too bad, because maybe, since he seems to be a pretty bright guy, he has things to say from which we might be able to learn.

Rule #1 of modern living - we shall learn nothing if it is not socially acceptable.
Rule #2 of modern living - we shall learn nothing from anyone who says anything socially unacceptable.

[roll eyes]

Dr. Watson (I am assuming the PhD, since it is not mentioned in my source article, but I think it's a safe assumption) seems to be one cranky old guy, with a plethora of odd little theories.

In 1997, Britain's Sunday Telegraph quoted Watson as saying that if a gene for homosexuality were isolated, women who find that their unborn child has the gene should be allowed to have an abortion.

There's something in that one for everybody to get all worked up about. Thought-provoking, though, isn't it?

During a lecture tour in 2000, he suggested there might be links between skin color and sexual prowess and between a person's weight and their level of ambition.

That one sounds like he was working up a pickup line at the annual Big Time Biologist Convention. "Hi, my name's Jim. You come here often? Can I buy you a drink? Wanna see my Nobel Prize? Did you know that pale white guys with wispy hair make the best lovers?"

And in a British TV documentary that aired in 2003, Watson suggested that stupidity was a genetic disease that should be treated.

I have the feeling that after a few gin-and-tonics, Watson would complete the above statement by shouting, "treated by shooting stupid people in the head!"

Ow.

It came to my attention last weekend at my first drill that although I have been running, it would be in my best long term interest to do some more situps and pushups in my off time.

Cool. Situps and pushups are something you can only get better at by doing...situps and pushups.

Maxing out the situps for my age group requires one to do 82. That is by no means impossible, but I can't get there unless I do them a couple of times a week.

I came home from work and the Mister (God love him) said, "want a beer?"

So I replied, "Sure - but hold my feet for some situps first, because I want to max these next month."

We dragged a dog bed into our room so I could sit up without canine interruption. I stretched out, put the hands behind my head, and...

Owwww!

On #2, something gave on the lower left side of my abdomen. "Gave" with authority. So we halted the exercise, and decided to try again in a couple of days.

In the meantime, both sneezing and laughing are shockingly painful. I think, ladies and gentlemen, that I may be getting old.

News Roundup

Tonight we start at Fox News, and we immediately see this gem: Woman Overheard Yelling Obscenities at Toilet Could Face Jail Time

SCRANTON, Pa. — A woman who allegedly shouted profanities at her overflowing toilet within earshot of a neighbor was cited for disorderly conduct, authorities said.

Dawn Herb could face up to 90 days in jail and a fine of up to $300 (euro212).

"It doesn't make any sense. I was in my house. It's not like I was outside or drunk," Herb told The Times-Tribune of Scranton. "The toilet was overflowing and leaking down into the kitchen and I was yelling (for my daughter) to get the mop."

Boo, Scranton! Any town where I can't holler "shit!" if it's spilling over onto my floor is a town in which I would not care to live. I believe the first draft of the Declaration of Indepence included the phrase, "Life, Liberty, and the right to holler at malfunction indoor plumbing, once that's invented."

And in less cheery news, we have this one from my old stomping grounds - Florida Man Sentenced to Death for Leaving Child to Be Eaten by Alligators

MIAMI — A Florida man who left a 5-year-old girl to be eaten alive by alligators and tried to kill her mother was sentenced to death Monday.

Prosecutors said Harrel Franklin Braddy, 58, attacked Shandelle Maycock and daughter Quatisha after he was released early from prison in another case for good behavior. He tossed Maycock in his car trunk in 1998, drove her to a remote sugarcane field and choked her to unconsciousness.

Braddy then drove the girl to a part of the Everglades known as Alligator Alley and dropped her in the water beside the road, prosecutors said. Authorities found the girl's body two days later, her left arm missing and her skull crushed.

Some people just need killin', and it appears that Harrel Franklin Braddy is one of them. Fortunately, Florida is not squeamish about such things.

Here in Northern Texas, things are bit more...well...Texan, as a football coach at the World's Largest Baptist University seems to have found himself in a bit of legal trouble.

WACO -- Baylor University athletic department officials said they are considering disciplinary action against an assistant football coach cited for urinating on the bar at a tavern.

Eric Schnupp, Baylor's offensive line/tight ends coach, was not arrested but was issued a citation at 2:20 a.m. Sunday for disorderly conduct-reckless exposure at Scruffy Murphy’s, Waco police spokesman Steve Anderson said.

That's nice. And classy.

I am a freakin' moron

We needed dog food. And a new keyboard (the Mister left the door open and flooded the winerack, floor and keyboard the other morning).

So off we went to PetSmart.

Because I am an idiot, we did not just buy dog food, we also bought dog toys. Because I am a massive, unprecedented idiot of epic proportions, we bought Cuz toys.



Two Cuz toys, to be precise, and one Kong ball because Casey is very into energetic chewing these days.

So it's a mighty squeaky house tonight. The Mister hooked up his new keyboard and, shouting to be heard over the hysterical and multipitched squeaking, hollered, "great idea, honey!"



Yeah, well, the real excitement will come later, when we do the pre-bed toy removal sweep of our room.

Casey is way into her Kong Ball, and has rolled it under the couch twice. She abandoned it briefly, however, to help the Mister finish off some extra strawberries.

Learning experiences

This is one cute puppy, is it not?



Look closer, though. This is also a cute puppy who recently had another important lesson. What did he learn?

He learned that it's never, ever a good idea to assume that just because you're the bigger dog, you're allowed to take Sparky's toys. Look closer.



I'd laugh at him more, but I once suffered a relatively grievous thumb wound trying to separate Sparky from his food dish. Small and cute? Yes. Mean as a snake when irked? Yes.

Not dead

here, just busy.

This was my first drill weekend, so I got to dig out boots and do that whole thing. Seems like a nice group of people, so that's a happy thing.

Of course, it took the DoD exactly 27 minutes to get back in the habit of screwing up my life, as I noted that next month's drill was out of town and would force to miss the Marine Corps Ball.

Normally, this isn't something I'd mind. I have been to my share of Marine Corps Balls. And probably your share, too. In my junior Marine days, taking pictures of each ball was something we did for the base paper, and it wasn't at all uncommon to hit four or six in the space of a week.

After I got out, it got worse, because:
A) the Mister almost always had some sort of coordinating role that meant I'd spend at least half the night sitting without him at our table trying to make conversation with strangers
B) it required formalwear.

I think we all know me well enought to recognize that "gowns" are not a clothing item with which I am normally enchanted. That was a real downer every year - go out and find some sort of long dress. Ick. And shoes to match. Double ick.

This spring, however, my fabulous friend MC got married and her only instruction to me (as a bridesmaid) was, "long, black and formal." I found a dress I adore (which, if I may say such a thing, makes me look damn good), and which I was looking forward to trotting out for this year's Ball.

Oh, well. It's black and timeless, so even if there are no formal occasions between now and then, it'll work for next year too.