The most emotionally challenging part is pleasing the inlaws, both his and mine. They want to spend the holidays with us, we don't want them here, certainly not at the same time. I enjoy the season more as an adult, because I'm in control of what happens, instead of having to do what I was told.

The Things are coming to stay for a couple of weeks. Mom's dachshunds, Thing One and Thing Two (actually Coco and Maggie, but we call them The Things from The Cat In The Hat). This brings the household dog count to 7. Unreasonable by any standard, and sure to worry George The Greek, our neighbor who's eyebrows have their own zipcode. Dad will be packing muzzles as well, and I predict the Things will wear them often. Poor George is putting his house on the market soon, and has very diplomatically expressed concern that our menagerie could make it difficult for him to sell. We told him to please let us know when the house is showing, and I'd crate the dogs so no one Would Ever Suspect that Dr Doolittle lives next door.

I'm telling you, we need a few more acres and no neighbors.

Roberta, the transgender ex-profootball player from The World Acccording to Garp

Terry has a new phone and he's looking up ring tones. He's always used The Hallelujah Chorus for me, and they have about 20 different versions. I like the classical one with the orchestra, and so does he. What for El Presidente, who calls him 20 times a day? In the past it's been "Hail To The Chief" but he's not feeling that. So I recommend an Allman Bros song "Whipping Post" Perfect! he said, especially since EP is never right there when he calls, and everyone else at that plant despises EP as much as he does. And so it is.

Competence. With nice arms.

Mike Holmes of Holmes on Homes YOWZA!

"I've said my piece and counted three."
Penny Wharvey, O Brother, Where Art Thou

Terry told Eli this story a while back:

"We had a freeze when I was a kid, powerful cold it was, hadn't seen anything like it in Cordele before. Anyway, the heat went out at the school and they sent everyone home, except I stayed to help a teacher pack some stuff up or something. I went to the bathroom and there were all these little green puffs on the floor. I was puzzled, and picked one up, warming it in my hands. In a second it went "poot" and disappeared."

"What was it, Dad?"

"Son, it was a frozen fart."

Ok yesterday I whining long and loud (and it was whining, not 'head clearing'), then I gave myself a sharp talking to about gratitude. I do this, it's how I run. Anyway, this morning Terry seemed to be in a much better mood. He announced that he was going to take his 9 days vacation 1 hour at a time, by being to work at 7 or 8 instead of the usual 6. By coming home at 4 or 5 instead of the usual 6 or 7. I told him about how I'd given myself a bit of a bitch-slap late yesterday morning, and to shut it with the bellyaching. He looked over and smiled at me over his coffee cup, and asked if it was late 10-ish, and I replied that it was. He said, yeah, he'd done the same thing about that time, and felt much better after.

Last night after dinner I asked him questions about the whole insurance thing, how El Presidente could get away with having different insurance and all. Apparently, EP isn't on the payroll of the company, but on a different payroll. That's how he can get away with it. it's all very legal, if somewhat sketchy ethically. I announced to Terry if he was EVER in that kind of position he would have the same insurance plan as the $10/hr floor sweeper. He agreed. See, EP has never, ever suffered. He comes from a wealthy family, who kept him in cars and nice houses all his life. He's never eaten beans and rice because that's all he could afford. Never been without heat or A/C, never had to walk. he truly doesn't get it.

Terry gets it. He grew up below the poverty line. He had food because his grandfather was a share-cropper and always had a garden, but heat was something that came from wearing a blanket, and a/c was something he got at school. He knows what it's like to not have medical care, because his parents didn't have the money to pay for a doctor's visit. He gets it, and doesn't want his people to have to get it.

I'm not trying to pull the "How Poor Am I" thing, or up the ante with "betcha didn't suffer as much as me" I'm just making the point that El Presidente sees his workers as bits of machinery to be manipulated for his personal benefit, rather than real people, with real problems who would be loyal and hard working if they knew their management saw them as real people.

*sigh*

So, the deal now is that Terry is going to start job hunting. He'll start in Savannah, which means he'll commute, and we won't have to sell our house (in this awful, awful market) and move. If that doesn't work out, he'll branch out a little bit, trying to stay within an hour's drive. I appreciate his efforts to keep us here.

If we *do* have to move, that's ok. I'll live. If we do move, I want to go to the Midwest. Where there's seasons. I fell in love with Missouri when we traveled through last Summer. It was clean, the people were friendly and there were enough quirky folks to keep things interesting. I don't care what folks say about Flyover Country, I liked it. Plus it doesn't get as screamingly hot/humid as it does here.

Anyway, we both had sort of an epiphany about the whole situation, and are both at ease for now. It's good. I'm thinking he ought to take an hour or so vacation today, around lunch time, in the form of a plate of chicken livers at Vandy's.

Normally, casting directors suck at picking characters that look like they're related to each other.

Here's a picture of J. Ackles, who plays Dean Winchester in the show Supernatural.



And here's a picture of Jeffrey Dean Morgan, when he was J. Ackles age



tell me, who is the casting agent here? Do they get a bonus or something?

So I just went for a short therapeutic drive. Round twisty windy backroads, in my hopped up little beetle which looks innocent enough but will do 0-60 in like 3 sec if you put it in "sport" mode (lets it go to 7000rpm before shifting instead of the normal 4000). Gas mileage sucks in sport mode but eh.Fun on a backroad, and the car's stable as all get out, like a turtle around corners and all. What I really wanted was I-285 around Atlanta with a little traffic and other drivers to piss off and stuff, but that's 4 hours away so Middleground Road would have to do instead. If I possessed less comportment I'd hang my head out the window and take a bat to mailboxes, but they frown on that here. plus it's happened before so alot of the mailboxes have concrete around them and I'm not anxious for a broken arm. Instead of mailboxes it was The Rolling Stones which I don't even like so much but the music fit the mood.

Terry is employed. You have a solid marriage and the kids are all healthy. The mortgage is paid and there's food on the table. Get over yourself.

Sincerely,
Rootie

What would it be? As I was indulging in my "favorite household chore" (bah!) of getting on my knees and scrubbing the bathroom floor (Thank You, God, for providing us a house with a 1967 bathroom and not a 2008 bathroom) I was pondering this question.

Would I have an Epic soundtrack, like say...Holst's The Planets, or maybe Thus Spake Zarathustra all tympani and pipe organ? Or would it be mellow and rolling along like some Pat Metheney album? Would it be Vangelis cheese, or Enya hallucinagenic lentil loaf?

Then it hit me: The Grand Canyon Suite by whats-his-name Grofe'. Absolutely. Pastoral bits, with twittering birds, the occasional thunderstorm, and an egregiously goofy donkey ride. That's it. I am The Grand Canyon Suite.

What would you be? Now, don't pick whatever Your Favorite Song is...because that's not what I mean. The Grand Canyon Suite isn't my favorite symphony by any stretch, but it fits my life. So, what's yours, and why?

"On The Trail" (the donkey ride) From Ferde Grofe's The Grand Canyon Suite

Would someone please tell me why my fancy-pants large format photo printer is churning out endless copies of a banana bread recipe? The ink is not cheap and this is getting ridiculous.

Why is the phrase "dumber than a bag of hammers" always so funny to me?

I am not a cusser, in real life. I don't go all "shit" this and "fuck" that on a regular basis, and I never ever, not here or anywhere else, say "Gawdammit!" I'll call someone an asshole occasionally, but not in public. Here, ok, occasionally, if I'm really,really pissed. But not generally on the other blog, and almost never at home. Cussing is reserved for when I really need to make it abundantly clear that I'm upset.

Also, I am almost never, ever shocked. The depths of human depravity are clear to me, and there isn't anything you could say that would cause gasps and pearl-clutching. If you told me you ate your placenta after the birth of your first child, I'd be all "gross" but I wouldn't faint. If you said...I dunno, that you were a necrophiliac cannibal with bondage issues I'd probably think you needed therapy and even hospitalization (perhaps permanently), but I wouldn't be shocked. So don't even bother trying.

Perhaps I should be more shockable. Perhaps my kids would have given up at the Playboy under the mattress if I had pitched a fit instead of shrugging and saying "that's boys..." But I didn't, and I won't because that would be fake.

Polyamory doesn't shock me. I don't wish to participate, but it doesn't shock. In fact, there isn't a sexual behavior that I can think of that causes pearl-clutching and gasps of horror...but that doesn't mean I approve or wish to participate...it just means I don't faint.

There are things that make me sad, like the end of a long relationship, or spiritual resignation, or when someone refuses to open their eyes and see things from someone else's point of view, and there are things that make me angry, like when people refuse to open their eyes and see things from someone else's point of view.

Understanding a differing POV isn't a tacit approval, it's just an attempt to understand. I like understanding things, even things that make me go 'tsk tsk'.

So, if you think I approve wholeheartedly just because I'm not all Stern Puritanical Disapproval on your ass, you're probably wrong, I'm just not shocked.

*not a statement on politics, culture n stuff

Because we're White privileged UpperClassish types, we have a Game Room or something. A big room that used to be a 3 car garage and is now closed in, with french doors and windows and a slate floor. It has an 8 foot pool table and an area with comfortable furniture, a big screen TV with a surround sound system, floor to ceiling shelves with all kind of shit on them, and every game system since Super Nintendo. Because We Can.

Anyway, now that you're all impressed with how much crap we have, Terry's adding something to it that I've ALWAYS thought would be Way Cool. there's this sorta niche in the room, a bit in the wall that doesn't make any architectural sense but it's there nonetheless. About the size of a phone booth. And, Terry has aquired a phone booth! A real, folding door, steel and glass outdoor phone booth! With the blue Ma Bell emblem and ever'thang! How flamin' rednecky cool is that! It has a sign in it that says "please limit all calls to 3 minutes" Target has phones that look like the old public coin operated jobs so Terry's totally going to run a line down there and get a phone to go in it. I might even scratch some graffiti on it.

eeee! I love stuff like this! So does Terry, probably a reaction to our respective childhoods where we lived in 800 square ft houses (well, Terry anyway, mine was a bit bigger) and had parents who didn't believe in allowing their children to have anything cool while they went out and spent all their money on stuff for themselves.

A phone booth! In the game room! How cool is that!

(if you think it's dorky, keep your opinion to yourself)