Today’s 'Hand Up' was Hands Down the Best

So you already know how much I love my morning radio program (the Johnny Dare Morning Show on KQRC), and how very much I appreciate their Hope for the Holidays program, and how I pretty much tear up on the way into work every morning during the holidays, when they contact that day’s families and rev up the ‘Hand Up’.

Well, today was no exception, but my word! What a simultaneously heartrending and heartwarming situation. Karly, a single mom of two young boys, works hard to ensure their needs are met. She’s not having trouble making ends meet, has their Christmas cared for, isn’t asking for help. But.

But her cousin Jennifer, a single mom of three (two boys and a girl), who would have been 44 today, was killed by a drunk driver on the 11th. Jen and Karly (cousins and best friends) made one another legal guardians of their children in case anything ever happened to them. Karly now has three more children, and has lost her best friend.

Jennifer had moved to San Antonio, TX, a couple years ago; her funeral was the 18th. Karly’s parents flew down to TX to bring Jen and her children home. These three little ones have not only lost their mommy, but they have absolutely nothing suitable for a KS/MO winter climate, and Karly, who will get aid for the children with the new year, doesn’t have enough to swing appropriate clothing for the little ones, let alone toys for their Christmas.

Kary’s not asking for help with the 'usual' (e.g., rent/mortgage, utilities, vehicle payment, a medical procedure), isn’t looking to feed her kids or cover their needs. What she is looking for is a way to integrate her ‘niece’ and ‘nephews’ into her family as seamlessly as possible, and a way to provide a Christmas of sorts that may help negate the horror of their situation; a way to make Christmas not be the absolute worst time of the year for these children for the rest of their lives. She fair brought down the house when she described the difficulty of getting one of Jen’s sons to leave the cemetery; he didn’t want to leave his mommy alone.

So Johnny and Carrie decided on $1000 to give Karly a hand up. And they raised it within 6 minutes. Then they determined another $500 would be a better figure, seeing as Jennifer’s little ones need full sets of winter clothing each (San Antonio not being all that well known for its frigid weather conditions). That was raised in about another minute. You couldn’t get through on the phone lines (I tried … busy … busy … busy).

To top it off, Cosentino’s Price Chopper threw in a $500 gift card so Karly could lay in provisions for awhile without having to worry too much about how it will expand her meager budget.

This is why I love these guys; they give the community the opportunity to step up and behave like a true community. And the folk giving the hand up? Yeah, half the time they don’t even want to tell Johnny their first name, let alone their last … they’re not in it for the recognition, people, they’re in it for the way it makes them feel, and because its the right thing to do.

And that? There aren’t enough words in the English language to cover just how perfectly awesome that is.

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Christmas Greetings

Lady dear, if Fairies may
For a moment lay aside
Cunning tricks and elfish play,
'Tis at happy Christmas-tide.

We have heard the children say -
Gentle children, whom we love -
Long ago, on Christmas Day,
Came a message from above.

Still, as Christmas-tide comes round,
They remember it again -
Echo still the joyful sound
"Peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Yet the hearts must childlike be
Where such heavenly guests abide:
Unto children, in their glee,
All the year is Christmas-tide!

Thus, forgetting tricks and play
For a moment, Lady dear,
We would wish you, if we may,
Merry Christmas, glad New Year!

-Lewis Carroll

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Something Else to Chap My Ass

While I realize the state of Tiger Woods’ marriage is of vital importance to the WHOLE WORLD, I’m thinking maybe we can reign it back a bit and turn our attention to something that is actually worth discussion.

Such as the fact that three of the Navy SEALs who captured known terrorist Ahmed Hashim Abed, believed to be the mastermind (if the ringleader of such an act of barbarism can be labeled as such) behind the 2004 murder of four Blackwater USA security consultants outside Fallujah.

This example of human corruption, apparently sporting a bloody fat lip, accused the three SEALs of punching him. In the gut. Oh, waah. Big baby. I hope they did punch him … I hope they kicked him, too (but not really, because they’re better than I am … I would have punched and kicked him, though, right before I shot him in both lungs and the stomach, but then that’s why no-one has ever been dumb enough to put a gun in my hands). But I digress … because right here I just want to know: what is the significance of a fat lip if he’s claiming to have been punched in the stomach? Was it a super-duper-really-hard punch that sent shockwaves throughout his body, hmm?

Yeah, didn’t think so.

In any case, because of Abu Ghraib backlash, the Navy will not ignore such an accusation (this one actually came from the Iraqi chain of command, who had taken custody of the prisoner and to whom he had made the allegation originally), so the three were set for a “captain’s mast”, which is basically a military non-trial where the accused person’s commanding officer conducts an inquiry, holds a hearing, and finally determines one of three possible dispositions: 1) dismiss the charges, not considered an acquittal; 2) assign punishment less than court martial, not considered a conviction; or 3) recommend a court martial, which is, in fact, a trial.

It is the captain’s mast that all three SEALs have refused, thus driving the Navy into one of two possible actions: 1) drop all charges; or 2) conduct an actual trial by court martial, which is what our three requested. I get it, I really do; these guys must be pissed at the entire ordeal. Not only are their ethics being called into question by a murderous gasbag of a terrorist, for crying out loud, but they’re being punished for doing their job! And well. They brought him in alive, which is just plain astonishing and kudos to them.

I imagine that last bit (the bringing in alive-ed-ness) would have to have been difficult for a good percentage of our young men over there in the Middle East, who are mired neck-deep in the atrocities of this terrible war.

So, these three young men, these heroes, now face criminal charges:

• Special Operations Petty Officer 2nd Class (SO-2) Matthew McCabe, charged with dereliction of duty, making a false statement, and assault.
• SO-2 Jonathan Keefe, charged with dereliction of duty and making a false statement.
• SO-1 Julio Huertas, charged with dereliction of duty, making a false statement, and impeding an investigation.

Their arraignments are scheduled for Monday (December 7th), with the court martial coming in January. Ridiculous.

You can show your support, too, by joining the protest.

FYI: that ambush this animal planned? Yeah, the Blackwater guys were escorting supplies to a catering company for crying out loud. They were ambushed and killed, then their bodies were mutilated, burned, dragged through Fallujah, and hung from a bridge over the Euphrates River for a photo op (advantage of which the world press gladly took, because they pander to the kind of people who eat that stuff up; Don Henley was so right about the whole Dirty Laundry thing, and that was back in 1982!).

Because People? Are Freaking AWESOME!!

It’s that time again, when I well up every morning on the way to work while listening to Kansas City's own Johnny Dare Morning Show on 98.9 KQRC. Why? Because Hope for the Holidays has cranked into gear, and John Caprefoli (e.g., Johnny Dare), Jake the Phone Snake, Gregg Todt, T-Bone, Carrie Coogan, (to some extent) Bob Edwards, and WE are all over it.

I love Hope for the Holidays, which has the fitting tagline of “it’s not a hand out, it’s a hand up.” So what is it? Well, since I am inherently lazy, let me pull my explanation from back in March …

Hope for the Holidays (it’s not a hand-out, it’s a hand-up): where listeners, many simply overlooked by conventional organizations, from Thanksgiving through Christmas either write or call in with their needs, and Johnny gets it on-air, then calls the petitioner for more specifics, and puts them together with other listeners who call in to help brighten their holidays.

As they say, if you’re in need this holiday season, maybe your neighbors can help make it a little brighter … fill out this form, or write to:

Hope for the Holidays
c/o Entercom Broadcasting
7000 Squibb Road
Mission, KS 66202

You can tell how much it hurts to have to ask for help, and how much it heals to do the helping. There are many years where a contributor was a past recipient and, sadly, the other way ‘round. The amazing thing? Within minutes, minutes, what is needed has been found as the phone lines light up with listeners who want to help.

Overdue utilities are made current, toys and clothing are delivered for children, pantries are filled, and food is put on the table. Building supplies are donated, as well as time and expertise to get the job done. Car payments are made, new tires are installed and balanced, and funds are set up so bread-winners can get much-needed surgeries without worrying they’ll lose everything while in recovery.

This is something really and truly special in and of itself, but the most wonderful thing about it is that they always, always exceed their goals. Always. Because of you.

And anyone can contribute. If you wish to remain anonymous, or can’t make it to the studio with your donation, you can bring it to any CapFed (that’s Capital Federal bank) branch … just make sure you tell them it’s a donation for Hope for the Holidays.

But don’t take my word for it, look Johnny and the crew up for yourself, HERE. Or you can take a listen LIVE, any weekday morning from 6am to 10am Central.

From Johny and the gang, “This year, more than ever, if you need a hand up, let us know. Along with the people of Kansas City, maybe we can make your holiday season a little bit brighter.”

I love these guys.

Bad Sussex Square Homeowner’s Association, Bad! BAD!!

This really has my knickers in a twist:

In a suburb of Richmond, VA, retired Army Colonel Van T. Barfoot, 90 year old WWII Congressional Medal of Honor winner (!) put up a 21 foot flagpole in his front yard. You know, to fly our nation’s flag. During wartime.

His homeowner’s association then threatened him with legal action if he hasn’t removed it by 5pm tomorrow (a deadline they have since extended to next Friday … mighty big of them) because it “violates the neighborhood's aesthetic guidelines”.

Really.

Well, shame on you, Sussex Square Homeowners Association!

And the attempt to qualify your argument by clarifying, “This is not about the American flag. This is about a flagpole” is just plain lame. Yep, lame. You (nine) people are lame; you Lamey McLamensteins, you.

The man is 90! He is a distinguished veteran! It is the American flag! Our flag! And you insult him by advising him to hang one off his house instead. Not that there’s anything wrong with the kind that hang off the house (I have one, but only because I don’t have a real flagpole).

But if a grown man who’s defended the rights and privileges of this great nation (he won that medal in 1944 in Italy, when he single-handedly went up against three German machine gun nests [through a minefield!], captured 17 German soldiers, stopped a tank advance, and rescued a couple injured Allied soldiers … in a single day!) wants to proudly fly the flag for which he fought, then by all means he deserves to be able to do so without his idiot homeowner's association and, by default, neighbors, giving him even a modicum of guff. And that medal he won? Because he’s a man’s man (and more man than any member of his homeowner’s association, apparently), he had it presented to him in the field (instead of back in the U.S.) so his soldiers could share in the ceremony. Cool. Just … cool.

Yes, I understand he first sought permission (and was refused?!?! WHAT? have you never heard of a ‘special dispensation’?), then proceded to put it up anyway (oooh! he must be punished because he defied you!) and has been flying the flag since Veteran’s Day. That’s because you were stupid enough to refuse him in the first place. We already know Mr. Barfoot can accomplish more in a single day than most people do in a year. Howsabout you join the rest of us in honoring him for that?

What is wrong with you, Sussex Square Homeowner’s Association? Knock it off; he's not going to be around for you to insult ... er, honor ... forever, you know.

EDIT: Good news! Great news! Col. Barfoot gets to keep his flagpole!! So suck on those 'aesthetics', Sussex Square Homeowner's Association!

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

-William Ernest Henley

I Am the Worst Aunt, Ever

I just got off the phone with a friend, who was telling me of her plans to bring her 2 year-old son to see Santa at the mall tomorrow, hoping that she’d be able to get in before the crush so her little guy isn’t too traumatized, and it reminded me of the time I brought my niece to see the Easter Bunny. In a mall. In Texas.

I was visiting Mark & Mare, and got to babysit Em while they were at work … and since Mare was very preggers at the time, Em must have been two or three. In any case, since we were particularly bored, we hopped in the car for a trip to the mall, where they had (gasp!) the EASTER BUNNY!!!! So I asked Em if she wanted to sit in his lap and get a picture and SHE WAS ALL FOR IT.

As an aside, how dingbatticus does it make me that when I looked in the guide for the metroplex and saw there were 14 TGIFridays I asked my brother where the hell was this mall, anyway? Seeing as it must have been the largest freaking mall on the entire freaking continent! To which he responded (gently) that no, the metroplex is not a mall, but rather the (rather) large area of Texas that comprises Dallas and Fort Worth. Makum sense, kemosabe? Der.

Back to the story; little did I know that almost every child on the face of the planet is all for it when it comes to talking about sitting on the Easter Bunny’s lap, and standing in line to get on said lap, and talking to all the other excited little kiddies chattering non-stop about bunnylapage.

Right up until it is actually their turn to sit on the Lap o’ Bunny.

Then. THEN, my friends, the abject terror sets in, and their little faces scream, “WTFisTHAT?!?!” in terrified baby talk, which sounds, to adults, much like, “Waaaah! NonononononoNONONONONOOOOOOOOO!! Wannagohooooome! MoooomMEEEEE!” Etc., etc., and so on and so forth in the absolute blue murder range.

Yeah; have I mentioned I’m an aunt? No kids of my own to learn this lesson from. Oh, no! Luckily for Em, my ears stopped ringing and my eyes stopped bleeding just in time for me to witness her transformation from sunny, well-mannered cherub to snarling, spitting, feral, wild cat-child thing.

Before my eyes she sprouted claws and teeth and basically turned into Baby Wolverine as she clawed her way to freedom up and over that (poor, poor) Easter Bunny’s shoulder. I, of course, stood horrified off to the side, completely unwilling to step in and save the now gibbering in horror (or pain … could have been pain) Easter Bunny … or the still screaming were-child. WTF indeed.

Who was this child? Not my sweet-natured little Emmy, apple of Aunty Lisa’s eye. No way. Who stole my niece?!? And switched her with this … this … demon child? Mare’s going to kill me. And to make it worse: the football moms. Arggh, the football moms. The (Don't Mess With) Texas Football Moms (sorry TXFM’s, but you know what you’re like). Anyplace else they’d be soccer moms, and I can handle soccer moms … but Texas Football Moms? OMGyouwin.

They were all shooting daggers at me with their eyes anyway, but as soon as I opened my North East accented mouth and started talking my Texas-twanging little niece down from her panic-high the gig was up; I was an unfit adult in this child’s life (I could have sworn I heard, “Get that baby away from that barbarian, girls!”) So I grabbed Emmy and fled.

So, what did I learn?

Never again.

But That Doesn’t Make Me a Vegetarian

I’ve gotten all totally weirded out by the way the Big US Meat Industry, or BUSMI (for lack of a better … or, um, Lisa-known … term), handles the entire life-cycle of the meats I eat (ahem … mind out of the gutter, boys), and so now I’ve just become sort of, um, not interested in eating them. Anymore. Much.

Besides, I feel soooooo bad when I drive by the big giant cattle carrying semi’s on the freeway, and all those soft little (big?) bovine noses stick out the side cracks in a desperate attempt (okay, I may be anthropomorphizing just a bit) to get a breath of fresh air. It saddens me. I want to zip (safely) in front of said semi and force it (safely and calmly) off the road where I can free the wee (huge?) beasties from their intended fate.

And take some home as pets. To the (not) farm I live on. Damn. Think a calf could be happy growing up in a basement walk-out? Could happen; you don’t know!

And I truly do know exactly how soft a calf’s nose is because I’ve pet them before … often, having grown up down the road from a dairy farm; and you know how little girls can be … show them a baby calf and they are all up and OWNED by said calf (until the next star of their short-attention-span-theatre-life comes along, that is). Ooh, butterfly!

So Kansas City kind of went and threw a giant ick-poo covered monkey-wrench in my whole Angus Beef lovin’ diet. Then those pernicious vegans (don’t really know if it was the ‘vegans’ per se, but somebody must be held accountable) went and put out all that propaganda about the chickens! The chickens! My fall-back meat! Everything goes great with chicken! Don’t want beef stew? Substitute chicken (and have everyone at work’s pot-luck freakin’ love it because it is that good)!

But, no! I can’t enjoy my chicken anymore, because they eat their dead, too!

Yeah, I said “too”. I wasn’t going to go there with the beef, but you know it’s true. That dairy farm I grew up down the street from? Yeah, when a newborn calf didn’t make it, what do you think they did with the carcass? Well, I happen to know what they did (although it didn’t ‘click’ until many years later), and it is gross! And involves eating your dead (AKA bovine cannibalism). Blecht. Just … blecht.

But it’s not that I really am a vegetarian these days, it’s just that I haven’t had time to find a local butcher who raises his own little trenchers of meat and has a petting zoo open to the public to prove it. But I will find him. Mostly because I really (really!) need a juicy burger. Mmmm. With cheese. And bacon … erp! The pigs! Have I mentioned the pigs?

A couple years back I went to school with a beast (er, ‘woman’) who worked for BUSMI, and she was an a-hole of epic proportions.

Wow, that came out of nowhere. Guess I didn’t like her much. Anyway, the stories she told! Pork is no longer on the menu.

Of course, I could always just learn how to hunt and get my own … um, deer … squirrel … dove … bunny (as if!). Or better yet, pen a couple lambs and piglets in the backyard and raise them for slaughtering like in days of yore.

Except.

Sigh.

All that would really do is make me the proud owner of pet sheep and pigs (and dogs, and cats). Mutter. Grumble. Spit!

Okay, I can see what I have to do here; I’ve got two options: 1) vegetarianism (nooooooo!), or 2) find me a local butcher who can prove his stock comes from non-steroid-treated, non-antibiotic-filled, non-tormented, non-dead-relative-fed, etc. … um, gardens. Sigh.

Vegetarianism it is. Shit.

In Case You Were Wondering

I’ve been trolling the internet, looking at the various poetry stylings of various sites, and what I’ve come away with, after reading endless Auden, Plath, and Dickinson homages (homagi?), is that people who publicly and incessantly obsess about suicide are either poseurs or need help. So, if you’re doing it (the incessant public obsessing part), and you’re not a poseur?

Get help.

Please.

Because somebody out there loves you. And it may be me. And I will be pissed at you. For fucking ever. Because in reality? It’s all about me anyway.

There are all sorts of people who can help, either on-line here: www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org, or over the phone here: 1-800-273 TALK (that’s 1-800-273-8255, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline).

See What Happens When You Love Your "Work"?

I’m Pretty Sure We Learned This From the Russians, Though

I’ll be the very first to admit I don’t follow all the nuances of international whoop-de-do, but I’m pretty sure it also doesn’t take a brainiac to clue into the obvious. So why are we staying in Afghanistan? I have shamelessly stolen from Marcus his checklist for the POTUS, whomever he or she may be at any given time, to review and sign when sending more of our youngest and potentially brightest into these untenable situations. It goes something like this:

• This war is worth killing and maiming our best and brightest.
• This war is worth empty place-settings at holidays and pews in Sundays.
• This war is worth crushing families and ruining the lives of children and spouses.
• This war is worth the murder, mayhem, and horror that my Armed Forces will have to face and commit.
• I have exhausted all options, and this war is the only answer.
• No one in government will be able to profit from this war.
• I would gladly volunteer my own children to be sacrificed for our cause in this war.
• I have served in the Armed Forces to my fullest capacity and with honor.
• History will look back on this war as just and righteous.
• I want to kill the enemy, ruin their country, leave families broken and battered, and bring untold misery to millions of innocent citizens.

So what was it we learned from the Russians you ask? Go research Russia's track record in Afghanistan, then get back to me.

Happy Thanksgiving My Peeps!!

Me? I’m thankful and just plain tickled pink that my loved ones are having a Thanksgiving together for me to miss.

I love you guys, and I’ll see you soon.

Have I Mentioned My Muppet Love?

And a big ole nerd-love shoutout to Chris Hardwick for posting this little gem, for me to find, on his the Nerdist blog (located here: http://www.nerdist.com/).

Wicked Awesome Poem (I Forgot to Post) Wednesday

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

-Lewis Carroll

My Guys are Freaking Awesome ... ALL of Them

Okay, so it’s probably been no secret that things have been sort of blecht lately, on both a general and personal level; it’s a bit difficult to sit down and blog about shitty situations, so I just don’t blog at all under those circumstances.

These past couple months? Full of fear and splendor, with the splendor by far outweighing the fear, so “Yay, Splendor!” But prior to that the fear part sucked shit. A lot.

First I discovered my house (my home, people) needs some costly repairs, and that got me down for awhile … but, what the hell, right? Sometimes shit has to happen so we can appreciate the flowers we’ve been too busy to stop and smell. And it’s nobody's fault but my own that I’ve anthropomorphized my poor baby home and now feel as though she’s in pain (my crazy bad).

So anyway, once I was fully entrenched in feeling sorry for myself, Dad went and had a horrifically bad weekend involving a heart attack, cardiac cath, and quintuple CABG utilizing CPB (shudder). Wow. If that doesn’t take the wind out of anyone’s sails of self-pity I don’t know what can.

Well, Dad has been doing terrifically well since, with an early hospital release and exceeding of expectations on the recovery timeline, so “Yay, Mom & Dad!”, because if anyone thinks he’s done it alone that’s just plain crazy talk right there, is what it is. And I'm not saying anymore about it because it's just too frightening to contemplate the possible alternatives.

Anywho … everyone, and I mean everyone, is well aware of the economy (or lack thereof); we’re paying more for everything, and receiving less in exchange. And the big muckety-mucks who control the world (harkening back to my “Ten Rich White Dudes” theory) are trying their absolute bestest to get and retain more than their fair share (see both the credit card and the prescription drug industries). It’s depressing is what it is. With a huge clinging dollop of WTFedness thrown in for good measure.

Then there’s the plant, where we’ve contacted the Salvation Army to adopt a local family that we can maybe help out for Christmas. Yes, I said it, “Christmas” … not “holiday”, not “seasonal” … it’s Christmas, people. If you want to call it something else, be my guest. You’re welcome to your interpretation of the season. But for me? It’s Christmas. I’m not raining on your parade, keep your thunderclouds away from mine.

Our family of seven is local, and very young. Mom and Dad have five young’uns, and their list of needs and wants makes my soul weep. Needs are clothes, but wants, even from the children, are also what you and I, and I daresay most, would consider “needs”. Where are the requests for toys? What dreams do these children harbor? I’ll tell you what: they dream to be warm and fed this Winter, and that’s pretty much all they dream of. When I think of all the merry Christmas’s of my childhood, not a one includes even the shadow of a thought that if only I could have a warm coat I’d be happy.

So, we put up a tree in our lobby, and the ornaments have the age, sex, and a gift … anyone who wants to contribute can grab an ornament. By the end of that first day there were only three left. I hit up a few of our vendors, with whom we spend ridiculous amounts of money, for some of the necessities. They’re in (if only partially, but still). Then, one of our guys asked of it was okay to donate gift cards? Absolutely! These gift cards, by the way, were just passed out to the plant because we’ve recently accomplished a safety goal. Each is a $15 card for either WalMart or Price Chopper (a local grocery chain). Of 98 possible donations, 23 were dropped in immediately. Won’t have a final count until after all three shifts are polled, but that? Was most awesome in it’s awesomosity, people!

I have to explain; our guys aren’t exactly rolling in dough. Our operators hail straight from the community and are mostly non-caucasian. Some have their GED or an equivalent, but quite a few don’t. Many can hardly read as they were employed before that was a Condition of Hire. A few are on a work visa. For most this job is a dream come true with benefits and Union representation … but their hourly wage is nothing to write home about (although some do, as they send a portion back home each week), and I’m hard-pressed to understand how they can live off it, especially with families.

But they do, and they care enough about others to donate what little they have. How freaking awesome is that?!?! Totally freaking awesome, that’s how! And the guy who originally asked about donating the gift cards? Well he inadvertently initiated an even bigger donation, as our HR guy liked the idea so much that he sent a plant-wide e-mail to our distribution list, of which the company president in NJ is a member, so we all got a reply from him stating the company would match whatever our guys donated in gift cards.

WOO to the HOO, people!

We now have so much in donations that we contacted the Salvation Army on Friday afternoon to ask for another family. And she was so happy she had answered the phone, because she’d just come from a meeting where they were discussing the 35 new families that had signed up for help this year, and they don’t know how they’re going to be able to help all 35, but we’ve just taken one off their hands. I don’t have all the specifics yet, but I do know our second family has five people in it, and we’ll do our level best to rock their Christmas as well.

And the thing with my house? Still needs work, but my guys started brain-storming how to help me out of this one, even going so far as planning to come out next Spring to set my baby to rights. I love family, especially my most awesome one.

So how does this tale end? I want to believe it’ll go something like this:

“And so good times were had by all.”

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

The Music of our Friendship

There's a rhythm when friends talk,
a back and forth, a give and take,
crescendos of laughter -
nothing phony, nothing fake.

There's a melody to friend's voices,
tones of comfort and of care,
of sincerity and honesty,
and secrets meant to share.

There's a harmony in friendship,
a blend of attitudes and views,
an acceptance of each other,
and support we'll never lose.

There's music to our friendship,
a joyful song from year to year,
and the music of our friendship
is a treasure I hold dear.

-Virginia White

Dig Me, All Vaccinated 'n Stuff

Got my H1N1 vaccine today, and was quite happy as it was administered from the lovely blue-accented syringe (similar to this picture here) ... so pretty! Also my doctor's new nurse was very sweet; scrunching her face up into that concerned/I'm-concentrating-really-hard/don't-want-to-hurt-you-too-bad way of folk who's every emotion is written all over their face.

I had to giggle just a little bit when she explained for the third time that it was only going to sting a little (I assured her I'm not generally bothered getting shots in the arm). And I was kind of kidding as I declared, "Besides, nothing stings like those Humira shots in the stomach." ... and she says, "Oh yeah, Humira stings a lot!" Which just made me laugh all over again because of the emphasis.

To be honest, I didn't feel the vaccination at all; if I hadn't been looking directly at it I'd not have know when it went in. So I told her, because I'm pretty sure that was the very best vaccination I've ever gotten, and I think that's a testament to her care in giving the shot, and I think it's only right to let someone know I appreciate the care they're giving, and blah-blah-blah so on and so forth.

You may recall there are two versions of the H1N1 vaccine out there: 1) the inactivated, which is the intra-muscular shot that contains killed virus; and 2) the activated, which is the nasal spray that contains live virus (shudder). As a member of a high-risk group I got the inactive (which I would have waited for anyway, because there's just no way in hell I'm purposely letting anyone put a live virus in me, thank-you-very-much).

Anyway, I 've been way careful these past few months about touching my face (eyes, nose, mouth) without first sanitizing my hands ... because I don't want to die, you disease-laden so and so's! I go about my life pretending the rest of you are zombies and have cooties that I don't need (hey, works for me) ... when what do I do this afternoon? Yep, you guessed it: I played with the band-aid on my arm and then I rubbed my eyes. ! !!

GREAT!

NOW I HAVE H1N1 IN MY EYES, PEOPLE!

IN MY EYES!

MY!

EYES!

Gasp! Gurgle! Wail!

Wicked Awesome Poem Wednesday

The Soul Captains

The Guardian of the Gate looked down and watched them coming on,
A close-knit rank of new-born souls treading the star-lit dawn,
Shoulder to shoulder and step by step … sturdy as shades might be …
And the Guardian of the Gate, perplexed, wondered whom he should see.

“What souls are these?” he asked at last, “who hold their heads erect:
Who bend no knee, whose eyes look up … are they without respect?
The Captain lifted a steady hand, saluted and thus replied:
“We are the souls of the Men who Dared, - who loved with courage – and died!

“We asked not why; we cared not why; we gave of our best in the fight;
The bitter or sweet; the cruel or kind … each as he saw the light:
We did not wince when the whip-lash stung, but strove by the rules we knew,
If you would have us on bended knee, none of us will go through.”

The Guardian of the Gate, wide-eyed, nodded his haloed head.
“This is the talk of the living,” he said, “and not the speech of the dead.”
The Captain smiled. “We are dead, indeed … but habit is strong in the soul
And the God we seek cares not to have men crawling to reach the Goal.

“We lived and loved; we wrought and laughed; we did what was given to do.
Not for rewards, and not through fright, but each to his standard true:
That the Master within grants peace and joy to humans made good through fear
We won’t believe, and we can’t believe … else why are we summoned here?”

The Guardian opened the Gateway wide. “Enter!” was his command,
“The depth and breadth of the Master’s love at last ye may understand!”
The Light of the Endless Peace shone down as he opened the judgment roll
And found their names. They had earned their rest – Captains of heart and soul!

-Everard Jack Appleton

I Miss the Muppet Show

Original episodes ran from when I was 11 through when I was 16, but I didn’t really pick up on the subversive humor until the later years, when friends and I would watch and scream with laughter at the seemingly adult material. How chuffed we were when we determined (gasp!) this isn’t a kids show! It’s for grownups! And we get it!!

Who could forget Kermit, and Rowlf? Sam, Beaker, Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem (Dr. Teeth on keyboards, Animal on the drums, Janice on guitar, Lips on the trumpet, Floyd on Bass, and Zoot on sax), the Swedish Chef “chickie en der baskie, two point!”, or Statler & Waldorf? Even Miss Piggy’s dog Foo-Foo (also the nickname of my Cocker Spaniel, Fritzi)? Or the continuing story of Veterinarian’s Hospital, and PIIIIGS IIIIN SPAAAACE!

It's time to play the music!
It's time to light the lights!
It's time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight.

It's time to put on makeup!
It's time to dress up right!
It's time to raise the curtain on the Muppet Show tonight.

Why do we always come here?
I guess we'll never know.
It's like a kind of torture;
To have to watch the show!

And now let's get things started!
Why don't you get things started?
It's time to get things started!
On the most sensational!
Inspirational!
Celebrational!
Muppetational!

This is what we caaaaall the Muppet Shoooow!

I am so totally nostalgic for it.

p.s. - 1990 was particularly the suckage, what with losing both Jim Henson and Stevie Ray Vaughn. Dark Crystal, anyone?