2011: The Year I will break every limit of wine consumption I have ever set

So there's been a small-to-middling amount of craziness at work this year. I got yet another new boss. I've been in this job for three years and I've had three bosses; I'm beginning to be glad I keep saying "no" to the possibility of a promotion. Totally unrelated: The most insane contracting processes in the world must be run by the US Air Force, meaning: I've worked for the government for 6 years, and I thought I knew what kind of paperwork comes with the job. I have rarely in my life been so wrong as I was in my perspective on government paperwork. Bonus points! We're starting a building renovation. This will make things much calmer. Especially that part where they take a third of our collection and put it in another building. Although, in the base's favor: They did add a Taco Bell Express to the food court. That makes me much, much happier than it should. And then ... For some reason, I decided to do the annual reviews for my six employees on a Monday (?!? Graduate degrees do not prove intelligence). And I learned a few things. Education is good! Right? I learned 1 of them needs slow down to half-time for about 12 weeks over the rest of the year. I learned 1 of them is getting her Master's degree in 4 months and will be getting another job (Education! It's Good for you!). I learned 2 of them are retiring in the next 6 months, possibly within days of each other - probably within days of Ms. Graduate getting her shiny new position. I came out of the review room and thought "Well, I've got a few things to learn this year..." So...Yay for Education? I like my job, and as job's go, it's really not stressful. I always tell my team "we're buying books, not saving lives" when they get over-stressed about things. I think it's time I printed that on a wine glass, so that each time I take a swig genteel sip, I'll be reminded of my own advice. My advice for you? Buy stock in Rex Goliath.

I feel the need for a rant, and it’s political, and I have a blog, and oh look! I even have a "rant" label!

So apparently a bunch of men in the House of Representatives have taken it upon themselves to decide, once again, that they know more about my body than I do (there are 173 co-sponsors, only five of whom are women*). This time, they have decided that: · If I go out and have a drink, and someone slips a drug in that drink to make me pass out, and they proceed to rape me, I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". · If I become mentally disabled and incapable of telling a man “no”, it doesn’t count as rape and I should not be allowed to have an abortion because that's not "forcible rape". Also not allowed to decide how to handle their own bodies are women over the age of 18 who are victims of incest, because overnight you suddenly became capable of changing your life and all of a sudden it's not rape. Also, if I get raped and have been putting my money in a tax-exempt Health Savings Account? I can't touch that money if I want to get an abortion. Is this bill going to become law? It’s a pretty long shot, thank goodness. Would I even need the option to get a Medicare funded abortion? I sincerely hope not, and since I’m in a fairly privileged segment of society, the odds are long. But. That’s. Not. The. Point. The point is that the line keeps being moved for what is “reasonable”. And that line is moving closer to the extreme side. The point is that once again, people who will never be faced with this decision about their body are saying that I don’t have the right to make that same decision about mine. The point is that “forcible rape” isn’t even a legal term and isn’t defined in the law – which means it can mean whatever the hell anti-abortion people want it to mean. The point is that this will not change those mens’ lives in the least. The point is it could be disastrous for the two people whose lives it will change the most. *And to the women who co-sponsored the bill: If you stay out of my uterus’s business, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.

That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.

And that's how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.

That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.

And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. To me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.

That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz in the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.

That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.

That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.

That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".

That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.

That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.

And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

I

And right on time, we have another Alabama Winter Storm of the Century!

2008.

2009.

2010. This year, we're going to leave off that part about "So Far Because I'm Going To Need A Better One", because I think I've been tempting fate. I should have been more specific. I want SNOW storms. Winter storms can include ice, and Mother Nature finally found that loophole in my pleadings. It looks like that's what we're in for around here (loopholes, which in this instance is ice). Now, ice has some of the same positive aspects: it's getting The Professor and me a day off work; I get to have a celebratory beer at 3:40 in the afternoon; my favorite meteorologist will have a long-form weather special this afternoon. The negatives? Oh, the little possibility that ice will end all of this happiness as we know it. I went out to get a picture of something noteworthy, but so far the only thing noteworthy is my windshield, which is a solid sheet of ice. The driveway is on its way to becoming an ice field, but luckily I only had to take one step on it to get to the car. Knowing my graceful self, you might say "But, D! That's one step to many!" And you're right, I dared fate when I took that one step. Which is why I think I'll stay inside until it's all gone. The next time I step outside, Mother Nature will probably have teleported a polar bear to my front yard to teach me not to taunt her about Alabama Winter Storms of the Century. PS: Why in the world do I not have a weather label on this blog? I've been putting all of these under "domestic bliss"? The Professor could care less about my weather ramblings. I blame the wine I was probably drinking for the lack of motivation to create a new label. Just as I'll blame the beer I'm drinking now for the lack of motivation to create a new label. See? I'm consistent in my laziness!

Well, this is strange

We have a Burger King on base, and awhile back one of my coworkers was going to grab lunch. So we pulled up the menu online to play with their little interactive "have it your way" fun thingy. And we discovered a strange thing. Coworker originally said she'd get a grilled chicken salad, because obviously that's the healthy choice. Choosing the fat-free dressing, this is what the nutritional value of the salad is projected to be: We decided to compare that to her number one menu choice at BK: The stacker. Two meat patties, two slices of cheese, two slices of bacon. Yum. (Well, yum until she adds mustard, because mustard is one of the fastest ways to ruin a hamburger.) Anyway, naturally, she would get the meal - fries and a drink. And that's when things got surprising: The Stacker meal (she did remove the stacker sauce in favor of the mustard) had the same amount of Calories and fat as the salad - but it also had far less sodium, and a little less sugar and cholesterol. The meaning she took from this: A bacon double cheeseburger is obviously God's way of telling you that you've had enough salad in your life lately.

Why November is the BEST Month of the Year

1. It's not August.
2. I have a birthday at the end of it.
3. The food...all the glorious food...
4. Two national holidays = two free days off of work. That's probably not why I'm supposed to like Veterans' Day, though.
5. The high temperature is consistently under 90.
6. I get presents. Usually in the form of food.
7. Christmas is right around the corner. Which means more presents.

Sometimes, November is all about me and the food. Actually, that's pretty much my life.

"A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?"

I'm not one to try and hurry seasons along. When the seasons change, I always think of what I like about the new one. I like all of them, even summer, as odd as that sounds coming from someone living in Alabama. I love that it stays light so long, I love that I am was growing tomatoes in my backyard, I love that it's light when I drive to work in the morning, I love that I can sleep with a fan on, and I love the excuse to drink as many pina coladas as my brain can manage to wrap itself around. Mostly the last one. But this year ... y'all, the heat has turned people into what I can only call Crazy Zombie People Who Are Trying To Destroy My Brain With Their Crazy. And it's close to working. Because the Crazy has reached epic proportions and no amount of rum is curing this. Maybe the problem is that I'm the only one drinking it? Solution: The government needs to change all of our water fountains at work to rum fountains. Fall needs to get here. Soon. The Summer Crazies are making me insane.

Stream-Of-Consciousness Vacation Thoughts That Would Have Been a Weekend-Long Live Blog If I Wanted The Criminals to Know I Was Away From Home

Thursday, 6 AM: The only reason to get up before noon on the first day of vacation is because my sister, the pool and the adult beverages are 8 hours away and not in my backyard.

10 AM: This whole "travelling with a broken CD player and malfunctioning Zune" means that The Professor and I have two options: babble for hours (that would be me) or listen to stupid morning radio shows. HOW do these people get paid for that job? I'm way funnier (in that they are about as fun as watching paint dry) and I have much better taste in music. I just can't play any of it right now.

11 AM: Solution: Stopped to buy a converter so I can plug my laptop into the car. Peace and harmony are restored. This means it's nap time.

4:30 PM: Sister hugged, beverage in hand, pool in sight. We're making Big Plans for the evening that involve a trivia show, more beverages, beach walking, a meteor shower, and midnight swimming. People, we are serious Partiers. BE WARNED.

1:00 AM: We won the Trivia game, but The Meteor Shower That Wasn't has won in life, in that it is apparently an invisible meteor shower? But all's good, because my brother-in-law has taken over making my drinks. I probably should only have 1 of these if I plan to be able to walk tomorrow.

3:30 AM: Do I think I'm still 21 or something?

Friday, Noon: Yeah. Should've stopped the brother-in-law after one drink (where "one" equals "the first one *he* made for me, not the first of the evening). Life Lesson for us all: Just because you have a Master's Degree does not mean you possess a whole lot of intelligence.

3 PM: My niece put in season 1 of The Simpsons and then - OH DEAR LORD - informed me they have the first 10 seasons on DVD.

6 PM Cooking dinner, almost finished and Sis realized we have no wine chilling for dinner. How will we survive? Either push dinner back by 10 minutes or switch to Rum & Cokes earlier than planned.

8 PM: We will live dangerously and go to a LATE movie. Dear Inception: I hope I still have the brain power at 10:30 PM to understand what the hell you are about. I'm not holding out a lot of hope.

1 AM: Holy Dreamworld, Batman. I may never sleep again. Or maybe I never want to wake up? Either choice seems equally dangerous at the moment.

Saturday, 12:30 PM: The Simpsons is officially the stupidest show ever. Thank god for the Internet. The Professor is loving this, though. Wonder what that says about us?

3 PM: We only had the equivalent of 10 bottles of wine in the house. Obviously I needed to buy more while we were out scouring the area for seafood to make bouillabaisse. No crustacean will be safe from our big pot; no Red safe from our glasses. Red Crustaceans are doubly cursed.

7 PM: Sis just decided we've got this bouillabaisse making thing down, maybe could do it in our sleep. We won't, since we're drinking with candles burning and all. But she's right.

11 PM: If you pour the wine into a beautiful pitcher, it will taste better.

Sunday, 10 AM: We're going to race mother nature and take a trip to the beach as soon as we can all get ready. Who do you think is going to win this?

1 PM: We won - the beach was awesome. Then we came home and lunch has now defeated me. Vacations are for naps, right?

4 PM: Sis and I are making a quick trip out to buy something on sale, and as we're leaving she says gleefully: "By the time we get back, it'll be time for a drink". I love the way this woman thinks. PS: The Simpsons live on.

6:30 PM: Even The Professor has reached his limits on watching The Simpsons. I honestly didn't know this was possible. He has also resorted to rum & juice. Light on the juice, I believe.

6:45 PM: While cleaning the beautiful wine pitcher from the night before - preparing to refill it - Sis finds the warning on the bottom that says "for decorative purposes only; do not use to serve food or drink". Plus side of this: if we grow a third eye anytime soon, we'll know what to tell the doctors!

11 PM: Dr Horrible + Rocky Horror + bottle of red = Best Way to End a Vacation Ever.

Monday, 4 PM: Back home. The cats - oddly - didn't seem to notice we even left. I'm glad no one tried to rob us. The cats would've been useless on the defense front. At least they were smart enough to stay out of my rum.