Mon Dieu, He's Armed and Naked!

The Jehovah's Witnesses tried to come save me this morning.  Funny, I didn't even know I was in need of rescue.  You pretty much never do until they're at your doorstep asking if you've found God.  Oh, crap!  He's missing?  The kids were playing in the front yard, and they (the Jehovah's Witnesses) stopped and asked if "mommy was home."  My beautiful children informed them that I was sleeping.  At 11:00 in the morning.  I'm sure they were shocked at this terrible mother who was sleeping the day away while her children played in the dirt and chatted with God's strangers.  Whatever.  I was totally awake and actually working (one of the benefits of working from home is that Saturday morning is virtually the same as Tuesday morning, minus school), but they left so it works for me.  Please don't misunderstand.  I have much respect for Jehovah's Witnesses and their beliefs.  I also respect other religions, other lifestyles and the choices of people who eat hot dogs, and of those who eat tofu.  But please, don't arrive at my front door on a Saturday morning trying to shove your God or your tofu down my throat.  In fact, unless you have a mimosa, just skip my house, and I'll do you the same courtesy.

The best no soliciting award, however, goes to my dad, and I'll tell you why.  As you may know, I grew up in the country - rural America in almost West Texas.  I'd tell you it was New Mexico, but I always get the same response about how beautiful New Mexico is.  Or surprise that I speak English so well, being Mexican and all.  Either way, you're wrong on both counts, y'all.  It's not very beautiful, and it's not Mexico.  It's very near Amarillo, and not very near anything else.  So, let's just call it West Texas, ok?

When I tell people, I'm from New Mexico,
first they ususally think this....

Then they think this...

It actually looks like this.

Anyway, lately, we'd been having a problem with skunks.  More than once, our dogs had run out the front door barking like maniacs and run back in smelling of Pepe le Pew, so my dad, in all the wisdom and forward thinking of a farmer, decided he'd be ready for them next time.  He placed a shot gun by the front door and waited.  One Saturday morning, he had been out early doing the farm thing, feeding the cows and whatnot, and it was a particularly hot one that day.  After the chores, he came in to shower so he wasn't smelly and gross at lunch, and mid-shower, he heard the dogs in the front yard sounding the alarm.  Skunk!  Without taking the time to dress, or even rinse the shampoo out of his hair, he dashed out of the bathroom and straight to the front door, grabbing up the shotgun as he burst through the door, ready to finish off those damned skunks.  After all, you have to be quick to catch a band of sneaky skunks.  He launched himself out onto the porch, gun at the ready, hair standing straight up and covered in suds, and nary a stitch of clothing to be found.  Only, instead of finding himself in the company of several surprised and frightened skunks, he found himself in the company of several surprised and frightened Jehovah's Witnesses.  Apparently, they figured it was pretty much too late to save this one, so without a word, they climbed back into their car and drove away.  Like Andretti, complete with peel out and fishtail.  And they never came back, ever.  They're probably still wondering to this day if they qualify for the Jehovah's Witness Protection Program.

Pardonnez moi.  A moment of
your time to talk about Christ,
si vous plait....

I can't tell you how many times I've been tempted to try that approach - running out stark naked, with a weapon, looking completely insane - to deter solicitors.  In the end, though, I'm pretty much a sissy, and I just put a "no soliciting" sign in my front window.  Lame, I know.  I do read what they leave with me, though.  I find it fascinating.  They told me that at the end of days, all the people who have died, will come back.  Well, only the nice ones who believed good enough, I guess, but they get bodies and everything.  I do wonder, though, will their bodies be all fixed and stuff?  I mean, most of these people have been dead a really long time, and not to sound insensitive, but that's gross.  Also, where are they going to live?  That's a crap ton of people, and we're already crowded as it is.  I bet tent sales would skyrocket.  Can you imagine coming back a couple hundred years after you died?  Talk about a total WTF moment!

Does One's Junk In the Trunk Have To Go Through Customs?

Me marking studs, but not in a fun way.

Oh, the house, the house.  Our house that we bought, you know the one.  The one with the artwork?  (If you are still lost, click here to catch up.)  Oh, the misery.  We finally got our hands on a copy of the blue prints, all freshly done up and exactly what we wanted them to be.  Really, my only disappointment was in that they are not actually blue, which makes them just prints in my way of thinking.  Way less exciting.  Anyway, so we have a set of the most beautiful engineering drawings ever.  (Thank you, MK Engineering.)  Now we find we have more hoops through which to jump.  I won't bore you with the details, but the bottom line is that we may be set back another 3 months.  Will this house ever be built?  Also way less exciting was "marking the studs."  When my husband announced we were going over to mark the studs, my first thought was, naturally, somehow putting my scent on nice-looking gentleman to convey to the other ladies, "Back off!  This hunk is mine!"  I sort of doubted this would be the case, though, because it was his idea, but I went with an open mind.  Not. Exciting. At. All.  I had to crawl around and write lines on the bare concrete with a sharpie everywhere there was a piece of wood so we'd know where to nail the drywall (if the time ever arrived).  Not the "stud-marking" I'd been anticipating.

In a side note, why does my iPhone autocorrect almost every damn thing I say (for example, I don't want to say, "Good Mormon" when what I mean is "Good morning."  and when you autocorrect to "duck", phone, that's really not the word I intended at all), but when I type "ong" it totally lets that go?  Autocorrect to "Omg," please and thank you.  Does it really think my intended expression is "Ong"?!  Sheesh.

Never looks quite the same as the
picture on the box, does it?

So, I've decided a little slimming and toning is in order because my first cruise is coming up March 1.  Ok, not technically my first cruise.  We went back in.... October was it?  November?  But Hurricane Sandy had a party in the Bahamas, so we were unable to leave port.  We just spent a weekend on the cruise ship, enjoying the dinners, drinks and shows, until it was time to get off the boat on Sunday and go home.  It was a great time, but this time I hope to actually go somewhere into the ocean, and I want to look great doing it.  So in order to meet my fitness goals, I got a jump rope, one of those big exercise balls, a resistance band and a pedometer.  Jumping rope is not what it was in the 5th grade, y'all.  If I don't smack my ankles every third jump, I'm winded and have to stop.  The only thing my resistance band has managed to do is smack each of my curious, yet oddly inattentive children in the face, at least one time each.  I find I can't wear my pedometer because that 500 Miles song by the Proclaimers just plays a constant loop in my head whenever I have it on, and I'm half out of my mind (and a wee bit Irish) by the end of the day.  And I just can't seem to figure out exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing with the ball.  It seems I am exercise impaired, so I decided to try to achieve my goals through diet instead.  I went out and spent a small fortune on "healthy, yet delicious" foods.  My first venture?  An all natural egg white and veggie omelet that wound up looking nothing like the picture on the box, but tasting very much like the box itself.  Fail.  Ah well, skinny is overrated anyhow.  Looks like I'll be taking my junk in the trunk on the cruise along with the rest of my luggage.  

Random funny for your day:  This is a sign on an actual restaurant in my hometown.  How many golians does it take to make Chinese food?  Just one, apparently, a "Monogolian", at the Fuzhou Buffet.

Whether Or Not You Have Stars Upon Yars: A Hippie Moment

People shouldn't be black.  People shouldn't be female.  People shouldn't be fat.  People shouldn't be gay.  People shouldn't be poor.  People shouldn't be wealthy.  People shouldn't be Muslim.  People shouldn't be Republican.  I could go on forever about what you and I, as people, shouldn't be.

Where do we learn this?  It can't be innate.  Babies will smile at anyone, true little pink, toothless paragons of acceptance.  They don't care how old, fat, bald, conservative, and/or gay you are.  They're usually just so damned happy to see your face.  No, it is a legacy, something like a beautiful grandfather clock, lovingly passed from generation to generation, only not beautiful in any way.  It is something we teach our children, an heirloom seed of hatred passed down a long line.  Fortunately, the world is shifting.  A wave of acceptance is slowly changing the way we, as a whole, view our world and what we teach our children.  Basically, I think generations are calling bullshit on hatred.  Finally!

As parents, it is our responsibility to teach them that the only thing people shouldn't do is hurt themselves or one another, physically or emotionally.  Hitting and hating - they both hurt.  What people should do is be kind and compassionate.  Be honest and helpful.  Respect people, their ideas, their beliefs, their choices, and welcome them because of their differences, not in spite of them.  Keep an open heart, and sincerely seek joy for others.  And if you do hurt someone, and you will, be repentant.  And be forgiving of others when they hurt you.  Work together to enrich and improve the world around you, and whatever you do, do it with love.

Thank you for lending me your ear for a moment.  You can have it back now.  Except for you, Mr. Van Gogh.  I'm keeping yours.

*steps down from the soap box and heads to work*