There is nothing inherently wrong with techies. After five years working for a technology company, I can testify that they were the most honest off all of the people I worked with. They were fun, they were problem solvers, they saved my ass on a number of occasions. Now maybe I was able to develop this appreciation for some particularly great folks because I took the time to attempt to learn about what they did or because I “niced” them to death, whatever.

All I know is that I just didn’t want to be treated like I just was by some snot-nosed ninny who seriously just asked me in a very slow delievery if I understood what he was talking about. It’s a fucking email server port bud–not quantum physics! And the word “port” yes there are so many different ways to misinterpret that meaning. Shit, I thought you were talking about an appertif.

I can be a fiesty mamma. I can get ticked off quickly and tend not to bite my tongue–it’s a negative personality trait. But I behaved. I just hung up briskly and started typing my little heart out to relieve my INCREDIBLE frustration at not being able to slap the little booger who thought he could insult me from the safe distance of CANADA (no offense to all Canadians).

Honestly, what about working in an IT job makes you think that niceties are unneccesary? Do you really think that just because you’ve got your finger on the server switch you control the world? Wrong button dude! You have no red phone, there are no army guys in silos waiting for your call. Don’t screw it up for your brethren. There are a bunch of good techies out there–I married one. But your big server–won’t make up for your small dick!

Could there be more of a reason to celebrate?

It’s Talk Like a Pirate Day!! I can see no better reason me hearties to lift your tankard and give a hearty Arrrr!

But beware wenches a pirates trying to shiver yer timbers (scroll down).

Seriously, I have thoughts all day long that at the time I could go on about, but tonight I am just tired. Trying to get the two year-old to learn how to go to sleep on his own (without using Mamma’s hair to twirl). So I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes walking back and forth down the hall as he a) tried to escape from his room b) sobbed hysterically to the point of coughing c) removed his pajamas and d) has taken up talking loudly so neither he nor his brothers can fall asleep.

Maybe I should be proud of the persistence in this little guy. I hope he decides to use the talent for good some day. But tonight, he’s just wearing me out!

I know autumn doesn’t officially begin for another week or so, but the oak tree in my yard doesn’t know that. The squirrels must sense the impending change. I love our oak tree. Oak trees to me are stately. The oak is the national tree of our country. They are known to represent strength and endurance–both admirable qualities (especially necessary if you’re trying to raise three boys). However, at this time of the year I begin to wonder if a nice prickly cactus wouldn’t be a safer choice. My front yard has become an upside down mine field.

Acorns are falling on my head. So far they have all been near misses. But every time it happens I’m convinced there are a pair of squirrels perched way up high one saying “oooh, that was so close” to which the other replies “close only matters in horseshoes and handgrenades.”

Did you know there is actually a mathematical formula that relates to acorn production?

The mathematical formula that relates the acorn production (A) to the age in years of the tree (Y) is:

Apparently the number acorns produced increasese exponentially with the age of the tree.

So supposing my oak tree is only 50 years old (my house is just a little younger) I think I’m going to have to start wearing a helmet while I get my yard ready for the winter.

The true question is from what height must an acorn fall to cause a concussion?

It’s amazing what you can find on the internet–and what people spend their time trying to figure out.

“My muscles are really big. I ate my plate of lasagna really much.”
-jt, 4

The story below (told by Molly Ivins) perfectly sums up why I looked up to this woman. I would love to think that I would say the same thing…though even if I were that witty, I’d never have that wonderful accent.

I will miss you Ms. Richards.

Several years ago there was a big political do at Scholz Beer Garten in Austin and everybody who was anybody in political Texas was there, meetin’ and greetin’ at a furious pace. About halfway through the evening, a little group of us got the tired feet and went to lean our butts against a table by the back wall of the Garten. Like birds in a row were perched Bob Bullock, the state comptroller; me; Charlie Miles, a black man who was then head of Bullock’s personnel department (and the reason Bullock had such a good record on minority hiring); and Ms. Ann Richards.

Bullock, having been in Texas politics for thirty some-odd years, consequently knew every living sorry, no-account person who ever held office. A dreadful old racist judge from East Texas came up to him, “Bob, my boy, how are yew?” The two of them commenced to clap one another on the back and have a big greetin’.

“Judge,” said Bullock. “I want you to meet my friends. This is Molly Ivins with the Texas Observer.”

The judge peered up at me and said, “How yew, little lady?”

“This is Charles Miles, who heads my personnel department.” Charlie stuck out his hand and the judge got an expression on his face as though he had just stepped into a fresh cowpie. It took him a long minute before he reached out, barely touched Charlie’s hand and said, “How you, boy?” Then he turned with great relief to pretty, blue-eyed Ann Richards and said, “And who is this lovely lady?”

Ann beamed and said, “I am Mrs. Miles.”

I have this horrible problem with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I have come to believe that I lack a necessary filter between my brain and my mouth. This is not a new condition. Some of my oldest friends like to sit back and just watch it happen. They can see it coming and they find it very amusing. I wish they would just hold up a big sign that lets me know when I’m getting too close to the edge. The great thing about these friends is that they still love me, even after I’ve made the faux pas.

My husband is the best at loving me no matter what. I guess that’s his job, but there is something pretty darn special about looking up after I let one of my bombs loose and seeing him just shaking his head and smiling. I know that with him everything is still okay.

My direct approach is not always a bad thing. It definitely comes in handy you know with things like work and getting good service when you need it.

Today unfortunately I was wearing boots and they didn’t feel too good in my mouth. I’m hoping the offended party will find it in their heart to forgive me.

Have you ever tried really hard NOT to do something? I don’t mean in the physical–holy cow it’s the sour apple quick steps I’ve got to find a bathroom fast (too bad I have to walk 8 blocks to get there)! I mean something you have control over. It’s tough.

It seems the more I try not to do something, the more I think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I want to do it. A vicious, vicious cycle.

I’m sure alchohol might help. But is the headache really worth it?

Today I’d like to be 24 again. I could manage the headaches then.

• The tests have come back, and it’s definitely herpes.
• Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?
• It’s not you, it’s me…
• Do you think my arms are in proportion to the rest of my body? (I seriously had a date ask me this once!)

and tonight’s winner…

• I have poopy on my hands.

• Men with long fingernails–even if you are a classical guitar player it still wigs me out.
• Men whose feet are too small for their body. This is not for the reason you think it might be…get your mind out of the gutter. It just looks weird. And I find that it usually occurs on men who wear their pants just a little too tight–like everything else grew but their feet.

I don’t mean to pick on guys. I’ve just encountered a couple of these folks in the past few days and I haven’t been able to let it go. I know, it’s my problem.

The thing I find with guys with small feet is that they often wear loafers. And not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with loafers–they just seem to be a favorite. You can really tell everything you need to know about a guy from the shoes he wears.

I can hear all the guys groaning right now. But trust me on this one. Ask any woman you know and she’ll tell you. Your shoes say it all. They tell us if you have style, if you have taste, if you primp, if you’re all sizzle and no steak, if you’re cheap, if you’re lazy, if you’re hard working, if you’re fun, if you’re not. Show me a pair of men’s shoes and I’ll tell you all about the owner. Go ahead, send me a picture with your email address. I’ll let you know.