Wednesday, July 28, 2010

It's just a BIRD, for crying out loud!

See this bird?

Oh that's right... it's not just a bird.
It's a blatant symbol of my anti-Australian-ism.
It's subversive, and non-conformist, and a sure sign that I don't accept Australian culture.

Yeah... right.
It's just a bird feeder, people!

I brought home this bird feeder when we were in the States.
I bought it simply because I liked it, and because I love Robins....
And I never, ever thought that it would cause me the grief that it caused me last night.

See, I had a parent (client) stop by last night, to pay me her portion of the last bill.
2 weeks late, mind you... and I didn't even charge her the $5 a day late fees that are clearly marked on her contract.
In light of what happened, maybe I should have.

So anyway, we're standing on the front porch talking about the scheduling for next week, when she looks over and says "Isn't that an American bird?"
And I said "Yes... I just love Robin Red Breasts, and I found this terrific little bird feeder while we were in the States in April.
Don't you just love it?"

To which she replied:
"Well, don't you think you should have an Aussie bird up there, instead of something American? Isn't that giving the children the wrong type of message?"

Huh? Am I missing something here?

It's a bird.
It's a bird feeder.
Australian birds come and eat out of it on a daily basis.
Aussie birds like sweet little wrens and finches, and even the occasional parrot or two. (and they shit poop all over my railing and porch while they're at it, but we won't go there)

The children like it, and they can spend hours with their little noses pressed to the windows, watching the birds come in for a feed.
Isn't that what's really important?
Besides me liking it, of course.

The funny thing is, this woman had a real problem with it... and even asked that I take it down and replace it with something "more representative" of my adopted country - or she might have to speak to the office about it.

The funny thing is, this wind chime was less than 2 feet away from the bird feeder... and she never said a word about it!

That's me folks.

Dividing and destroying Australia...

One bird feeder at a time!

Say a prayer!

I have another post pre-scheduled to come up shortly, but I'm so excited here, that I can barely sit still!

See, I posted on face book last night about seriously looking for a house near where my son lives... and I think I may have already hit pay dirt!!

Looking for a place from $25,000-$90,000 in the Murphys/Douglas Flat area - NON Murphys Diggings. Can anyone help?

Now, I'm not going to say much more (I don't want to put my cart before the horse, or count my proverbial chickens before they hatch, or any of that stuff... and then go and jinx everything, ya know?) but I got a message from my son late last night, about the most perfectly located, ready-to-move-in-except-the-kitchen-needs-some-minor-work, ideal place.... and it's so much better - and more perfect - than anything I could have dreamed of!

We drove by this place almost every time we went out, and you know how you look at a place and think "oooohhh... if only that was my place"?
Well, I did it with this place... never ever dreaming that there was any hope in hell of ever living there.
Now I'm trying not to get too excited, but I can't help feeling that things may finally be falling into place for me!!

So, if you're so inclined... please say a little prayer for me.
And if you're not into praying, well... I'm more than happy with all the crossed fingers and toes I can get!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

You could have heard a pin drop...

I'm PROUD to be an American!

At a time when our president and other politicians tend to apologize for our country's prior actions, here's a refresher on how some of our former patriots handled negative comments about our country.

JFK'S Secretary of State, Dean Rusk, was in France in the early-60s when De Gaulle decided to pull out of NATO.
De Gaulle said he wanted all US military out of France as soon as possible. Rusk responded, "Does that include those who are buried here?"
De Gualle did not respond.

You could have heard a pin drop.


When in England, at a fairly large conference, Colin Powell was asked by the Archbishop of Canterbury if our plans for Iraq were just an example of 'empire building' by George Bush.
He answered by saying,

"Over the years, the United States has sent many of its fine young men and women into great peril to fight for freedom beyond our borders. The only amount of land we have ever asked for in return is enough to bury those that did not return."

You could have heard a pin drop.


There was a conference in France where a number of international engineers were taking part, including French and American.
During a break, one of the French engineers came back into the room saying,
"Have you heard the latest dumb stunt Bush has done?
He has sent an aircraft carrier to Indonesia to help the tsunami victims. What does he intend to do, bomb them?"

A Boeing engineer stood up and replied quietly:
"Our carriers have three hospitals on board that can treat several hundred people;
they are nuclear powered and can supply emergency electrical power to shore facilities;
they have three cafeterias with the capacity to feed 3,000 people three meals a day,
they can produce several thousand gallons of fresh water from sea water each day,
and they carry half a dozen helicopters for use in transporting victims and injured to and from their flight deck.
We have eleven such ships; how many does France have?"

You could have heard a pin drop.


A U.S. Navy Admiral was attending a naval conference that included Admirals from the U.S., English, Canadian, Australian and French Navies.
At a cocktail reception, he found himself standing with a large group of officers that included personnel from most of those countries.
Everyone was chatting away in English as they sipped their drinks but a French admiral suddenly complained that, whereas Europeans learn many languages, Americans learn only English. He then asked,
"Why is it that we always have to speak English in these conferences rather than speaking French?"

Without hesitating, the American Admiral replied, "Maybe it's because the Brits, Canadians, Aussies and Americans arranged it so you wouldn't have to speak German."

You could have heard a pin drop.


And this story fits right in with the above...

Robert Whiting, an elderly gentleman of 83, arrived in Paris by plane.
At French Customs, he took a few minutes to locate his passport in his carry on.
"You have been to France before, Monsieur?" the customs officer asked sarcastically.
Mr. Whiting admitted that he had been to France previously.
"Then you should know enough to have your passport ready."

The American said, "Well, the last time I was here, I didn't have to show it."

"Impossible!! Americans always have to show their passports on arrival in France!"

The American senior gave the Frenchman a long hard look. Then he quietly explained,
''Well, when I came ashore at Omaha Beach on D-Day in 1944 to help liberate this country, I couldn't find a single Frenchmen to show a passport to."

You could have heard a pin drop.


If you are proud to be an American, please pass this on!

I am proud to be of this land. . . AMERICA.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Spelling is impordant.

Okay, so I do have my little pet peeves, and I also have some damn funny little quirks of my own, but one thing that I can NOT stand is poor spelling.

Yeah I know... we all do it every now and again... but for most of us, spelling mistakes are just ermmm....common mistakes.
No biggie.

Our fingers get carried away, or our brains are so busy thinking or something.
Or the cat was in the way of me seeing the keyboard, and I was overcome with the fumes from his butt.
That's my excuse anyway.

But when it comes to newspapers, advertising, pamphlets, hell... even gravestones, you would think that not only would they know better, but they would also make a more concerted effort to do it right.
Call me pedantic, but well.... it drives me right around the bend.

Don't people even proofread anymore?? Where are the editors.... and what are they doing if they're not editing?

Stuff like this drives me absolutely bonkers:

Hmmm...I wonder who this "Illegall" is... and why they're announcing that he'll be crossing the road?
Film at 11.

Ahhh... preserved for prosperity.

In memory of 'there' son.
Or there son is there.
Or something.

Where we have lots of books that can teach you how to spell....

Johnny can't read? Send him to our shcool, where we can teech him the basics of reading and riting...

3 piece chicen.
It's finger licen.

One of our local Hotel's... nothing funny here.


If you want an Australian meal, all you have to do is enquirer.

Plus, we even have deivers to deliver it to you;

Enquirering minds want to know if you went to the shcool mentioned above.

Want one of our lovely a Rice Sishes? Hey, you've come to the right place!

Plus, we even have De luxe fried rice.

In the mood for desert?

Hey, make mine Sonoran! That's my favorite desert of all... because it's got lots of cool rock formations and sand and scorpions and stuff!

And then just this morning, I read on face book that

"Hamish takes his cloths off in hope that it'll better connect him with his friends on facebook."

I wonder which particular cloths he'll be taking off?

His wash cloths, or his cleaning cloths?

Oh crap, Hamish.... just leave your clothes on.


Saturday, July 24, 2010

Sad News from the Culinary World...

SAD NEWS From the Culinary World...

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community.

The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a recurrent yeast infection, and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly.
He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin.

Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch.

The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded.
Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with frequent turnovers.

He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half baked schemes.

Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a deliciously crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife Play Dough, three children: John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had a bun in the oven.

He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.

The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Not your typical hobby

HOBBY, n., pl., -bies.
An activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure.

Yep, that's it.
I guess I have a new hobby.
Kind of a strange one maybe, but it's deeply satisfying just the same.

See this thing?

Mosquito's... mozzie's... skeeter's... whatever it is that you may call them, I hate them.
With a passion.

I always thought that they died off during the winter, but it's winter here now and every morning when I go outside, the walls and windows of my little enclosed porch are covered with the nasty little blood-suckers. It's cold out there, and they just sort of sit there doing nothing, until it warms up, but it bugs me that they're even there in the first place.
My senses are affronted.

So I went checking for info on mosquito's, and found out that they never really do die off during winter or during cold snaps.
If they did, there wouldn't be any new skeeters come summer time.
They just sort of hibernate.
Even if the eggs or larvae are frozen in water, as soon as it gets warm enough for the ice to melt they just start doing their thing again.

I've checked my yard for standing water constantly... and I empty out any I find... but when I poked my head over the neighbors fence, I found that it's a veritable mozzie heaven over there.
Old hubcaps, ancient laundry troughs, tin cans and buckets, a couple of old wheelbarrows, puddles in the dirt... you name it, if it holds water, they've got it.

THAT'S where they're breeding.
The skeeter's, that is.
Not the neighbors.
As far as I know anyway.
I'm just not that curious.

So what about my new hobby, I hear you asking?

Well... I first tried spraying the little buggers with hairspray... and that does work.
It works real well.
But it leaves an icky film on stuff, you know? And since I do smoke out there, I would kind of prefer not going up in puff of smoke myself, or to breathe in hairspray constantly.
And I would prefer not to look at the lacquer covered nasties stuck to my wall, which also means that I have to go out there with a bucket and scrub the walls down, because they're looking like the spots on 101 Dalmatians.

So I now just "Flick my Bic".

I light my lighter, put it under the cold-benumbed little bastards, and wait for the satisfying ssffffftt!
Instant crispy critters.
My record, during just one cup of coffee is 17 of the little blighters.

My new hobby is fun, entertaining, I can pick it up and put it down as I please, and it's also immensely satisfying.

It's also probably deeply disturbing.
But hey... I can live with that.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

There ought to be a law...

You know... like they used to do with smoking?

There were smoking and non-smoking sections in restaurants, motels, movie theaters...

You name it... smokers were separated from non-smokers.
And for good reason.

Now I'm on a mission.
They need to do the same thing with doctors' waiting rooms.
There should be a separate "coughing/sneezing/hacking your nasty-a** phlegm up" rooms.
For the safety and convenience of our other patients.

See, I don't get colds. I just don't.
I. Do. Not. Get. Colds.
But I've got one now.

Oh, I have been known to get the odd runny nose or sore throat, but the whole "I want my NyQuil" thing going on?

But I woke up this morning, and I've got a bloody stinking head cold going on.
No warning, no nothing.
And I thought... "how"?

And then it dawned on me.

I've spent the better part of a week now, in overheated waiting rooms, waiting to be prodded and poked and asked to dress and undress... whilst reading magazines so old, that I just now found out that Brad left Jennifer... for some silly bimbo named Angelina.
And while I was busy having all that fun, there's been a perpetual background noise of cough-ers and sneeze-ers and hack-ers.

Who have now all made me sick.

BUT... the good excellent part is, is that all that testing and torture they put me through was worth it in the long run.
Well, at least we think so.
There are still a couple of things that puzzle both the GP and the Internist, but it's nothing seriously serious... so we're now just kind of going to sit back and see what happens next.
The kidneys are showing signs of failure, but that seems to be miraculously reversing itself, or clearing or whatever... so it may just be a matter of twiddling our collective thumbs for awhile.

I would say that I've got my fingers crossed, but I can't cross my fingers and twiddle my thumbs at the same time.
I know.
Because I've tried.

Oh hell... I just realized.
I can't do either one.
I'll be too busy holding tissues, wiping my nose and eyes, and trying not to sneeze on people.

Yep... there ought to be a law, alright.

For the safety and convenience of our other patrons, we ask that you please refrain from coughing, sneezing or hacking up junk, whilst on these premises.
We thank you for your consideration.

Oh... and I want my NyQuil please.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Down time... in more ways then one.

Since the school holidays are now well and truly behind me, I was sort of looking forward to a slow and gentle slide into the next weekend... because next weekend is my weekend 'off'.
And I was/am seriously ready for a much needed break, let me tell you!

Ahhh... Heavenly!
Time to sleep in... to read books... and just sort of potter around the house and garden.
Maybe even find the time - or the inclination - to walk around the lake a time or two.

Only things happened.

I'm now off all this week, and maybe even into the next... or beyond.
Yeah, I now have my "time off", alright... but it's because of circumstances that I wish I weren't going through.

See, the final couple of days of school holidays, I didn't feel too well.
Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't really feel bad, and I did have some intermittent pain in my lower left abdomen.
Now to be honest it was nothing really bad... but more irritating than anything, I suppose.

But certainly not worrisome.
I just figured maybe I needed a little more fiber in my diet - which is just a nice way of saying constipation.
Because I hate saying "constipation".
Especially in relation to me.

But then add to that, noticing blood in my urine, and I just figured that with Monday off (well, a half day anyway) I might just pop into the doctors and see what was going on.

So I walked in there all fat, dumb and happy... and walked out decidedly less so.
Oh, I'm still fat and dumb, I can assure you.
That hasn't changed.

But happy?
Not so much.

See, when the doctor palpated my abdomen, he found some exceedingly tender spots.
Tender enough, that he had to duck when I just about knee'd him in the head a time or two.
And whilst ducking, he also found a small mass that concerned him.

And me too, of course, since I feel basically fine and dandy and I certainly don't feel like I should have a small mass, especially when I'm feeling pretty darn good for the middle-aged shape I'm in..
Well, maybe I'm a little more tired than usual... but I just put that down to the school holidays and the long hours I had just put in... so it just seemed sort of understandable.

So, being somewhat concerned after poking and prodding me, he made me pee in a bottle.
Not once... but twice.

And come to find out, he saw stuff he didn't like looking at.

Now, at this point, he doesn't really know what we're dealing with... but he must have his suspicions, based on the foot-long list of tests he wanted run.
But did he share those suspicions with me?
He will though, once the results of the blood tests, urine tests and ultrasound all come in - sometime next week.

But he did pat my hand, before I left.
Which kind of worries me more than the "other stuff"... know what I mean?

So, I have all this week off, and possibly the next as well.. but this really isn't what I had in mind. Oh no...
This is definitely not what I had in mind at all.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

The snake...

Years and years ago, when I was first living here in Australia, I got bitten by a snake.
Now, being a California girl and pretty darned used to snakes of most descriptions, I thought it was "no big deal"... especially since I hadn't heard any rattling beforehand.

So being the calm, cool and pretty much unflappable woman that I am, I simply hollered out to the guy who was running his sheep dogs next door.

"Hey Jack... I think I was just bitten by a snake. What do I do?"


No Jack... I can't see him now, but I think he may have gone under the laundry tub. I'm not sure though. He wasn't very big ... does that matter?


Now because Jack was screaming, going all red in the face and running towards me as fast as his little bandy legs could carry him, I started to get a little bit worried.

Worried as in "Oh shit...I'm gonna die here. Oh shit!"

So, Jack leaped the fence in a single bound, (well not really, since he was barely taller than the fence itself, and he had gotten tangled up in the chicken wire and ended up landing face down in my chrysanthemums) and he ran to my side.
Now I had talked to Jack many, many times over the fence - but always at a distance - and in all that time, I had never realized that he barely came up to my armpits.
Or my boobs.

So Jack, after dusting himself off, rushed to my side and he proceeded to put his arms around me.... attempting to carry me to the back porch - with one leg stuck up in the air. (luckily, the affected leg)
Except that while he was busy grasping me in his arms and trying to point my right foot to the sky at the same time, his face was pressed into the side of my boob.


Ummm...Jack? I don't think this isn't going to work. How about if you just sort of balance me, and I just hop on over there? Or maybe you could just sort of drag me?


Well... Jack managed to get me to the porch, and he unceremoniously plunked me down on the wood box.


They're in the cupboard just off the kitchen ... top shelf I think. Just grab whatever's on top.


Oh for God's sake Jack... I'm sitting outside on the wood box in broad daylight and probably dying of snakebite... so if you go into my house, I'm pretty sure the neighbors won't talk too much about us having an affair.
They probably won't even worry about it unless I'm dead and you've made me get dead, so you're just being a silly!

Well, he eventually went in and got the sheets (my favorite ones too... but when you're dying, it's kind of nice to think of dying while wrapped up in your favorite robin-egg blue colored eyelet-trimmed sheets.) and he proceeded to rip it into strips, and applied a tourniquet.

He then ran back in the house, (looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him enter a single ladies house, with lascivious thoughts in mind... and potentially ruining both our reputations) and he brought the phone out to me.

Now being fairly new to the country and all, I knew that you didn't call 911, but I couldn't remember what number to call.
411? 444? 999?

Oh hell, I couldn't think, and Jack was still dancing around, going redder by the minute, and telling me to stop breathing... so I just called my friend Jenny and told her I had been bitten by a snake and that I needed help.

I figured that she would just call an ambulance or the coroner or whatever you do in circumstances like this, but instead she came in her own car, and between her and Jack they tossed me head first in the front seat.
Which probably didn't do that damn tourniquet any good, and it probably dislodged the venom that was supposed to be somewhat damned up beneath the eyelet-trimmed sheet strips.

Now... Jenny drives like a bat out of hell at the best of times, and I've white-knuckled it with her many many times before, but this time, she put those race car guys on the Bonneville salt flats to shame.

All I could think about was us crashing on a curve going way over the speed limit,, and then everyone would be so busy pulling our mangled selves out of the car, that no one would even think to ask me if I was snake-bit ... probably just assuming that my right leg wrapped in strips of robins-egg blue eyelet-trimmed sheets was just a stupid Americans fashion statement.
And then I would die.

But somehow (probably due to the fact that I started reciting the Rosary, even though I'm not Catholic) we made it to the hospital, where Jenny laid on the horn and started screaming :

Let me tell you, those emergency room people can sure move fast when they want to, and I was in a wheelchair in about 2 seconds flat, and being run hell-for-leather through the corridors.

Unfortunately, because they had my snake-bit leg up, I got run foot-first into a wall a time or two, almost breaking the foot or leg in the process, but they eventually got me on a gurney.
I just took it uncomplainingly.... figuring that broken legs are probably preferable to dying of snake venom... so I just stoically hung in there, while clutching my imaginary Rosary beads and keeping my mouth shut.

And then the doctor came in... and this is where it gets strange.

This doctor was decidedly Indian looking, and she had the sing-song Indian accent to go with it.
All I could concentrate on was her accent, and it kept running through my head that I was listening to Apu from the Simpson's.
Now whether that was from that potential snake venom coursing through my veins, or the possible brain damage from having my foot and leg jammed repeatedly into walls, affecting my spinal cord synapse's and making my brain go all wonky, I couldn't tell you.

But this short, rotund, dark-skinned Indian woman started wringing her hands, and proceeded to tell me:
"Oh dear. I do not know anything about these bites from these snakes. We do not have snakes in my country, you see. I do not know what to do for you. You must tell me now, what you are feeling inside of you."

And I'm thinkin' :
"Well, okay honey, but you sure don't look Irish to me, and as far as I know, the only country in the world that doesn't have snakes is Ireland. And we are NOT in Ireland at this exact moment. At least I don't think so, anyway.
But maybe I'm just nuts from the snake venom coursing through my veins, and I'm actually on the Emerald Isle. But then why am I dying of snake bite, if that's true?"

Now, you would think that I would be thinking stuff like "Oh %&$#! I'm gonna die! Oh *%#@!" wouldn't you?
Or I would even be thinking:
"Well hell... if you don't know what to do for me, the least you could do is call the coroner."

But no.... I just sat there looking at her quizzically, thinking ... "but you're not IRISH, woman!
And the name Vivekanadam doesn't sound even remotely like Mary Mac Gregor or Molly McGee! Because you sure as hell sound nothing like sweet old Jack Green who has just done his level best to keep me alive, even if it was by ripping up my favorite eyelet-trimmed sheets... which are now forever ruined!
Now JACK is definitely an Irishman - and you woman, are NOT!

Thank God for some of the best nurses I've ever met in my life - that's all I can say.
Because that Indian/Irish doctor was about as worthless as tits on a bull, and twice as stubborn.
But maybe that's just my opinion.

But those highly professional and caring nurses knew exactly what to do, and they did it so well!

They swabbed my puncture wounds, to test for what type of venom it was, brought a book over to see if I could identify what type of snake might have fanged me, checked and re-checked my vitals and did everything they could to make me comfortable... as well as doing everything they did, coolly, thoroughly and professionally.

And as highly trained professionals, they didn't even comment on the fact that with the hair on my unshaven legs, finding a couple of small-ish puncture wounds, was like trying to find a needle in a furry haystack.
To my face anyway.

Eventually, we found out that it was a Tiger snake, but luckily, I hadn't been "envenomed". I just had the puncture marks.
See... it seems that Tiger snakes only rarely "envenom" people (or more likely, prey) and they only do it when they're seriously looking to eat you.

Not when they're just pissed off from being stepped on.

Which is what probably saved me from being treated me with Tiger snake antivenin.
Antivenin that the hospital probably has 44 gallon drums of, because they're just waiting for people like me to come in and be antivenined.
Or rather other people to come in .... people who may have, or probably have been "envenomed" because they looked like dinner.
Not me, who just pissed off the wrong snake by stepping on him.

And because Australia supposedly has more venomous snakes than anywhere else in the world, it seems to me that 44 gallon drums of assorted anti-venom's is probably a a darn good thing to have on hand if you're running a hospital.

Even if you don't always need to use it, it's comforting to know it's there ...even if foreign doctors have no idea of how to administer it..
But it still makes me wonder... If Australia has such a huge variety of killer snakes ... WHY does our hospital employ a doctor who claims to "come from a country where we do not have snakes" and who doesn't know how to treat snake bites?
Go figure.

Now... what made me tell you this story today of all days?

I was looking through a folder of photos, searching for some birthday party pics, when I ran across this:

Now I don't know if it's the exact same snake or not, but Jack took a picture of one he found at the fenceline the same day that I got bit, and he eventually moved it to the other side of the creek.

I think they're a protected species or something, and you're not allowed to kill - or harm -them... Which is probably why hospitals have 44 gallon drums of antivenin.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Still draggin' my tail behind me...

Well, school holidays are finally finished, and it couldn't have come soon enough to suit me.
I mean I love my kids - each. and. every. one. of 'em.
I swear I do.
But this year, I just seemed to have a "mix" of kids that just didn't... errmm... 'mix' too well together - even though they've gotten along well in the past.

There was a wide variation in ages, likes, dislikes, and sociability... and by day 5, it was pretty clear that this was gonna be a long haul.
I, however saint sucker that I am, persevered.

Mainly, so that I could use a grown-up word like "persevered".

So I managed to survive 10 straight days of mayhem and madness... only to be faced with the weekend.
Which is my working weekend.


See, I've had one young lad since last Thursday, and who knows when he'll finally depart, since he's in 'indefinite' emergency care...

And then in addition, I have a child that I care for every second week while his regular carer is off for the weekend...

And then I also have my regular 'Saturday morning to Sunday morning' overnight-er.
Who has now departed... praise the Lord!

I mean.... they're all GOOD kids, and I love them dearly... but all 3 of 'em are "special needs kids", and 2 of them talk at the top of their voices constantly - even if no one's listening.
I mean, both of them can sit in the toilet and still yell loud enough to drown out the sound of a jet engine - just to hear the noise, I think!
So... by the time they all leave, my ears are ringing like the bells of St Mary's or something.

The other carers boy doesn't talk at all, but his high-pitched vocalizations - especially at 2am, are enough to send me a little bit further 'round the bend.
If that's possible, that is.

Sometimes I feel like I'm already so far around that damn bend, that I can see my own backside with it's draggin' tail, right there in front of me!

So, now I'm down to a kid who sounds like he's constantly yelling into a bullhorn... and one who is EEEEEEee!-ing me to death!

The best I can do at this point, (hell, it's the only thing I can do) is continue to pray that the school bus is on time in the morning.

Because man... my ears need the break!

Please send earplugs.
And a bottle of Scotch.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Happy Birthday, America!

We hold these truths to be self evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.
That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
And did you know this?
That in addition to the USA turning 234 years old today, the 50-star American flag is officially 50 YEARS OLD today, as well!
Law directs that a newly-designed U. S. flag becomes official on the first July 4th observance following the admission of a new state.
Hawaii was admitted as the 50th state on Aug. 21, 1959.
I hope you all have a safe, and Happy 4th of July!
So, relax and enjoy the day.
Kick back and grill some burgers or hotdogs.
Watch a ballgame.
Shoot off the fireworks and wave Old Glory.

But, for heaven's sake, don't forget what this holiday is all about.
It's about
One nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.


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