Over the past couple of days I've been reading a lot in the British newspapers about Theresa Winters.
Theresa is 36 years old, unemployed, dependent on benefits to survive and lives with her partner, Toney Housden. Theresa is currently 25 weeks into her 14th pregnancy. Yes, I said 14th. That's slightly eyebrow raising, but in an age where Jon and Kate plus their eight and the Duggar family and their 18 are mainstream TV stars, it's not as shocking as it once was.
What is shocking, however, is that NONE of the 13 children Theresa has given birth to are in her or Toney's custody.
NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THEM. NONE.
They have all been removed from their custody by British social services. Theresa says that until "they" let her keep one, she's going to keep right on reproducing.
That's not the thing that really disturbs me, though. I mean, it's bad enough, but....the thing that really bothers me are the reports that several of her children have PEHO Syndrome.
PEHO is rare, and is considered to be an autosomal recessive trait - so for several of the couple's children to be born with it is strongly indicative of it being their genetic material at fault rather than a random or environmental cause.
This has presented a rather sticky ethical wicket for me and has caused me to ask myself some questions:
Who is suffering here?
Ultimately, who is paying the price for this couple exercising their reproductive freedom?
At what point does 'reproductive freedom' become 'sheer madness' and 'abject cruelty'?
Does society (or even the gub'mint) have a right to step in? They already have, to an extent; they're removed EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of the 13 children from these people's custody.
When, if ever, is forced sterilization appropriate?
I don't have answers as yet. My knee-jerk reaction is one of 'stop the madness; get a court order to give that girl a tubal ligation and that gormless wonder a vasectomy and do it soon', but that attitude is, I think, the very top of a slippery slope - one that I can't see the bottom of. I resent that they can just keep on having babies, and I fucking hate that they're just having more babies when there's clearly a genetic defect and, consequently, a good chance that those babies will have little to no quality of life whatsoever....but again, where does that train of thought come to an end?
I just don't know, y'all. I just don't know.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Boobage, shoulders and arms, oh my!
So, the mammogram this morning ruled out the possibility of the irregularity in my boobage being a cyst.
Okay, so it's not a cyst.
It's also not a "typical" malignancy.
Ok, so it's not "typical". So, what is it?
It's probably benign. It's either a microcalcification or fibrocystic breast tissue or scar tissue or there's a small chance that it could be something nefarious like a malignancy that's choosing to make it's appearance in a nontypical way.
So, I have to have a contrast MRI done to get a better look at it.
The only problem is that the first appointment I can get for the MRI is on August 13th. My shoulder surgery is going to be before that. I can't have the MRI until I'm 6 weeks post op.
Oh that's right! I didn't tell you what happened at the ortho surgeon's appointment, did I?
He made me cry. I swore I wasn't going to cry, but he got me going. I said that I'm sick of hurting every time I move my arm, I'm done giving shit up that I really liked to do, that I feel like I'm playing with fire being on narcotic pain meds for so long and that I gave myself an ulcer with NSAID's, that I want my life back - or at least a life with less pain back. I'd tried therapy, I'd tried conservative approaches and that I was done with them, too.
He said he couldn't guarantee that what he was going to try to do would leave me pain free, but that it would certainly help.
I said I didn't want guarantees, that I just wanted to try. If I have 2 or 3 pain free days a week or even just less pain on a daily basis that I would be happy.
He said he will trim and probably reposition my biceps tendon, decompress the shoulder process (shave my clavicle and other bone ends) tidy up the rotator cuff and perhaps tweak the bursal sac a wee bit. He's going to take a good look around and do what he can to give me a less painful shoulder. It might start as a laproscopic procedure and end up as an open surgery, but he'd try to keep the incisions small.
That's EXACTLY what I wanted.
Surgery will be sometime in the next week or so. I'll find out tomorrow when it is. In the meantime, I'm having a pain medication embargo. I recall how bad it was before *with* NSAIDs, and this time I won't have those. I sound like a junkie here, but I'm going to ask for percocet 10/325 instead of the 5/325's like I got last time - for the immediate post-surgical period, that is. I want off that crap, and soon. Fuck, that's part of the reason I'm having another surgery. I think that were I truly a junkie I'd be milking the injury for all it's worth.
So, back to the MRI: the tech said as soon as I know when the surgery is I'm to call her and she'd figure out a way to get me in there BEFORE I have the surgery. She's awesome, that girl. She's truly an asset to the hospital; she actually gives a crap instead of just saying that she does and then not backing it up. I love that.
*update* Surgeon's nurse just called. Surgery will be the week of the 10th; he's en vacance next week. The good thing is that I'll be able to start college on the 24th. The downside....another 3 month recovery period. However, I can handle that. 3 months is a relatively small amount of time.
Okay, so it's not a cyst.
It's also not a "typical" malignancy.
Ok, so it's not "typical". So, what is it?
It's probably benign. It's either a microcalcification or fibrocystic breast tissue or scar tissue or there's a small chance that it could be something nefarious like a malignancy that's choosing to make it's appearance in a nontypical way.
So, I have to have a contrast MRI done to get a better look at it.
The only problem is that the first appointment I can get for the MRI is on August 13th. My shoulder surgery is going to be before that. I can't have the MRI until I'm 6 weeks post op.
Oh that's right! I didn't tell you what happened at the ortho surgeon's appointment, did I?
He made me cry. I swore I wasn't going to cry, but he got me going. I said that I'm sick of hurting every time I move my arm, I'm done giving shit up that I really liked to do, that I feel like I'm playing with fire being on narcotic pain meds for so long and that I gave myself an ulcer with NSAID's, that I want my life back - or at least a life with less pain back. I'd tried therapy, I'd tried conservative approaches and that I was done with them, too.
He said he couldn't guarantee that what he was going to try to do would leave me pain free, but that it would certainly help.
I said I didn't want guarantees, that I just wanted to try. If I have 2 or 3 pain free days a week or even just less pain on a daily basis that I would be happy.
He said he will trim and probably reposition my biceps tendon, decompress the shoulder process (shave my clavicle and other bone ends) tidy up the rotator cuff and perhaps tweak the bursal sac a wee bit. He's going to take a good look around and do what he can to give me a less painful shoulder. It might start as a laproscopic procedure and end up as an open surgery, but he'd try to keep the incisions small.
That's EXACTLY what I wanted.
Surgery will be sometime in the next week or so. I'll find out tomorrow when it is. In the meantime, I'm having a pain medication embargo. I recall how bad it was before *with* NSAIDs, and this time I won't have those. I sound like a junkie here, but I'm going to ask for percocet 10/325 instead of the 5/325's like I got last time - for the immediate post-surgical period, that is. I want off that crap, and soon. Fuck, that's part of the reason I'm having another surgery. I think that were I truly a junkie I'd be milking the injury for all it's worth.
So, back to the MRI: the tech said as soon as I know when the surgery is I'm to call her and she'd figure out a way to get me in there BEFORE I have the surgery. She's awesome, that girl. She's truly an asset to the hospital; she actually gives a crap instead of just saying that she does and then not backing it up. I love that.
*update* Surgeon's nurse just called. Surgery will be the week of the 10th; he's en vacance next week. The good thing is that I'll be able to start college on the 24th. The downside....another 3 month recovery period. However, I can handle that. 3 months is a relatively small amount of time.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Dismay
Am I the only person in the US who thinks that there is something very wrong when:
a 40 plus year old man cannot spell basic words like 'lose' and 'divorce' (for the record, he used 'looze' and 'devorse')?
people seem to be unable to use the past tense of words and say things like 'suppose' instead of 'supposed', 'forgave' instead of 'forgiven' and so on?
a person who describes themselves as educated and intelligent spells 'gentle' 'g-e-n-t-a-l' and says that he likes 'ladys' instead of 'ladies'?
I am just amazed that middle aged people seem to be totally and utterly unable to spell at anything greater than a 4th grade level - and even worse, they don't seem to CARE that their writing is full of mistakes.
When did it become uncool to be smart? Was I asleep when that happened?
a 40 plus year old man cannot spell basic words like 'lose' and 'divorce' (for the record, he used 'looze' and 'devorse')?
people seem to be unable to use the past tense of words and say things like 'suppose' instead of 'supposed', 'forgave' instead of 'forgiven' and so on?
a person who describes themselves as educated and intelligent spells 'gentle' 'g-e-n-t-a-l' and says that he likes 'ladys' instead of 'ladies'?
I am just amazed that middle aged people seem to be totally and utterly unable to spell at anything greater than a 4th grade level - and even worse, they don't seem to CARE that their writing is full of mistakes.
When did it become uncool to be smart? Was I asleep when that happened?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Coming Bounty
My garden is blooming!
That's one of the bees that are constant visitors to my plants these days. That guy there is so loaded with pollen that I could hardly see any of his black stripes!
Those are some of the pear tomatoes that I got as tiny wee straggly little seedlings about 5 weeks ago. They've gone from sickly looking things to thick bushy plants that have fruit on them. I've never eaten any of this particular kind of tomato before so I'm looking forward to tasting them!
Crookneck squash. I also have straightneck and acorn. FTS and I are both excited about roasting those bad boys with some butter and pepper and maple syrup.
That's the habanero pepper plant Ruby decided looked very tasty and ate the top of a month ago. It's recovered, and as you might be able to see, is now producing for me. FTS's boyfriend and his family are getting the goods from this plant; I don't think that I can tolerate habanero heat.
Beans! I have beans! That's a yellow wax bean, growing on a plant that I grew from a seed. There's a great deal of satisfaction in putting a seed in some dirt, watering and feeding it and then, a couple of months later, being able to pick produce from the plant that grew from the seed and eat it.
I'll post more photos as I take them!
That's one of the bees that are constant visitors to my plants these days. That guy there is so loaded with pollen that I could hardly see any of his black stripes!
Those are some of the pear tomatoes that I got as tiny wee straggly little seedlings about 5 weeks ago. They've gone from sickly looking things to thick bushy plants that have fruit on them. I've never eaten any of this particular kind of tomato before so I'm looking forward to tasting them!
Crookneck squash. I also have straightneck and acorn. FTS and I are both excited about roasting those bad boys with some butter and pepper and maple syrup.
That's the habanero pepper plant Ruby decided looked very tasty and ate the top of a month ago. It's recovered, and as you might be able to see, is now producing for me. FTS's boyfriend and his family are getting the goods from this plant; I don't think that I can tolerate habanero heat. 
Beans! I have beans! That's a yellow wax bean, growing on a plant that I grew from a seed. There's a great deal of satisfaction in putting a seed in some dirt, watering and feeding it and then, a couple of months later, being able to pick produce from the plant that grew from the seed and eat it.
I'll post more photos as I take them!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sometimes I wonder
My father died three years ago this week.
I still find myself struggling with the concept of his simply not being here anymore. I see something and think that I must ring dad and tell him about it and I have the phone in my hand before I remember that he's not around to talk to any more. I usually hang up because I can't handle telling mum what I was thinking.
The silliest thought I have is that perhaps if I was there I could have saved him. He was in the coronary care unit of the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford; one of the best teaching hospitals in England. He had great doctors treating him, but still the thought that if I had been there; if it had been MY hands on his chest, pumping his heart...that perhaps his body would have sensed the familiarity, that he would have known it was me, his child, trying to save his life. That the love I had for him would have somehow seeped into his cardiac muscle and restarted it....that my love would be enough to bring him back to life.
It's utter craziness, I know. I can step back from that thought process and see the sheer insanity of it; I know how impractical it is. I mean, he had some stellar cardiologists treating him and working his final arrest. I couldn't have made any difference to the outcome. Yet still that thought remains. I can't completely shake it.
The fact is that he was lucky to live as long as he did. He had his first MI when I was 15; I witnessed my own father dying in his bed. At first I thought he and my mother were in the throes of passion because he was groaning, but when I heard mum go downstairs and dad continued to groan I knew things were not right. I went into his room and saw him flat on his back on the bed, his skin a horrible clay color, drenched in sweat. I called out to mum to ring 999, NOW. She said he was ringing the doctor. I said bugger the doctor, ring the bloody ambulance - it was the first time I swore at mother and to the best of my recollection it was the last. She insisted on ringing the doctor. I swooped dad up in my arms and propped him up on all the pillows I could find and then sat with him, telling him just to concentrate on breathing in and out, in and out, that help was on the way and that it was going to be fine. Pleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdie was what was running through my head, but I didn't say that to him.
The doctor finally arrived, wearing pajama pants and shirt under his sports jacket. He took one look at dad and told mum to ring 999, then he pulled a portable EKG out of his bag o'tricks and stuck the leads on dad's chest. All these years later, I remember what that strip looked like. It wasn't until I became an EMT that I truly understood what those spikes and curved bits meant: tombstones. Occlusion of the left anterior descending coronary artery. He was throwing a widowmaker.
I lost count of the number of MI's he had over the years. I know that he had triple bypass surgery twice and was hospitalized five or six times after the final surgery. He was on so much Coumadin towards the end of his life that he stopped shaving every day because if he nicked himself he bled for three days. He was frail...my dad, the man who created shapes from stone with his chisel and trowel, the man who carried hods up and down ladder his whole life...my dad couldn't walk from the bathroom to the living room without getting out of breath and having angina at the end. He had strokes. He couldn't talk properly. He got a motorized scooter and went to town on it, but one day he got lost and was out for 8 hours before he came to, realized where he was and went home.
He was old, and he was done living. His heart was tired, and so was he. I believe he decided that he was done, and I know in my heart of hearts that nothing I could have done would have persuaded him to live. He was tired of existing.
I miss him. I still talk to him like he's here sometimes. It helps.
I love you, dad. I'm not mad or angry at you for going, I don't blame you. You fought for a long time, and you fought well. I just miss you like crazy and I don't think that will ever go away.
I think as long as I miss him I'll still wonder if I could have made a difference.
I still find myself struggling with the concept of his simply not being here anymore. I see something and think that I must ring dad and tell him about it and I have the phone in my hand before I remember that he's not around to talk to any more. I usually hang up because I can't handle telling mum what I was thinking.
The silliest thought I have is that perhaps if I was there I could have saved him. He was in the coronary care unit of the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford; one of the best teaching hospitals in England. He had great doctors treating him, but still the thought that if I had been there; if it had been MY hands on his chest, pumping his heart...that perhaps his body would have sensed the familiarity, that he would have known it was me, his child, trying to save his life. That the love I had for him would have somehow seeped into his cardiac muscle and restarted it....that my love would be enough to bring him back to life.
It's utter craziness, I know. I can step back from that thought process and see the sheer insanity of it; I know how impractical it is. I mean, he had some stellar cardiologists treating him and working his final arrest. I couldn't have made any difference to the outcome. Yet still that thought remains. I can't completely shake it.
The fact is that he was lucky to live as long as he did. He had his first MI when I was 15; I witnessed my own father dying in his bed. At first I thought he and my mother were in the throes of passion because he was groaning, but when I heard mum go downstairs and dad continued to groan I knew things were not right. I went into his room and saw him flat on his back on the bed, his skin a horrible clay color, drenched in sweat. I called out to mum to ring 999, NOW. She said he was ringing the doctor. I said bugger the doctor, ring the bloody ambulance - it was the first time I swore at mother and to the best of my recollection it was the last. She insisted on ringing the doctor. I swooped dad up in my arms and propped him up on all the pillows I could find and then sat with him, telling him just to concentrate on breathing in and out, in and out, that help was on the way and that it was going to be fine. Pleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdiepleasedon'tdie was what was running through my head, but I didn't say that to him.
The doctor finally arrived, wearing pajama pants and shirt under his sports jacket. He took one look at dad and told mum to ring 999, then he pulled a portable EKG out of his bag o'tricks and stuck the leads on dad's chest. All these years later, I remember what that strip looked like. It wasn't until I became an EMT that I truly understood what those spikes and curved bits meant: tombstones. Occlusion of the left anterior descending coronary artery. He was throwing a widowmaker.
I lost count of the number of MI's he had over the years. I know that he had triple bypass surgery twice and was hospitalized five or six times after the final surgery. He was on so much Coumadin towards the end of his life that he stopped shaving every day because if he nicked himself he bled for three days. He was frail...my dad, the man who created shapes from stone with his chisel and trowel, the man who carried hods up and down ladder his whole life...my dad couldn't walk from the bathroom to the living room without getting out of breath and having angina at the end. He had strokes. He couldn't talk properly. He got a motorized scooter and went to town on it, but one day he got lost and was out for 8 hours before he came to, realized where he was and went home.
He was old, and he was done living. His heart was tired, and so was he. I believe he decided that he was done, and I know in my heart of hearts that nothing I could have done would have persuaded him to live. He was tired of existing.
I miss him. I still talk to him like he's here sometimes. It helps.
I love you, dad. I'm not mad or angry at you for going, I don't blame you. You fought for a long time, and you fought well. I just miss you like crazy and I don't think that will ever go away.
I think as long as I miss him I'll still wonder if I could have made a difference.
Dear Troll
Once again, I have to thank you for stopping by my little corner of the blogsphere and really telling me how it is. Boy howdy, was my face ever red after reading your rambling, ill spelt and grammatically incorrect rambling! I mean, you sure put me in my place!
I know that it must be TERRIBLY disappointing for you now that Frank's been sentenced to A HUNDRED A THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING YEARS, but please don't take it too hard: they have visiting days in prison. You'll see each other again, I'm sure. I wouldn't hold out much hope of ever having anything other than a jail-house relationship, though. He's not going to be eligible for parole for sixty-seven years and six months. I should warrant that he'll be dead before that happens, especially if he happens to be unable to be placed in protective custody.
Would you like me to stop using words of more than one syllable, dear? I know how taxing it is for you to read above a 4th grade level.
There's nothing fake ass about me, dear. A bitch I may be, but I'm not fake. You did get one thing correct though: I am feeling pretty stupid. Stupid for letting Ashley into my home, stupid for letting him anywhere near my kids, stupid for letting him start to drive a wedge between me and my husband. However, I find solace in the fact that, stupid as I may have been, I am still married, still in love with my husband, still have a career, and oh yes....I AM NOT IN FUCKING JAIL, DID NOT COME OUT ON BEHALF OF A NOW CONVICTED PEDOPHILE, AND AM NOT REDUCED TO TROLLING THE INTERNET, LEAVING SEMI-THREATENING COMMENTS ON OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOGS. I do have to ask you this: if you are so unafraid of my knowing who you are, why are you signing in as anonymous yet again?
In closing, let me just say this: Frank was given a hell of an opportunity to save his own skin. All he had to do was undergo psychosexual (I know that's a long word and I'm willing to break it down for you if you like) evaluation and he'd have been given a lighter sentence. What did he have to lose? If he was innocent, it would have showed. If he was guilty, he could have probably lived to see the outside of a jail cell again...but he refused. He was given the chance to still maintain his 5th amendement rights and NOT have the results announced in court, but he still chose to refuse. I just cannot understand why in the hell he wouldn't help himself.
Oh wait, I do: IT'S BECAUSE HE'S GUILTY.
One more thing: if you think that a truly innocent man can be convicted on "storytelling" in this day an age, then you truly are madder than a box of frogs. But yeah, keep telling yourself what you need to in order to get some sleep at night. Whatever it takes for you to feel better about standing up for a child molesting fuck. Perhaps you should start drinking again; that worked for you in the past.
Kisses,
NinjaMedic.
P.S. If you are who you say you are, you know exactly where to find me. Oddly enough, I haven't gotten any phone calls or seen you in my area. I can't imagine why...*rolls eyes*
P.P.S. It's 'whore', not 'ho'. Get it right, stupid.
I know that it must be TERRIBLY disappointing for you now that Frank's been sentenced to A HUNDRED A THIRTY-FIVE FUCKING YEARS, but please don't take it too hard: they have visiting days in prison. You'll see each other again, I'm sure. I wouldn't hold out much hope of ever having anything other than a jail-house relationship, though. He's not going to be eligible for parole for sixty-seven years and six months. I should warrant that he'll be dead before that happens, especially if he happens to be unable to be placed in protective custody.
Would you like me to stop using words of more than one syllable, dear? I know how taxing it is for you to read above a 4th grade level.
There's nothing fake ass about me, dear. A bitch I may be, but I'm not fake. You did get one thing correct though: I am feeling pretty stupid. Stupid for letting Ashley into my home, stupid for letting him anywhere near my kids, stupid for letting him start to drive a wedge between me and my husband. However, I find solace in the fact that, stupid as I may have been, I am still married, still in love with my husband, still have a career, and oh yes....I AM NOT IN FUCKING JAIL, DID NOT COME OUT ON BEHALF OF A NOW CONVICTED PEDOPHILE, AND AM NOT REDUCED TO TROLLING THE INTERNET, LEAVING SEMI-THREATENING COMMENTS ON OTHER PEOPLE'S BLOGS. I do have to ask you this: if you are so unafraid of my knowing who you are, why are you signing in as anonymous yet again?
In closing, let me just say this: Frank was given a hell of an opportunity to save his own skin. All he had to do was undergo psychosexual (I know that's a long word and I'm willing to break it down for you if you like) evaluation and he'd have been given a lighter sentence. What did he have to lose? If he was innocent, it would have showed. If he was guilty, he could have probably lived to see the outside of a jail cell again...but he refused. He was given the chance to still maintain his 5th amendement rights and NOT have the results announced in court, but he still chose to refuse. I just cannot understand why in the hell he wouldn't help himself.
Oh wait, I do: IT'S BECAUSE HE'S GUILTY.
One more thing: if you think that a truly innocent man can be convicted on "storytelling" in this day an age, then you truly are madder than a box of frogs. But yeah, keep telling yourself what you need to in order to get some sleep at night. Whatever it takes for you to feel better about standing up for a child molesting fuck. Perhaps you should start drinking again; that worked for you in the past.
Kisses,
NinjaMedic.
P.S. If you are who you say you are, you know exactly where to find me. Oddly enough, I haven't gotten any phone calls or seen you in my area. I can't imagine why...*rolls eyes*
P.P.S. It's 'whore', not 'ho'. Get it right, stupid.
Better
*listening to Lou Reed 'Walk On The Wild Side'*
The past couple of days haven't been stellar, but they've been better. Nobody has wanted to kill each other, and mama hasn't been eyeing the booze section in the store with quiet desperation, wondering whether it really *will* come to that.
I actually got to talk to my husband for 10 minutes one day, and the next day we had *another* 10 minute call with no cackling or interruptions. It was bliss, I tell you. Sheer bliss.
I feel bad for Urbaner. Not only is he being asked to work is ass off there, he's has issues to deal with at home. That's not easy for anyone. However, it's not fucking easy to left here dealing with the fallout of his absence, either.
*Goldfrapp, 'Strict Machine'*
Found out that Numbah Two hasn't been taking his medications as regularly as he said he was. It explains a lot, and as I explained to him this morning, it also means that I'm going to have to start dispensing them again. He had built enough trust with me and his pa that we had let him self dispense, but that's gone for a little while. I think that once his serum levels become adequate he'll stabilize and will be back on track, but that's going to take a couple of weeks.
*Cat Stevens, 'Wild World'*
Sat next to the head Brass at a dinner last week. Have promised him some tomatoes and peppers out of my garden. He says he's going to hold me to it. I believe him. I'm starting to notice a difference in the way brass talk to and interact with Senior NCO's....it's difficult to explain. It's not exactly familiarity, but it's something like that.
*David Bowie, 'Modern Love'*
I have found that the older I get, the more I need order and cleanliness in order to be able to operate. I used to be able to live in a proverbial sty, but I can't do that anymore. So, gentle reader, I am going to leave you for now and go about setting my house into some semblance of order.
*Play nicely whilst I am cleaning, please and be aware that if I come back and find my shit fucked up there will be consequences.*
The past couple of days haven't been stellar, but they've been better. Nobody has wanted to kill each other, and mama hasn't been eyeing the booze section in the store with quiet desperation, wondering whether it really *will* come to that.
I actually got to talk to my husband for 10 minutes one day, and the next day we had *another* 10 minute call with no cackling or interruptions. It was bliss, I tell you. Sheer bliss.
I feel bad for Urbaner. Not only is he being asked to work is ass off there, he's has issues to deal with at home. That's not easy for anyone. However, it's not fucking easy to left here dealing with the fallout of his absence, either.
*Goldfrapp, 'Strict Machine'*
Found out that Numbah Two hasn't been taking his medications as regularly as he said he was. It explains a lot, and as I explained to him this morning, it also means that I'm going to have to start dispensing them again. He had built enough trust with me and his pa that we had let him self dispense, but that's gone for a little while. I think that once his serum levels become adequate he'll stabilize and will be back on track, but that's going to take a couple of weeks.
*Cat Stevens, 'Wild World'*
Sat next to the head Brass at a dinner last week. Have promised him some tomatoes and peppers out of my garden. He says he's going to hold me to it. I believe him. I'm starting to notice a difference in the way brass talk to and interact with Senior NCO's....it's difficult to explain. It's not exactly familiarity, but it's something like that.
*David Bowie, 'Modern Love'*
I have found that the older I get, the more I need order and cleanliness in order to be able to operate. I used to be able to live in a proverbial sty, but I can't do that anymore. So, gentle reader, I am going to leave you for now and go about setting my house into some semblance of order.
*Play nicely whilst I am cleaning, please and be aware that if I come back and find my shit fucked up there will be consequences.*
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