Yesterday morning started normal enough, but then most days do for at least a few seconds. Admittedly, then most of my days develop some drama. Yesterday more than most.

I was rudely awakened with the realization that the alarm had NOT gone off as I had anticipated and I just didn't have enough time to make it to the gym before school. However, I quickly progressed to the lovely realization that I DID have enough time for a bath.

I started the water, vaguely noticing the tub toy (brown FisherPrice horse) but not overly concerned. I could fish it out before I hopped in. The water rushed into the tub with a familiar and comforting sound. I brushed my teeth. I put my hair up in braids because an hour soaking in hot bubbly water is not good for my long hair, making it look like a pile of hay. Nothing new or exciting there. Just normal.

Found my new magazine. Which provided just the right amount of dissonance with its obviously "fall" cover of orange leaves while outside here the temperatures were expected to reach the nineties in the afternoon. Definitely not "sweater weather". Still. It was a new magazine. Thats a good thing. A normal thing.

Imagine this next part in slow motion -- I turn toward the full tub ... I focus my eyes ... I oooooppppeeeennn mmmmyyyyyyyy mmmmmoooouuuthhhh tooooooo ssssccccrrrreeeeaaammmmm .... No sound comes out. Gasping, yes. Volume, no.

Its about 6:00am so I have to poke my husband awake with a sharp stick. He wakes up well, as I don't do that all that often. And its usually for a reason. Well, yesterdays reason was that the tub was full FULL full of chocolate brown water. I mean THICK water. If I had dropped a bar of soap I couldn't have seen it at all. Heck, I could have dropped a glow-stick into that water and lost it immediately.

Somewhere between me turning on the water and me actually coming back to the full tub, the waterheater completely disintegrated and dumped decades of rust and stuff into my bath. MY bath.

But the cause was unknown at the time. We turned on the cold water. It was clear. Thus, my husband who is definitely brilliant but was still half-asleep, came up with this theory. It was the tub-toy, still floating in the tub. Suddenly for some reason unknown to mankind, the little FisherPrice horsie had inexplicably released a HUGE amount of dye into my bath. All this WITHOUT itself fading.

Thats right. He actually said out loud "Its the tub-toy". Let me say, I disagreed with him right away. Not through any huge sense of logic, but rather from my deep-rooted belief that FisherPrice toys are practically indestructible. Certainly NOT done in by a mere tapwater.

A few minutes later, he came back. "Check the hot water, I bet the waterheater just died." And, yes, that was it. Of course. Because when he's actually awake, he knows things.

The day then went ... differently. He special ordered a highly energy efficient waterheater, which is HUGE! This way, I can have a bath and someone else can still have something this side of ice-water in the other shower. It made me very extra-happy and made the plumbers curse when they came out at 3:00 to install it.

Yep, you heard me correctly. The waterheater broke at 6:00am and he had the new one here and installation started by 3:00pm. Of the same day. Some times he annoys the life out of me, although usually nothing that can't be fixed with Pamprin. Other times, he really amazes me and then laughs softly at my amazement. Its good to be me. Especially now that I am me-with-a-huge-waterheater.

Sunday afternoon I went to Walmart. There are no quick trips to Walmart. But I felt good about it. The family had all been fed, the baby was asleep, the kids were just starting a movie with their dad. The world was good.

I was at Walmart about two hours.

I came home to complete quiet. Real quiet. Nothing. I wondered if they were still home. Walking down the hallway, I heard a voice "Mom, can we get out now (from their bedroom)?" I reponded "Umm. Why are you there?" Its always good to know those things first. " Because Dad grounded us. "Now, keep in mind that they are seven and eight. "Grounding" means that they have to stay in their room for a little while. "Umm. Let me talk to your father."

I find my husband on the bed. Quiet. "Why are they, um, grounded?" "Because." "Because ... why?" "Because they were really misbehaving." "And ..." "And I needed them to be quiet because I have a migraine." (Note to husband: yeah, yeah, I know you just said you had a headache but your scale for pain is skewed. To everyone else, what you had was a migraine)

I took matters into my own hands. I pulled the blinds, closed the door and turned the boys loose. Kind of. In a structured sort of way. Meaning that they unloaded the groceries and cleared the table and started helping me put things away. Lee resisted slightly when I started giving them specific laundry instructions. He looked up at me and said "Gee, I wish I was still grounded."

I looked at him a little confused. "You LIKE being grounded?" "Oh, yeah. Reading. Coloring. Playing with toys on my bed. Telling jokes with Ron. Its great!"

This lead me to explain: "There's a difference between Daddy's World and Mama's World. In my world, "grounding" means I find extra chores for you to do under my direct supervision. Worst case, if I'm too busy to give you adequate supervision, I might confine you to bed with no toys and no talking so that you can think about whatever it was you did that made me ground you and how you can do better next time. "

Lee, sighing "I want to go live in Daddy's World."

Yeah, yeah. Thats what they alll say until they run out of clean underwear and get tired of living on cereal ;)

Funny, but probably not good for children reading either, although I've been told its nothing they don't hear on basic cable (which did lead me to shriek in the middle of Target "I don't let my four year old watch cable!!!!!")

So, I called Sam last night. Mostly to find out why she left a cryptic message on my machine about Cousin Gloria and her latest escapade (the full explanation of which left me thrilled that we don't share Gloria's last name and that we live in another state). Sam then promptly launched into a blow-by-blow description of the horrific day she had with her boyfriend who is generally charmingly normal but seems to have gone insane yesterday, thwarting her every plan for a great special extraordinary romantical day. (Trust me, she was ... ticked)

I should have known something was ... off ... from her tone. She was calm. Very methodical in explaining to me exactly what he had done wrong minute by minute. She does "calm" occassionally. She does "methodical" almost never.

On and on she went. He said, she said. Word by word, with side commentary on his probable thoughts and motives. I listened along for about an hour, eating ice-cream and taking her side 100% (because thats what a sister-type-person does) until she got to "This day was Hell". I might have snorted in disbelief and pointed out "No. This was NOT hell. I remember hell, and this wasn't it." "Ok, WHAT was Hell then?" "Just in the realm of boyfriends alone, you've had worse days with: the closet-Satanist, the twit with the kilt, that english guy who was almost convicted of killing that girl, the ..." "Fine. I get your point. But. Today was bad and its his fault because ... blah-blah-blah-blah. And THEN he called me a name. A bad name. A VERY bad name."

Me: What did he call you?
Sam: It was bad. Very very bad.

Me: How bad?
Sam: Awful.

Me: Really, how bad could it be? I know some of the previous fights with other guys, and this one thought of something new? I don't think so. What?
Sam: It starts with a "w"

Me: (thinking, thinking, thinking) Wifey? (Because earlier they had been arguing about wives. Don't ask.)
Sam: No. It has an "h" in it.

Me: w, w, w, Wench?
Sam: Nooo. (in a calm tight little voice, that boded no good)

Me: w, w, w,
Sam: w. h. o ...

Me: ummm
Sam: (getting a little shrill) W. H. O. R ...

Me: w. h. o. r. E! I get it!
Sam: you can not seriously not get that!

Me: Its your fault that I didn't. You said it started with a "w" and that starts with an "h" sound. How could you expect me to get it!?!
Sam: (muttering aside)

Me: Ummm, Sam, is he there?
Sam: Yes.

Me: Right there?
Sam: Yes, he's listening on my couch because he threw out his back arguing. I gave him some Godiva and a heating pad. He'll be fine.

Me: (laughing so hard I choked) I can't imagine the horror of dating you!
Sam: (laughing) I can't imagine needing the whole word spelled out!

Note to gentle readers, and my husband: Its PERFECTLY reasonable to not immediately get "whore" out of "it-starts-with-a-"w" because it really starts with an "h" if you're hearing it instead of reading it. Really. It makes sense. I'd have gotten it right away if he had called her something phonetically appropriate.

Today I'm going to be blunt and harsh. Very harsh. Ugly, even. And, for those of you that may be thinking of excusing my behavior -- I mean every word of it. This is NOT an opening for a discussion. This is NOT about me trying to convince you of anything. This IS about me not going to try justifying to God when I stand in front of him why I didn't say anything because I don't like conflict. But, really, how much conflict am I going to have? Its not someone thats going to show up everyday in my community or at family gatherings. I'll get de-linked, and thats about it. So what? You think I'm going to say to God "Oh, I was scared of getting de-linked!"

There are things your family and friends won't tell you, or won't tell you bluntly enough to pierce your ego. No one that loves you and has to see you personally every day is going to say "You're an irresponsible selfish baby-killer". "You're no different from a woman that has an abortion and then drops the carcass on her husbands desk at work right before she splatter her brains all over his office-chair." "Get help, you're really sick."

Yes, I do SO know funny cancer stories! Sure, I know a few grim ones but doesn't everyone? It takes ... style ... to have FUNNY cancer stories. The same kind of style that leads people to wear wildly colored floral print scarves pirate fashion with big ear-rings instead of staying home or bothering with wigs which are hot and itchy and often make you look frumpy. Bald can be asscessorized into acceptable. Frumpy is NEVER acceptable. (I have this on first-hand knowledge from a woman that once told another cancer patient "Well, you'd feel better if you just put on some lipstick! You're sick, not dead!) And, yes, I could swear in court that particular Aunt did indeed live her life by that creed.

Its come to my imagination recently that one of my friends might have cancer. But she's not telling, and I'm not so tacky as to just ask. Not that particular question. If she wants to keep it quiet, more power to her. But it will NOT stop me from random drive-by casserolings. Few thing do. And its the rare person that turns down one of my dinners. I can cook. And I do cook. And I send. Its what you do. I learned it from my grandmother and my mother. People need to eat, even if they have lots of stress. And stress comes in all sizes, from births to burials.

Anyway, back to the funny bits. For example, one of my mom's friends has jet-black hair. Raven blue black. Which has gotten blacker with age. (RedRaven pointed out in the post on BlackIrish that was how "black irish" was explained to her) Many people just KNEW she died her hair. Well, during chemo it all fell out. She announced from her hospital-bed with great satisfaction "When it grows in, people will know my roots really ARE black!" I believe tat made the whole ordeal worth it for her.

Although most of my favorite cancer stories revolve around my aunt, Jane. The same one earlier with a belief in the healing powers of lipstick. She was a trip! (Think Auntie Mame with Rosalind Russell) Born only nine months earlier than my mother, they might as well have been twins. Oh, they looked TOTALLY different, but I've never seen twins closer than those two. It was almost creepy. I remember once when I was young people were talking about the need to prepare your children in the event that something happened to you and my mother just looked at her womens group and said "Why? They'd still have Jane." In our world it was almost like having two mothers, often to our aggrivation. Arguing with the two of them was hideous. One would lecture until she had to breath and then the other one would have a go at you until SHE had to breath and so on. Sometimes they'd have to stop in mid sentence and the other would pick up with the next word! It was earth-shaking when Jane got the news that she had three weeks to live. (Note: She lived two years and died accidentially of something completely non-cancer related).

Oh, yeah. THAT was funny. At her SECOND yearly update, her doctor looked over at her and said "Well. I hope you didn't do anything rash when I said you only had three weeks to live."

See, when she found out she had about three weeks to live, she refused to go home and talk to the weeping teeth-gnashing I'm-so-sorry people that would have surrounded her. She wasn't sad. She was cranky. She knew herself well enough to know that she'd choke the life out of the first one that said "Its Gods will" or "You've had a good long life" so she simply ran away from home! She went to stay with my mother, who lived about an hour away.

For the first few weeks, they all cried a lot. My mother, and Jane, and her only "child" who was about 30 at the time (Beth). My Dad just walked around the living room replacing boxes of tissue. He was the one that finally told me, although I had guessed because everytime my mother answered the phone, she burst into tears. After he told me, he kind of flinched as he looked at me. I just looked back at him. Then he relaxed and said, with all sincereity, "Thank God you aren't a crier!" To fully understand the humor of that and grasp his situation, consider the Pea story ...

Jane and Mom were sitting in the living room.

Jane: I think maybe I could keep down some black-eyed peas.
Mom: I wish I had known earlier, there's just not time to cook them now.

Jane: Perhaps we could do them in the microwave.
Mom: They won't do right.

Jane: I'm sure it wouldn't take that long to do peas.
Mom: At least an hour, and by then you won't be hungry.

Jane: I really think peas can be cooked in less time than that.
Mom: They won't be fit to eat unless they simmer. But we can try.

Jane: No. They'll take too long to cook.
Mom: Perhaps we can do them in the microwave.

Jane: They just wouldn't taste right.
Mom: Lets do them, in case you're still in the mood for them later.

Jane: No, my appetite comes and goes. There's no point
Mom: ... (etc).

At that point my Dad interupts with "The black-eyed peas are ready. I put them on an hour ago when the two of you started".

Later, Jane started an experimental treatment at Vandy involving yew trees. She continued to stay with my parents because she needed some help with the intensive treatments. By this time, relatives had figured out where she was. But most of them were too ... cautious ... to cross Jane and my mother. All except Larry-the-trucker (who is Norman's older brother for those of you following along) who decided to send her flowers. Except that Larry still loved his own life enough to send them anonymously. And instead of get-well flowers, he sent her a house-warming plant! We love Larry almost as much as we love Norman. But can you imagine a grown macho-trucker terrorfied of two little old women!?! I'd have loved to see him at the florist!

And Larry is DEFINITELY higher up on our list of "happy" relatives than Gloria! Who just barely makes the list of relatives anyway. (Let me point out that in the South, relatives are ... extended. While it doesn't count legally after "third" cousins I think, I have relatives that are around "twelveth cousins". Here's a shout-out to Kristan -- Ask your Dad if HE can figure it out exactly--HA!) To the point though, let me tell you what Gloria did ...

This has GOT to be the funniest cancer moment ever! I drove over to my parents to visit for the afternoon. Walking in, I knew something was wrong. Very very wrong. Jane was screaming instructions to everyone and no one while my Dad was frantically cleaning the bathroom. Mom was furiously scrubbing the sink and carrying on a high-volume monolog about taking out the garbage and why people should call before they come over and how preachers are horrible excuses for human-beings. This was my first clue. It seems that between the time I called to ask if they needed me to pick up anything on my way, and my actual arrival, that the alarm had been sounded.

See, my parents live in a rural community about an hour away from the rural community my aunt lived in. That means there was roughly forty miles of farmland and two or three small towns between the two. Depending on how you define "town". A preacher, and a whole car full of church-ladies, had stopped for directions in the second small town about ten miles away from my parents farm. God bless the guy at the co-op for giving them questionable directions and calling my Dad! Because the whole town knows how mother is and walking in on her unprepared for company is ... not going to make life easier for my father, and everyone loves my Dad. They love my mother too, but they're just a little ... scared of her.

So. I arrive on the scene moments into the ten-minute window between the warning-call and the expected arrival. The moment arrived and passed. No visitors. More time and stil no visitors. We were all sitting in the front-sun-room which used to be a front-porch until my grandparents glassed it in. It has a lovely view, which includes the driveway so visitors don't slip up on you. Still no visitors. Heart-rates slowed. Blood-pressure dropped. Specualtion started. Just who exactly was foolish enough to suggest that particular minister visit, and then give him her location. Hmmmmm. Little good comes of thinking ill of the majority of your relatives, so I steered the conversational focus onto the minister and his little group of church-ladies. Turns out that Jane had been the church secretary for years and quit six-months before because the preacher "churched" one of the deacons for suggesting that the minister was acting inapproriately! Jane washed her hands of the whole congregation for believing the minsisters accusations about a good man with no proof. She was LIVID (which was saying something for Jane), and a few months later she was vindicated when it turned out that the new-ish minister had been embezzleling and carousing with married church members and wanted the long-time deacon discredited and thrown out before the deacon presented proof to the congregation! THAT was the preacher that Cousin Gloria chose to sic on Aunt Jane! Turns out the preacher and his posse got hopelessly lost, and decided to go home after the person they asked for directions fell over laughing out loud when they confessed to intentionally not-calling-Dorothy-before-visiting.

That still left us with the question of who sent the minister. And what to actually do about them. I used to be catty, a horrid person. Someone that inflicted pain and suffering with malice and forethought. I found out about Gloria, and while not being cruel enough to actually tell Jane and mother, I did talk to Gloria about it. Kind of. I called her and chatted about nothing and everything and ended with the story of how some total lunatic had thought it a good idea to send THAT particular minister, and what the minister had done, and how Jane abhorred him and his entire group, and how Jane had to hurry to get dressed while throwing up and thinking really bad bad BAD things about whoever had given him her location and how Mother WOULD find out who that person was and make sure they were appropriately and thoroughly ... chastised. That no good had ever come of someone arrogantly and intentionally trying to thwart Jane-n-Dorothy. I'm pretty sure Gloria didn't sleep well for quite a while.

I have a million more stories, but not the minutes to type them. These wil have to do until next time!

Please do NOT read this. That was for my husband, everyone else is ENCOURAGED to read it ...

I can't remember why. Really. I think it was some super-logical-semi-sarcastic discussion and I ended up laughing saying "I'm going to blog it and call it My Husband Is An Ass" and now I can't remember anything but the title. I'll just have to be happy with saying that he's not perfect.

We're recovering from a round of some weird virus. It seems everyone got it except Lee. And some of us got it more than once (or had a relapse from overdoing). Now, I'm back.

While I was "gone" there was a big open-to-the-public-shindig at the church that we quit going to about six weeks ago. They're nice people, just people that don't grasp the idea that you can't let small children wander around un-supervised when their parents think they're in class because the parents have dropped them off in the classroom with the appropriate teacher. They're still very nice people. I know first-hand that no one is perfect. We've just decided to go to a church with a stronger focus on child-security so I'm not a nervous wreck during Sunday-school. I bear them no ill will at all. In fact, I helped them with the shindig. Which shocked the life out of some of them! Like its some huge ordeal to say "Sure, I have a bunch of plaid table-cloths. I'll drop them off" or "I know you're going to be short some desserts. I'm good for a few pies." Like I said, its no big deal. I think its sad that some people thought that because I disagreed with them I'd go out of my way to torture them by with-holding plaid and hordeing sugar! Can you say "Gee, its just like third grade!?!" LOL.

Now, everyone is feeling better. I have no event on the horizon. The house is progressing slowly. Packing is progressing slowly. Home-schooling resumes in 8 days, anticipated to progress slowly. In the morning, I'm going to the gym to get in shape, which will progress slowly. I'm feeling very ... empowered. Before I was feeling rather ... overwhelmed. This is an interesting mood-swing. I'm not questioning it, mind you. Just noticing it.

Oh, and BOY did I have some interesting "Better Idea" ideas!?!

Everyone is welcome here. That is, everyone that behaves in a reasonable manner. "Reasonable" being at my discretion. But as long as you don't curse excessively or spam me with porn links, feel free to join right in commenting by clicking on the little "waves" at the bottom right of each post. (Some of the older posts are "turned off" to avoid spam before I got the dna-tester installed. If you're determined to comment on one of those, send me an email and I'll go turn it back "on" for a few days)

If you'd like to lurk, thats ok too. Have a good visit!

Saracasm is good for proving that you are smarter than your target (but that opens a contest of intellect, which may or may not go as you desire). However, plain truth is unparrelled for laying level the battlefield. So few people have the nerve to just grasp hold of truth and use it. I've got lots of nerve, and I used to have more ...

Like the time I stopped by that little mens shop downtown ... thats been there for a hundred years ... to pick up a white dress shirt. Sure, I stopped in on my way home from areobics. Sure, I was a student. Sure, I was dressed in sweats. Sure, I didn't have on make-up. Sure, the clerk tried to treat me like the hooker in PrettyWoman.

Thats where it got different. Because I have more ... something ... than that character. So when I asked the snotty clerk (who had already intimidated the girl with me so much that she went to stand by the door) for a size 161/2-33 and she said "somewhere in that pile over there" I coldly told her "Then, I'm sure you'll have no problem finding it FOR me." She looked like she'd been stung by a bee :) It didn't hurt matters that the owner's son came in a few minutes later and we started chatting because I hadn't seen him since we went to high-school together. Couldn't have timed it better if I had tried!

Could I have left it there? Maybe, if I was someone other than me. No, I felt compelled to mention as I was leaving "You know, this really is a lovely little shop. I hope it stays that way. You might want to consider a refresher course in customer service." That last part pointedly uttered with a knowing tone, while giving the offending clerk the once over, right before I waltzed out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his eyes flare. I suspect there was a lot of "retraining" going on that afternoon. Bwahahaha.

Now, some would think that I was rude to the clerk. I would say that I was a perfect lady. Ladies are those that accomodate inconviences to themselves, but champion the causes of those around them who are unable to do so. The fact that the clerk freaked out my friend with her condecending attitude completely justified my subtle yet effective exchange. No telling how many poor people she'd intimidated! Everyone learned a little from that moment. The clerk learned that its a bad idea to treat people different ways based on perceptions of their circumstances. My friend learned not to be intimidated by salespeople.

I've given this a lot of thought because of something I read recently in "Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior". She is outrageously funny and occassionally saracastic, but I found her to be the most illuminating when she spoke about a mistake people commonly make about manners. To paraphrase, she said that most people see etiquette as being behavior that makes others feel comfortable which entirely misses the point that good manners should be used to make others feel UNCOMFORTABLE in certain situations. People that are intentionally behaving badly should no more expect you to make them comfortable than people who are mugging you should expect you to offer them tea! There is a difference between being polite and being a doormat. (She also has a good chapter on how to say "no" politely but firmly)

The essence of the Southern Lady! FINALLY, I can put into words what I've struggled to define for years! The ability and willingness to use manners as a weapon! There it is.

No, really its still Lucy. But I'm feeling more and more like Mark. As in, "Oh look, there's an easy mark. I bet she can be conned into all kinds of things! Lets give it a try."

I've been thinking for some time about posting a piece on perception, mulling it over and over. Not getting it quite right or smooth enough for posting. Yet, I find myself unable to avoid it any longer. Especially since I'll be house-blogging shortly.

There are a few things I've noticed about how people percieve me:

(1) They often confuse nice with stupid, or they confuse nice with easily-intimidated. Now, in a position of security, I yield to neither peer pressure nor reverse psychology. This REALLY confuses my parents who raised me under the confused delusion that nice-polite (which was safer) was spineless. Trying to break me was like trying to snap a wet noodle!

(2) They seem to think that my entire life has been exactly like it is now. It is beyond them to imagine that either I or my circumstances might have changed over the decades. According to this mis-perception, I have always been happy and secure while living the American Dream. Much too perfectly perfect to have any understanding of any bad thing. Because I don't wear victimhood on my wrist like a shiny bracelet, people assume I've never been a victim of anything. NOTE: I used the past-tense of that verb because I don't think of victimhood as being an ongoing situaiton. For example, "You were a victim of a mugging last week" is correct instead of "You are a victim of a mugging last week".

(3) They don't grasp the scope of personality. Sure, I allow myself to be a fluffy-bunny. Its a luxery that I can afford. That doesn't mean I'm not capable of being ... a non-fluffy bunny. What's the opposite of a fluffy-bunny? Maybe a sarcastic-tiger. Because I can SO be that. I just try to not be that in front of the children.

Apparently, all these mis-perceptions about me lead contractors to make questionable decisions. And, heaven forbid, to actually argue with me. A few even argue with my husband, like he's gonna side with them over me! I still laugh over that! Oh, oh! Or trying to manipulate poor-simple-Lucy into agreeing with them. Like the contractor that messed up the stucco over the garage door. My husband wanted it fixed, the contractor wanted him to learn to live with it. Finally the contractor turned to me and said "I think it looks ok, don't you?" To which I mused out loud while looking over his shoulder "I wonder what it would take to move that stairwell?" He looked at me in speechless horror, then quickly agreed with my husband that he'd get it fixed, and suddenly discovered that he had to be going along. LOL!

(4) I almost forgot ... its not just contractors that are making me feel like Mark. Its friends and aquaintances too. They're just a little more subtle. Its interesting (although I suppose logical) to note that if someone lives in a middle-class neighborhood that they are middle-class, and that if someone builds a big house they are well-to-do. The ideas of how upper-class and middle-class behave are different. I see it in the way my friends treat me. We live in a decidedly middle-class neighborhood now (while the house is being built). People expect us to act one way, and make all kinds of assumptions. Its becoming more and more obvious that we're about to move into the new house. Which is big. HUGE. Very big. However, its also very simple and plain by design. But people are starting to make assumptions about me based on where I live.

They assume we have more money than we do, they assume we must therefore spend money like water, they assume that I don't have to be a good shopper. They're confused about me driving a low-end minivan. They keep asking "Why don't you get a Town-n-Country with a DVD player and heated seats?". NOTE: I have nothing against any of y'al having a great van with bells-n-whistles, I just need to drive my van until we need to replace it. (They are REALLY confused that I don't want a DVD player because my kids already spend too much time face-to-monitor) Why don't you buy "this" or "that" or "this AND that"?

And its not that I"m against spending money, I just prefer to spend it on things that I need or REALLY want. With any luck, things on sale. And with a coupon code. And free shipping :)

Perhaps its a little odd to post something about Castro right after a post about "not hating". Because I must admit that I'll feel joy at his demise. If nothing else, it will end his ability to torment others. I try to be the kind of person that can still pity him. Hell is real, and he's going to be there forever. Literally, a million times a million years will only be the beginning.

I noticed at Babalu that he's had surgery and has temporarily turned power over to his brother. Realistically, how much longer can EITHER of them hold power? Fidel is 80 and his brother is 75. Its not like they live health-oriented lives. I'm shocked they've lived THIS long.

Perhaps this might be the time, might be the moment. I'll mention Cuba to the kids this week, with the globe. (They LOVE the globe) Make sure I have some Sprite and some champagne glasses. Although, I'm not sure its right to actually toast someone's demise. Does that seem right to you? Because it doesn't seem entirely right to me. But to NOT toast it seems a little hypocritical.

A post inspired by Paul, because I can't remember how to do trackbacks and I didn't want to hog up all his comment space :) Its not such a dark post, although it has a slightly grim beginning ...

Leni made me do it. Take yet another internet quiz, that is. Except that this one didn't tell me what cartoon character I was (like when I was "Daria" and "Lucy from Peanuts"). Nope, this was a "serious" one. Jung. And, low and behold, I'm a INFJ (Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judmental).

Does this make me happy? Explain my entire psyche? Lead me to greater personal fullfillment? I didn't think so at first. Then I read the article that discussed the classification. Lots of it was bogus (as if they're going to say "all INFJ are horrid people who should be locked up), but some of it rang true. And it did indeed explain some of my interactions with Sam who, God Bless Her, couldn't be an INFJ if her life depended on it. I think she would be an EFFF (extroverted feeling feeling FEELING) except that I don't think thats a real catagory.

I can see where Leni is definitely an ENFJ, and think its TOO funny that I'm an INFJ. Off just one letter. She's a good leader, I'm a good second in command. Its a shame we live in different parts of the country -- we could rule the world! Bwahahaha ....

Here's the articles about "me" if you're interested ...