Fly in the Ointment?

Batting away criticism with a wave of his healing hand, the President squashed complaints from miscreant pests that he "flew off the handle" and harmed one of God's lovely li'l critters.

In prepared remarks, delivered with the aid of TOTUS, the president commented that he respects insects, welcomes their input in matters of pesticide control, standing-water breeding grounds, and refuse centers, such as New Jersey.

He pointedly noted, however, that he will ignore them and run roughshod over them like tanks over protesters in Tianenman Square, like the Soviets in the Velvet Rebellion, like Himself over the Constitution...

Billions of tiny little insect wings beat a raucous applause, even as B-52's poured DEET by the hectare over the quickly dying audience.

2008 and before... This was us.

Our friend (and non-official official fambly member) Gabe was kind enough to take some lovely photos of our family for Christmas before he went gallivanting out to California away from us in December. I haven't had a chance to put these up before now, but here we are, in December, 2008.








Click on any of the photos above to see our new/old family album, which includes many of our never-before-published pictures. Can you believe it - we've been married over three years, and it has taken me *this* long to corral these!

Yes, the cobbler's children without shoes and all that. I know...

But here's the biggie: I uploaded our wedding photos today too!

Also for some fun and random, click on in for our 2008 version of Sauer Vignettes!

If I were the Unquestionably Grand Inarguably Divine Office of the President-Elect (UGIDOOTPE)…

I would appoint only members of the opposition (who are also members of the Senate, which coincidentally is led by a majority of my own party but not sufficient a majority to have unfettered reign) to my cabinet and the various offices and heads of departments of my administration.

Those appointed would be representing states that have recently altered their primary color alignment to match that commonly associated with my own party. The governors of those states would also quite conveniently be members of my party.

This would all but assure loyal replacements in the Senate in states where such vacancies are filled by gubernatorial appointment, and take advantage of prevailing popular opinion in states where the seats are filled by special election.

I would then, of course, fire all my cabinet and department heads.

Audacious enough for ya?

Rumored Updates

I heard a rumor recently that my husband would like to begin blogging more often. In honor of said rumored declaration, I have revamped our blog so that is again *our* blog.

In the event of any actual posts, I will, of course, notify readers of my blog that these posts are present. If they do not surface and the rumor is merely a rumor, do enjoy the new look as you're stopping by in hope.

Why I Shop At Wal-Mart

Unsettling though it was, I had to come to the conclusion fairly early in my professional endeavors that I am no mathematician. Fortunately, the law rarely requires me to calculate numbers: computers handle our billing, legal assistants figure out interest on judgments and filing fees, and the courts, well bless them all, they are chiefly responsible for gracing the world with formulas. The judges can't do the math either, so they make it easier on the rest of us by establishing open-ended solutions.

Speaking with people who are more adept at the numerical arts usually leaves nodding my head and agreeing with everything they say, so as not to appear more intellectually diminutive than I am. This, of course, is much better than my former tactic of one-upmanship that invariably resulted in my weighing in with something more than commonly unintelligible, like "BUT, if you phanubulate the incanculcatory formule-formulumam... summation, the divisor invariably quotates to the y-axis. So it's really all relative."

Mildly put, I'm dumb as a rock. I am, however, more than capable of minding, say, money.

I'm a Scrooge.

Face it: it's much easier to do the math when you have all "+" with no"-" thrown in to complicate matters. This, unfortunately, makes me no great thrill to shop with, to which my lovely wife can attest. I can indicate "no" in fourteen variants of the English language, not including facial contortions, posturing, and low-guttural expressions usually associated with gastronomically distressed porcine.

As we concluding our Christmas shopping (Okay, long aside here. Yes, I intentionally threw in the word, "conclude" since it's the case, and I'd like to laud Kelly for her efforts in getting us here, that is, a Conclusory Stage of The Game. This Conclusory Stage is noteworthy since it's... well, not July), we found ourselves in Wal-Mart last night, picking up a few essentials for the upcoming Jelly-Dip Bake-a-thon and Yogurt Fry. Being in need of a tablespoon, Kel found a set of four plastic spoons, one of which featured a handle with no bowl, it having been broken cleanly off. Knowing my Scroogesquian ways, she decided that we should ask for a discount on the set as we perceived it unlikely that another consumer would purchase them. (Upon reflection, I may have overestimated the perspicacity of North Charleston's populace: More than one person I've witnessed thus far would likely have assumed the broken handle to be a Gourmet Spoon-Swabbing Paddle and found it a bargain).

After having scanned our other merchandise, I asked our clerk whether they would be willing to provide a discount for the broken item, priced at $1.97. The exchange, roughly remembered, went as follows:

PETE: "We found this set of spoons already broken on the rack. Could we get them at a discount?"
CLERK: 'I need to ask my manager.'

After unsuccessfully attempting to call her manager, who was kneeling on the floor not eight feet away, "Martina, Martina, Martina, Martina, Martina," etc. ("Martina" likely thought there was a vaguely annoying repetitive anomaly with the HVAC unit), she finally persuaded a young, upwardly mobile manager-in-training to stop. For our purposes, we shall call him, "Bubba." Not once during the incident did Bubba look at us, despite standing approximately 1.5 feet away. It must have been one of those ten habits of highly successful managers.

CLERK: 'These people claim they found these broken on the rack.'
BUBBA: "Did you ask them whether they found one that wasn't broken?"
CLERK: 'No.'

Sensing a disturbance in the Force, I interjected, "I don't care that it's broken, I want to know if you'll sell it to me for a discount."

The Force began to quiver with the untenable burden that is Communication in the Modern World. In a tone of voice generally reserved for congregants at a wake, Bubba responded, "Uh... uh... tell them... we'll give them 10% off."
PETE: 'No thank you.'
CLERK: "How much is that?"
BUBBA: 'You don't know?'
CLERK: "You KNOW I'm not any good at math!"
PETE: 'No thank you!'
BUBBA: "Then WHY are you working as a cashier?!?"
CLERK: 'Don't you start on me now! I dunno what it is!'
PETE: "No thank you?"

At this heart-pounding stage of the negotiations, I'm delighted to say that cooler heads prevailed. Bubba, being the intelligent young manager that he is, emitted a snort of contempt that likely resulted in irretrievable damage to his sinuses. While annoyed at having had to sit through their spat, I was glad that he was going to put this ignoramus of a cashier in her place.

Except he didn't.

Instead he pulled out his ubercool, "For-managers-only-iPhone" activated the calculator, and, after what seemed like a painfully long amount of time said, "It's uh... forty-cents."

"No thank you."

Postscript. As my friend Gabe pointed out later, I should have just stopped their exchange much earlier by offering, "Five dollars. Ten percent of $1.97 is five dollars. I'll take the change in cash, please."