Bridges of Orange County - He Said, She Said

The "new" old general store.

The old general store has been buried in a watery grave for about forty years now.  Swimming with the fishies, not too far away is the ancient rickety bridge that we would cross slowly in our car, eyeing every broken board always wondering if today was going to be the day it would finally give way.

Crossing that bridge was not just crossing a small creek into the small southern Indiana town formerly known as Newton Stewart.  The bridge was actually a time machine transporting us back into a world that time forgot. 

Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go.  And so it was on the roads that took us from grandma to grandma in our southern Indiana roots.  From one small town known in the 70's for it's high school basketball fame (before class basketball ruined the sport forever for Indiana) through French Lick, the hometown of Larry Bird and back into the past.

Sometimes our advancement of progress towards getting from one place to another completely destroys the simple beauty of extremely winding roads and those quick hills where my dad would press on the gas just at the top to give us kids the "tickle-belly hills" we loved so much. 

Indiana is for the most part, just some flat piece of land where people travel from a state out east to a state out west.  But southern Indiana breaks away just a bit with a little vertical diversity that to this day tugs at my heart strings. 

The 15 miles from Loogootee Indiana to French Lick consists of ever so slightly elevating hills and winding turns reminicient of the old movie Duel, without the wide open spaces.  No one wants to get stuck behind some slowpoke, likewise no one appreciates the idiots that think they should take the wet-your-pants turns at break-neck speeds slightly pushing you with their front bumper.

Getting there is half the fun.  That's what we used to experience on the drive from French Lick to Newton Stewart.  The 12 miles from French Lick to Newton Stewart was even more adventurous.  Sure, nothing like scaling a mountainside, but it was certainly a thrill to four rugrats packed into the back seat of a 1958 push button transmission Chrysler wagon.   (OK, I'm making up the year and make of the car.  I know we had a push button transmission wagon, but I don't know the year or make,  I googled that part, but I'm sure CnC or my brother Mike can straighten that part out quickly).  I do remember it looked something like this, so you guys can figure it out.

This was back in the days where no parent thought anything wrong with letting a three year old ride the whole trek standing up in the front seat.  Of  course no one would consider that today, but back in the early sixties, this was  the equivalent of taking your kid to King's Island.  I never became a bullet out the windshield nor did I ever get thrown out of the back of a pick-up truck.   It was just routine travel back in those days.  I can relish that freedom while still never considering doing that with my grandkids today.  Sure, they are safer, but they'll also never know that feeling of having the wind whip around you like you could fly. 

Beam me back, Scotty.

So once transported across the time travel machine bridge, we would experience life as it had been since the 30's. 

My grandparent's owned the old general store just past the bridge.   The old store (pictured above is the "new" one) made Floyd's barber shop on the Andy Griffith show look like a modern-day hack.  It was a decaying building, housing the post office, the cabinet type refrigerators full of Choc Ola, Double Cola, Grape NeHi and Orange Crush, 

Remembering the store now, it seems as though it had everything that one would imagine out of an old time Hollywood movie, right down to the wood burning stove and the old men sitting around smoking cigars and cigarettes and telling old men stories. One of the old guys was asked once why he always wore the same pair of pants. He replied, "Well, I figured the new dirt just knocks out the old dirt, so it just really doesn't matter much."

Up the big hill stood my grandparent's home.

My grandmother gave birth to 15 children, 11 of them lived to be adults.  She lost her youngest (my uncle Kenny's twin) and her oldest within a week of each other due to the flu epidemic sometime in the 1920's.  She also lost a set of twins, all before my father was born on Christmas Day 1931. 

Up until the time my grandmother was forced to give up her home in the early 70's to make way to what is now Patoka Lake, there was no running water in her home and only an outhouse for a bathroom facility.   I can remember pumping water from the pump that sat on her porch onto my hand to slurp the fresh cool water.  I will also never forget the smell and general yuckiness of having to use the outhouse.

If you trekked out along the small stream that ran through the town you would come upon a clearing that was filled with arrowheads and Indian beads left there from a century or more before.

When the state of Indiana came knocking on my grandmother's door wanting her land, she asked to be allowed to stay on her property and maintain the general store and post office as that area sat atop a hill and was the only area of the former Newton Stewart that was not flooded for the lake.   Her request was denied and she and my uncle were forced to give up the home and move to nearby French Lick.

Of course the move was hard for her, but it did allow her to live her remaining few years in a house that had all of the conveniences that nearly all homes had long ago possessed.  Running water and an indoor bathroom.

I remember the rumor at the time that the caskets of the soon-to-be flooded cemetary would also go under a watery grave and that they would only take a shovel of dirt from each grave and place that dirt to a new location.  I doubt the story is true as I've unfortunately had to return to the cemetary where most of my dad's family is buried, including those children that died before my dad was even born. 

Several years ago, I returned to the area where my grandparent's house stood.  The house is long gone and the "new" general store was being used as a supply shed of some type.  The road that led us to her house now only remains a vague clearing between the old trees and I narrowed my eyes to remember that hill that led down to the old store and the rickety bridge.  I mourned the loss of the time travel bridge and the generations that will never know that under all that water lay many never to be discovered arrow heads. 

The path to get to the town f/k/a Newton Stewart still passes over the great Tillrey Hill.  The road has been smoothed out to a pristine boring flat straight path.  It's been graded into just a tall incline and I feel sad that there is now a whole generation of kids that are driven over the hill and have no concept of thrill of topping that hill, which used to feel you were on the front car of a roller coaster when you crested at the top, unable to see the road beneath you.  Where a dad can gun the gas pedal of the car right at the top and send their little tummies into a quick trip up and spread the giggles throughout the car like a roar.  They will never hear their fathers tell the story about being a little kid growing up in the 30's whose older brothers would scare them with made-up stories of the crazy lady that rode a pig sidesaddle while she stalked young boys along the stream. 

Are there any roads and bridges that still exist today that allow a youngster to go back in time?  Something tells me they have all been paved over or flooded away forever in the name of progress.   Yes I can get there faster, but now the generic lake that flooded the time travel bridge has no magical properties, so why would I want to waste my time?  Getting to Nowhere, Indiana faster seems to be a pointless journey. 

My dad trailing some of the Newton Stewart kids

What He Said

NOW We're Talkin'

Hopefully the start of something big.

http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/09/24/us-usa-campaign-winner-idUSTRE78N2RE20110924

I Left My Heart....

And just lost what I used to consider some of the best music ever.  Can Not, Will Not EVER listen to any Tony Bennett song again. 

Where I Make No Apologies for Who I AM.

It is not blood that runs through my veins, but the splash of a quick summer rain on a too hot day when it pelts down quenching the thirst of my parched back yard leaving it's sweet smell along the way.

The very cells in my skin.  They tell me I should only enjoy the salty air of a nearby ocean, a mere day's drive away.  But in fact, they are packed with the Indiana clay that will never go away.  Not from my skin, not from under my fingernails.  They are permanently part of who I am, what I believe and ultimately what I would not want to spend one single moment forgetting.

I cannot deny I love fresh caught seafood, but that cannot compare to the smell of my hands after man-handling a tomato plant in early July to taste the uncomparable goodness of a red ripe fresh picked Indiana tomato while it's still warm from the summer sun.  Or the dry smell when driving past a field of corn growing in a farmer's field. 

To walk out your backdoor and slice your arms just a bit on the corn stalks that some people only recognize from Field of Dreams and grab a half dozen ears of the Ambrosia sweet corn before a refrigerator has began to spoil the best of your supper for the night.

To bask in the glory of a morel mushroom in those first fine days of May, where we listen to the roar of the race cars at 200 mph while frying those smells throughout the wide open house.

Knowing all this goodness will be quashed under some gloomy dark sky that pervades this middle part of America during those thousands of days in that short month of February.

The place I despise in the winter is the very place that I love all of the days of the year.    I wouldn't trade this boring, flat piece of nowhere for all of the cement and plastic and nothingness that I see on my TV from the glorious elitest who attempt to explain to me that I am not like them.

You're damned right.  I am not.  

So, I'll leave you with the best of the best.  A bit of Pete Fountain, who knows in which state his greatest fan lives.   This courtesy of one of my best friends, whose father gave Pete his entire unparallelled collection when Pete's was drowned under Katrina. 



And I long for my Indiana home.

Technologically Challenged.

Figures.  The old man is just like every other man.  Guess where he gets sidetracked.  At least she keeps her mind on task.



H/T Beej.

The Enemy

For the past five and a half months I have had to work with the most vile creature God ever created.  In fact, I'm not entirely certain God did create him, every morning I'm quite sure he came straight from the gates of hell.  Sometimes I imagine I can still smell the evil foul stench of the day he was created.

From the first minute I walk in the door he begins to mock me.  No one else seems to notice, at least not like I do.  Although there is no expression, I can tell from the minute I round the corner that he will delight in another day of torture.

Literally from the moment I sit down until the last second where I run for the elevator at the end of the day he relishes in the pain he delivers.  Every position I take in those godless hours, he jabs me another blow.  Sometimes I spend the day taking stand after stand just to avoid the torture I get if I only sit back and attempt to be passive.  Passivity is not in my nature, but I try.  Honestly, I try. 

In my mind I dream all day long about picking him up and slamming him through the 5th floor window.  Would that give me some satisfaction?  Maybe, probably. 

I could be the forgiving type if he would just leave me the hell alone, but day after day, hour after hour he is there, waiting for me.  One wrong move, and I seem to be making a lot of them and he punishes me for hours on end.

I've worked with the evil before, but this is different.  This time I have no power.   I can only sit back and let him torture me.   There is no escape except for my flight at the end of the work day.  I can only pray that this vile, torturous creature will not follow me to my next job as he did with my last one.

In most cases I would never think of publishing such things that might label me someone that complains about their work environment to this extent.  But I have decided to fight back...the only way I can.  Through this post.

I have made the decision.  I will post his vile image here and I will revel if suddenly it goes viral and the entire world will associate his picture among the other evil forces this world possesses.

I hope you don't think lesser of me for doing what I would normally never do.  I know his picture will not reflect how truly evil he is, but trust me on this one.  I hate him.  HATE him.

Here, for all the world to see is the most torturous monstrosity ever created.

Ahhhh. The Sweet Taste of an Ordinary Life Returns

Just walked into a downtown restaurant when a Fred Sanford look-alike was shuffling out. I moved before he could reach me and then he said, "Look out Old Woman". I laughed. He didn't. I don't care I still think it was funny.

UPDATE:  Not only THAT, but I was actually able to be at two places at one time today.  Amazingly enough, while I was posting this at a Steak-n-Shake in Indianapolis, I was also apparently in San Jose, California at the exact same time.  How cool is that?  Well, that's where the IP address showed up anyway.  Which is interesting since Steak-n-Shake is actually an Indianapolis based company.  

I'd label that time travel, but it would be more accurately space travel. 

The Bliss of Innocence

She didn't know.

And she was only mildly interested.

I don't know how we got on the subject, but I'm sure it was spurred by the 10th anniversary.

So we talked a bit about Flight 93. 

I tried to not let my emotions overtake my discussion of explaining to her the facts of flight 93.

OK, she's young, but not young enough not to remember 9/11.  She was around 16 or so at the time.  How could she not have any facts at all about the first soldiers of 9/11.  Those brave passengers that were drafted into the war but were also our very first volunteers in that war we didn't know yet was being waged against us.  Have there ever been drafted and yet volunteer soldiers before in our great nation?  

They did not choose to be soldiers, but they did choose to volunteer to fight, to prove that Americans will not stand idly by when called to serve.

And she didn't know about them.  I wonder if she knows who Mark Bingham was?  I know she has some best friends who are gay, as do I, but does she know that a strong gay soccer player was a hero who gave his life fighting in our war against our enemy?    Did she know that he called his mom, left a voice mail where he identified himself as not only Mark, but Mark Bingham as if she didn't know his last name.  Did she know that this guy, that people claim the TEA party hate (we do NOT), was one of the very first volunteer soldiers on the war against terror.

Did she not listen to ANY news, regardless of whether I consider them liberal mainstream or whether I  believe they at least attempt to report the news somewhat unbiasedly?

Maybe because the majority of her life has been spent under this new insecurity that I did not know until I was 42 years old.  Maybe she's just a kid that just is not interested in the news, politics or anything outside of her world.  I don't remember being so disinterested in things in my mid-20's but maybe I was. 

Did  I spend my mid-20's not caring about anything outside of what would affect me that day?

I do know that when I was eligible to vote at 18, I did not.  I remember the rhetoric of how Reagan was a war monger.  I remember hearing only bits and pieces of how he was going to start a war with the USSR.  Thankfully, since I was completely ignorant on what's important, I did not vote in the first election when I was eligible.

Four years later I apparently knew bettter.  I'd have to google who actually ran against Reagan in his second election.  I do know that I voted for Reagan when he ran four years later.  I voted for Bush four years after that and I was sickened by Clinton's election eight years later.

Little did I know that I would long for the days of Bill Clinton.

George Bush was not my first choice for a Republican candidate after that.  I really thought Bob Dole was a great hero and would be our next President. 

Little did I know that just a few days after 9/11 President Bush would give me the comfort that America might endure.

Yes I believe we are safer today than we were ten years ago on the last day of my naivety.   But make no mistake, I believe we are just a breath away from losing our freedoms.  When we have citizens of this great country cheering when an American flag is burned but telling us we are not free to fly those flags for fear of offending someone.  That we are not allowed to say a prayer even though that right is granted to me by the First Amendment.

Today we still have people who hate our freedoms and sadly, not all of them are some crazed Islamic extremist.  Too many of them have grown up right here, under the very freedom that was bought for them by the blood of our soldiers.

So we've protected America and we've protected our youth.  But that protection has apparently evolved into dangerously insulating our youth.  We've insultated them in just ten short years by having them not even knowing the basic facts of 9/11.  Flight 93 meant nothing to this sweet little girl.  I explained to her why all the passengers of the other flights cooperated with the hijackers.  She didn't understand that up until that day, the playbook was go along with the hijackers and you would likely be safe.  She didn't know that the hijackers used box cutters and didn't understand why those would have been effective until just even a little information into Flight 93 allowed those heroes to know differently.

I wish I could envy her innocence.  I really do.  But that would put me in the passenger seat of a flight bound for the World Trade Center.  I would rather choose to be a passenger on flight 93 and know that those SOB's did not determine my fate, but I would choose my method of death.  Make no mistake Cindy Sheehan-types there is no longer a flight-full of passengers that would have chosen a fate other than those on 93 given the proper information.

I believe those people of every gender, religion, race, and sexual preference are true heroes, but I also maintain every group of Americans bound on such a flight, given the situation and the knowledge they had at the time would do the same. 

"As long as there is not an airplane crashing into this building, you're having a good day."

Let's Roll.

When Evil Calls Itself a Martyr

When all your hopes come crashing down.
Someone will pull Her from the rubble.
There She Stands.



If I haven't posted this before....well, shame on me.

NOT America's Mayor

Hey Dumbass.

NO. The separation of church and state is NOT part of the Constitution.

Read it sometime, you might learn something.

Sorry, just couldn't help letting the man who is not America's Mayor get to me with his exclusion of any clergy of any type and no firefighters or police being part of the 9/11 memorial in NYC this weekend. And today, faced with the outrage over this controversy actually said, "There IS a separation of church and state in the Constitution."   If I had to learn the Constitution in high school government class, is it too much for our politicians to know what it says?

THIS, my friends is what's wrong with America.

And THIS IS America's Mayor. 

“The microphone will not melt if we have religious leaders at the 9/11 Memorial.”

I Thought He Looked Familiar

Just sayin'.

Whoooo Are You, Who Who Who Who.

I wonder sometimes.

Well, I wonder when I go to the Recent Visitors link and I find someone who regularly visits this boring little blog of mine that seems to have no substantive value other than my own misguided belief that I had something to say worth reading.  There's probably a half dozen posts or so that I think are worth reading, other than that, I just have a boring little life in middle America.

So I wonder when I see someone visit often that I cannot place because they never comment.  And I wonder how they got here, why they read my posts and who they are.  I used to get regular visits from someone that worked for a local law firm.  Then, poof.  They were gone, or at least gone from reading occasionally at work. 

I get way too many visitors from all over the world looking up the picture of Swanson's chicken broth, which directs them to recipe on homemade chicken and noodles where I say I DON'T use that stuff.  Bet Swanson isn't too happy about that.

Got one this week from someone who googled, "Vietnamese prostitutes of the "60s".  Hilariously enough, it took them to my post about Jane Fonda.  Serves her right.

I can tell that Average Joe lives approximately 30 miles from me.  And since I know where GB and CJ live, I always assume visits from their part of the country are them.  Some people are easy because I visit their site regularly too and they tell where they're from.  That can lead to some interesting misunderstandings when Dana thought I was one of her asshat relatives that hijacked her blog.

I get a post now and then from Babs, so I know whenever I see a visit from that area, it's likely her, but I have no idea how she ended up at this godforsaken blog.  Hi Babs.

Then I have some people that read and comment semi-regularly, but they never show up in the IP addresses.  It's like they're IP ghosts or something, but I'm glad they visit.

The last one comes from someone that comes here often and never comments.  I wonder who you are Denver.  I suppose I don't have to know, but thanks for stopping by anyway.  I have never been to Denver and hear it's just beautiful.  Got an email from a recruiter a week ago asking about whether I would accept a 6 month contract there.  The job was an exact match for my background, so I spouted off an hourly rate double what I've ever made, but still "cheap" by consulting standards and got a quick response back.  Checked out the recruiter's background and company and it's legit.  I'm assuming he sent my information on.   While it would be odd to commute every week, it would be nice to make that kind of dough for half a year.  And it's not like it would be having to go somewhere like Gary, probably the ugliest city in America.

So hello all you people I don't know.  Glad you come past.  Well except for those 500 or so that google chicken broth.  They just get on my nerves.

Barefootin' - He Said, She Said.

Yes I know this episode of He Said, She Said is long overdue.  But here it is.  Don't forget to check out what  He Said.



As I cornered around the garage, running as fast as my grubby little 8-year-old bare feet would take me, I was trying to catch one of the other kids in our late night game of Tag.

It was early September slightly past dusk. Since I was younger than everyone else, of course I was “IT” more often than not.

As I sped across the front of our garage apron, I felt a fast tug on my left foot. No pain, but I instantly knew something was wrong, bad wrong. I belted out one of those nightmarish kid’s screams that pierced the neighborhood and everyone’s eardrums. Although there still wasn’t any pain, I could just “feel” something very wrong with the bottom of my toe. I hobbled as fast as possible to the inside of the house to find solace.

As I went running into the kitchen leaving a trail of blood from my Dad’s metal tool drawer that he had absently left on the garage apron, I saw Mom come flying around the corner clearly understanding those types of screams do not come with just some kiddy type drama.

My brother Mark also came running in. Which I found odd since he despised me since I had taken his “baby of the family” moniker away from him when he was four. It had only been one week since Mark’s own foot had been cut pretty severely under the bridge when he stepped on a piece of glass.

I sat down at one of the chairs and pulled my left foot up to see what the damage actually was. Mark knelt down just about the time I brought up my foot. That’s when all three of us noticed that the entire bottom half of my big toe was…gone. Where the meatiest portion of the bottom of the big toe should have been was only a gaping open wound exposed all the way to the bone of my toe. The blood was quickly forming a nice puddle on the floor when Mark gasped out an “Oh My God” before Mom shushed him back into silence.

The flurry of activity next gets a little blurred with a fading memory. My parents wrapped my foot as tightly as possible, but the blood just kept soaking through. Mom held me in her lap while Dad floored the car to drive to the nearest doctor’s office.

Unfortunately the car was nearly empty on gas and neither Mom nor Dad had any cash. This was long before the days of ATM’s and debit cards. The local gas station was a couple miles down the road. Although Harold, the owner was our neighbor, we didn’t know him well. Dad had Harold fill the tank up “just enough” and THEN told him that he had no money and was rushing me to the doctor. Harold waved him along knowing Dad would pay him as soon as possible. I think about that decision now and then. My parents both were afraid that I was bleeding to death and Dad was caught in a place of telling Harold first and risk not being able to get gas or wait until the car was filled and fess up and tell Harold he would pay him as soon as he could. He chose the latter, probably just too afraid that Harold would say no and he would have no way to get me help as soon as possible. Now and again I think about what must have been running through his mind. I don’t like to think that he was scared for me, but yet I know he was, they both were.

I remember my parents rushing me through a crowded doctor’s office. As best as I can recall, the doctor must have gotten the bleeding under control and then told my parents to take me to the hospital. Since I was still grubby and dirty and the crisis was somewhat calmed, they took me home first to clean me up a bit. I seem to remember Mom putting a nice orange dress on me before we went to the hospital.

Back in the 60’s hospitals weren’t exactly patient or family friendly. They wheeled me away from my parents into a cold examination room, where a young intern unwrapped my toe and began to “numb” it all around with about five shots on what was quickly becoming a very painful toe. He cleaned the wound as much as possible and then he wrapped it up with cotton, and no ointment to prevent the cotton from binding directly into the wound.

The next morning, before my scheduled surgery, you could have heard my screams throughout the all of Indianapolis as they kept trying to soak my toe to extract the cotton the should-have-worked-flipping-burgers-intern had stupidly wrapped tightly the night before. I can vividly remember every detail.

When they finished, they put me on a gurney to head to surgery to graft some skin from my stomach to cover the open toe. Mom and Dad tried to keep up, but hospital staff back in those days didn’t much care if a parent had the time to comfort a scared little girl still crying in pain. I remember the mask over my face and the instant out of consciousness.

Back in 1967, children under 14 were not allowed in the patient rooms and visiting hours, even for parents were very limited. The room I shared the next 10 days with two to three other little girls was the only place I was allowed. There was Mary, who was in a full body cast after she had been hit by a car. There was Jill, a red-headed little girl. I remember asking my mom what was wrong with her and she told me she had leukemia. I knew that Jill was not going to live. Nancy was a girl in another room that would come visit. Her hair was a mess because she had a broken neck and a trac tube. Nancy and her family had been in a horrible car accident. At the accident scene, the medics had moved Nancy away from her parents as they announced that she was dead. A few minutes later one of them heard her gurgling.

So I could do nothing but lay in the bed the entire time. They only time I was even allowed to sit in a chair was when they would change the bed sheet. Twice a day, they would give me an antibiotic shot in my scrawny little legs which felt like they were driving the needle into the bone. Then they would remove the needle from the syringe and give me the empty container to play with. You sure don’t see that happening today.

School had just started before the accident, so my third grade teacher had all the kids create get well cards for me. To this day we laugh about the one that had a big toe drawn on the front along with the words, “Oh Dear Toe”.

On the 10th day, the surgeon came in to remove the stitches. He was not gentle as he cut and yanked the threads from my sore toe and stomach. He complained to my mom that I was being a baby. He was lucky he made it out of the room with all his teeth. After the stitches were gone, the doc took off down the hallway. I can still remember my mom running after him and her yelling, “When can she go home?” He casually said, “I guess today.” If she hadn’t asked, I wonder if I would still be there.

Mom was so excited as she was helping me get dressed and as I slipped out of bed for the first time in 10 days, I stood on my good leg and I promptly hit the floor feeling my weakened leg muscle give out. I can remember how scared I was because I didn’t understand that not using or exercising those tiny little girl calf muscles meant my good leg was just not strong enough to support my weight.

I still can’t believe how ridiculously stupid the medical profession was back then. Not only was it completely unnecessary to keep me in the hospital that long, but to not even have me stand or use my right leg for 10 days???

Today, the scar on my toe still looks pretty nasty and you can feel the bone of my toe hiding just beneath a thin layer of skin.

On a positive note, I continue to use my “ugly toe” as we call it as a method to irritate my nieces and nephews. Our family gatherings are fairly large and someone is always lying on the floor. I wait till they least suspect it and take my bare toe and walk past them casually and then quick as a wink I move my toe to their lips and scream, “Ugly Toe Kiss”. The victim tries to wipe away the leftover toe feeling while the rest of us get a good laugh.

------

Sad Sunday

By now, you might have been walking past your TV while the evening news gave a 20 second spot to the latest events in Indianapolis.

One of the great country bands, Sugarland was all set to go out on stage at the Indiana State Fair.  Just minutes before they were to entertain the crowd an announcer explained that the show would be delayed due to weather, they warned the crowd they may need to evacuate and told them where they should go in that event.

Sadly, just two or three minutes later there was no longer time to take cover.

Tonight's local news took the entire hour covering the story.  Sugarland cancelled their concert tonight, which was supposed to be in Iowa.  Their stage is gone as is their equipment, but that pales in comparison to the five people that lost their lives and the nearly 50 people injured, some severely.

Our governor Mitch Daniels spoke today, his voice cracking talking about the tragedy but offering hope.  There's hope because Hoosiers attending the concert, turned from running from the stage back to saving those trapped under the rigging.  "Hoosiers ran to the trouble, not from the trouble."

Say a prayer tonight for those who have lost someone.  And those still suffering from their injuries.

Jennifer Nettles of Sugarland said, "I am so moved. Moved by the grief of those families who lost loved ones. Moved by the pain of those who were injured and the fear of their families.  Moved by the great heroism as I watched so many brave Indianapolis fans actually run toward the stage to try and help lift and rescue those injured. Moved by the quickness and organization of the emergency workers who set up the triage and tended to the injured."  

The Smartest Man in America

“If the US Government was a family, they would be making $58,000 a year, they spend $75,000 a year and have $327,000 in credit card debt. They are currently proposing BIG spending cuts to reduce their spending to $72,000 a year. These are the actual proportions of the federal budget & debt, reduced to a level that we can understand.”

Any Random Day

This morning I saw a Lotus parked just outside of the Conrad Hotel.  I gawked a bit at it, not recalling if I had ever seen one before.  Maybe it was old or not polished, but I'll have to say I really wasn't that impressed.

The office I work in for my short term contract is EXTREMELY quiet, very little conversations among all the employees, not quite sure why.  They seem to basically like each other and they don't seem to be overly worked, so it's kind of odd.  But this morning in the distance I could hear someone teasing one of the IT boys.  They kept asking when he was going to bring in his girlfriend, said something about she probably doesn't really exist but is just some picture off the internet.  Then I was almost sure someone asked him, "She's your sister, right?"  Maybe he's originally from Kentucky.

Later in the morning the girl next to me was having a telephone conversation discussing the development of a mobile phone app for an upcoming event.  She asked what that city's demographics were.  Then she said, "Well for instance, if your demographic is older, that would suggest an IPhone app as IPhone users are older, a younger demographic would suggest the Android." 

Do you think that's really true? 

After lunch I decided to walk around a bit.  Still checking out the restaurants downtown since it's been 15 years since I worked there.  I passed by a vacant store front.  The door was open and the place was being remodeled for some new business.  There's a LOT of things happening in Indy, getting ready for the SuperBowl next year.  Two men were standing in the doorway.  One guy says very loudly to the other one, "NO, we'll do that on my property."  More arguing ensued, then the first man said,, "That M0(&*&  F&%@* can come here and ....."  I was couldn't hear the rest as I just kept walking.

As I passed the local Jimmy John's I saw their bicycle delivery guy waiting on his bike, nothing in hand since it was nearly 2 pm.  Suddenly I could hear what I assume was some chick behind me clomping fast like a Clydesdale.  I didn't turn around, but as I passed the Jimmy John's guy, he said to her, "SHUT UP."  He didn't sound like he was kidding.  The Clydesdale seemed to stop a few feet later.

Nice shoes.

Even though I forced myself to take a late lunch, the office hours from 8:30 to 5:30 puts me in rush hour at the worst time and makes the afternoons insufferably long, especially with the silence of the office.

At 5:30 sharp I head for the elevator.  As it opened a guy with glasses and in a wheel chair was getting out.  He had a service dog with him.  I smiled, asked him how he was doing.  Then I noticed he had no legs at all but had shoes at the end of the trunk of his body.  The toes of his shoes were both pointing outward.  I assumed he must have some type of ability to walk.  Just before I could step in the elevator, he turned around and realized he had gotten off the wrong floor.

I stuck my hand in the closing door to get it reopened for him and he and his dog wheeled back in.  For some reason I figured he was heading up, so I didn't get on the elevator.  He thanked me as the door closed and then I realized he was heading down and I just missed my elevator. 

Today they had another switchover on my interstate.  Our two lanes had to move over, next to the oncoming traffic.  They were very tight lanes, bordered on both sides by those cement construction barriers.

Suddenly the cars in front of me were braking hard, luckily I had left plenty of room to stop as did the guy behind me.  The car in front of me steers slowly as left as he could with the barriers and I realize there is an entire tread of a semi tire blocking our path.  I too slowly made my way around the tread, wondering how close I was to the barrier and knowing the tire had to just have shredded or it wouldn't have still been where it was.

A few feet up I could see other tire tread bits kicking up in the right hand lane.  Since my exit was coming up, I moved over to the right hand lane and spotted the poor trucker with his flashers on moving slowly.  He had no choice there was absolutely no where else to go. 

I took this picture as the exit was coming up and the cement barriers gave way to the more friendly kind. 

OK, don't report me.  I KNOW I'm not supposed to take pictures while driving, which explains why the picture is really off center.  And we were barely moving, so I thought it would be okay.  Even though the exit was just feet away, he pulled off in the first breakdown lane he could.  Poor guy.

GenCon starts tomorrow.  I'll have to have my phone charged and ready to take random pictures of the geeks invading town.

Exciting life, huh?

I'll take "Something Sounds Fishy" for $200 Alex

So by now I'm sure you've heard about the heroic efforts of Alex Trebek chasing down a burgler.

So, in true Jeopardy fashion, I'll put it this way.

And the answer is.......

"Because famous people do stupid things."


My question is......

"Why do I have a nagging suspicion that a "celebrity" who claims that he was awoken in the middle of the night by a FEMALE burgler in a hotel room and first put on his underwear before he chased her down in the hallway could actually have hired that female for an evening away from his wife?"

Does anyone else find the story a bit odd?  And Alex is the one that said in an interview that he put on his underwear before running after her.  I'm sure there are a lot of men that sleep in the nude, but how many burglers that break into an occupied room in the middle of the night are female?  I wouldn't place any bets his story is exactly accurate.

Bob Hope vs Jane Fonda

Bob Hope performed in 199 USO tours.

"If I have to lay an egg for my country, I'll do it." - Bob Hope

In 1969, President Lyndon Johnson bestowed the Presidential Medal of Freedom upon Bob Hope for his service to the men and women of the armed forces through the USO.
In 1997, the USO successfully worked with Congress to designate Bob Hope the first honorary veteran of the U.S. armed forces.

"I guess I have my critics everywhere." – Bob Hope - In Saigon where a bomb went off at his hotel just before he checked in.

"If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't come to Vietnam, I'd send for it." – Bob Hope - Denying reports during a Christmas troop show in Saigon that he was worth $500 million.

As far as I can tell Jane Fonda went to Vietnam ONCE.

"I, a Socialist, think we should strive toward a Socialist society, all the way to Communism." Jane Fonda

""If you understood what Communism was, you would hope, you would pray on your knees that one day we would become Communist." (speaking to students at the University of Michigan in 1970)

"I wanted to do a tour like I did during the Vietnam War, a tour of the country. But then Cindy Sheehan filled in the gap, and she is better at this than I am. I carry too much baggage." - Jane Fonda

And finally, according to Wikipedia:

During her trip, Fonda made ten radio broadcasts in which she denounced American political and military leaders as "war criminals". Fonda has defended her decision to travel to North Vietnam and her radio broadcasts. Also during the course of her visit, Fonda visited American prisoners of war (POWs), and brought back messages from them to their families. When cases of torture began to emerge among POWs returning to the United States, Fonda called the returning POWs "hypocrites and liars". She added, "These were not men who had been tortured. These were not men who had been starved. These were not men who had been brainwashed." Later, on the subject of torture used during the Vietnam War, Fonda told The New York Times in 1973, "I'm quite sure that there were incidents of torture ... but the pilots who were saying it was the policy of the Vietnamese and that it was systematic, I believe that's a lie." Fonda further stated that the POWs were "military careerists and professional killers" who are "trying to make themselves look self-righteous, but they are war criminals according to the law".

Now she's spending her time crying over being dropped from QVC and never admitted what she did, writing an article claiming how everyone's lying and she's a great American.

Jane:  Try spending your ass in a foxhole for a year with the enemy shooting at you.  You are a traitor to every man and woman that fought in Vietnam, and to the rest of America, except your Cindy Sheehan idol.  The world would be a better place with your face hidden behind a burqa.

He Eats Ken-L-Rations

My dog's better than yours.



H/T to Hotair

Apparently Some Genes Can't Be Broken

My father was a mechanic.  He was like alot of men.  I've heard several wives who have husbands who paint for a living and won't paint at home, or they are handymen and won't fix the routine maintenance on their own home. 

My dad repaired things, but not necessarily in the preferred fashion.  He repaired our cars with whatever might be handy.  I'm sure both my brothers could tell you the crazy things he did to keep our cars running.

So...my brother Mark loves to cook.  I remember over 30 years ago when he lived in a trailer in our back yard he was making a chocolate cream pie.  He didn't have a mixer, only a beater that would fit into a mixer.  Don't ask my why he didn't walk 50 feet and go to our house and borrow a mixer, that is something that I'm sure Einstein himself couldn't answer.

Instead, He grabs his drill, takes off the drill bit and duct tapes the beater to the drill and proceeds to whip up his concoction.   Tasted pretty good, I'll have to admit.  Maybe the drill grease was a secret ingredient.

Several months ago, his garage door opener broke.  Looking around his garage he found whatever was laying around, which happened to be parts of an ice maker. 

You should have heard my husband laughing when he realized that my inventor brother had rigged parts of an ice maker to make his garage door opener continue to work.  Don't ask me how.   I'm sure somewhere there is an attorney that told ice maker makers to include warnings that say, "Ice maker parts should not be used to become a garage door opener" because some crazy person did it, was injured and sued.  Bob liked to call him Rube Goldberg, which fits so well.  And I won't EVEN go into why he installed a funnel in his garage, next to the sink, but I suppose only a man could figure out why.

Anyway to this day, my brother loves to cook, in fact does most of the cooking in his household.  We routinely visit to partake of his chili, spaghetti, anything fixed in his smoker.  He is really a very good cook.

So last fall,  I invited my family to watch the Colts game and to let me know and I would fix some coney dogs.  I also love to cook and there is something about football that seems to require coney dogs.  

No one responded until my Einstein brother called about an hour and half before the game.  I told him I would run and get some stuff to make us some coney dogs and I can hear my sister-in-law in the background screeching something. 

Just so no one will get the wrong impression here, my family thrives on smart-a$$e$, so my sis-in-law fits right in.

Anyway, she is yelling so I can hear her, "Tell her that I don't want coney's, she puts too much meat into her coney sauce."  Yes, she is very odd.  Love her, but puhlease...who are you, Princess Diana?  How do you have too much meat for a coney dog?   I already had a turkey breast roasting in the oven, but I knew it wouldn't be done in time and besides, she got sick once on chicken and I figured I would probably have too much meat in the turkey breast.

So I am trying desperately (because I only want to please my family and would never think of serving my dear crazy sis-in-law, Lady Di too much meat in her coneys) trying to figure out something I can make in 30 minutes that will make her happy for at least the entire Colts game.  I only want to keep her happy.

Mark and I finally decide I can make tacos and they will run past the store on their way over since I didn't have anything in the house.

Of course I am trying to figure out how to make tacos with not alot of meat, but I didn't fret over it too much. 

They arrive with about 25 minutes to spare before the game begins

I fried up the taco MEAT.  They brought some canned cheese sauce and refried beans along with chips and all the fixins. 

I take the refried beans, open the can with a can opener and am about to scoop out the refried beans into a microwavable bowl when my poor-man's inventor brother takes the can.  He turns it upside down over the bowl and I see him grabbing my good knife that I had on the counter.  This is not a Wal-Mart $5.99 knife, this was a GOOD set of knives I paid a dime-shy of a fortune for.

I have an immediate flashback to my dad.  Back when countertops had metal edges, my dad and his buddies used the metal edge to pop off the caps of beer bottles. 

I could see what he was going to do and was yelling NO NO NO.  Short of sticking my hand between the can and the knife, there was no stopping what was about to happen.

My genius brother did what my family used to do to get dog food out of the can.  After opening one end, you "release" the vacuum by stabbing the bottom of the can with a knife so you can just shake out the contents.  I'm pretty sure you could get the same affect by simply using the can opening on the bottom side.  Personally, I just use a spatula to get stuff out of a can. 

Did I mention that I love my knives? 

I watch him, screaming like I was Julia Roberts in Sleeping With The Enemy while he stabs the bottom of the can.  He was lucky I didn't have a gun.

I grabbed my abused knife out of his hand while he is laughing at me and inspect it like I'm a genetic scientist. Since I didn't have a microscope handy, I couldn't see any permanent damage, although I'm sure it's there lurking, waiting until I want to slice a tomato.

I did what came naturally.  I slapped him hard on the shoulder.  And the closest shoulder was the one which had just been operated on a couple weeks ago and is still in a sling.

Hey, his shoulder will heal, my knife won't.

Best quote for our Independence

"Seems it always happens, whenever we get too high hat, too sophisticated for flag waving, some thug nation decides we're a pushover or ready to be blackjacked.  And it isn't long before we're looking up mighty anxiously to be sure the flag is still waving over us."

Yuck

First, Rumbles has been complaining at me for not completing our next He Said She Said.  All I will tell you is that it's the "Oh Dear Toe" edition, mine's half done.

Second, Bobby gave me his cold/throat/whateveryuckthing he had last week.  Yuck.

Third, As of Monday I'll be officially out of work for three weeks.  Our client needed to suspend my consulting services "for about two months".  While it was was nice to hear, "you'll be the first one will call back", they also knew I wouldn't wait around for two months.  I hope their business does well because I was really enjoying myself.  Got tons of great feedback and hugs on my way out the door.  Have some good/great/so-so leads, but nothing solid yet.  BIG YUCK. 

Now for the good stuff.

Two weekend ago we had a great time at the CMA Fest in Nashville TN.  Had great seats and lots of fun.  Greatest Country Music weekend that exists.

Last weekend, Rumbles became a grandpa for the first time.  I have a gorgeous new nephew.  Congrats Rumbles.

This weekend, my "Texas Daughter" is coming back to visit with her husband and twins girls.  We had a great time last year and I can't wait to see my granddaughters again.  As I've said numerous times, not all families are created by biology.  She's been teaching them to say, "Grandma Rita".  I've been slaving over preparing my world famous chicken and noodles for their surprise.  Feeling lousy today, but I managed to get alot of the broth done.  They'll be staying until Wednesday morning, so spent the morning grocery shopping and trying to plan a menu.  Bobby's cold thingy only lasted four days, so hopefully I'll be over it by the time they get here.  I plan on Lysol'ing everything down before they get here.

Next weekend is Fourth of July, hopefully having friends over one day and a late birthday party to go to for my granddaughter's fifth birthday.

And if I'm not employed soon I WILL GO INSANE.  Never lost two jobs in one year before, but I need to get a grip on this "Consulting" life.  Love the freedom, but my first gig lasting four years lulled me into a false sense of security.

Apparently it's Legal

But this woman is nothing more than a high-paid prostitute.  I don't care WHO she's representing.

Just sayin'.

RIP Marshall Dillon [He Said, She Said] Part 3

This week one of America's most infamous cowboys passed away.  For those of us lucky "oldsters" we remember fondly James Arness' character of the gun slinging Marshall Dillon on Gunsmoke.

Interestingly enough, "He Said" and I decided we would tell our own story of the Wild Wild West days before our beloved Marshall Dillon passed away this week.

Well it wasn't EXACTLY like the Wild Wild West, but it did involve two drunk idiots flinging themselves through the bar's swinging doors and an even wilder tale.  All I can tell you was at least there wasn't a duel at the end of the night.

I was twenty years old, so I was too young in the state of Indiana to even enter a bar.  For reasons I don't remember, my sister, her husband, my brother Rumbles and his not-quite-yet first wife decided to go to his favorite place to hang out.  It was called the Benchmark Inn, a local bar.  Back in those days, Rumbles never let a bar seat get lonely at the Benchmark.  Four of us stayed in the family area, while Rumbles went through the swinging bar doors (YES, they really were swinging bar doors) and sat down next one of his favorite drinking buddies we called Wormy.  Rumbles and Wormy were already "well oiled" you might say, a state of intoxication (or something worse) was never far away. 

I think I recall that we ordered dinner while sitting out in the family room.  Suddenly there was some loud ruckus coming from the bar area.  It wasn't difficult back then to do simple math.  Just as 1 + 1 always equaled 2, Rumbles + Bar always equaled Ruckus. 

Of course the four of us knew immediately that Rumbles was getting himself into a big bar fight.  I'm sure it certainly wasn't his first, but it was the first where I was ever in close proximity.  All of us went running toward the bar doors when they flung open and in true Wild West fashion, out came two drunks fighting.  To be honest, I wouldn't EXACTLY say it was a fight, since that would imply fists.  They were more accurately performing very aggressive "hugging".  (Who wants to bet Rumbles takes more offense to THAT term than any other in the story?)  Cue the sound of crickets here Mark.

As the two idiots swung through the doors, they were followed by the other bar sitters, all just standing by as the dingbats hugged there way to the floor.  No one, NO ONE was even attempting to break up the fight. 

Our group was yelling for them to stop.  As was custom for her, my sister decided to act.  She acted like she always did in a family emergency.  She PANICKED.  Screaming like a banshee.

In the meantime, I was po'd the other drunk bar men did not even attempt to break up the fight, which by then had become a lovefest of two straight men rolling around on the floor together. 

Since no one was accomplishing anything, I grabbed my brother's pant leg and began to PULL.   Trying to get them separated.  I probably weighed all of 95 pounds back then, but I wasn't going to sit back and do nothing.

After a few good yanks on his pants, I had pulled them hard enough.  NO, I did not manage to pull his pants OFF although that would have probably made for a better story.  I had pulled them hard enough to dislodge a freakin' GUN he had stuffed in his waistband. 

Sorry Mom, but there can just be no way that this idiot brother and I share a common set of biological parents.   OH WAIT, that's right.  I forgot about Dad's propensity to behave this way when he was young.  Nevermind.

With seeing the gun bouncing along the floor, I suddenly decided I would let my brother explore his sexual preferences with the man on the floor.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I let go of his pant leg, grabbed up the gun and moved away from the lover's quarrel. 

I was hiding the gun  in my purse so I didn't see how the lovefest finally broke up.  While my back was turned, the fighting stopped.  It could have stopped because my screaming panicked sister started screaming, "I'll call the cops, I'll call the cops, I'LL CALL THE COPS". 

The next thing I remember is that Miss Calm continues to scream and starts to hyperventilate.  She collapses in the middle of the family dining area floor while everyone now stands around her.  Rumbles was standing next to me and I remember grabbing his arm and pointing at our now-feral sister still screaming away and I said to him, " THIS is what you are doing to your family."  For some strange reason I don't think he liked that too much.

He went storming off and I knelt down by my sister.  Some strange guy was kneeling next to me and I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to find me a paper bag. 

In the meantime, my brother-in-law is doing what he does in a family crisis.  He was pretty much ignoring the whole event.  Although he did manage to inject a bit of humor.  While his wife lay screaming on the floor, he stands there, draws back his fist and says, "Get up and I'll hit you again." as if he had slugged her a good one. 

Yes, I AM the only normal one in the family.  Thanks for asking.

When everything had calmed down, we left the Benchmark as they were closing the doors.  I left with my sister and brother-in-law and we agreed that we would keep this entire story to ourselves, not tell Mom or Dad so they would not worry.   I hid the gun far far back in my bedroom closet.

Rumbles, not realizing we had NOT ratted him out answered a simple, innocent question from our Mom a few days later and ratted himself out, telling her the whole story because he thought she already knew.  I figure THAT was the best revenge for his stupidity.

Whenever we talked about the incident with the gun, Rumbles stupidly claims, "I would have never used it."  And I add, "I believe you, BUT you did not know if the other guy would have!!!!"

Thank Sweet Jesus that Rumbles had a religious conversion on that same bar stool a few short years later when he had just pulled another stupid stunt which he thought for sure was going to land him in jail.  He said of that incident that when he sat on that bar stool he prayed, "Jesus, if you get me out of this situation, you'll never have to ever get me out of another one."  I watched my brother that next day outside after the second incident, working on his bike and listening to GOSPEL music.   He didn't touch a drop for years after that.

And there have been no swinging bar doors with my brother in the middle of a bar fight since. 

Well, none that I'm aware of anyway.

We Remember

Buy the poppies.

H/T -  Beej/Carrie

And the Smell of Sunday Supper on the Table

I heard it before I saw it. It sounded just like a blow torch and not a sound you would expect to hear at the dinner table.


I was pretty young, probably under 7 and it was a Sunday afternoon. Mom was fixing dinner and I was in the kitchen with her. I don’t know where the rest of the kids were, but I’d make a bet they were off stirring up trouble somewhere.

Dad came rushing in from the garage where he had been working on a car. Having grown up in the 30’s with 10 other kids, he wasn’t exactly raised to be one of those “touchy-feely” fathers. Pretty much after the age of four, you didn’t get hugs and the first time I remember my father telling me he loved me (back) was on his death bed when I was 32 years old. He had finally started returning hugs only a month or two before that, knowing that the liver cancer was going to do him in.

So, Dad was the kind of man you would describe as being a strict parent. He believed in lectures and strong discipline when raising kids. That can be misinterpreted when you’re growing up and so it was with Dad. He wielded a strong hand or belt when he felt someone needed it. Or a lecture, if you were lucky. Mark was usually the “lucky participant” of the majority of the lessons, mainly because he was not smart enough to keep out of trouble or his mouth shut.

But I digress.

So Dad comes running into the kitchen and turns on the faucet and begins to vigorously wash his mouth with the well water. When he could finally speak he told Mom what had happened. Apparently while working on our car, he had siphoned some of the gas out into a BEER BOTTLE. Then forgetting that the beer bottle next to him wasn’t beer, he swigged a big gulp of the gasoline. I remember being a little afraid. I wasn’t quite old enough to know how serious it might be, but I could sense his bit of panic when washing his mouth out.

An hour or so later, the six of us sat down for Sunday dinner. Only mom and I knew what had happened with the gas/beer chugging. Dad didn’t like tomatoes or spaghetti, so I don’t really remember what he was eating, but the all of us grubby kids were slurping our spaghetti. Dad always finished eating before the rest of us and that day he did what he always did when he was done eating.

He grabbed a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it and then proceeded to blow out the match, breathing a three foot flame of gasoline fumes across the table.

Yep, THAT was the flame thrower sound. Mom and I knew why it happened, but the other kids thought it was that nightmare we all probably had after one of Dad’s discipline exercises. To them, I’m sure it seemed like he really WAS that fire breathing dragon. It was instant chaos. I think I started crying; Mark sat there in sheer terror, probably thinking Dad had figured out something Mark had done wrong (again) and he was about to catch holy hell. Helen stood up in panic, putting both hands down on the table, one in Michael’s plate of spaghetti, neatly cutting it all in bite-sized pieces for him. I don’t remember what Michael did, probably because Michael never seemed to do anything.

It was a Sunday dinner none of us will ever forget. You could say it has been “burned into our memory.”

Tornados all around Indiana tonight

And getting another wave of scary storms.  WHAT THE HECK is going on with this scary weather for days and days on end?

He Said - She Said - Of course SHE's RIGHT.

Thinking back, all I can tell you was that I was a precious child, full of love and sweetness, always willing to do anything for my brothers and sister. When I came along, my sister was six, one brother five, and the other four.

The only thing I did wrong my entire life was ruining their Three Stooges routine.

And they never let me forget it. They were abusive siblings, always picking on me, but I endured their torture graciously and never held their meanness against them. My parents tried to protect me, mainly from my brother Mark. Their method of protection was telling Helen (who was one mean girl) that if Mark hit me she could hit him. How did she handle her newfound authority? By saying (when my parents weren’t around), “Hit her Mark. Hit her.” If he even came close she could beat the hell out of him.

See? They all conspired against me. It’s sad really. Such a sweet child being so abused.

But I forgave them and ultimately won them over with my saintly demeanor.

Well, at least this is how I remember those years. I’m sure someone else might have a different opinion, but they would be wrong, of course.

Since there might actually be a differing account of the events in our lives, my brother (the meanest one) and I have decided to start a “He Said, She Said” series. We’ll post about events in our lives and see how different or alike our versions are.

So look for our series of He Said, She Said. But remember, that my recollection will be factual and Mark’s (Rumbles) might be skewed. 

But to set the final record straight, my memory of the abuse I suffered might be just a bit exaggerated to gain the sympathetic vote. If I remember right, I was pretty good at using that when we were little.

Rumbles and I are blessed with a wonderful family. I rarely find others are so lucky. Sure we fought like other kids did, but every year all of us became closer and closer. We spend wonderful times together. But more importantly, we are there for each other, we stick together and we face hard times together and celebrate good times with gusto. No one has my back as much as the people in my family. And I have theirs.

I wish everyone else could be so lucky. So check out what “He Said” over at Rumbles from the Vent.

Just look at the love I have for my big brother.  Even if he can't remember to keep his pants zipped.

Does this make me an Intellect?

At my new consulting position recently I've had two of the executives express their excitement about my work documenting processes.  Both, in separate conversations have said that I'm creating "Intellectual Property" that is extremely valuable for the company.

Here's why this post is not boasting of my amazing ability.    While my outward reaction to their compliments has been appreciative and humble, I am inside stifling a burst of laughter.  If I was honest I would describe my job as picking up crayons and drawing colorful pictures with lines and geometric shapes.  But I'm using Visio to do that. 

Here's an example so you can see for yourself.

Click on the picture to be in awe of my work.

After I'm done coloring, I write down the process in such simple terms that they could hire my 9-year-old grandson to do the job and he'd be bored instantly.  Things like this:

The injury process only begins when a patient is injured.  The patient telephones the doctor's office and the Staff answers the telephone.  The Staff schedules an office visit with the Physician and the Patient notes the date and time of the appointment.  The Patient goes to the Physician and the Physician examines the Patient's injury.  (See, if I'm not clear here, there could be confusion and the Patient might end up examining the Physician's foot.  This may seem like a far fetched example, but believe me, I have heard of stranger things happening.  Anyway, back to the Intellectual Property narrative) 

The Physician amputates the foot and attaches a wheel.  The Patient then rolls home.

When I get done coloring pretty pictures and writing the process in a third grade level, I hold a meeting to get the official executive approval of the document.  I use words like "illustrate" and "narrative" and that makes me sound smart.

Don't you wish you had my skill set?

OK, now I'll add a little bit of explanation as to why this apparently IS a skill set worth paying for.

Obviously this is not the kind of process I am documenting.  Some are very complex and I work with great people who have years of experience in their field and all of the processes and ideas are only in their heads. 

My skill set isn't playing with crayons and writing in third grade vocabulary.  My skill set is communication and extracting the years of knowledge the professionals have in their DNA out of their mouths and into my fingertips so I can break it down into simple tasks in plain English and present it all in a nice professional looking document.  The professionals do not possess the skill set to take their vast knowledge and break it down into simple step-by-step processes.  They can't look at the process from an outsider's view and since I know nothing about their business, I can only understand the process if I break it down to a elementary level.  So, you could say my skill set is thinking like a grade schooler.

The executives then get to take that document, that "Intellectual Property" to the Board, to Investors and to the Clients.  Ultimately, the document creates (or it should) an impression that the company is professional and organized.  They know their business and they can prove it to you.  While it seems funny to me, that really IS Intellectual Property. 

You can bet I'm adding my ability to create Intellectual Property will be included on my resume from now on.  Even if it does feel like I do nothing all day except color pretty pictures. 

Indy's Busy Weekend

This weekend it's all about this.....

Qualifications.  Which, to be honest has lost it's fanatical appeal of bygone days.  The split between the IRL and  and CART in the mid '90s left the race with quite a bit of fall out.  Most of the recognizable names were no longer racing at Indy. Only A.J. Foyt was loyal to the organization that made racing. 

Arrogantly, Mario Andretti, splitting with CART had the nerve to say that the Indy 500 was world renown because of HIM. 

Although the organizations have long ago reunited, Indy will not forget Mario's traitorious comments.  Indy made household names of these racers, not the other way around. 

Also flying overhead this weekend are the best of the best.

These guys are amazing.  The sound of the jets as they fly mere inches from wingtip to wingtip will make your heart stop.  Don't worry about your little ol' heart though, because the electrical shock to make it restart will happen when you get a quick glimpse of them flying at breakneck speeds and so low that if you stand on your tiptoes you could swear you could touch them.  But do it quick, because they are flying so fast you'll miss them if you blink. 

Nothing beats the thrill of hearing them just before they appear.  I run out of the front door at the first sound and watch them from my front yard.  There have been dozens of times that they have flown so low over our house that if the pilots could take their eyes off their instruments, they could wave at me when I'm out front waving my arms like I'm trying to flag them down to stop in for a cup of tea.  Or a beer after their done flying.

It never gets old.

Like a Rock

Twenty years ago tonight I slept in my newly built house with so many of my relatives that most of them slept on the floor.  Several more were sleeping at my parents' home getting ready for the next day's events.

It would be the last night I spent the house that I had only moved into eight months prior. 

I don't recall any great details of that next morning.  Only getting dressed at the church, a few tears, my father walking me down the aisle.  I'm pretty sure THIS time he was happy to be escorting me to my new life with Bob.  I remember standing around the corner when dad pointed out that Bob could see me.  I ducked back around.  And even though it was not a Catholic church, the organist played Ave Maria while we waited.  It struck a chord in my long-ago Catholic roots.

I remember it being a very short but very sweet wedding.  And one where I had no doubt I was walking into my future. 

The road between here and there had such unexpected turns.  Less than a year later, my father lay dying of liver cancer.  I spent our second anniversary at the funeral of what had once been my favorite aunt, the one I was named after. 

Yes there have been terrific heartaches and yet wonderful highs.  The good Lord has blessed us with wonderful grandbabies and sweet memories.  We have great families who can lift our spirits and sweet friends that are more like family.

Last year we had plans to go away on a great trip for our 20th, but the timing was just not with us.  So tomorrow, I'll head off to work, Bob will take his dad to the VA and we'll just keep on keeping on. 

If someone flipped a switch and I was waking up in my old house, knowing today what I didn't know then.....  Yes, I would do it all over again.  Heartaches and disappointment be damned.  We'll be soon settling into our "twilight" years and the future looks even brighter.

Happy Anniversary Bobby. The next twenty will be even better than the first twenty.

"Twenty years now, where'd they go?  Twenty years.  I don't know.  I sit and I wonder sometimes, where they've gone."

Billions

So we've turned over more than 18 BILLION dollars to a country that harbored America's # 1 terrorist and are wailing in the streets today that we killed their hero. 

I say it's time we target more of their "heroes". 

And time to cut the bastards from the payroll. 

Quite frankly Musharraf, you can join your buddy as fish food. 

Thank you Navy Seals.  Thank you CIA Interrogators.

Thank you President Obama.

Yes, I WANT my President's administration to be taking this seriously. 

And thank you President Bush.  Today we learn this intell was collected during your administration, under the interrogation procedures used by the CIA that were viewed by many on the left as being a "war crime". 

Welcome to hell Bin Laden.  I'm sure Mohammad Atta has already let you in on that little white 72 virgins lie by now.