Friday, April 28, 2006

Frazzled Friday

I reached overload this afternoon and got to the point I couldn’t stand to look at another blueprint, or a bunch of numbers. Actually you might say I wanted to puke. I’ve even gotten to the point when project managers come in and say “I want this now” my reply is short and not so sweet…no.

Yesterday I got an e-mail from one of these bozos who demanded to know why something happened. I longed to fire off a terse reply asking who the hell cares, but I figured the delete key was a better plan of action.

Tomorrow is my 32nd anniversary in this place and do you think anyone bothered to say congratulations? No, of course they didn’t. I’ve spent more than half my life at this job, but…

Okay I’ll shut up now. Since I can’t post directly to my blog or through Word any longer, I’ll have to e-mail this to myself at home and go from there. Ahhh, I just love the politically correct police.

TTFN, have a great weekend!!!!!

PS, we just got home and our freezer we bought last July quit. I got meat out last night and everything seemed to be okay. What I don't understand is why everything defrosted so quickly. It should have been good for several days as long as we left the door shut.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

I'm Drowning

Not that anyone is wondering, but my dinghy is going down for the third time and the alligators are still congregating at my door. And the boss luvs to tell us next year will be even busier. So if any of you think I’ve fallen off the face of the Earth, no such luck. But if you happen to stop by, leave a comment so I know someone is still there.

A quick update on the duet between Crista and her husband. It went very well. I don’t think I could have done the same in their shoes. Miracles will have to be performed for her to be here next year.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

On A Sad Note

I think I've mentioned in the past that each Easter Jimbob conducts the local community choir in the Messiah. This morning was our last rehearsal before the performance tomorrow night.

I'd noticed that one of the young ladies (probably mid 30's) who has been there many years seemed not to feel well, but I just thought maybe she was pregnant. When I saw her come in this morning I made the comment to my neighbor that Crista looked awful.

Come to find out she has a very aggressive brain cancer. More than likely she will not be there to sing with us next year. She was so worried that her musical talents would be affected and she would not be able to perform this Easter. In addition, she and her husband have just adopted two small children.

I know there are no guarantees in life, but what really tore my heart out is that she asked Jimbob if they could sing a duet called, "Oh Death, Where is Thy Sting?"

I haven't got the heart to tell Jimbob that she is dying because he wouldn't make it through the performance without breaking down. My beautiful husband has become more emotional as he's grown older.

Please pray for Crista that she is granted her wish to sing tomorrow night. She appeared very weak and in great pain today. This will probably be her last performance.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Jimbob's Russia Trip

A friend reminded me that I have been remiss in telling about Jimbob’s trip to Russia.  When the team arrived at DFW the first thing all six of them said was, “I want a bath.”  After 18 hours of travel, I can relate.

Anyway, his first impression of Moscow was that it is very crowded, very dirty and a lot of poverty.  He said people on the street are extremely rude and never look you in the eye.  When I told him they were probably afraid to, it all made sense.

The Mafia is very big in Russia, crime rates are high and people simply don’t know whom to trust.  You are subject to being pulled over by the police at any time without reason.  In the US you go to jail for trying to bribe a cop.  Over there, you go to jail for not bribing them.

His mission team was stopped one day and they all had their passports, but two of them forgot to bring a certain piece of paper with them.  The cop wanted a $100.00 (US) bribe or he was going to put all seven of them in jail.  The guy finally settled for $30.00, but it was still more than he made all month.

The group took an overnight train to St. Petersburg to see the Hermitage museum.  It used to be the czar’s winter palace.  Jimbob said it is huge and is now filled with artwork from all over the world.

On the train back to Moscow someone tried to break into their sleeper compartment.  One of the ladies heard him/her so made a lot of noise to scare the person off, but before fleeing, he placed something in the door track to lock them in.  It took quite a while for someone to hear them pounding on the door and come let them out.

When Jimbob first got home he said he was glad he went but would not go back.  Now he’s changed his mind.  The people he met at the seminary where they stayed have been haunting him.  They’re so hungry to learn about God and spoken English.  Several of the members begged him to teach them to sing the Lord’s Prayer.  They had never heard it before.

Many members of the English class at the seminary are in the Russian army.  While they are learning to speak English, they are also learning about God and the Bible.  

One man who left an impression on everybody is named Visciley (spelling?).  The communist threw him in the Goolag in Siberia simply for being a minister.  He spent 13 years of his life being beaten, starved tortured, teeth knocked out and any other form of abuse the guards could think of.

Now that he is free, you might think that he would give up on God and go his own way.  Instead, he is ministering to the homeless.  He presented each of our team members with a beautiful stole to honor them and thank them for coming to Russia.

P.S. I sent the man to Russia with two disposable cameras and he came home with 3 maybe 4 decent pictures.  I’ll try to post then in the near future.  I’ve been so busy lately, the faster I paddle, the quicker my dingy is sinking.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Lip Enhancement?

First we had penis envy and breast envy, now its lip envy.  Breast implants have been around for decades, but the latest craze seems to be lip augmentation.  Have you seen the ads for temporary lip enhancement products?  Some even guarantee that they won’t sting.  

Then there are these young starlets on TV who have collagen augmentation.  I’d just as soon have someone smack me in the mouth.  But I guess it’s supposed to be sexy to sport bloated lips.

I read somewhere that our ears, nose and lips continue to grow our entire life, but our eyeballs are full sized at birth.  No wonder babies have that big-eyed waif look.  And that explains gnarly old men with noses and ears too big for their faces.

Well the article obviously lied.  My bottom lip is disappearing.  I was looking in the mirror this morning and it seems to be tucked under my top lip more than what I remember a few years ago.

Rest assured that I’m just gonna have to live with it.  I can’t see myself running out and having collagen pumped into the receding appendage    (The more I think about those starlets, they look like the doctor used a fire hose instead of a syringe on them.)  Neither am I going to the nearest cosmetic store and buy some weird cream that guarantees full, pouty lips.  

Guaranteed not to sting?  That’s sounds like an irritant to me.  I ain’t putting that stuff on my lips.  But maybe it would work instead of a penis implant.  Or do they now engorge them with collagen these days?  Would that create a permanent erection?

What do you think?

Thursday, April 06, 2006


     I’m probably going to step on some shoe maven’s toes today, but I don’t really care.  If you are offended, too bad.  I didn’t set out to humor the latest shoe trend-setters of 2006.

Today’s shoe styles are…what can I say?  Ugly?  Strange?  Esoteric?  This is especially true, but not entirely restricted to women’s fashions.  First you have flip-flops, then slip-ons and the worst, high-heels with long pointy toes that increase the footprint anywhere from 2 to 3 inches.  What woman in her right mind would want to make their tootsies appear longer?  Remember the Chinese women used to bind their feet back in the Sung Dynasty (960-976 BC).  Ouch!  

     Anyway, flip-flops are the closet thing to having nothing on your feet and still calling it a shoe.  There’s nothing like the flap, flap, flap, or scuff, scuff, scuff of flip-flops preceding you down the hall.  I’ve even seen girls (my Britt) wear them in the dead of winter when it’s 30 degrees out.  Put a few beads or sequins on them and they are considered formal wear.

     Slip-ons are more substantial but I sure wouldn’t want to run a footrace wearing a pair of Carter’s, Trotters or Keds with no back.  Add a high-heel to the slip-on concept and you create an entire symphony on a hard floor.  Click, twhap, click, twhap.  Obviously the click is the heel striking the floor, but what’s the twhap?  That’s the sound of the shoe re-establishing contact with the bare heel of the foot.

     Now let’s address those hideous pointy toes.  Some of them are so sharp, they look lethal.  Besides making your feet look as long as Shaq’s, they do funny things as the shoe begins to conform to your foot.  These shoes, like all shoes, must bend.  (Unless you’re wearing wooden clogs that are shaped to accommodate a normal stride.)  So now you have that 2 to 3 inch extension curling upward.  The longer you wear them, the more they curl.  Heaven forbid they should get wet.

     I saw a man on my way out to the garage last night wearing a pair of these impossibly long, pointy toed contraptions.  They actually looked like he had used a large curling iron to achieve the desired elf-like upward twist.  All he needed was bells or tassels on them, and a pointy, green hat to complete the outfit.

     Now doesn’t this make you want to rush out and buy a leopard print or brocade pair with jewels so you can join the parade of galumphing twinkle toed elves.



Wednesday, April 05, 2006

It's All Relative

     The following is a Spoof.  You know?  Like in satire, parody or joke.  By no means should it be taken seriously.  Sometimes my mind wanders down the less traveled path, so I hope this bring at least a smile to your lips.

It’s All Relative
(A Study in Contradiction)

     I snaked down the highway late that early morning like a slug on slippery ice.  I kept my eyes peeled for danger as they hung at half mast in a dog-tired stupor.  My mother, who was healthy as a horse, called (again) to say she was cavorting on her deathbed.  I was awake even though I’d been sound asleep when she rang, so I threw on the flowered muumuu that Mother had bestowed upon me some years ago.
In a hurry, I jogged around the park several times in order to go directly to my pukely green Studebaker that everyone just adores.  It took me several attempts before I realized I was trying to insert the trunk key into the ignition.  Correcting my error, I swiftly cranked the engine and slammed the car in gear.  In a billowing cloud of acrid, sweet oily smoke, I roared away from the curb at a dangerous fifteen miles per hour.  At the last moment, I thought to scan the empty street for cruising cops on the prowl for unsuspecting speedsters such as myself.
As I stared into the headlights of the retreating eighteen wheelers, I wondered what it would be this time.  Mother has a way of over embellishing.  I’m her only son, though she calls me her daughter, and she takes morbid pleasure in getting me agitated.  Maybe that’s because she’s really my father and hasn’t figured it out yet.
     The last time she’d called in a panic had been when she nearly decapitated her huge miniature poodle, Trixi, with the electric hedge clippers.  Well, at least that was her rendition of the not-quite catastrophic events that she left on my answering machine.  
As always, I dropped everything, including the dozen eggs I was putting in the fridge to race to her side at the vet’s office.  I should have known better.  Mother had amputated Trixi’s tail, not her head.  Messy, but not lethal.
     At the hospital, I drove around the lot five times before I found a place to sequester the Studebaker in the empty parking garage.  Leave it to Mother to pick the most inconvenient time to stage one of her deathbed charades.  Then the elevator jammed on the sixteenth floor and I had to walk all the way to her room on the first.
As I approached Mother’s room, the enchanting aroma of her cheap perfume wafted down the hall toward me.  I have no idea why she squanders her fortune on it at the most expensive department stores in town.  The scent sparked nostalgic, bittersweet memories of asinine evenings spent at home with Mother.  Needless to say, I was plenty riled when I stormed quietly through her door.
     “Mother, what is it now,” I demanded in a huff.
     Dressed in a chartreuse and magenta negligee, she had her back turned to me as I entered.  Her radiant face slowly spun toward me to reveal a cigarette flopping from her ruby red, pink lips.  An emaciated ribbon of smoke curled up through what should have been her eyelashes except she’d singed them off with that blasted Zippo torch (lighter) of hers.  “Checkers, I knew you’d come,” she breathed in a roar.
“Checkers was your dog, Mother.  You know?  The one you ran over with the car.  I’m Sebastian, your son.  Or have you cured your brain with too much rancid cranberry juice?  You called and said you were dying.  So what has your overgrown pea brain concocted this time?”
“Jerusha, is that you?  Come closer dear, my eyes fail me,” she beamed like a radioactive lighthouse on steroids.
“I’m Sebastian, Mother.”
“Martha, are you there?”
“Sebastian, Mother.  Get it right, or I’m leaving this very minute.”  I couldn’t help but notice that she’d also managed to burn off most of her eyebrows and black bangs.  I guess that was all right since she’s a blond.  “Mother, they don’t allow smoking in the hospital.  Put out that cigarette immediately.  Besides, I thought I took your Zippo away the last time I saw you.”
“You did, Gloria, but your father gave me a lifetime supply.”  She flipped the top of the lighter open and shut, open and shut with a calculated, bovine look on her face.”
“You are my father,” I snapped.  “And for the last time, my name is Sebastian.”
The lighter went swish, pop, swish, pop nearly driving me to a violently mild act of inhuman kindness.  “Yes, I suppose you’re correct, Lyman.  About your father that is.  So, I suppose I gave myself a gift, but I simply can’t remember for sure.”
“Oh, what is it, Sebastian?”  She gave me a shrewd gaze through her muzzy eyes.  “You’re becoming a grade ‘A’, No.1 pain in the butt these days.  Why don’t you toddle off home like a good girl, and I’ll call you again.  Then, we can start this conversation all over.”
That blasted lighter went swish, pop, swish, pop without a moment’s pause.  She knew how the sound irritated me and was just trying to get a rise out of me.  I bit down hard on my right hand to keep from leaping wildly on her and burning off the remainder of her hair.  “Give me that thing, Mother.  You’re driving me insane!”
“Who’s insane, dear?  Surely, you’re not calling me insane.”  Her eyes widened to barely a slit, daring me to say more.
Suddenly, she looked at me like I was a complete stranger, “Why, Althea, what are you doing here?  I have to tell you, the service here is intolerable.  And the food is absolutely barbaric.  I should have checked in at the Ritz Carlton.”
And the lighter went, swish, pop, swish, pop.  I serenely ran my fingers through the hair on my bald head in frustration.  Count to ten, I told myself.  She is your mother, after all.  Be patient with her, she’s not in her right mind.  Of course, she hasn’t been in her right mind for the past twenty years.  Not since the sex change operation.
“Lila, can I light you a cigarette?” she asked with a morose little smirk and an impossible flourish of the Zippo.  This time it went swish, rrrr as she rolled the little wheel against the flint and then…WHOSH!  Deliberately, she moved it closer to the privacy curtain surrounding her bed.
“Put that thing away before someone calls the fire department,” I screamed in a whisper.  “Mother, will you please tell me why it was necessary for me to risk life and limb to race down here just to watch you play with that flipping Zippo.”
“Now, Ethel…”
“Mildred, I...”
“That’s it mother, I’m leaving.”  With a swish of my pink and orange flowered muumuu, I whirled smartly on my heel and ran smack dab into the door.
“Goodbye, Sebastian.  What a lovely chat we’ve had.  See you tomorrow?”