Emmalee Ruth Ellsworth

Big congrats to Tim and Sarah Ellsworth, the proud parents. Leave comments and well wishes here.

Only the bread is good

1) Go to Google.
2) Type in "French Military Victories" and select I'm Feeling lucky.
3) For an added bonus, select the suggestion it gives you.

The rest is up to you.

Hat tip: Scott G.

Return to sender

So, John Mark Karr, the pretty scariest little man I've ever laid eyes on, won't be charged in the death of JonBenet Ramsay. After taxpayers funded his flying cruise ship back to the U.S., where he dined on fried king prawn, roasted duck, and drank champagne, he is not being charged.

Then somebody stamp return to sender on this twisted freak's bony white butt and let Thailand authorities deal with him. I'm sure they'll be most interested in hearing how he was already attracted to several girls in his kindergarten class. Sadly, Thailand hasn't yet executed anyone for being a child molester. Yet.

Scaredy Cat

My wife and I have been living together now for 7+ years (none of that co-habitating before marriage for us). Therefore, one could assume that when we're in the house together, it shouldn't be that big of a deal to actually see each other - we're not talking about Wayne Manor, here. However, one would be very, very wrong.

My darling little wife just gets so wrapped up in what she's doing that she forgets a very important detail. I live there, too!!!

It all started very innocently; she would be in the bedroom, doing laundry, her toenails, or a myriad of other things, and I in all my non-ninja like manner would walk in and AAAHHH!! That would be the sound of my Scaredy Cat (the two legged one). Never mind the fact that I have lived in that house just as long as she has!

Of course, this does not apply to when I intentionally scare her, like this morning. There's something about a hair dryer that puts a woman in to a hypnotic state and makes her very vulnerable to being goosed. Extra points for when you're running late and she thinks you've already left the house.

Worth. Every. Pinch.

Freshmen

Yesterday signaled the return of Schoolboy, my erstwhile alter ego. Normally, I'm quite excited about returning to school - it's one more step in the right direction! I even left my house with a positive attitude. I mean, the chances of me having to interact* with some freshman punk in any of my classes were pretty close to zero, what with me being in the 21st grade and all.

I could not have been more wrong. The first class I showed up to was calculus based physics; had I not been there, the average age in the classroom would have been 18 (excluding the teacher). Their age alone doesn't bother me. It's everything else that comes with it, namely the barrage of unnecessary, incessant questions.

Now, I do understand the whole "no such thing as a dumb question" deal, and I myself have asked some not so brilliant ones in my lifetime. However, generally before I bother the rest of the class with my query, I think "Will this benefit others, or just me?" If others will receive enlightenment, I ask; if not, I hold it until after class. Here's just a sample of the questions I heard:

Is this a course on aerospace?

Is there a course on aerospace?

If we were to try and apply this to aerospace, what would it mean to...?

So, like, I've already had the harder calculus, like, in high school, so, like, should I be in here or should I bail and, like, take the other class?

So when you're grading our tests, how do you show the score - as a percentage or number of points correct vs. total number of points?

Can we do labs, like, whenever we want? Cause Thursday at 8am isn't good for me, and I have to go home on Friday afternoons.

Why doesn't this course have any aerospace stuff in it?

The funniest things happened when somebody, a fellow smart aleck, said in response to the last aerospace question, "You need to know that, now?"

*I must add this. Do not mistake my disdain for freshmen as hatred. When confronted with any of them, I smile, joke, and am genuinely polite. I just wait til they're out of eyesight before shaking/banging my head. After all, I was one of them once, though I refuse to believe that I ever acted anything like they do now.

Randomness

As I don't seem to have any of my own thoughts at the moment, I decided that I will post some other people's that I find enlightening:

Democracy is two wolves and a sheep deciding what to have for dinner. Liberty is a well armed sheep. -- Unknown, though often attributed to Ben Franklin

"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve." -- Bilbo Baggins, poet laureate of the Shire

Everyone has a photographic memory; some just don't have film. -- Unknown

The French are miserable because they live in France. France is miserable because it's full of Frenchmen. -- sometimes attributed to Mark Twain, not sure though

It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a brawling [redhead] woman in a wide house. -- Proverbs 21:9, Amen, amen!

Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six. -- Popular saying of Marines during Vietnam

I like you; then again, I eat my own poop. -- Triumph the Insult Comic Dog

I'll leave you with just those for now. Enjoy!

Flags of Our Fathers trailer

James Bradley's "Flags of Our Fathers" is one of the top WWII history books that I've ever read, along with Hampton Sides' "Ghost Soldiers" (turned in to the movie "The Great Raid") and Stephen Ambrose's "Band of Brothers." It really was no surprise to me to hear that it was being turned in to a movie, but I had a bit of a reservation when I found out that the director was going to be Clint Eastwood.

Love him as an actor, not so much as a director. Mystic River was one of the most disappointing films I saw in a theater, and much of his previous directorial work, except for Unforgiven, The Outlaw Josey Wales, and Heartbreak Ridge, left me with a rather blah feeling.

It'll be pretty hard to mess this one up, though. Bradley's book on the taking of the little volcanic island of Iwo Jima by the Marines is well done; even if they embelish (as Hollywood so often likes to, even when it's not needed - see The Great Raid) it shouldn't diminish from the tale of woe, hardship, struggle, and ultimately victory that these brave men lived through. The first trailer of this movie is up, and it looks good so far.

Hating a good time

This past weekend was a family reunion that wasn't really called a family reunion. Those of you that know me are aware of the fact that I love my family greatly, however I am constantly one twitch away from a padded room anytime I am around them. To say that I had some anxiety about this weekend would be a bit of an understatement; my wife and I decided a month or two ago that the best way to keep the panic to a minimum would be to give ourselves a nice long weekend to surround it.

So starting with Thursday, we both took off work to meet with our financial advisor and see just how much extra blood he was able to squeeze from our emaciated turnip. As it turns out, it's not so much with quantity of blood in said turnip as it is in how you squeeze it - kinda like the tube of toothpaste thing. (Sidebar: while I'm glad I went, I can honestly tell you that 7 years and three months ago, I handed the checkbook and financial duties over to my wife. While I do get consulted from time to time on financial things, in reality I go about my daily life generally assuming that the light will come on when the switch is flipped.)

Friday was spent at the marvelous Georgia Aquarium, something I will probably post some pics on at a later time when I get the film developed. Needless to say, it took us about two and a half hours to fully walk through; at no point did we feel rushed, crowded, or generally annoyed by other people, mostly b/c so few were there. Expensive, but very entertaining.

That leads to Friday evening, the first encounter with family would be. As we finished with the aquarium in record time, we decided to put the extra time in to a nap, the better with which to deal with the impending drama-tragedy. The only problem with this is I don't nap unless I'm sick. If I nap, it's more like a hibernation - two plus hours of blissful sleep followed by a feeling of sloth for the remainder of my waking hours on that day. To put it mildly, I was ill as a hornet for the trip up to Toccoa, Georgia - which my brother and I refer to as our second home. This reference is most often made as we're knee deep in the process of getting lost, something that would be difficult for Hellen Keller to do in this small, foothill town.

My lady and my hornet like self pulled in to where we would be staying for the night, the Simmons Bond Inn. Through a fortuitous series of events, my wife and I have become quite good friends with the innkeepers and stay there anytime we're in the area to get away from my family to have a wonderful night's rest and a fantastic breafast the following morning. This helps greatly, all things considered, and is usually the highlight of our weekend of family fun and screaming. For once, I'm glad this wasn't the case.

Friday night was pizza, cards, and general ballyhoo-ness had by all; my aunt, uncle and cousins ballyhooed themselves through over half their cases of beer, which I believe was responsible for having a far more pleasant Saturday, which consisted of bowling at quite possibly the smallest and worst bowling alley ever (but lots of fun), and smacking some softball around. At the latter event, I may have even created a new fan in my cousin, who learned how to hit a ball for the first time ever (she's 26).

This all brings me to my darling sister. I'll spare the general drama that she surrounds herself with; I'll also spare the many aspects of her life that bleed over to any family gathering. Just to give you the cliff notes, she's 26(?), has a two year old with a father that's all but non-existant, has made several other poor life decisions, and refuses to take reponsibility for herself (sadly, this also applies to her own child, one of the few bright spots in this mess). I've found that in past gatherings where she is around, by generally letting her go therefore and be a fruit while I walk away, my times around my family improve greatly. I am dismayed to report that I believe the same thing happened this weekend. Kind of interesting how you can have a good time, and end up hating it.

How to Neuter a Dragon in Two Words

Back when I started getting an interest in jewelry, roughly the same time I garnered an interest in a particular brunette, I started a relationship with a particular jewelry store. Now at this time, I didn't know anything about the shiny, sparkly things that put the fairer species in to a mental schizophrenic hypnotic state. All I really knew of gold was that it was in them-thar-hills.

So I went out on a limb to this particular store for the first big purchase, a simple little emerald solitaire that served two purposes: 1) it let me know her ring size for a later propositional purpose (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and 2) it bought me lots of kisses not of the chocolate variety. Fast forward to the wedding rehearsal where I gave her a matching bracelet, naturally from the same store. Because of the value of this gift (not specifically monetary - this is the same girl that had an anxiety attack when she lost my class ring, my high school class ring), it only gets worn on special occasions, probably not even a dozen appearances in the seven years of betrothal bondage.

Now this particular retail vacuum does the warranty plans where you bring the jewelry to them once every six months and they clean and inspect your jewelry. I, in my ever infinite cheapness wisdom, elected not to get the warranty with the bracelet, knowing that it wasn't going to be worn often and, when it was, we weren't exactly going to be re-roofing the house or practicing aikido.

This July was the time to get the gold, frankicense, and myrrh inspected and cleaned, and we received the Furrowed Brow from Frau Farbissina behind that counter - a diamond was missing from the bracelet. Sure enough, she was right. No biggie, as it was an accent diamond and wouldn't cost much to get it replaced. As this was a mall location, they didn't have a gemologist or jeweler there to do the repairs. The Jeweler would be in on Friday (it was Wednesday) and we should hear something back by that evening, which by my calculation would still be Friday evening.

Friday comes and goes. Monday, I find myself facing the Spanish Inquisition from She Who Must Be Obeyed if I Wish to Get (edited) - "Did the store call?" 1st uh-oh. At that time, I had just finished turning my front and back yards into a putting green and was drenched in sweat, so I was a little unusually belligerent, something that a quick shower would cure. I asked that she call to check up on The Gift while I powdered my nose, underarms, and a few other areas I shouldn't mention.

A few minutes of lathering wonderfulness later, she entered, stage right - "They said the diamond would be $40 (no problem there) and that there were cracks on two of the emeralds." 2nd uh-oh. "What cracks?!" - I cracked, knowing that the last time I saw The Gift, it was not obvious to my "Mad Eye" Moody set of eyes. She shrugged, assuming in her charmingly naive way that they knew what they were talking about and that they were being honest.

It was going to go down last night. When my lady returned from a long day of work, she asked the whereabouts and whatfors of her sprackly wrist thingie. As I had just finished being turned in to bantha poo-doo (I was playing Star Wars: Battlefront), I was ready for a little showdown with a snooty store manager - we still hadn't been called! In the words of Indigo Montoya, "There will be blood tonight!"

Before I get to the killshot, let me inform you, dear reader, that I am not a Wal Mart yeller. I am crafty, calm, and kill with kindness and facts. I am also merciless when I am in the right, a master debater that will not stop until I have eviscerated the opponents arguments and they have started refering to me as daddy.

There are just two little words that I never, ever expect to hear that I heard last night. Two little words that just take all the viss and pinegar out of me and can reduce me to a weak sounding "Okay."

I'm sorry. The first words out of the manager's mouth, followed immediately by a proactive way to remedy the situation. For all my huff and puff, I stood there in front of my princess, phone to my ear, myself, a neutered dragon. At the end of it all, the most I ever was able to give him was the facts of the situation (we hadn't been called and had to initiate all communication; the emerald wasn't apparently cracked when last we saw it) and a meager "thank you."

Today, after work, I pick up the replacement bracelet (!) without paying a cent.