The Six-Month Customer Service Mark

I should have known I would hit it.

True, this job isn't "customer service" in the sense that a certain mega-chain store (let's call it, Hal-Mart) or grocery store (Palbertson's) or fast food, excuse me, quick-service restaurant (Dropeye's) are. But it's a form of customer service nonetheless. And I seem to have a bit of a pattern. Right around the six-month mark, the temptation to go off on someone is unbearably strong.

I had a customer yesterday, one of my problem-children all along anyway, who just totally ticked me off. Her attitude about what we were there to do bit the big one, and then she had the nerve to not only take a cell-phone call while she was in my office (big enough no-no) but to carry on a WHOLE CONVERSATION. Word to the wise, if you want me to help you navigate these godawful systems on which you depend, then the only call that should be more than, "I'll have to call you back, I'm with my caseworker," had better be serious. Like I tell my kids when they're interrupting me to whine about each other: if nobody is bleeding, unconscious, dying, or in danger of doing so, then it can wait until I'm done with what I'm doing.

So anyway, I gave her a bit of a talking-to, but I don't think I was out of line with that one. If anything, I think she's been needing that for a while. Today, however... I had another customer who ticked me off, fifteen minutes before I was about to walk out the door to head for school. Already stressed thanks to the take-home final that I was up finishing at 2 a.m. And if she had been talking to me like that in person instead of over the phone, I suspect I'd be in jail for assault right now.

Still, it's nothing compared to the incident six months into my job at, um, Dropeye's. You see, there was a couple that came into the place fairly often, and they were PITAs. The kind that always had something to gripe about, always had to have something prepared in a special way, or the box of chicken a different way than it was supposed to come. Well, one night they came in at about five minutes to closing. This particular night, I was under extra pressure because one of my managers, who was trying hard to get me fired (no, that's not paranoia, he even said so), had essentially told me that if I didn't finish cleaning the lobby, and clock out, by fifteen minutes after closing, he'd be giving me the second (bogus) write-up of the week. So I was in a hurry, and when I saw their car in the parking lot, I just knew it was trouble.

They came in. They ordered their box of chicken (no wings, a certain amount of thighs, extra breasts but no extra charge for them - strictly against policy but they often put up such a fuss that they got away with it), and then said that they didn't want the chicken already under the heat lamp, they wanted chicken dropped fresh. Well first of all, the chicken under the heat lamp had been coming up out of the grease around the same time they were pulling into the parking lot. And second, a new batch would take 12-15 minutes, and we don't make a batch that close to closing when we still have chicken ready. Still, they fussed until the manager agreed to drop the chicken fresh. He also told me to go ahead and pack up the biscuits and sides and put them under the heat lamp, so they would be ready as soon as the chicken was. As I packaged them, the man from the couple proceeded to instruct me, quite loudly, that he didn't want his sides packed until his chicken was ready, he wanted everything fresh. Now, how "in the steam table" is somehow more fresh than "under the heat lamp," I will never know. Still, I relayed that order to my manager, who knew that I was stressed about the other manager's threat - though he had no idea of the reason behind it - and told me to just worry about cleaning my lobby, he would pack the sides when the chicken came up.

Everything could have been fine. Except as I wiped the counter and cleaned all the tables aside from the one where they were sitting, the man peered at me through his beady little eyes and said, "Young lady, I want to know why you have such a problem making my order the way I want it." My shoulders tensed, I tossed down the towel I was using to clean up, slapped my palms sharply atop the counter, and glared at him. My voice rose with each word. "You want to know why I have a problem? YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I HAVE A FREAKING (but I didn't say "freaking") PROBLEM? I HAVE A FREAKING PROBLEM BECAUSE YOU WALK IN HERE FIVE MINUTES TO CLOSING DEMANDING THAT WE DROP FRESH CHICKEN FOR YOU WHEN THE CHICKEN WE ALREADY HAD WAS LESS THAN TWO MINUTES OUT OF THE GREASE..." and it went on. Two of my coworkers (poor little scrawny teenage boys) came up on either side of me and grabbed me by the arms, trying to pull me back because by this time I was leaning halfway across the counter. I threw them both off me as easily as a bear would swat a fly, and continued my rant until I had spoken my piece, ending with an emphatic, "THAT'S why I have a freaking problem!!!" I then promptly ran to the back room and started crying. My manager followed, and bless his heart, had no idea how to deal with his sobbing, though foul-mouthed, employee. He practically pleaded with me to stop crying, saying there was nothing to cry about. "Nothing to cry about? I'm gonna lose my job and I can't afford to lose my job!" To my surprise, he said I wasn't going to lose my job. Seeing my bewildered expression, he told me that this particular couple was a thorn in many sides anyway, and that just about everyone in the store, management included, had been dying to tell them off. I saved them the trouble, he said, and we paid them off with some free food, and everyone felt better for the vent. Well, everyone at Dropeye's; I'm sure the customers didn't feel too great!

Well, I'm sure if I go off at a customer here it will be a different story, so instead I will just grin and bear it, and schedule myself a day off very soon, when I can just go somewhere and be by myself and not think about anything even remotely related to work. (Well... maybe one thing.) And I'm sure some of you reading this would be surprised to know that Sweet Little Sara can have such a vicious and violent temper, though it rarely sees the light of day. Now all I'm looking forward to tonight is a nice, long, hot bath in a huge tub, some pizza, and a little cocoa with Bailey's. My idea of heaven...

Finishing Wax

Wax off...

Rest in peace, Noriyuki "Pat" Morita, a.k.a. Mr. Miyagi, a.k.a. Arnold.

Aging Gracefully

I had a great moment this weekend, but first you need the backstory.

You see, I was born in September of 1973. So around the summer of 2003, I started getting a little antsy. 30 was approaching, and, well, while I don't think 30 is particularly old, I sure didn't feel 30 yet. So I was musing aloud to Hurricane Miah, who had just recently passed the landmark herself, that perhaps I would be one of those women who stayed 29 for a while. At least until my oldest was about 15 and it started to look bad... then she pointed out to me that if I was getting older, but saying I was 29, people might be thinking I was looking a little rough for my age. I should just own all my years and be proud of what I've done with them.

Well, I took the logic a step further. So in 2003, I turned 35. And this year, I turned 40.

Now, for the great moment. I took the girlies to Waco this Friday to watch my friend Mark's deployment ceremony; he's on the way to Kosovo. Afterward, I went to spend the weekend with friends in Ft. Hood, one of my soldiers and his family, same ones I visited before but this time with my kids, and with his whole family there. Well, when we got there, there were a few other people hanging around the house. Including one of his friends, a soldier who I later found out was only 23 himself. This soldier - we'll just call him "Hottie" - and I were exchanging some of that verbal banter that's sort of one-upmanship and sort of flirting, for a good chunk of the evening. (We were also sharing Frangelico and Patron, but that's another story.) Somewhere along the way, I don't know how the subject came up, but I told my little story of how I now tell people I'm 40, though strictly speaking I was born 32 years ago. When he looked at me with an eyebrow raised, I said in a challenging tone, "Well that way people look at me and think I look great for 40. I mean, come on, don't I look great for 40?" To which he replied, "Sure you do. You look great for 30!"

*swoon*

Why Sara and Vodka Don't Mix

Without giving away too much information… In the very recent past, somebody slipped me a little something that, while not entirely inappropriate for the occasion, may have been frowned upon had certain people known it. Spiked Sprite, to be exact. I didn’t know exactly what it was spiked with, but it was good, and I didn’t have too much of it. Which made me wonder why it got me as tipsy as it did.

I found out today, why.

It was spiked with vodka. See, Sara and vodka have an agreement: I don’t drink it, and it doesn’t knock me on my ass. Which leads me to my next story.

Several years back, when I was finishing my undergrad, I had a very close friend who was also my drinking buddy. In fact, we were each other’s drinking buddies primarily because we both have family histories that involve addictions, and are both prone to them ourselves, and so each of us was in charge of laying down the law if the other started to take the drinking too far. It worked well for us. Well, this same friend knew of my reaction to vodka, and never let me drink it (not that I ever really wanted to). One night, after school, we were going to go out. Didn’t know where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do, just that we were going somewhere together. Well, while we were out driving around and talking, he said something that really upset me, and I got very quiet and turned my face toward the window. I didn’t want him to see me cry, but of course he quickly realized I was doing just that, and immediately began apologizing and telling me that he didn’t mean it to sound so harsh, and he hated to see me cry ever, even more so when he was the one who caused it, etc. I sniffled and forgave, and we kept deliberating on where we would go. Finally, we decided to go shoot pool. Another important note: by this time, it was 8 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten since noon.

So we get to the pool hall, and he orders his own drink, then asks me what I want. I tell him to surprise me, and he orders me the same drink he had – one for which the main ingredient was vodka. Okay, I figure, he’s sorry for upsetting me and so he’s gonna get me good and drunk. I can accept that. So the drinks come, and we begin to drink them, as he shoots the shot (Rumpleminz and Jaegermeister mixed together) that he ordered to go along with his. When he asked the waitress for a second shot, I asked to join him in that. After drinking it, I set the shot glass down dramatically and giggled. He said, “There’s no way you could be drunk already off that shot!” and I told him I wasn’t drunk off the shot, I was drunk off the vodka in the other drink. He protested that there was no vodka in the drink he ordered me, that he would never order vodka for me. When I showed him the drink menu, his jaw hit the floor. He swore he didn’t know.

A few minutes later, he finished his turn and told me it was my shot. I said no it wasn’t, it was his. He explained, quite patiently, “I just shot. I missed. That means it’s your shot.” In the same pedantic tone, I explained to him that if I bent over that pool table, I was not getting back up.

I had to be assisted to the car that night, and needless to say, I didn’t drive home. Good thing he had a nice, comfy couch.

Butt Songs

Hmm. Our main referral system at work is down, and we’re just about dead here anyway, so I guess today will be a multiple-post day.

So I mentioned Sir Mix-A-Lot and his magnum opus, “Baby Got Back.” You know, I like big butts and I can not lie, etc. etc. But Sir (me and the rest of his close personal friends just call him “Sir”) is not the first artist, nor will he be the last, to pay musical homage to that portion of the anatomy with which I am abundantly blessed. And so I present to you, the partial playlist for a CD I think I need to make:

Baby Got Back – Sir Mix-A-Lot
Big Bottom – Spinal Tap
Fat-Bottomed Girls – Queen
Da Butt – EU

Hmm… I know there are more butt songs out there. Ma, help me out here!!!

Ready or Not, Here Come the Holidays

Thanksgiving used to be an important holiday for me, and it will be again, but right now I just plain hate it. Christmas, on the other hand, I love. Despite the struggle of squeezing out a budget for presents for the kids (they are sometimes visited by St. Nicholas on his day, December 6, courtesy of Auntie Hurricane Miah and her German heritage, visited by Santa at their Meme’s house, and by La Befana at ours), and the increasing discomfort around my in-laws during the holidays, I love Christmas. I love Christmas goodies, Christmas cards, but mostly, I love Christmas carols. Now, don’t get me wrong – there is one local station that plays all Christmas songs, all the time, from shortly before Thanksgiving until about New Year’s, and it gets old fast. But right now my Launchcast is on “Rock Holiday,” where Neil Diamond is singing Jingle Bell Rock.

I have favorite carols, and make no mistake, some of them have to be a certain version. Just about any O Holy Night will do, though I object to Celine Dion on general principles and I love the Tevin Campbell version. Good sense-memory there. That may well be my favorite carol. I’m also pretty fond of Silent Night. Christmas is not Christmas without Nat King Cole doing The Christmas Song. Chestnuts roasting and all that. By the way, if you ever choose to roast chestnuts, either on an open fire or in an oven, be sure to poke holes in the shells first or you will never clean the nut meat off your ceiling. Let’s see, what else? Eagles, of course, Please Come Home for Christmas. Sting’s Gabriel’s Message. Guilty pleasures include Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer, of course, and Run DMC’s Christmas in Hollis. Wham’s Last Christmas. Band Aid, Do They Know It’s Christmas. Just about anything off the first 2 or 3 “Very Special Christmas” albums, before they sold out, but especially the Bob Seger version of Little Drummer Boy, in addition to the ones I already listed. The two priorities throughout my childhood, music-wise, were the Nat King Cole and Barbara Streisand albums. And who can forget David Bowie and Bing Crosby, with Little Drummer Boy/ Peace on Earth?

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the Christmas Rap. That esteemed recording artist, Sir Mix-A-Lot, is best known for one of my theme songs, “Baby Got Back.” (Which reminds me, there’s another long-overdue post.) Few people, though, recall a much earlier opus of his, “Square Dance Rap.” Let me refresh you:

Freaks on the left and freaks on the right
Grab your partner, hold him tight
Put your hands in his Levi's
Hold his rear while he grips your thighs...

My beats are icky, do the Square Dance Rap
My beats are icky, do the Square Dance Rap

Well, one year we were on our way to pick up our tree, and somehow the entire family – Mom, Dad, Chelle – sort of made up a new song. “Christmas Rap.” My tree is icky, do the Christmas Rap…

Guess you had to be there.

Favorite carols I have missed, anyone?

Oops...
Spinal Tap, Christmas With the Devil
AC/DC, Mistress for Christmas
Bob & Doug MacKenzie, Twelve Days of Christmas (Canadian version)
Jeff Foxworthy, Redneck Twelve Days of Christmas
Adam Sandler, Hannukah Song (the first two, number three just sucked)

Ghost Stories, Part 1

I spent the night at a friend’s house again last night, for what I think is about the third time in as many weeks. You see, my oven does not work, and I had to make my contribution to the office Thanksgiving dinner. And, well, her place is just so comfy and cozy, and she is such a good hostess and great friend – how could I not stay? I want to be her when I grow up, I want to have a home that’s always guest-friendly. (Or at least, friendly to guests who are comfortable around kids.) On the way over there, I was trying to figure out exactly why her apartment has such a good feeling to it, aside from her own natural charm and openness. About halfway there, it dawned on me.

Her apartment is not haunted. She has no ghosts.

It’s a newer complex, I guess, or an exceedingly lucky one. I’ve yet to find a residential building more than 20 years old that has no ghosts to it; most commercial ones do too. And of course, I bring my own ghosts wherever I go, so I’m never truly without them (mostly family, a few friends, so I have no reason to fear). Many people go through their entire lives not noticing the ghosts around them, and explaining away as coincidence the attendant oddities. For me, though, their presence is very similar to the refrigerator running. A steady, low hum that is so much a part of everyday life that you don’t notice it at all, until that moment when it stops, and the house moves from just plain quiet into an eerie silence. That’s what it’s like being at her house, except that it’s not an eerie silence, it’s a welcome one. Nice change of pace.

I have a friend who lives in Iowa, and once he had finished grad school and settled into his nice new job, he started shopping around for a “starter house.” He would IM me and send me links to listings on a real estate web site. We’d discuss the relative merits of square footage, amenities, garage size… and then I would tell him, “But you don’t want that one, it’s way too haunted” or “That one’s only got one ghost, anyway, and he’s a nice one!” At first he was a little taken aback. He didn’t really believe in ghosts, and he claimed he had never lived in a haunted house. “How old are you?” Mid-twenties. “And how many houses have you lived in, in your lifetime?” More than ten. “Then trust me, you’ve lived in a haunted house, you just didn’t know it.”

I used to babysit in a haunted house. The friend for whom I babysat later told me, after she had moved out of that house and I had moved out of the state, that she thought it had been haunted. I just looked at her and said, “Yeah, thanks for not warning me; I had to figure that one out on my own!” That house was on the same street where the Zodiac killer stalked one of his victims, BTW, and there’s another good story in that. My sister’s high school, which was adjacent to the CCD building and on the same grounds as our church and elementary school, was very haunted. And my mom lived in a haunted house when she was 13 – again, a story for a later time.

Yeah, some of you think I’m crazy(er) now.

And some of you know I’m right.

Thus Spake Me!!!

This weekend found me at the movies not once, not twice, but three times. Two of those times were for the new Harry Potter, but you’ll forgive me if I save that blog post for another time; one lunch hour may not be enough if I get carried away. (Yes, I am a geek.) The other time, was “Zathura.” From the same people who brought us “Jumanji,” which kinda creeped me out. But again, that’s for another post.

What brings on this post, is that when I was e mailing a friend about my weekend, and mentioned “Zathura,” he said that for some reason that made him think of Zarathustra. Which of course brought to mind the list I was making last year. A little background. You’ve seen, perhaps, the episode of “Friends” where Phoebe finds out that when she gets married she can change her last name – to anything she wants to change it to. It doesn’t just have to be taking her husband’s last name. Well, when my sister got divorced we found out it works both ways. You can apply, not only for a return to your maiden name, but to any last name you choose. Or no last name; she is now legally known by just her first and middle names (though as far as TPTB are concerned, she actually now has a first and last name but no middle name). Well, one of these days I will finally get my legal divorce, and when I do, I want to pick a new name. No offense to any of the Watson relatives, but since my strongest identification has always been with the Italian part of my heritage, I fully expect that I will become Sara Christina Carmela Garibaldi. (I’m grabbing a new middle name while I’m at it, as well as altering my existing one.) Still, there are a few other fun variations of my name that I’ve considered, and may yet do if I’m in a goofy enough mood when the time comes. For example, I could be:

Sara Thustra
Sara Bellum (dual cool: the brainy secretary in the PowerPuff Girls, and the brain section)
Sara Doctorinthehouse
Sara Saraboberra
Sara Ndipity
Sara Phim
Sara Smile



The list used to be longer, but memory fails me. (Hmm. Maybe Sara Bellum is false advertising.) Chelle, Joer, Gov'nuh, anyone? More suggestions?

Not A Very Nice Person

That will come as a great shock to some of you. Others will recognize it as the understatement it is. I'm not a very nice person.

Don't get me wrong. On a good day, one that passes for normal on Planet Sara, I'm pretty nice. Sometimes what I consider to be a little under par (over par? my golf terminology is weak), other people are way too impressed with. But right now, I just feel... not very nice.

It's one of my Dark Times again. Not unusual, this time of year. Darkness falls earlier, the weather is cooler (in deference to my northward friends I won't call this "cold"), and sleep doesn't come easily. The ghosts run rampant in the dark and the chill. I feel distant and detached, out of place. With no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone. I want sleep, need sleep, crave sleep more, yet I will wake up in the early hours and lie there, still, hoping that sleep will come to me again before the alarm rings. It doesn't. I sigh and roll out of bed to face another day. Some days, most days, at least some good things will happen. For an hour here, a few minutes there, I will catch myself smiling, laughing, enjoying life. Yet every now and then I will also catch myself lashing out. Griping at the friend who is only trying to be supportive and make me smile. Closing myself off from the ones who would help me see light.

I do see light, though. I see a beautiful, bright, warm light at the end of the tunnel, one that is not the headlight of an oncoming train. I see my life improving in a short while. I'm no fool; I know it won't always be good, won't always be easy, nothing in my life can make me happy other than the commitment to being so. Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I have to commit to my own happiness, and I'm deathly afraid of commitment to anyone or anything.

Or maybe I just need to get to bed. I do, after all, have to be to work in just under 7 hours.

This One's For You

This one's for you, wherever you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare, to say that nothing's been the same since we've been apart...

Yes, Barry Manilow lyrics. I'm sorry.

This one, in fact, is for Chelle. Since I just "told stories out of school," as they say here in the South, I thought I owed it to her. For the record, I've had no indication that she's pissed, in fact I think she is (or will be) quite flattered at my portrayal of her in the most recent post. But since I did, I'll at least be gracious and explain "Moaty."

We had a few different cats as we grew up, sorta by accident. The first one was Butch. Butch wasn't really our cat, he (she?) was the neighbors' cat, given name "Chaz." Chaz? WTF?!?! That cat was SO not a Chaz!!! Definitely Butch. Butch was a big fat fluffy white cat who could talk. Yes, talk. Butch spent more time at our house than at his... I'm gonna make a unilateral decision here and say he was a he... own. And Butch had a small but significant vocabulary. He could say "milk," and "mama," and "out." I don't remember what else. Butch was also deathly afraid of bananas, for some reason we will never know. But I think I'm going off-topic. The point of mentioning Butch, was to show how we went from a no-cat-owning family, to a family that almost always had cats.

We moved away from that house, and for a while had no cats. But then Chelle's friend had to find a foster home for her kitten when they discovered her father was allergic. And, as foster situations are wont to do, it grew into an adoption. The cat came to us as Winston, and quickly became known by another name. My memory is hazy, but I'm pretty sure the tiny white kitten was christened "Baby Butch." After his untimely and traumatizing passing, we wound up with Geno, and it is Geno, I believe, who was our "moatmonster."

See, when Baby Butch passed, none of us intended to get another cat. But after only a few days, all of us (even my father, Mr. Stoicism) admitted that we kept hearing his little meows, and that the house seemed so empty without him. So, off to the pet store. I blame/credit my dad for what happened next, because when we saw the kittens at the pet store, he picked Geno out right away, as the cat was placed on the floor and immediately made a scrambing attempt to escape. Dad, it seems, wanted "the lively one!"

Geno was an interesting cat. Cats always land on their feet, right? Not Geno. Geno always landed on his head. Didn't matter where he was falling from; the three-inch drop into the sunken family room was enough to have him landing on his little kitty noggin. (Note to self: "Little Kitty Noggin" is a good name for a band.) And Geno like to "moat." Not sure who came up with the term, or how. I just know that Geno would hide somewhere, and then when we would walk past, he would jump out at us and bat his paws at our legs "like some kind of little moat monster."

So how did I get the nickname "Moaty"? Welllllllllllllllllll... I'm not 100% positive, but I think it had to do with the time I "moated" Chelle.

See, we had a little half-wall that separated the entryway from the dining room. On the other side of the entryway, was the hallway. And so, knowing that Chelle would soon be coming down the hall, I did what could probably be considered an attempt at suicide-by-sister. Ever heard of suicide-by-cop? Same principle. I hid behind the half-wall, and waited for her to come past it. As she did, I jumped out at her, muttering in a guttural tone, "moatmoatmoatmoatmoat." At which my ultra-cool, totally self-possessed sister jumped about a foot in the air, and came down running. After me. Hand upraised in a pose not unlike that of someone trying to beat the crap out of an attacker - which I guess I technically was - and with the same ferocity, the same fight-or-flight adrenaline rush. Of course, as I was in PMP (Proper Moating Position), I was on my hands and knees. This made retreat a little difficult, but the lack of speed also made it possible for me to see the exact second when she realized that she was not chasing away a criminal, but merely her little sister. Not sure how old I was at the time, but I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. It's a moment neither of us will ever forget, and I'm laughing about it at this very moment.

Admit it, you are too.

Alms for the Poor and Other Stories from Hawaii

These ones aren't actually mine to tell, but since my sister a) does not have a blog of her own that I know of, and b) probably wouldn't want to share these with the whole world anyway, I figure that gives me license to tell them. And to forward a link to this post, to all the co-workers that are usually cc'd on her joke e mails. Nah, I won't really do that, I'll just challenge her to do it instead. (You're welcome, Chelle; public humiliation may be my duty as your little sister, but since I also consider you to be one of my best friends, I'm sparing you!)

My mom recently mentioned something in an e mail that I had forgotten, and it's just too good a story. My mom is the youngest of six kids, four boys in the middle and two girls to bookend them. Her youngest older brother, Loren Ray, is somewhat ornery. In fact, in my most wicked moments of childhood she would roll her eyes and call me Lorena Rachel, a name I have now passed on to Red. For at least a few years when my sister was small, Uncle Loren and Aunt Cheryl lived in Hawaii. When Chelle (who, BTW, was still "Shelly" at the time) was two years old, Mama and Daddy took her to Hawaii for a visit.

It started at the post office, where my mother would go to mail letters. When the postal clerk would ask where the letters were going, a tiny voice piped up, "Kealakekua, Kona, Hawai'i!" The clerk would peer over the counter to see my Tinkerbell-sized sissy with her golden curls and cherubic blue eyes...

Shelly was quite the prodigy, and quite the patriot. On the way to Kona, she led the entire plane in a recital of the Pledge of Allegiance. Her idea, so I guess that makes her a self-starter too. Of course, she also announced to the entire plane when Mommy needed to go potty.

I'm not sure of the order of the next two stories, so I'll just tell them. One is that my Uncle Loren, in his infinite no-kid-having-at-the-time wisdom, secretly trained my sister to say, "My Daddy eats fish heads and spider legs!" Our Daddy, mind you, is deathly afraid of spiders, and with good cause. It backfired on Unc, though, when the waitress came to take their order. He urged Shelly to tell the nice lady what her Daddy ate. She smiled angelically and stated, "I don't know what my Daddy eats, but my uncle eats fish heads and spider legs!"

Finally, we come to the literary version of a title track. My sister, as you might have guessed, was terminally cute. Come to think of it, she's still quite lovely, and guys, she's single! Anywho, back to age two and Hawaii, where she apparently saw a little coconut purse she liked, politely asked the sales clerk if she could have it, and was given it immediately. My uncle promptly gave her instructions, and she was soon wandering around, holding out her little purse and calling out, "Alms for the poor! Alms for the poor!" (Ma says she was making pretty good money, too, until Daddy made her stop.)

So there you go.. a few of my sister's stories, instead of mine, for your reading pleasure today. Rest assured, this will not be the last time I tell Shelly Stories. One little side note: growing up, she was always Shelly at home. In school, she was Michelle, thanks to a mean kindergarten teacher who refused to use nicknames - a trauma for my poor sister, who at age almost-five could already write the name she had always gone by, but didn't know how to spell this new name she was being forced into. But as we grew up, it became obvious that "Shelly" didn't really fit her anyway. I still use it in speech, at times, much like she still addresses me with childhood nicknames ("Moaty" comes to mind, long story and future post), but it has been years, if not decades, since I have written her name as "Shelly." And you know what? It felt really, really weird. I hope you people appreciate the lengths I go to, to maintain accuracy and journalistic integrity.

Missing Idiot Update: Found

Damn.

Personal Responsibility

There's a place for personal responsibility in this world, and then there's situations when you need to sue someone's @$$.

The following are songs for which I can reasonably sue the performer when I get a speeding ticket for DWD (Driving While Dancing) or DWS (Driving While Singing):

Last Dance - Donna Summer
Panama - Van Halen
You Shook Me All Night Long - AC/DC
D'yer Mak'er - Led Zeppelin
Heartache Tonight - Eagles
Kiss - Prince
Are You Gonna Be My Girl - Jet
We'll Be Together - Sting
Everybody Wants You - Billy Squier
Her Strut - Bob Seger
Lay Down Sally - Eric Clapton
Bad Case of Loving You - Robert Palmer
Heavy Metal - Sammy Hagar (thanks for the nudge, Jay!)
You Really Got Me - The Kinks
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns n Roses
Enter Sandman - Metallica
Shadows of the Night - Pat Benatar
Fat-Bottomed Girls - Queen
Disco Inferno - The Trammps
Honkey-Tonk Women - The Rolling Stones
Talk Dirty to Me - Poison
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard
You Give Love A Bad Name - Bon Jovi
SuperFreak - Rick James, Bitch
Seventeen - Winger
YMCA - The Village People (and yes, I do the letters, even while driving)
Smooth - Santana
I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
Stranglehold - Ted Nugent (Nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge!!!)
Jive Talkin' - The Bee Gees (yes, I'm serious)
Night Fever - The Bee Gees (ditto)
Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy) - Big & Rich
Redneck Woman - Gretchen Wilson
Here for the Party - Gretchen Wilson
Fancy - Reba McIntyre
Roll With It - Steve Winwood (thanks, Ma!)
Push It - Salt n Pepa (ditto)
Touch Me - The Doors
Brick House - The Commodores
FireWoman - The Cult
Mysterious Ways - U2
Learning to Fly - Pink Floyd
Don't Tell Me You Love Me - Night Ranger
I Want You To Want Me - Cheap Trick

I will revise this post when I think of more... anyone else have any favorites?

Already Gone

"So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains, and we never even know we had the key."

Ah, what wonderful songwriters we have in Jack Tempchin and Robb Strandlund (who?) and what a memorable singer in my dear Glenn Frey. (My mother-in-law and I, BTW, are having a double wedding, she to Glenn and me to Don. Now if only the men in question knew it...)

It struck me this morning that "already gone" pretty much described my senior year in high school. The topic came up in a random way, as I was thinking about a guy I knew in high school who I more or less blew off. Not intentionally - I honestly don't think I realized until pretty late in the game, that he was even interested in me that way. And that's where I realized the whole already-gone connection. See, by senior year I had made the realization that, for better or for worse, I was never going to see most of these people again. With the career I had originally chosen, and the schools I was considering, it just wasn't likely. So I was very outwardly-focused. Focused on getting ready to go away to college (my closest option was still an 8 hour drive), focused on the older, already-out-of-school guys that I was sorta kinda quietly seeing. Focused on enjoying the time I had left, with the school and theater friends that I knew I was really going to miss. It wasn't a time to build new ties to where I was, it was a time to transition to where I was going to be. So no, I never gave a minute's thought to actually dating any guy in my class, not just Dan, who really was a nice guy.

I sure hope he knows that. I hope he realizes that this would have been one of the cases where, had we ever actually discussed the situation, "It's not you, it's me" would have been completely true.

It's also where I am now. Some of you know all about the change I'm planning, and for others I guess this sounds really cryptic and odd LOL but basically, I'm planning a major transition, and so the rest of the time between now and then is basically focused on getting my ducks in a row for that, tying up loose ends, and figuring out what is important for me now, and what is just dead weight that needs cutting. But me, I'm already gone. And I'm feeling strong.

Why One Should Never Wear Strappy FM Heels to Tour a Military Base

So I mentioned the other day about going to the doctor, and here is why.

Last Friday, as you might know, was Veteran's Day. And oddly enough, this is the first job I've ever had, where we have that day off. Consequently, neither my mom-in-law nor my babysitter expected me to be free, and who was I to tell them? So Thursday night after school, I hopped in the van and headed toward Killeen. The purpose of heading up there that night, was mainly so I wouldn't have a short visit, then a quick turnaround to come home at a decent hour, on Friday. I got there late Thursday night, and a friend kindly put me up for the night. He hung around for a while to visit, then turned the room key over to me and headed back home, cautioning me to sleep in the next morning, since I'd had a long drive, a late night, and a long drive home ahead of me. The next morning, I called one of my friends who's stationed at Fort Hood, and who had known I was coming up ahead of time. He met me off-base, picked me up, and took me back to his house on-base, where I got to meet two of his three kids, his girls, who are right around the same ages as mine. The oldest, his son, was at a friend's house, and his wife was home but not feeling well, so he loaded me and his girls up in their SUV and we took a little driving tour of the base. We got out at the First Cav Division museum, and that's where the trouble started, though I didn't know right away. See, I was wearing my cute little black strappy FM heels. The ones I used to wear at my old job, but this job doesn't allow open-toed shoes, so I haven't worn them much in ages. The ones I used to go dancing in, it should be noted. But I guess it had been too long, and my feet weren't used to them anymore. Or maybe it was just the uneven ground when we walked off the path a time or two, crossing over the grounds. Either way, I managed to get a blister that day, a blister I didn't even notice/feel until the next day, Saturday.

By Sunday morning, it hurt like a motherf***er (if anyone knows exactly how one of those hurts, BTW, please tell me - I strive for accuracy). By Monday morning, my toe was purple, and the pain was radiating all the way up my leg. Thank goodness for insurance; I went to the doc Monday morning, and now I'm well on the road to recovery.

But I sure won't be wearing those cute shoes again any time soon... *sigh*

Against the Wind

The years rolled slowly past
And I found myself alone
Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends
I found myself further and further from my home
And I guess I lost my way
There were oh so many roads
I was living to run and running to live
Never worried about paying or even how much I owed
Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time
Breaking all of the rules that would bend
I began to find myself searching
Searching for shelter again and again
Against the wind
A little something against the wind
I found myself seeking shelter against the wind

Well those drifter's days are past me now
I've got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out
Against the wind
I'm still runnin' against the wind
I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind
Well I'm older now and still runnin'
Against the wind
Against the wind
Against the wind


Ah, good ol’ Bob Seger. This song caught my ear on the radio last Thursday, as I was driving to Killeen. I went for the express purpose of seeing one friend with whom I’ve been trying to find time for the last few months, and managed to also get a chance to see another, and visit with him and his lovely little girls. I’ll be taking another trip out there later this month, and we’ve already both expressed an interest in making sure his daughters (and his son, if his son wants, but he’s a teenager and might be too “cool”) get to spend a little time with mine. Actually, all four of us expressed that interest – when his girls found out they were so close in age to mine, we all really wanted to make a little Family Day of my next visit. Maybe this time I will even get to meet his wife, who wasn’t feeling well that day.

Back to the subject at hand, good ol’ Bob Seger and his good ol’ song that seems to express the way I’ve been feeling more or less constantly for the past, oh, 8 or 9 years. You see, my life is busy. Really, genuinely, crazily busy, all the time. As if that weren’t enough, I seem to manufacture extra busy-ness and drama in the few places where organically there is none. I have absolutely no time-management skills and no real commitment to developing any. No organizational skills. A good 75% of the clutter in my life could probably be cleared up (and heaven only knows how much money saved) if I could just get my act together. But it’s more than that. It’s the general sense of unease. The recognition of approximately when my life went so far off-course, combined with the feeling of helplessness because I can’t seem to get it back on track, at least not in the way (or at the speed) that I want to.

It’s not all bad news, mind you. At least one of the ways in which I went “off track” led me to the career path I was born to take. Two others gave me the three greatest blessings of my life. Still, I can’t help but look at all these people who really have their act together, who never veered far off their life path, who always seem to know what they want out of life and how to get it. I fully acknowledge how hard many of them work to have things as good as they do, but at the same time it’s hard to see the people that just don’t have the obstacles I do (some self-created, others I have through no fault of my own), or worse, the ones that don’t work as hard as I do, don’t struggle as much, and still have it easy. To twist an old adage, here but for the grace of God go they.

I work hard. In school, at work, and as a mother. It hurts me when people look down on me for the way I’ve had to raise my children so far, and it’s hard for me to keep quiet about the changes that are coming, when at times all I want to do is shout, “See? SEE? I have a plan, I’m making a change, I’m going to do this right!!!” It hurts, too, when I struggle and struggle to make things better, and just feel like I’m treading water, like nothing I do is ever enough. Ultimately, I know that the only person I have to justify anything to is myself, the only people I have to take care of are my daughters, and as long as I can face the woman in the mirror, everything else is just so much white noise. But it gets discouraging sometimes… and more often than not, I just get the feeling that I’m running… Against The Wind.

Macho Man

I promise the story of David and his costume, so here it goes.

First of all, I will explain the whole costume thing. In fact, this will also explain the Mexia State School story - two for the price of one! We were the Lunch Pit Crew. That meant that we were in charge of the "pit stop" where lunch was served. It's an ideal Crew to be on, because while many of the Riders skipped some of the pit stops, hardly anyone skipped the lunch pit. (The few that did, usually stopped at restaurants or burger joints along the way.)

For every day of the Ride, our Crew had a theme, and the attendant costumes. Now, there was one day that was Red Dress Day for the entire Ride. Yes, some people referred to it as Dress Red Day, but in reality, almost everyone wore red dresses. In fact, at our Crew meeting the night before the Ride, Victor lamented that he could not find a red dress that could accommodate his broad shoulders - so I loaned him my sleeveless red sheath dress, and went home to fetch my lacy red Stevie-Nicks-style dress for myself. There was a meaning behind Red Dress Day, actually. It had begun on an earlier Ride, with the goal of creating a human red ribbon. Eventually, though, it evolved into just being a lot of fun. I myself was a little ashamed at how much better some of these guys looked in their dresses, than I did, but oh well.

So. Red Dress Day was a given. That left us three days to pick themes for. One day we had a Hawaiian theme, and as you would expect, there were many grass skirts and coconut bras involved (even though the males outnumbered females by about 3 to 1 on this Crew). Our last day, the theme was 60's/hippie, and we all had our tie-dyed T-shirts that we "customized," and our temporary peace sign tattoos and the like. But the day in question, we made our theme Halloween. It was mid-October anyway, and the idea was that one day of free-for-all meant that anyone whose theme suggestion had been rejected, could still use the costume they'd had in mind for it.

Let's start with me and the French Maid costume. I had bought it for a previous Halloween and it had gone over fairly well. Me, I don't like to spend money on something to then wear it only once (I managed to find 3 occasions on which to wear my $400 black-suede-and-leather bustier dress, but that too is a story for another day). So it was my costume for our Halloween theme day. Yep, short skirt, ruffled apron, choker necklace, and high, high heels. As usual, the pit was set off a little ways from the road; this was purely for traffic control purposes, to keep the road from getting overly crowded as people sat down to eat. I'm not sure whose bright idea it was, to make me the person who had to stand out at the road, holding the "Lunch Pit" sign. Nevertheless, that's what I did. At the side of a fairly narrow, yet surprisingly well-traveled, dirt road. Across the street from the State School (for those of you not familiar with Texas' MHMR system, the state schools are where people with severe mental retardation live). Funny, I got a LOT of horns honked at me that day.

Now, on to David. Like many men on the Ride, David was gay. Much to my chagrin. He was undeniably hot. And on this particular day, he chose to wear what I called his Village People costume. Construction worker. Complete with short-shorts, plaid flannel shirt hanging open, work boots, and yellow hardhat. Every time he bent over to pick anything up (and as we were putting up and tearing down canopies, that was quite a bit) I would whimper and say, "It's just not fair!!!" A time or two, I even stopped him mid-lift and said, "David... are you SURE you're gay? Are you sure you're not maybe just even a little bit bi?" Sadly, he was not. *sigh*

So there ya go. Two stories in one, and I think I'll save the story of Danny's and my "arrangement" for another day. It's just about time for me to head on out of here, and get myself to the doctor's office. And that, my friends, is also a story for another day. Hopefully with a happy ending! LOL

The Story That Had to Be Told

A zillion or so times now, I've told this story. The last couple thousand of them, I've prefaced it with, "I really need to blog this one of these days." So, here I go.

Five years ago, I had one of the most fun and meaningful experiences of my life. I volunteered at Tanqueray's Texas AIDS Ride 3. I had volunteered on the Traffic Control Crew for TTAR2, but it was on 3 that I really got myself fully into it. TTAR3 was a four-day charity bike ride from Houston to Dallas, to raise money and awareness of HIV/AIDS and benefitting 17 ASOs in Texas. (ASOs, for you non-human-services types, are AIDS Service Organizations.) Being involved with the Ride was so much fun, so uplifting, because life on the ride was the way the world should be all the time. People helping each other. People looking out for one another. Not just in terms of the purpose of the ride, but in terms of the way it was carried out. When a volunteer Crew or a group of riders was done with what they were supposed to do, they would often go looking to see who they could help. When a Crew was done with their job at the campsite, they would start pulling the riders' tents and setting them up on the grid. Once the earliest riders to get to camp finished showering and eating, they were right there at the finish line cheering on their fellow riders. Everyone was so supportive of each other - Utopia.

But that's not what this story is about. This story is about the afterparty. As I mentioned, I was more "into it" with this ride, so instead of heading straight back to Houston after the ride, I stayed the night in Dallas with one of my Crew captains, Johnnie. Another volunteer stayed there as well, and the three of us attended the official afterparty. Now, for one thing, keep in mind that the titular sponsor of the ride was Tanqueray. For another, remember that it was the Texas AIDS Ride. Not surprisingly, the afterparty was held at a country and western gay bar in Dallas. Yes, there is such a thing as a country and western gay bar. In fact, somewhere in my house there exists a photo of me, hoisted up on the shoulders of Johnnie and Ryan, in front of the sign that read "Voted Best Gay Bar in Dallas, 1999." Also not surprisingly, there were many, many coupons floating around for free drinks made with Tanqueray. Now me, I'm not a huge gin drinker, but who can turn down a free drink? Plus, in preparation for the festivities, Johnnie and the other guy and I had had a few before leaving Johnnie's house. So picture this: me, drunk off my ass, in a country and western gay bar in Dallas. Keep in mind, also, that when I drink, my Texas accent gets pretty darn thick.

Now let's add one more thing to the mix.

It was Karaoke night.

Yep. Sara. Drunk. In a gay bar. Singing Karaoke. Though I don't remember a whole lot from that night completely clearly, I distinctly remember singing "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" with a man I'd never met before, mainly because his partner refused to sing with him. I also distinctly remember, but cannot even begin to replicate it here phonetically, telling someone in my thick, thick drawl, how I was jist hayuvin' the beyust tahm of mah lahf heyur awn this Rahd. (Get me to tell you the story in person someday, or at least get me drunk and hear what it sounds like.)

Ah, the memories.

Maybe later I'll tell more Ride stories... like Danny's and my mission; David and the Village People costume; or me standing by the roadside in spike heels and a French maid costume across the street from the Mexia (that's muh-HAY-uh) State School. See, the Ride, and the cause, were very serious things. But we still knew how to have fun.

Missing Idiot Report

This weekend, I’m going to file a Missing Persons Report on my husband.

Okay, so by now some of you are doing a very dramatic, bordering-on-cartoonish, double-take. “Husband?!?!?!” you say, “What husband?!?!?!” Yeah, husband. We just passed our 10-year anniversary in August, in fact. Not that it matters; I left him on January 1, 1998. Best damn New Year’s Resolution I ever made, and one of the only two I’ve ever kept. (The other being the one I made the year before, to lose 10 lbs. by the end of the month – not really hard, as my middle daughter Red was due on the 14th.)

So I have this husband that for all practical purposes, I ditched about 8 years ago. With good reason, but we shan’t get into all that right now. And now, he is missing. He’s the type that disappears quite often (as he did during our marriage), for a few days here or a week there. Not unusual at all to not see him for a week, then get a phone call that he’s living up near Austin. He rarely feels the need to tell his mother, or for that matter the mother of his children, where he is. Since he’s never paid child support, and rarely spent time with the girls anyway, it doesn’t really matter on a day-to-day basis.

Now, however, his family has not heard from him since September 21, the day of the large-scale Hurricane Rita evacuation. I don’t think he was swept away by the storm (I should be so lucky!) as it didn’t hit very hard in our area. No, knowing him I suspect he may have met with a worse fate. You see, I think he’s just dumb enough to have tried looting during the evacuation – and just dumb enough to not make sure his targets were gone before he started. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer (and yes, I know what it says about me that I married him). And in case you didn’t know it, Texans don’t take kindly to someone trying to relieve them of their hard-earned possessions, especially in times of distress. So this weekend, when I’m in Galveston County anyway, I will file a report. I don’t really want them to find him. I just want to start that seven year clock, should I need to have him declared legally dead. I think (nay, hope) that it’s cheaper than an actual divorce. Do I sound totally heartless? Probably. Do I care? Not really. Am I justified? Most certainly.

Warning: Depressing Post Ahead

No, seriously... if you're one of those people who worries about me and stuff, you might just want to skip this one.

See, it's November, and therefore I'm well entrenched into my Seasonal Affective Disorder. I should have a bad case of the blues until, oh, about March or so. And aside from that, things have just been pretty rough lately. I've had some "up" days, some "up" events, but for the most part there's a lot of down right now. Tonight, for instance. It's past midnight. For various, disturbing reasons I only got a few hours' sleep last night. Yet I sit here in the lab, blogging and surfing, fighting back the yawns.

Because I absolutely do not want to go home.

I don't know why. Or rather, I have an idea or two but I recognize how flippin' crazy they are and so I'd rather not go into them. Suffice it to say, I know I will not rest well there. I won't rest well anywhere, alone, and I have nowhere to go that I'm not alone. Not tonight. It's nights like these I would gladly drive to San Antonio, to Temple, to Killeen, to anywhere that I could show up on someone's doorstep, hold out my arms, and be taken in. But it's not to be. I have responsibilities. I have a meeting at work tomorrow. I have school projects. I have people who are counting on me to get things done. I have to pray that I can stay awake long enough to drive home. If I could take tomorrow off I would, and then maybe take a short nap, then jump in the van and just go. There has to be somewhere... someone... somehow... to take this feeling away and make things feel right.

Sing me a rainbow, Josie
Roll me a song
Just tonight, make it right,
'Cause it's been wrong for oh so long
There's lots of shades of darkness, Josie, deep inside a man
So sing me a rainbow if you can

Sgt James Witkowski

I was going to cut-and-paste parts of an e-mail I received, into my blog. I asked the sender's permission, and he said it would be fine, that he had written it with the intention of bringing Wit's memory to as many people as he could reach. Joey is one of my soldiers, one that I don't contact nearly often enough, but one that holds a special place in my heart. And Wit... Wit was born exactly eight months before I was, and he is special to Joey, so he is special to me. Here, uncut and unedited minus the sign-off, is Joey's e-mail:

"Sgt James Witkowski, A Soldier of the 729th Trans CO, 1173rd Trans CO, 181st Trans BNS, LSA Anaconda, Balad Iraq was killed in action on the 26th of October north of Ashraf Iraq while conduction convoy security operations. Sgt Witkowski, "Ski", was born January 20, 1973 to James and Barbara Witkowski of Phoenix, Arizona. He attended Arcadia High School, where he proceeded to Arizona State University, Completing general education Courses. Ski enlisted in the U.S. Army Reserve at the age of 29 in 2002, deciding to support the war on Terrorism after the events that occurred on September 11, 2001. After completing Basic Training and 88M Motor transport operator school he was assigned to the 257th Transportation Detachment in the 63rd Regional Readiness Command in Tucson, Arizona. Like many soldiers, Sgt Witkowski was cross-leveled into the 729th Transportation Company in Fresno, California, for deployment to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom III. In June of 2005 Sgt Witkowski and 13 other soldiers of the 729th TC were attached to the 1173rd TC to assist with Gun-Truck missions. Sgt Witkowski was assigned to 3rd Platoon. He is survived by his Mother, Father and Sister. His Awards include The Bronze Star, Purple Heart, The Army Commendation Medal, Good Conduct Medal, National Defense Service Medal, Iraq Campaign Medal, Global War On Terror Service Ribbon, Armed Forces Reserve Medal with M Device, Army Service Ribbon, Combat Action Badge, and Drivers Badge. Because of his heroic actions during the ambush where he performed with marked distinction, Sgt James Witkowski was recommended for the Silver Star. On the 26th of October, Sgt Witkowski and 14 other soldiers from the 729th and 1173rd left with a military convoy headed north past ashraf toward outpost sues. North of Ashraf they encountered a complex ambush starting with multiple IED's, Rpg's and followed with concentrated Small arms and machine gun fire. Every soldier on that convoy kept a cool head, but no more than Sgt Witkowski. As a gunner he began laying down surppessive Heavy Machine gun fire enabling the convoy to continue to move out the area. A hand grenade made its way into the turret from the enemy and using his body to stop it from entering the vehicle and to suppress the blast Sgt Witkowski continued to lay down fire while yelling for the other three occupants to get down. He was killed instantly. Due to his heroic efforts, and those of all soldiers on that convoy, Sgt Witkowski was the only soldier killed, with only a few more minor injuries. Countless soldiers lives were saved by him. Usually the enemy uses "hit and run" tactics. This day, however, they were entrenched and prepared for a long lasting battle with road side bombs, rocket propelled grenades, small arms and machine gun fire, and vehicle born explosive were also found. Even under this amazing amount of enemy force and preparedness, the Soldiers of the 729th and 1173rd proved victorious and courageous under fire.Personally, I think Ski was about as a guy could be. Ski was as technically proficient and knowledgeable of the M2 .%50 Caliber Machine gun as any person I know. He took his job seriously and cared for every soldier out here. He was also a comedian and cutup. He loved to play his xbox to the wee hours of the morning, and throw the football around the motor pool. We were usually the last two guys to leave the motor pool after a mission because he always checked his vehicle over before we turned it in. Ill always remember walkin back to the hooches with him, dip in his lip, head phones dangling over his ear and a smile on his face. The job we do is dangerous, but we choose to do it, and do it well. It takes a bit of a loony to sit in a turret and expose your self to IED's and bullets, but its the job we do. A man wiser than me said that every soldier knows fear, but the more intelligent you are the more you can respect that fear and carry one. Bravery isn't the lack of fear, its the courage to be scared and do what needs to be done anyway. James Witkowski was my brother and my friend. I wont mourn for his loss, but I will keep the fire of his torch bright in my memories. The night he died I had the honor to render Salute to his flag draped coffin as it was loaded on the plane to take him home. Today, the 1st of November we had a memorial service for him. Every one from the 729th and 1173rd were present, along with members of the 181st trans BNS. After the chaplain opened with a prayer, SPC Castanda of the 729th TC sang the national anthem accapella. His service record was read and then Company Commanders from both units said a few words. Then the 1SGT's of both units did the Last Roll Call memorial:Witkowski?Sgt Witkowski?Sgt James Witkowski?At this time the Honors Firing Team lead by Sgt Stem along with Sgt Bumgarner, Sgt Chavez, Sgt Ortiz, Spc Nedd, Spc Rojas, Spc Suchowski, and Spc Terpstra fired 3 volleys. 2 of 7 rifles, and the last with 6. The 20 gun salute is a time honored tradition of honoring our lost.After the volleys were complete Taps was played. After a closing prayer they presented a small video with pictures of Ski at his best. Rest in Peace Sgt James Witkowski, 20 January 1973 to 26 October 2005.From this I take strength and courage. I can only hope to be half a soldier Ski was. I hope that each of you who read this know how much I love you and how happy I am to know you. If for the next 45 days or the next 45 years. God Bless each of you and stay safe.Psalm 23The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul. He Leads me in the path of Righteousness for His Name's Sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I fear no evil, For Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies. Thou annointest my head with oil: My cup over flows. Surely goodness and Mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I dwell in the House of the Lord Forever and ever, AMEN AMEN."

These, ladies and gentlemen, are the men who are serving our country. We're approaching the holiday season. For most of us, there will be time with family and friends, gifts and parties and baked goodies everywhere you turn, carols on the radio until you can't stand to hear "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" one more time... for Wit's family, their first Christmas without their son and brother. For Wit, the first in the immediate presence of his Father, of this I have no doubt. And for many hundreds of thousands of troops out there, a Christmas away from their parents, children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. For some this will be their first; for many others, their families have learned to adjust to holidays without them. If you want to know how to help make the holidays brighter for some of these fine young men and women, you know how to reach me. If you choose not to, at least please, please keep them in mind this holiday season, and appreciate the freedoms they defend. You may or may not agree with why they're there - but men like Wit have given their lives just about every day for the last three years, and it's you and I that reap the rewards.

May the deity of your choosing bless you, today and every day.

Our Father, Who Art in... California?

We all know there are certain subjects that are politely avoided in general conversation – politics and religion being paramount, unless and until you’re among friends and can discuss without offending. So the way I see it… #1, this is my blog and I can say what I want, and #2, I’m among friends here anyway. Besides, I doubt this is that controversial. I’ve had this general discussion twice in the recent past, and my theory has been well-received both times.

Maybe it’s just from years upon years of the Lord’s Prayer (in English and French) racing through my head, but I’m comfortable with the idea of God as a Father. In fact, it helps me draw a parallel. I’ve mentioned my unusual religious/faith background in the past, and so there is room in my philosophy for more than has been seen in Heaven and Earth (to scramble Shakespeare a little). My thing is, I don’t think anyone has it really wrong. Other than to claim that their faith is the only “right” and “true” faith, because I’m sorry, that’s just crap. The God I know has room for everyone in His kingdom. (Yes, or Hers.) Anywho… back to the Father thing. Let’s look at my own father first, as in the man who provided half of my genetic code, and who helped raise me to be a thinking, questioning being who can still have faith in the unseen and unproven. My father, Al.

You see, to me, he is Daddy. Every now and then, just plain Dad, but since I am his youngest daughter and still adore him as a child would, mostly Daddy. To my sister, he is also Dad or Daddy, but her experience of him is different from mine, due to any number of factors. To my mom, he is her ex-husband and the father of her children, and part of him will always be the 11-year-old best friend of her big brother, or the 17-year-old she dated, or the 20-year-old she married. To my stepmom, her wonderful husband, with no memories of shared younger, non-parenting years but with several years now of being parents to grown (or mostly grown, I was 16 when they married) children and grandparents together. To my grandmother, her only child and her little boy, despite the fact that he will turn 60 next year. To my cousins, Uncle Al. To former co-workers, whatever side of his persona was ever revealed at work (and that will be different for different people). You guys get the picture. Same Albert Louis Watson. Different person, depending on who you ask, with different personality traits and different defining characteristics. Different to the same person, even, depending on the time period in question. I never knew what a dry, sharp, wicked sense of humor he has, until after he and my mom split up.

I see God kind of the same way. Call him what you will… God, Yahweh, Allah, Buddha, Ra, Zoroaster, Great Spirit… consider Him as one entity or many, consider Him as a Being or as a Force/Energy… or don’t consider Him at all (there are plenty of people in this world who don’t know my dad, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist). That doesn’t change the nature of who He is, or His love for us, endless, giving us strength through our trials if we will accept it, giving us words of wisdom and then loving us even when we don’t listen. Leaving only one set of footprints in the sand during our darkest hours – because He carries us. Sounds like another father I know.

In Stephen King’s “The Stand, “ Mother Abigail Freeman tells Nick that he has been chosen by God, and Nick replies that he doesn’t believe in God. Mother Abigail smiles and states (I paraphrase here) “That don’ matter, chil’. He believes in you.”

So. That’s my two cents about my father, and my Father. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish my work day. And then, I’m going to call my Daddy. Expect a blog about my mom soon, and expect it to be as delightfully different as she is.