RIP

My Uncle Sonny died yesterday. He was 85 and a real character. He will definitely be missed.

Sonny had been suffering ill health for quite some time, and I know that his passing is a blessing - he's finally home and at peace. No more trouble breathing or getting around. No more coughing. No more just plain feeling bad. Just peace and love and acceptance. I know that my aunt and my grandmother were waiting for him.

But we'll miss his stories, and his laugh. When he was in high school, Sonny and some friends took apart a car and rebuilt it on top of a building - their school maybe? People woke up the next day to the sight of a car on a roof! My grandfather was not amused, but it was clearly worth it to Sonny.

Sonny was a mechanic during World War II. He worked on planes that flew into Germany - into enemy territory. He was actually in the planes during missions. If anything went wrong during flight, it was his job to get it fixed if he could so they wouldn't go down in enemy territory. No pressure. He also served in the Pacific theater. A few years ago, I went through a box I'd inherited from my grandmother, and I found some letters my uncle had written to her during the war from Japan. They were fascinating. I gave the originals to my cousin, his son, but I made color copies for myself first. What a life.

And it wasn't just his adventures that made up that life. Sonny and my Aunt Peggy were married for 56 years. They raised two kids, who raised kids of their own and are now greeting their own grandchildren. He's part of the fabric of my childhood - weekends and holidays spent at my grandmother's house always included Sonny and Peggy. I can still see him sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table, telling the story about when he jumped into a cold lake and jumped out so fast his wallet didn't even get wet. I must've heard it 100 times. I wish I could hear him tell it now. I wish I could sit next to him on the porch swing as he smoked his pipe. I loved how that pipe smelled. I wish I could feel his thin arms squeeze me tight with an energetic, "I love you, kid!" - boy could that man give a hug!

Sonny was loved by many. He was one of a kind. I'm glad I knew him. I'm glad I can claim him as one of my own. I'll miss you, Uncle Sonny. I love you, kid!

A word to parents

Sorry, kids - working on a massive project and haven't had time to blog. It'll probably be that way for another couple of weeks. I may tell you about the project, but then again I may not. It depends on how it turns out!

In any case, I'll give you a quick blog shot here.

To all parents of young children, do not, I repeat DO NOT, bring your 2-year-old to a movie unless that movie involves cartoon pandas, penguins or cars. Seriously.

J and I went to see M. Night Shamalamadingdong's new movie, "The Happening," on Sunday. This is a suspense thriller-type movie. All of his movie's are. Heard of "The Sixth Sense"? Yeah, it's that guy. Well, not only did we have to shush some hag who TOOK A PHONE CALL about halfway through the movie (I'm not kidding - she not only answered the call, but began a conversation. When we shushed her and I gave her a curt, "Hey!" she got louder. More people then shushed her and I proceeded to yell "HEY!" with a tone that said, "I'm about to shove that phone right down your throat," so she wrapped it up.), but we had to endure some woman's toddler babbling, crying out, and running around the theater through the whole friggin' movie.

If we hadn't been in a theater that was all the way at the end of the building - 3 or 4 miles from the managers station at the front of the theater, I think I would've had the woman thrown out. Instead, I just muttered under my breath, "I hate her" every single time her kid ruined a suspenseful moment.

With movie prices the way they are these days, it's just plain unacceptable that people should have to put up with that. If you can't afford a sitter, then you can't afford to go to a movie. Everyone else in that theater is not a babysitter for your little bundle of joy, and everyone else in there paid a hefty sum to watch the movie in a theater - not your living room. Get Netflix. Get a Blockbuster card. Get a clue.

In my email...

Wu Yi Tea wants to know if I'm "Tired of being overweight?"

Well, not until you SAID that!! In fact, Wu Yi, until you said that I'm overweight - just pointed it out like it's a known fact to anyone with eyes - I didn't even think I WAS overweight! But it's on the Internet, so it must be true. Dammit.

What's funny is that I've only been aware of my overweightness for about 2 minutes now, and I AM tired of it already!

I wonder why Wu Yi Tea would ask me such a thing? Do you think he has some sort of advice - some system or, say, product that could help me with my overwhelming bulk? Mr. Tea, what could the answer be?

What a relief that the answers to all of our problems just come to us in our email now. We don't even have to go looking for them. What did people ever do before the Internet?

Nothing can ever just be simple.

I called Sears this morning to make an appointment to fix my washing machine. I tried to set an appointment online, because that's how I like to do things - online with no actual human contact. But the website didn't want to give me an appointment.

Apparently, the Sears folks don't want to actually have to do their jobs. They wanted me to just call for a "phone consultation" so they could talk me through a repair over the phone. Ummmmm...no. Am I a Sears repairman? No, I am not. Do I want to be a Sears repairmen? No, I do not. You are the Sears repairman and coming to fix my stuff is your job, so just come over and fix it.

I'm going to guess it's because I answered that the appliance is still under warranty. This means they won't make any money on my repair, so they'd like to avoid coming out and doing it. Tough she-shitsky, as my Mom says. You should've sold me an appliance that works.

I actually think the problem is going to be traced back to setup with the drain line, because this EXACT same problem plagued my last washer - that's why I got rid of it, probably needlessly if we determine that I'm right about the problem. But I had something like 3 servicemen out in a year's time and none of them figured that out, so I don't blame myself if that's the case. I blame the idiots who couldn't figure out the problem when that's what they get paid to do.

But my boyfriend, who is NOT a Sears repairman and does NOT get paid to figure these things out, came up with this theory about the drain line, so I'm going to let him be present for the repair so that he can discuss his theory with the technician. Let the menfolk discuss the mechanical items amongst themselves. I ain't good at such-a thangs.

The real point of this post, though, was that I had to call the phone number and get a live person on the line to force them to give me a appointment with a repairman. After wading through the voice-prompt system (which I HATE - I HATE having to talk to a machine. Everyone around you can tell what you're doing, too: "Repair." "Yes." "Washer." "Correct." Aaargh) and waiting on hold for about 15 minutes, I got a live person, and she again tried to troubleshoot with me on the phone. I had to tell her straight out that I didn't want a phone consultation - I just wanted someone to come out. She dropped it and set an appointment, which was good, but then she started trying to upsell me on other products and services. I was polite, but after the first two upsells, when she started a third I had to tell her that I was really sorry, but I had to go to a meeting (which was true - I was 5 minutes late), so if we were done setting my appointment, I needed to move on.

I'm sure that's another reason the website didn't want to give me an appointment. It's probably harder to upsell people online. Grrrr. Just come fix my washer.

I hate mold.

Another great evening last night. An old friend was in town, so J and I met and her and her fiancee for a free concert by Guy Forsythe at Shady Grove. It's a much smaller venue than Zilker Park, so the space was a lot tighter than it was for the Asleep at the Wheel concert the night before, but we were able to eat a fine meal before the show, so I won't do no complainin'.

I will however complain about the allergies I am suffering with. The only thing that's been on the allergy report for some time now is mold, so that must be what I'm allergic to, and it can't help that I've been spending so much time outside. But I'm not going to sequester myself inside and stop living just to try to avoid mold. And from what I've been reading on the Internet, even if I did, there would just be mold in my house somewhere that would attack me. The damn stuff is apparently everywhere.

I've been taking Claritin, but I still end up with a headache right behind my eyes almost everyday, as well as post-nasal drip and congestion. It never seems to go away, no matter what the weather is, so I should probably see if I need to change meds or get allergy shots or something. I've about had it with feeling like crap everyday.

In any case, I did a little Internet research about mold allergy, and I found this article by this woman whose son was being absolutely plagued by it. They did this massive housecleaning effort to rid their house of mold, and then she mentioned that she had put her son on a particular diet until his symptoms subsided. These are the foods she said he had to avoid:

Cheese
Salami
Potatoes
Hot dogs
Most nuts, especially pistachios and cashews
Chocolate
Sugar
Anything with yeast - breads, bagels, etc.
Raw vegetables and fruit
Saturated fats, including butter
Garlic
High vitamin A and high provitamin A beta-carotene foods - especially carrots, liver and pumpkin
Fruit juices
Refined grains
Dairy

What exactly does that leave you? Pickles and grilled meat patty?

Boy, do I love my city!

Had a fantastic evening last night!

J and I took advantage of the kind of Wednesday night you only find in Austin, Texas.

First, we went and picked up a new microphone that J negotiated for on Craigslist. Only in a town with musicians left and right can you find just exactly the piece of musical equipment you need and for a good price on Craigslist. His new band is building more with each show and this new mic will really help fill out the sound.

Then, we went over to Hut's and enjoyed ourselves some two-for-one burgers - a Wednesday special at the incomparable Hut's. We have enjoyed this special before, but always with burgers one of us has tried before. Last night, we took a chance and ordered something new to both of us - the Alley Oop. This little treasure comes with swiss cheese, grilled onions and Thousand Island dressing. It normally comes with whole grain bread, but we substituted wheat buns - bread gets soggy in about two seconds with a hamburger, and that just ain't right. We were both profoundly happy with the tangy and smooth taste of the Alley Oop. And our fries were cooked to perfection. Great job (as usual), Hut's!

After feasting, we went to Blues on the Green. This is a free concert series hosted by local radio station KGSR. Every other Wednesday in June and July, a different big-name band plays a FREE CONCERT in Zilker Park. Just grab a blanket, a cooler and a sweet spot on the ground and enjoy the show! You can even bring your dog if you have one (yes, dear, I know that we will never have a dog - I mean *other* people can bring dogs). Last night, Asleep at the Wheel played, and it was absolutely perfect. The show started around 7:30, and by then, the heat of the day was gone, replaced by a comfortable temperature and a great breeze. We talked, sang, lounged and people-watched until about 9:00 (the show went until 9:30). Then we walked back to the car, the whole time extolling the virtues of our amazing city. (For anyone who reads this and thinks they want to move here, I've got a house you can buy...)

All in all, a perfect evening. Thanks to my awesome J for being such a great partner in crime! Life is good.

What, you don't carry it around, too?

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a phobia about b.o. I like to smell good (and by "like" I mean that if I don't, it's a point of great distress), and deodorant is a vital part of my grooming. It should be for you, too, by the way. Trust me - ain't no one wants to smell your natural self.

In service to this phobia, I not only keep deodorant at home, but I have a travel size deodorant nearby just about at all times - either in my car, or in my briefcase, or in my purse if I'm out for the evening in a situation where I might be dancing or outside. Here's a tip: I've discovered over the years that the car is only a good choice in winter. Deodorant melts like buttah in the blast furnace heat around here.

Since summer arrived here weeks ago, my little Travel D has been in my briefcase. I did take it with me in my purse on Friday when I went out for the evening, though, and I guess it got a little too warm. See, this morning I realized I had forgotten to put on deodorant at home (I was very tired this morning). No worries, though - I've got deodorant in my briefcase! I'll just put some on when I get to my office. Except b.o. for me is a *phobia* so I couldn't wait for that. I had to try and put it on in the car - not while I was actually driving, but at a stop light.

I rummaged around behind my seat, feeling in my briefcase until I located Travel D. It took several seconds to accomplish this, so I knew I only had a few moments before the light would turn green and I'd have to stop my deodorant triage. So, I ripped the top off Little D, and...it crumbled all over my lap - no, all over my black skirt! Awesome.

I pieced it back together as best I could before the light changed, and I suffered with the knowledge of my unprotected pits until I got to the office then tried again. Again, it littered itself all over my skirt and the floor until I could cobble together some usable pieces and use a kleenex to hold them and apply what I could. Quite the picture of a competent business professional, no?

Thank God I get to the office before any of my coworkers.

I wonder...

if someday, electricity, at least as we know it to be dispensed, will be replaced completely with some other power source.

This thought actually came to me the last time I was vacuuming. As I worked my way around the house, dodging and moving the cord and having to stop periodically to unplug it and replug it into another outlet, I wondered if People of the Future will shake their heads in wonderment at our clumsy appliances and primitive power sources.

We can hardly imagine farming with a mule and a plow - it's all tractors, right? So, what if someday, all the appliances in our houses, with their cords tethered to the wall, will seem just as primitive. Does anyone besides me even still have a corded telephone in their house? And when did that change occur? Within the last 10 years for sure. Cell phones, and certainly cordless phones, have replaced them within recent memory.

So, what technology will be developed that releases us from electricity, or at least from cords and wires in our walls? Something is going to come along that just completely changes how we power things. And when it does, will it translate to cars in some way so that we're finally off fossil fuels, too? And will it happen within my lifetime? Will I be an old lady talking about "the old days" when I put gas in my car and all my appliances had cords? Will children marvel at how I managed to get anything done at all with those clunky tethers getting in the way?

Just an interesting thought, I think. (Save this post for when this all comes true and you can say, "Suzanne said in 2008 that this would happen.")

Pictures are worth a 1,000 words...all lies

My friend Laurie shared the pictures from paintball today. How is it that when you look at the pictures later, it looks like so much fun that you forget saying, "I will NEVER do this again!"

(Thanks for being our photographer, Laurie, and again, despite all the pain and suffering, I'm glad we did it!)

In my email

Flatworm says, "We know what you want." Do you now?

First of all, Flatworm, I don't know who you are, but my first question is who is "we"? If you've got partners, I think I deserve to know who they are.

Second of all, when I think of a flat worm, I think of tapeworms. Tapeworms are disgusting. I'm not sure I want a tapeworm knowing my wants and desires.

Third of all, you *know* what I want? How do you *know* what I want? Did I tell you? No, I did not. Have you been reading my diary? PYSCH! I don't have a diary (and I love that show - when does the new season start?). Have you been talking to my friends? What makes you think I tell them everything? No, Flatworm, you do not know what I want. You just *think* you know.

And lastly, so what if you did know what I want? Unless you can actually get it for me, that knowledge is useless. So, what good are you and all your pointless pieces of ill-gotten data?

I think you and your mysterious little posse need to reevaluate what you hope to accomplish with all this email, Flatworm.

Paintball hurts.

Does that surprise you? It did me. For some reason, I had it in my head that paintball was messy, but not painful. So, when my friend Tony wanted to do paintball for his birthday, I said, "Sure! Sounds like fun!"

My first indication that things might not be as pleasant as I first imagined was when I saw the weather forecast for yesterday. I believe the high was projected as 98, and we were starting paintball - an outdoor activity - at 2:00 p.m. Hmmm. Could be toasty.

Then I read the instructions for paintball. Well, they weren't so much instructions for the game as preparations, and they included things like, "Wear jeans. Wear long sleeves." Really? Long sleeves? Outside in 98-degree weather? Are you sure? But I supposed that was so you wouldn't get paint all over yourself - just your clothes, which you could take off and toss in the washer when you got home.

Then we arrived at the paintball place and I read the rules - again these weren't really instructions on how to play as much as "If you do these things, we'll kick you out" items. It said we'd be wearing masks, and you're not allowed to take your mask off once you've entered the playing areas. Masks? Okay, so I'm wearing jeans, long sleeves and a mask...in 98 degree weather. Uh oh.

Not being one to shy away from at least trying something, though, I convinced myself that I'd ignore the heat and just focus on the game. There were lots of people there, all in appropriate gear, and none of them seemed afraid of heatstroke, so if they could do it, I could do it. We went out to pressure up our guns.

This is where I should've gotten the message that I'm an idiot who had no business participating in this activity. I watched the guy demonstrate how to air up our guns. He then began to instruct us on something or other (I wasn't listening), and one by one we aired up our guns. I waited my turn and finally grabbed the nozzle for the air station and attached it to the thingy (a technical term) on my gun and KABLOW!! The instructions were halted momentarily while everyone turned to stare at me. A couple of the guys in our group came over to see what the hell I'd done. It would appear that the thingy I attached the nozzle to wasn't the *right* thingy - it was just a screw, so the pressured air just blew out like a bad tire. That would've been embarrassing enough, but in the process of that, I had blown out the o-ring in the nozzle as well. So everyone had to wait idly by why the attendant fixed the machine. Fantastic start - really.

It was finally time to play, and we hit the field. We didn't actually know what the goal was other than to shoot people on the other team, which in the first game, was each other (we just played with our group only, split into two teams). I caught one paintball to the head, and I thought, "Wow, that was fast. I'm out. And, uh...ow." I started to stand up, but the referee shouted "No paint! You're still in." This means that while the paintball did, in fact, pop me with stinging force in the side of the head (where I was unprotected by either mask or clothes), it hadn't actually broken. So, I wasn't out. "Oh. Okay. And uh...ow." I kept playing, but never got hit again, and our side won, so that was cool.

Switch sides and play again. This where things went horribly awry. Several minutes into the next game, I'd advanced to shelter behind one of the barriers and was looking for someone to shoot when BAM, BAM!! Extremely painful blasts stung my right bicep and right shin, almost simultanously. Also, almost simultaneously, I screamed out, "FUCK!!! I'm out!! I'm out!!"

Now, I realize that some of you out there may take offense to my sailor mouth, but I feel I must make a couple of points. 1) I'm not a parent. So, I don't really have much call for watching my mouth when not at work...and really, not so much even AT work. So, shouting say, "Fudge!" or "Oh my goodness!" when pelted with tiny, exploding missiles is just not very likely. 2) I was being pelted with tiny, exploding missiles.

I knew immediately that the "enjoyment" part of the afternoon was probably over for me. I limped back to the rest area and inspected my wounds, which were already bruising and swelling. Luckily, we had a cooler with ice, so I iced my two wounds immediately, which I think went a long way toward me not looking today like I was in an actual war yesterday. I cannot express to you enough how suprised I was at just how bad those damn paint pellets hurt.

If I'd sat and watched the other teams for a while before stepping out onto the field myself, I would've known not to go out there. As the afternoon rolled on, person after person came back to the rest area to show off new and horrific new bruises. It was truly disturbing. But not wanting to be a quitter, I did try to go back out there one more time.

You might think things couldn't have gotten worse, but you'd be wrong. When we went back out, we ended up on a field with another team. These people weren't kidding around. They were friggin' commandos. I think they would've shot us right in the face at point blank range if they could've done it without being kicked off the field. But that wouldn't have been necessary in my case, because I discovered during this game that something was wrong with my gun. While my opponent could shoot me full force from across the entire field, my gun would shoot maybe twenty feet with a high, gentle arc. So, I couldn't shoot anyone but they could hammer me without even advancing. Greeeeat.

I proceeded to cower behind a barricade, trying to figure out what part of my body to pop out into the open where it might hurt the least to get shot, so I could be out and get off the field. Zing! Another shot to the head. "No paint!" Dammit. A few seconds later, Zing! Another shot to the head. "No paint!" Aw, COME ON!! About that time, shing!! A graze to my upper thigh. No paint, and it hurt like hell. So, now I'm just getting bruised without even getting the sweet relief of being called out! Just when I'm thinking maybe I can just give up and call *myself* out, pow! Paint and pain all over my right hand. Thank GOD!!

I screamed, "I'm out! I'm out!" and stood up, gun hanging by my side, headed for the sideline, and ZING! Another damn shot to the head!! To my credit, I didn't scream an obscenity, but I did shout in a less than amused voice for whoever did it to stop, that I was clearly out and leaving the field of play.

At this point, I was officially done, and so was the other girl in our group who was playing. She walked away with two bruises that I swear to God couldn't have been any worse if she'd been shot by actual bullets. The guys played a few more games, all with other teams who were practically professionals. I guess it's a testosterone thing.

I can say that I'm glad I did it. I can cross it off my list of things that I've done in this lifetime. But I can pretty much assure you I'll never do it again. Oh, and if you're considering doing it, I'm going to suggest doing it in, say, December, when 2 or 3 extra layers of padding would not only be prudent but comfortable. I'll bring the hot chocolate and watch your extra paint balls for you in the rest area.