December 18, 2007
The formal readings concluded, a great mob of cheering, shouting soldiers and townspeople stormed down Broadway to Bowling Green, where, with ropes and bars, they pulled down the gilded lead statue of George III on his colossal horse. In their fury the crowd hacked off the sovereign's head, severed the nose, clipped the laurels that wreathed the head, and mounted what remained of the head on a spike outside a tavern.
Now that sounds wonderfully familiar. I got such a kick out of the parallel with Baghdad. However, the Saddam statue was melted down and made into a memorial for the 4th Infantry Division. That's a lovely end to a brutal dictator's ode to himself. But the warmonger in me likes what happened to the George III statue:
Much of the lead from the rest of the statue would later be, as reported, melted down for bullets "to assimilate with the brains of our infatuated adversaries."
And I swear, for a moment last night, my brain started mapping out that intarsia Abraham Lincoln. Bad, bad Sarah. A google search this morning turns up evidence of a pattern for a knitted Lincoln doll. No photo, but you can see the knitted Borat and Amy Winehouse. Heh.
Scolded away from intarsia Lincoln, my thoughts turned to my hair. To quote the Mad Hatter, my hair wants cutting. Last time I had to go quite short in order to donate the full 18 inches to Locks of Love, but this time I have grown weary of my hair faster. In fact, I never really planned on donating again; it just happened. It's because I have no idea how to maintain a haircut. I've never done it before. My life has been a series of chopping it to my chin and then letting it grow for years. I don't have any idea how to pick a hairstyle and stay at it. I haven't been to a barber in at least two years, not even for a trim. (Man, that sounds bad when I actually type it; I promise I don't have four inches of split ends.) But I think I might be ready to try an actual hairstyle. Maybe. I do know for sure that I can't wait to get rid of 10 inches.
OK, enough of my inane chit-chat nonsense. Please switch your brains back on and go read this monster tome: Mormons, Muslims, and Multiculturalism
December 17, 2007
I'm considering paying someone to break into our home so I can see something that hot.
At the recent climate jamboree in Bali, the Rev. Al Gore told the assembled faithful: "My own country, the United States, is principally responsible for obstructing progress here." Really? The American Thinker's Web site ran the numbers. In the seven years between the signing of Kyoto in 1997 and 2004, here's what happened:
Emissions worldwide increased 18.0 percent;
Emissions from countries that signed the treaty increased 21.1 percent;
Emissions from nonsigners increased 10.0 percent; and
Emissions from the United States increased 6.6 percent.
December 16, 2007
I wonder if our old friend Ronald Reagan could rise in this party, this environment. Not a regular churchgoer, said he experienced God riding his horse at the ranch, divorced, relaxed about the faiths of his friends and aides, or about its absence. He was a believing Christian, but he spent his adulthood in relativist Hollywood, and had a father who belonged to what some saw, and even see, as the Catholic cult. I'm just not sure he'd be pure enough to make it in this party. I'm not sure he'd be considered good enough.
Ain't that sad.
December 14, 2007
I'm with Fred.
And I'm with Fred because of things like this:
But in the last month or so Thompson has acted like a man who has been liberated from something. And that is what voters saw on stage Wednesday: a presidential candidate who has declared himself fully free of the stupid stuff one has to do to become president of the United States.
If youre going to ask Fred Thompson to participate in a grade-school show of hands, or demand that he sign a pledge, or insist that he speak emotionally and at length about how much his religious faith means to him, well, you can just forget it. Hes not gonna do it.
And that's why we love him.
The part that got to me was this:
I'll tell you what you will want because I have heard it over and over from people that have been lucky enough to live through violence. You will want a gun. You will cry for a gun. You will pray for a gun. You would offer up your soul for a gun to save your wife/husband and kids.
You'll be running like a scared little sheep trying to herd your family out of danger all the while praying "Oh how I wished I had a gun, oh please let us be spared, oh I feel so helpless, how I wish I could do something to save my wife/husband and kids, please someone with a gun stop this madness."
But then it wouldn't do you any good would it? Because of your irrational fear of an inanimate object you wouldn't have practiced the skills to function with it and you'd probably end up dead anyway. That is what his is really all about isn't it. You lack the gumption to do what is necessary to protect yourself and your family so you harbor an unhealthy jealousy for those that do.
I could use another trip to the range.
Right before the move to Dorchester Heights during the Revolutionary War, George Washington issued the following order to his continental army (as quoted in David McCullough's 1776):
But it may not be amiss for the troops to know that if any man in action shall presume to skulk, hide himself, or retreat from the enemy, without the orders of his commanding officer, he will be instantly shot down, as an example of cowardice. [emphasis in original]
Just imagine, if you will, our current George putting forth such an order...
December 13, 2007
After it was over, somehow the movie Redacted came up. My husband chuckled and said that Pootie Tang made more money than Redacted. We looked at each other, grabbed the computer, and had a good laugh. Pootie Tang whooped Redacted in box office take. Niiiice.
December 12, 2007
I hated everyone I know who is pregnant. I hated everyone who already has kids.
People keep telling me that there's a lesson to be learned here, that God has a plan for my life. But I'm not so sure I like the changes that have come over me. In the past year, I have felt more bitterness, more jealousy, and more hatred than I have ever felt in my life. I have grown so angry throughout this process. Having a baby is supposed to be a wonderful experience, and instead I am full of rage. I can't help but think that this is making me a worse person, that I would never have felt these feelings if I'd just gotten pregnant and had a baby the easy way.
I don't like what I've become.
And then the doorbell rang, and the UPS man left me a package. Ginger sent me a blanket from Sew Much Comfort. And her son made me some fudge.
I started thinking, and I started crying. I don't deserve a Sew Much Comfort blanket. I haven't lost nearly as much as the people who normally get those blankets, and I sure haven't done it with much dignity. Here I am, being hateful and feeling sorry for myself, and I get the most selfless gift imaginable from the most selfless family on the planet.
I'm working on being a better person, I promise. I have to earn the right to have that blanket.
December 10, 2007
I had all these grandiose plans to make Hannukah caps and all sorts of goodies, but last week kinda took the wind out of my sails. I made these over the weekend and that will have to do for this year.
And now I'm looking forward to the lack of upcoming holidays so I can just make hats from whatever colors I want. I'm free until 4th of July! OK, maybe a few hearts for Valentine's Day. But I swear I will not attempt an intarsia Abraham Lincoln in February.
Yes, Jim Henley made a mistake. Yes, someone should've pointed it out to him, and he should correct it. But Jesus on rollerskates, does it really take 629 comments to accomplish this?
The third commenter pointed out the attribution error. A few comments after that are perhaps rude, but a little funny. And then it just gets sad. The section gets uglier and uglier. And more personal. And then comment 20 points out the error again. Do people even read comments or do they just assume they're the first to realize the error? Or the first to come up with some witty way of pointing out what an awful and stupid person the blogger is?
Comment 90 finally starts to admit that they've given Jim a hard enough time. But still the comments continue.
I've been on the receiving end of this form of ugly. It's not fun. It's not fun to have your parents' home address posted just because someone doesn't like your opinion or thinks you're dumb. Frankly, I think it's disgusting behavior, no matter who it's pointed at. And right now, it's "my people" being the rude ones, and I don't like it. I disagree with Jim Henley's viewpoint, but dang, leave the man alone.
I am so happy to be a part of the blogosphere. But today it makes me feel ugly.
It's days like this when I remember why Tim left us.
December 08, 2007
And at least this way I'll see them; we fast-forward through commercials anyway in this household.
When he started the program, we were still living in Germany. He had to look far and wide for an online degree program from a respectable school that didn't require him to fly across the Atlantic once a semester. It took a lot of research before he found the right program, and I think he could've saved a lot of time if we had known about the website Military MBA. So when Military MBA contacted me about hosting an ad on my blog, I thought that was a program I could get behind.
If you're in my husband's boat, trying to find an MBA program that will fit with the hectic military lifestyle, give Military MBA a look.
December 06, 2007
We got to the hospital this morning and had to wait in the waiting room for a while. At one point, a nurse came in and decided to turn on the TV. After the commerical break, we returned to Dr. Phil, who said -- I am not kidding -- "Today we're talking with women who are desperate to get pregnant."
Of all the things to watch on TV when you're waiting for a D&C. My husband and I just burst out laughing.
Then I got into the pre-operating room, and the assisting doctor came to get me settled. The very pregnant assisting doctor.
I mean, at this point it's like someone is just trying to make things awkward, right?
But everything went well, and, um, now we don't have a baby anymore.
I've been thinking a lot about the John Prine lyrics I posted the other day. In the grand scheme of things, this really is only half an inch of water. And I did feel like I was going to drown earlier this week, but unfortunately I've gotten way too good at The Perspective Game for my own good.
The women on Dr. Phil had major problems. They only ovulated three times a year. They had tried numerous in-vitros. My husband and I look lucky in comparison to that.
The friend I wrote about a while back who had the miscarriage, her baby was further along than ours was. Hers looked like a real baby instead of the tadpole striking a Rosie the Riveter pose like ours was. It would've been a lot harder for me if our baby had looked more like a baby.
When I woke up from the surgery, I hurt. I am a big wimp, and I was in pain. And I lay there thinking about GBear's son, a 13-year-old boy whose body was ravaged by cancer and who has to repeatedly endure painful limb lengthening surgeries. If he can deal with massive metal pins pulling his femur apart, I can surely deal with some cramping.
I've taken a deep breath this week and realized that things could be a lot worse than they really are. This half an inch of water will not drown me; it will make me a better swimmer.
So this chapter of my life is over, and now we're on to the next.
And I now return this blog to the regularly scheduled programming of attempts at grokking.
December 03, 2007
But today my husband and I spent six hours in the emergency room finding out that our 12-week pregnancy stopped somewhere around week 5. Our baby is no longer a baby. It never even had a heartbeat.
That's the way that the world goes 'round.
You're up one day and the next you're down.
It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown.
That's the way that the world goes 'round.
We got sad. Then we wanted to puke. Then we got angry and frustrated. Then we made crass jokes. And then it was back to sad. We've been through every emotion that exists today, and there's nothing else left to feel.
But what I feel most of all, what is weighing most heavily on me tonight, is time. We don't have time for a blighted ovum, as this condition apparently is called. We were racing against the deployment clock as it was, and now all I can think about is how we have to start over. Back to basal temperatures and the rollercoaster months. Only there aren't that many months left.
And this baby, this baby is still inside of me.
I think I had more perspective when I wrote my SpouseBUZZ post.
December 02, 2007
But I'm exhausted.
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