Rolling Thunder

Hubby and I participated yesterday in Rolling Thunder. Although touted by the media as a "tribute to all veterans", the actual function of Rolling Thunder is to bring full accountability for POWs and MIAs of all wars, and reminding the government, the Media and the public that "We Will Not Forget".

We started our adventure at our chapter: Old Glory Harley Davidson where we volunteered to carry a flag (Washington State, since that's where hubby is from), and then sat around and waiting for the procession to begin. We would have a full police motorcycle escort from Old Glory down to the Pentagon, which is totally freakin cool. Anyone that has ever driven on 295 South knows what a nightmare it is, well, not with a police escort it isn't. All entrances to 295 were blocked for us by the various motorcycle police officers to ensure we had the whole road to ourselves. To those of you who were inconvenienced by this... suck it up.

We arrived at the Pentagon around 8:45 am, parked in one of the MASSIVE almost full parking lots there, and then proceeded to wait, and wait, and wait. The procession doesn't start until noon, so there was a lot of waiting, but to bide the time, there were also a lot of good vendors, relief agencies, educational booths, free water and crackers, vendors selling food (tasty foods), selling commemorative t-shirts and patches and all sorts of stuff. Plus, there was the camaraderie of a lot of good and decent people, with common interests, common beliefs, and good stories to pass the time. THANKFULLY there was also plenty of sunscreen, but sunscreen can only do so much. I have to say that the highlight of the waiting was the misting booths that the fire departments had set up, where you could walk into a tent and get gloriously cold mist sprayed on your entire body. AAAAH!

Go here for some pictures of the event and the actual ride.

There is also a great video out there that shows all stages of the ride.

Anyhoo, so we waited and waited and waited, and finally, around 2pm, it was our turn to head out into the streets of DC. Seeing the crowds of people lined up to watch, waving American flags, cheering, waving was awe inspiring and brought a tear to the eye. People on the sides would hold out their hands and riders would low five them (as the passenger, we did some of that, swooping in close enough to reach hands). Seeing the Army soldier and Marine standing in the middle of the road saluting is very touching as well. They stand there the entire time (the parade takes about 4 hours before all bikes make it through). The whole thing just flies by in a blur and much too soon, its over.

Most of the bikers parked in designated fields to stay and watch concerts or walk through the city. We bailed and headed back home as the pups had been locked up for longer than they normally are. Once we got some rest and sprayed sunburn relief stuff all over us, we went out to Rita's for some soothing custard.

It was very refreshing.

Frappucinos with Vroomy Man

A while back I met hubby at Starbucks after he went on a long, relaxing motorcycle ride, leaving me home to cook, clean, and clear 40 acres with a paring knife.  Ok, fine, I was napping, shut up.

I was cruising through twitter and saw the news that Bret Michaels, front-man for the '80's group Poison, was on death's door and not expected to live.  I would just like to say that I have no idea how the guy signs his name to things.  My name is long enough, but I can't imagine trying to fit: Bret Michaels front man for the '80's group Poison on everything.

Anyhoo, I found an article that explains why BMFMFT80GP was on death's door.

Me: That lead singer for Poison is on death's door.
Vroomy Man: I thought he was dead already.
Me: no, not unless by dead already you meant like 15 minutes ago, which may be the case because this news item is an hour old.
Vroomy Man: no, like years ago
Me: you must have been thinking about his career
Vroomy Man: yeah probably.
Me: he had a subarachnoid hemorrhage
Vroomy Man: Well, those spider bites can be dangerous
Me: um, no... he's bleeding at the base of the brain
Vroomy Man: well, I'd be more worried that the spider laid eggs there
Me:

General Rambling

Listening to a Talking Heads song "Stay Up Late", David Byrne mentions "cute as a button". I wondered where that came from and just what the hell does it mean.

So, I looked it up on the inter webs. WikiAnswers thinks it came from some moron that was talking about a button quail, and then showed me a picture of a penis. Ok, it didn't, but apparently the Wiki is having all sorts of issues where contributors (meaning anyone with half a brain, or no brain at all) can provide content that other people (meaning anyone with no brain) actually take as gospel. You can go look that whole fiasco up on your own, as the iPad blogger interface I have is incapable of allowing me to link interesting stuff in my post, and I'm generally way too lazy to fix it in "post production" meaning: after I hit a button and upload it. I hope they fix that soon.

Back to the whole button conundrum. Another reputable (because they said so) place said it was a saying about an actual button, because buttons are cute. Of course, their opinion may be a bit jaded as that explanation came from the button fetish site.

Since nobody really knows where it came from or what it really means, I think we should stop saying it, because it could actually be some kind of code word used to revive brain eating zombies, and the next person you say that to could leap up and rip your skull off. I'm just saying. Don't blame me if you get your skull ripped off.

There's a new iPhone application out that lets you find sex offenders for free. Thank gawd, because whenever I needed a good sex offender, I got tired of paying for the application to find them. You can never find a good sex offender when you need one.

Lastly, I don't know if you've ever seen the movie "LA Story", and if you haven't, you should. Its pretty stupid, but it mocks LA and from what I hear, it mocks it pretty well. There's a part where a traffic sign writes to Steve Martin's character and tells him things to do, once again proving that everyone can get Xanax but me.

Anyhoo, on the way to our usual Starbucks there is one of those solar powered information signs on the side of the road. I'm thinking that either its got issues, or the person typing in what it needs to say has issues because its never... really.... normal.

One day it said TERROR, then gave a 1-800 number. Just one screen that said TERROR, next screen 1-800 number. Hmm. Is it telling me that around the curve there is terror, and I should dial that number. Is it telling me that if I want some terror, I should call the 800 number, or if I see some terror to call the 800 number. I'm thinking that if I actually saw some terror I would probably dial 911, because years of constant bombardment of the number has me trained to dial it for things like terror. I couldn't possibly memorize the quickly flashing and long 800 number while I drove (let alone write it down, because if I can't dial my damn phone and drive without getting a ticket, I'm pretty sure dragging out a piece of paper and pen to write down an 800 number is right up there with a fine), but I wonder if I actually did dial 911 and reported terror, would I be told to dial the 800 number, or do they have the capability to just forward me to the 800 number. These things concern me, as I always like to be prepared for terror, and know what number to call if I see it, or want to order some.

Yesterday the sign said something different, leading me to believe that terror was gone, so I could relax. This time it said: Click it, or... highly enforced. Hmm, no clue there.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Frappucinos with Lobsterman

Recently hubby went on a motorcycle ride to escort World War II veterans to the war memorial (his group does it every time there's a flight of veterans).  It was hot and sunny.  He didn't (as usual) put on any sun screen.  We later met for Starbucks (as usual).  Here is that conversation.

Me: You got a bit of sun today, I see.
Hubby: yes
Me: Probably should have put on some sun screen.
Hubby: ya think?
Me: that's gonna hurt tonight, guess I can expect you to scream like a little girl every time I roll over and bump into you.
Hubby: yes, but I don't scream like a little girl
Me: right
Me: oh crap, I've stepped in some dog poo, give me your straw so I can scrape it off
Hubby: use your own straw, its right in front of you.  Besides, I'm going to use mine to dribble cold frap onto my blistering skin

Married life quality time.

Sh*t That Don't Work

The kitchen sink has been around forever, like since the 1920's and are you telling me in all that time NOBODY has ever invented a freakin kitchen sink plug that actually PLUGS????

The crap plugs they come with are a joke, I mean seriously, do they actually think they can give you something that never screws in right, drains the water if its not just perfectly set in there, and by the time you get the freakin thing in there you're so pissed off  especially after finding out that all that fidgeting and messing around STILL DIDN'T GET THE THING TO PLUG UP THE FREAKIN SINK!

Yeah, so apparently adding additional holes in the sink doesn't help either, but it does feel good.

Please note: no sinks were harmed in the making of this blog post, nor would I waste perfectly good ammo on a sink.

Take the Challenge

I was a bit horrified when I saw the latest Activia commercial where Jamie Lee (this is the only gig I can get) Curtis is asking people to send in their videos about their experience with Activia (the poop yogurt).

The actual commercial aired one viewer's video, and thankfully it was pretty stupid.  I totally expected something like this:

Chocolate and Depression

I read an article that said that chocolate causes depression.

The only depression chocolate will cause is the one on your face in the shape of my fist if you try to take it away from me.

Yet Another Fond Childhood Memory

It was summer, and as usual, I have no idea how old I was (some things are a blur like that, and this post should explain why).

It was a wonderful summer day in Indiana, and I was playing baseball with the neighborhood boys.  Yes, amazingly enough I was a tomboy and actually taught most of the neighborhood boys how to play football.

Anyhoo, I was pitching because I was the only one that could reliably get the ball over the plate, and didn't throw like a girl.

When this happened:

 Yep, a line drive straight to the face.  I recall looking at the sun, then wondering if I would be blind in my remaining good eye for looking straight at the sun, then realizing that half of my face was most likely gone from getting hit by the baseball, and wondering why there were stars when the sun was out.

I managed to crawl next door to my house (clutching a bush on the way to keep myself from floating off the earth), and into the house, where I promptly told my mom what happened.  She told me to put some ice on my eye. 

When my dad got home, he looked at my lovely shiner and pronounced that I needed to go back out the next day and play ball, otherwise I would be afraid to play ball again.  Something about falling off a horse, blah blah, where's dinner.

Next day, bright and shiny, the neighborhood baseball game started up, and there I was, black eye nearly closed from swelling, ball mitt, playing outfield.  Hey, I'm not stupid, no way was I going to pitch again.

Around the 3rd pitch, one kid hit a fly ball straight up in the air.  I got it, I got it, I got it... damn that sun is bright, I lost it, hands down and:

Oh yeah, that hurt.  I recall being crumpled in a ball.  I recall being under the bush again, I vaguely recall crawling up our back stairs, I recall my mom screaming at the nosy neighbor down the street to get off the stupid party line because nobody wanted to hear how she was sleeping around on her husband while he was at work because we already all knew she was sleeping around on her husband while he was at work and he didn't care because he was sleeping with his secretary, so get off the line so she could call the doctor for me before I died.  Died?  Lovely.

The doctor told my mom that I needed to stay awake or else I would likely lapse into a coma and die or become a zucchini or other vegetable that you can make into bread, and that she should watch me for vomiting, bleeding from the ears, nose, and eyes, or my brain oozing out somewhere.  Ok, I totally have no idea what the doctor told her, other than when she told me: "the doctor says he should look at you".

She loaded me up in the blue van with black spots (another story) that smelled like gas fumes (urp) and hauled me to the doctor's office.  Our doctor (Doc Bowser) use to have a cool old timey office on main street that had wooden floors and where I got my polio vaccine and chiclet gum, but they moved to one of those new fangly modern offices that smelled like plastic carpeting (urp).

The receptionist told us that we had to wait. So I did this:

Which amazingly opened a room for us immediately.  I was diagnosed with 2 concussions in 2 days... a Goshen record that probably still stands.  Nothing they could do except tell my mom to "keep an eye on me", which meant that I was forced to go with my mom to the Green Stamp redemption place the next day and lay in the van in abject nauseous misery while she stood in line to get something with the 14,000 books of stamps she had collected. 

Good times!

Fond Childhood Memory: Spelling Bee Apparel

Somehow I made it into the grade school spelling bee competition. 

On the night of the big competition, my mom dressed me up in a stupid dress, matching tights, and told me to go put on my shoes.

I did what I was told, and came back down in my favorite, hand me down from one of my cousins, two sizes too big, black high top Chuck Taylor sneakers.

My mom looked at me disapprovingly.  "Go change into your dress shoes!"

My dad looked at me and said "If that's what she wants to wear, then let her wear them."

I loved my dad.

So, off we went to the grade school for the big spelling bee.

There I was up on the stage with all of the other contestants.  I made it to like the fourth round before being tossed out for some stupid long word (I have no idea which one) and frankly I was happy to be off the hot stage, standing up there while millions of parents looked at me (ok, maybe 40).

My dad thought I did very well.  My mom said that she would have enjoyed it a bit more if I hadn't done this every time I spelled a word right:



Mom was always so critical.

How Not to Plan a Meeting

A while back, shortly before lunch, I get an e-mail forwarded to me.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been included in an e-mail that seems to have been bantered back and forth by several people for several days, yet the person forwarding you the e-mail only provides you with the last two parts of the e-mail, which is like coming into a movie half-way and then being quizzed on the first half.

The e-mail simply said: “We need to meet”.  It was forwarded to me, and 5 other people, only one of whom I actually knew.

There was nothing in that simple incomplete sentence “We need to meet” that told me why we needed to meet, or when we needed to meet, or where we needed to meet.  There was nothing in the two other parts of the forwarded e-mail that suggested any of these things, except that one of the people that hadn’t been on the forwarding list couldn’t make this meeting (whenever, wherever, for whatever reason).

I respond by simply saying “Why are we meeting, when are we meeting, and where are we meeting?”

Three simple questions that should have been included in the original forwarded e-mail.  Frankly I think its incredibly rude for someone to just demand that “we” meet without including specifics.

The response came back: Is there a room available to meet?

While I’m sure this question wasn’t directed at me since I had admitted complete ignorance regarding this meeting, the fact that no additional information had been provided was causing my brain to bubble somewhat. 

Someone responded back that there were no rooms available at his office, but perhaps there was one available at the office where I worked. 

Um, excuse me, I’m pretty sure that I asked for some clarification on this whole meeting thing, so I couldn’t very well even venture to guess as to the availability of a room.  Realizing the whole futility of this exercise of stupidity, I went to lunch.  Upon my return someone responded that a room was available over lunch the next day.  Oh, great, so I have a day and a time at least... except I’m not giving up my lunch hour to sit in a meeting that I really had no idea the subject of said meeting.

I responded promptly with the contractor’s all purpose excuse:  “Unless I am told the purpose of this meeting, I will be unable to attend as I do not know if it falls within the scope of my contract”.    This is actually a very valid reason not to venture into just any ol’ meeting, as my contract specifically states what I can and can’t do, and wandering into a meeting that has nothing to do with what I’m suppose to be working on is grounds for death in the contractor world.  Ok, not death, but losing your contract and perhaps your firm losing the entire contract due to impropriety is pretty much the same as death.

Amazingly enough, there were no further responses, explanations or additional e-mails regarding this meeting for the rest of the day.  I fully expected to in the next morning and find more chatter about the meeting, and how it was now scheduled at the most inconvenient time, place, and venue and that I would be required to attend. 

If that’s the case, I’m calling in with a flesh eating bacteria issue.

Fond Childhood Memories

This morning, for some reason, I was thinking about a childhood memory that I had.

I have no idea how old I was, but my family (mom, dad, sister, grandma, grandpa) and I piled into a car and drove up to Sault St. Marie, 424 miles north. I don’t know why.

It was dad driving, Grandpa in passenger seat, sister squished between them. Mom and grandma in back seat, me squished between them with my feet into my chin because of the lump.

Grandma immediately doused herself with the foul smelling perfume that my sister and I would give her every birthday and christmas. It was an easy gift, she lived in Michigan (we lived in Indiana) so we didn’t have to smell it, but now she decided to grace our presence with it, since we had given it to her. I totally think that she thought it was foul too, and was sick of getting it as a gift, therefore her evil plan was to make us smell this crap for over 400 miles so we’d get her something decent next holiday.

About 150 miles into the trip, Grandma started to freak out about her pills. She didn’t know if she packed her pills, she had to have her pills, she would literally die before our eyes if she didn’t have her pills. This meant pulling over somewhere to check the bags in the trunk to make sure she had her pills. She did.

To save time and money, we were trying the latest fad: “car-b-cue”, something my dad had heard of. Pretty much you take a hunk of beef and some veggies, wrap it in reynolds wrap and nestle it in the engine of the car. By the time you get to your destination... cooked roast and veggies, sauteed with a lovely hint of burnt oil and exhaust. It was actually tasty, but I’m not sure the tastiness was from starving to death as we drove and smelled the fumes of gas, oil, and roast, or what.

We opted to eat halfway through the trip (otherwise it would have been charcoal) so we stopped at a nicely wooded rest area somewhere, sought out the bathrooms, then dug into the food.

A note about the bathrooms: they were the true old timey outhouses that consisted of a wasp infested wooden shelter, with a wooden bench with holes in it, with large holes dug into the ground. Not the vile and disgusting plastic port-o-potties of today that are sporadically cleaned out and sanitized. These things were NEVER cleaned out, they were just moved over new holes when it got too foul.

As I ventured over to an outhouse, my grandma screeched at me (loud enough for everyone within 5 miles to hear) that I shouldn’t sit on the toilet seat because I’ll get pregnant.

I’m pretty sure that grandma didn’t have all of the facts on the morbidity of free range sperm. First of all, how on earth would sperm get on the seat in the first place? Did men randomly jerk off in outhouses for the purpose of impregnating unsuspecting travelers? Was this just the excuse used back in her day when innocent young ladies got pregnant, did they claim that it was from toilet seats? When I called back “No you can’t”, she countered with: “You can also get worms”. Everything in my grandma’s life caused either worms or pregnancy.

After our meal, where nobody (amazingly enough) died, we made it up to St. Ignace and stayed in tiny little cabins (whose bathrooms caused pregnancy or worms). We stayed there for a day or two, but for the life of me I don’t remember anything other than the trip to Mackinaw Island.

In order to get to Mackinaw Island you had to take a ferry. Its a pretty big ferry, its not like we were rowing a small boat over there ourselves, they could really pack in a lot of people. Grandma refused to go. She was convinced that the ferry would sink and we would all perish. She started crying and caterwauling and keening and yelling about how we all were sure to die if we took the ferry to Mackinaw Island. Grandpa dragged her from the dock as she screamed her final farewells and “when you are all dead you’ll say I told you so”

We went over, got some souvenirs, I pushed my sister so she’d step in horse poop, and overall it was a nice visit.

Being adventurous, and so close to the Canadian border, we took a day trip to Canada, where when asked by the Canadian Border Patrol if we had anything to declare, and did we have any drugs in the car, Grandma piped up and said she had plenty of drugs in the car, at which point we all stood by the side of the road while mounties strip searched the car only to find prescription drugs, and not a trunk full of hash... totally ruining their day.

We drove through the locks, under the locks, around the locks, all over the locks, and discovered that locks were stupid and nothing to look at, then opted to stay in Canada overnight... except Canada was full, no hotels anywhere. Each time we stopped, no rooms, stopped, no rooms, finally at the last hotel when we were told there were no rooms, Grandpa yelled “FINE, LETS GO BACK TO A REAL COUNTRY”, and we drove back into the U.S. We gagged Grandma and held her down when we were asked if we had any drugs in the car, found a hotel right across the border and ate the worlds most delicious hamburgers I’ve ever eaten.

I don’t remember the drive home. I was probably in a psychotic state at that point.

Parties Mean Cake!

So, last week hubby asked if I wanted to go to a retirement party. Its at that point that I stopped listening and have no idea where, for who, or really what the party is all about, because the moment he got to “party” my brain took over and began to think of all of the usual wonderful foods served at parties, to include cake. I said yes, mainly because of the whole cake concept.

So yesterday I looked at my calendar and realized that the party was today... free cake day, oh yeah, I’m so totally there, and was thankful that the calendar invite included the address and time of the place, otherwise I’d have no idea where to go for my free cake. I vaguely recall hearing that the “dress code” for the party (where I would get free cake) was business professional. This threw a slight monkey wrench into things, as my company has a dress code of “business professional”, but I typically “forget” to follow it and usually wear whatever I feel like throwing on (aka: clean clothes in closet, versus balled up fur covered clothes in hamper) and a lot of times I don’t even match, so I had to really think back and figure out what would actually be “business professional” appropriate and match. I dug out a dress I bought at Costco, found some leggings and matching dressy shoes, and prepared myself for free cake.

It was after showering that I looked in the mirror and discovered this:

Its Godzitta, right there on my face, plain as day, and very angry. This meant the liberal application of basecoat makeup that’s also a moisturizer, which will invariable cause Godzitta to breed like feeding a Gremlin after midnight... but I would get free cake, so it was worth the risk. Note how I’m blaming the basecoat makeup and not the fact that I would be gorging myself on free cake that would be the cause of more Godzitta.

To prepare for the free cake, I decided not to eat all day. This would ensure that I would consume maximum cakeability when it was served. This also meant that by the time I left at 12:30, I was ravenously starving to death. Barely able to steer the car. To make matters worse, I was driving behind one of those Giant grocery store Pea Pod delivery trucks that had pictures of lasagna and other foodables on the back. I drooled a little on the cute dress and my stomach growled so loud I had to turn up the radio. The sign on the back of the truck announced that the driver did not carry cash, but he did carry cashews... hahaha, um, at this point the driver’s life would be threatened for said cashews, and the frozen foods he carried, screw the cash. Please note that the Dragon Dictation program correctly transcribed it when I said that I was F*cking starving... to include adding the little *, because apparently Dragon Dictation is politically correct.

I sorta, kinda knew the way to the Hotel where the party (with free cake) would be, as my company had a party there once and they served sushi. Remembering that made me drool some more. I had the GPS on just to make sure it was the same place, but right off the bat, the GPS snarky bitch wanted me to go one way, I wanted to go another way, an argument ensued, and from starvation induced psychosis, I nearly threw the GPS out the window when snarky woman voice insisted I keep turning right when I wanted to go straight. This is the same snarky woman that pompously announces that there’s “traffic ahead” after I’ve been sitting in a traffic jam for 15 minutes.

I had left early because I a.) needed gas, and b.) wanted to stop off at Starbucks for a latte to help coat my stomach and cake does go well with latte, but hubby texted me to say that he was already there. SONOFA... so I drive to the hotel (which is the one I thought it was). Parked and met hubby near the back entrance. We greeted each other with growling stomachs. He hadn’t eaten either. Unfortunately he had scouted out the area, and pronounced that while the conference on something or other in the suite next to the retirement party was having a sumptuous buffet... there was no food in sight for the retirement party.

SERIOUSLY? What about cake?

No cake to be seen.

SERIOUSLY??? gurgle

We go inside the room where the retirement shindig is suppose to be, and I’m horribly dismayed to find that its a NAVY retirement ceremony! OHMYGAH!!!!! Don’t get me wrong, I love all things military, having served in the Air Force, I respect and honor all members of the military, past, present, and future, but if there’s one thing I know, its that any ceremony that involves the military means a lot of speeches, and presentations, and honoring traditions and doing things that take for FREAKIN EVER, which means that if there was even cake at the end (and at this point there was no evidence of any cakeability) it would be hours of sitting through a ceremony before we even got any.

We spotted some ice water and glasses and headed for that, filled up a few times to take the edge off our stomachs, which were now trying to eat other organs to keep from dying. I did grab some free hotel pens, and also gazed longingly at the little tiny bottle of ketchup that was sitting next to the water. Ketchup is a vegetable, after all, but for the life of us, we couldn’t figure out why it was sitting there, nor did we want to chug it down for fear that it was some sort of important prop in the Navy Retirement tradition.

We found some seats when the ceremony was about to begin and look with dismay at the extensive and LONG ceremony schedule of events. Hubby leaned over and asked if I had any gum. I didn’t. But I did have some Zyrtec, and well, Zyrtec sorta looks like tic tacs, so I figured... why not and popped a few in my mouth. While Zyrtec may sorta look like tic tacs, they certainly don’t taste like tic tacs and I’m pretty sure you aren’t suppose to suck on a few of them, but I was desperate.

At one point the speaker was listing the possible reasons why everyone was attending the ceremony; some attending because they were family, some attending because they wanted to honor the retiring Navy guy, some attending because... and my inner monologue said “... we wanted free cake”, but from the looks I got from hubby and a few people sitting around me, sucking on zyrtec disconnected my inner monologue and I must have said it aloud... probably LOUDLY aloud. To my credit, I managed to be a lot quieter when I told hubby that I was very interested in watching the “Passing of the Flag” ceremony, as that must be not only very interesting, but potentially very painful.

Being former Air Force, I should know my ranks, but the Navy ranks always threw me off because they wear their stuff on their sleeve with little golden lines and splurgly blobs and stuff. About the only thing I knew was that if a Navy guy was wearing a white hat, you saluted. Of course, hubby, being former Marine, gets on my case about calling it a “hat” its really a “cover”, and he calls it a “head” and not a bathroom. This “head” thing always cracked me up, and at one point when he was stationed at a Marine Corps base in North Carolina I had the opportunity to go to the “Ladies Head”, and the sign on the door actually said “Ladies Head” and I further embarrassed him by shrieking with laughter and calling out to him from across the room “HOLY CRAP you actually do call it that” In my head, this is what I always thought when I had to use the “Ladies Head”.

Ok, back to the ceremony thing. It was very nice, and I got weepy a bit with the whole patriotic thing and all, but that could also be because I was now toxic on sucking Zyrtec, so something like this MAY have happened, but I’m not saying.

Then it was all over... we ran for the door, stood in line to shake the retired guy’s hand, then raced to Ruby Tuesday to gorge on all you can eat salad bar and appetizers.

Useful Tools

Typically my best blog ideas happen at the most stupid times: while driving, while in the shower, sleeping. Its really hard to type while driving (in the state of Maryland its illegal to text while driving, but the law says nothing about typing out a blog post or e-mailing, so that’s all I do), or in the shower, so I needed something to help me remember my brilliant rants. Being somewhat “scattered” by the time I get any place to write down these ideas (and if I pulled over to write them, I’d never get anywhere), I’d forget them or be off on a whole other tangent and forget the original brilliant rant.

Enter the iPhone, which introduced a “voice memo” feature. Just click and button and talk. The only problem with that is that I hate the sound of my own voice. I sound like a special needs 13 year old boy (in my humble opinion), instead of a special needs 47 year old woman (who acts like a special needs 13 year old boy) I’m pretty sure I can say “special needs” without pissing off a group of people, as “retard”, “tard”, and “short bus” are on the list of words that piss people off. Please note that I’m only using those words as an example and you shouldn’t jump down my throat for using them, but then again, whatever you bunch of tards that would actually jump down my throat... there, no I just gave you reason.

As an example of my voice, and probably the way I look, I harken back to my post high school graduation, where I’m standing in a Kroger at the meat department with my mom who happened to bump into someone she knew. My mom, ever so proud, announced to the woman that her daughter just graduated from high school and had joined the Air Force. The woman turned to me and said “Oh, so what is your son going to do when he graduates?”

Ok, so back then I was all of 90 pounds, not very curvy, had short hair and took after my dad, but still, come on, seriously? I wanted to respond like this:

But instead, simply responded: “I want to wear pretty dresses and date your son”.

Back to the voice memo thing... yeah, so I’m not doing that. Instead, the wonderful people who develop iPhone apps came out with a totally cool thing called Dragon Dictation. This thing is so freaking cool because you can hit a button, babble on, it converts your speech to text and then copy into an e-mail or SMS or anywhere. Its PERFECT! Well, sorta if you don’t talk like a special needs 13 year old boy.

My first attempt at babbling something at it created this:

“Blog post on a ninth-inning making a list would you like eggs or bacon and people responding the former or latter half of the difference between friend and add text me your pagan changing you get to keep whatever phone you have ever landed in the Maxima government take.”

Um... wow!

What that translates to is: I wanted to do a blog post on annoying people that, when asked if they’d like eggs or bacon, respond with “the former” or “the latter”. Seriously WTF is up with that? Instead of just saying “eggs” or “bacon” they actually have to process a whole new set of brain cells to come up with “former” or “latter” and I seriously can’t comprehend what is former or latter. Is former the eggs or bacon? Is latter the eggs or bacon? WHY CAN’T THEY JUST F’ING SAY BACON????

The same thing applies to when someone wants to know how much you make, versus how much you actually get in your check, that whole “gross” or “net” crap. Why can’t they just say “what’s your take home pay?” I seriously don’t consider what I “make” as what I actually “make” because I never see that money, I just see what I get after the Government slips its hand in my pocket and takes out most of my paycheck, so to go around bragging that I make (for instance) $70K is a bit pretentious when I certainly don’t come ANYWHERE near depositing that amount in my bank. I tend to remember that “net” is what I actually get in the bank by thinking of myself holding a net, and the government throwing change at me (didja catch that snarky “change” reference... hehehe) and I get to keep whatever lands in the net... which isn’t a whole hell of a lot.

So then my friend HR Human and I were chatting on Facebook and I was explaining the whole Dragon Dictation thing and how it worked and I had a brilliant idea... what if this Dragon Dictation thing was actually a way for people to finally communicate with animals! I’ve seen spoofs where there’s things that claim to translate what your dog or cat is really trying to tell you, but what if this thing actually did that! That would be so cool! So, the next time Loki, the Mutatoe Siberian Husky, started yapping at me about something, I hit the button and pointed it at me, and this is what it wrote out:

F. FFFFFFFFFFFFSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Hmmm. I’m still trying to decipher it, but it sounds somewhat important.