Another Girl School Failure

Today I looked in the mirror and realized that my hairline has receded so far back that I have a fivehead instead of a forehead. So I went on a pilgrimage for a talented stylist who could hide that vast expanse of head.

You can see the results above.

Isabeau and I found "Elements," a newer salon in the urban renewal area of my city. They, fortunately, take walk-ins, so in we went. And Darcie, a tiny and lovely young lady, was assigned to update my 'do. Truly, there wasn't a stylist in the place who wasn't young, tiny, and lovely, with one hardly-worth-mentioning exception of a superlatively coiffed and handsome young man. Which made me feel old, frumpy, and horribly ungirly right off the bat.

I told Darcie what my issue was, and also advised her that I DON'T "do" my hair. What you see is what you get. I shower in the morning, apply a dollop of cream to tame the frizzies, and out the door I go. Sometimes I take one extra step and throw the whole mess up into a ponytail. I told her that she could do whatever she wanted to my hair - she's the professional, after all - but it had to be something that doesn't have to be "done."

Bless her gorgeous, young, and smooth-skinned heart, Darcie chose instead to do her best to bring this head into the New Millenium. And I gotta admit, it looks great.

BUT... it took her (a professional) 45 minutes to straighten JUST THE FRONT of my hair (the back, that you can't see, is still the untamed mass of curls I was born with), using 5 different styling products, a blowdryer and a round brush, a flatiron, and a curling iron. You'll notice that the bangs she cut so artistically DO NOT cover my fivehead, but DO cover one eye (one eye that I will presumably need to do my job, drive, and take care of my house and children). Perhaps the most important consideration is that there is no way in Hell that I will EVER take the time to do this to my hair. Which I thought I explained in great detail BEFORE we started.

But here we are. I have entered GirlWorld but I'm pretty sure I won't be staying long. Only until my next shower.

**Sigh**

Every year I swear I'm not going to go overboard at the holidays.

This year, I even went as far as to notify all family members that they would each receive ONE present and one present only this year. Plus stockings, of course.

Well, today I am (penultimately) finished with Christmas shopping, and DAMN if I didn't manage to STILL spend over $2K.

Tama: I planned in advance for her gift, because it's something she needs (and wants). $800.

Isabeau: I planned in advance for her gift as well, but given the cost of Tama's gift, I really feel like I have to get her something else. Her gift so far: $50.

MSU: One gift turned into 5. $270.

Steven: His gift is my Springfield Armory MilSpec 1911. Original cost: $900. I will give it to him and then take it away to send it to the factory for hard chroming. $200 plus about $100 for shipping.

Sandra and Jon: I almost didn't get them anything, given the the past year has pretty much revolved around them financially. Pewter and glass salt and pepper grinders: $40. Plus the gift for this year's "Sheep Wars" (don't ask): $20.

Brittany: Tough to shop for a kid who's only been with us for a couple of months, but I think she'll be really happy. $80.

MSU's mom: $25. It's a Secret Santa and that's the limit.

The other three family members for Secret Santa that I haven't shopped for yet: $75.

My folks: They never want anything but photographs. Tama's Senior picture reprints: $142. Isabeau's school pictures: $40. Neither of these have arrived yet, so shipping at the last minute: $40.

The Annual Harrison Holiday Sing Starring the Von Crapp Family Singers: At least $400 every year.

Stocking stuffers: socks, underwear, little beauty and grooming items, a tiny digital camera for Isabeau, pink breast cancer chip clips, pink breast cancer chap stick, toothbrushes, dog treats, keychains, small electronic gadgets, etc: $1034.

**sigh**

The good news?

I had a great time shopping. :-)

Just Another Way I'm Making a Difference.... NOT!

This morning, Eugene Koptev pled guilty to murdering his uncle/guardian. Prior to the brutal, planned, and utterly unforeseen stabbing of his uncle, Eugene was one of the most compliant kids I've ever supervised (he was a "courtesy supervision" kid from another county).

http://www.nctimes.com/articles/2006/07/12/news/top_stories/7_02_497_11_06.txt

We may never know an exact timeline of the events that transpired that night, nor the events that led up to it. Eugene never gave a statement during the investigation, and his guilty plea means that the "facts" of the offense won't be made public during trial. And I am reminded - as I was 18 months ago when Eugene's face was broadcast on the 10:00 news as a "wanted person" - that we never really know what's going on inside people. We never really know how close each of us might be to the event horizon.

When I received the subpeona, I was shocked and surprised. What on Earth would I possibly have to add with any testimony I can offer? He was compliant. Eugene was compliant up to the point that he stabbed his uncle while he slept and kept on stabbing his uncle/guardian as he tried to escape, going as far as locking himself in a bathroom with his cell phone only to have the door broken in half and pulled from the hinges in order to facilitate his final moments. He was compliant up until he stayed in the house for four days with his guardian's perforated corpse - and even invited several other youths over for computer games - before absconding to Whittier after learning that a real estate agent was coming to show the house. He was compliant until I saw his face on the 10:00 news and had to call his sending county to issue an warrant for his arrest. He was compliant until he bragged about killing his uncle on the Internet and told an online gaming buddy (who was nice enough to take him into his home until he realized what was going on and called the local jurisdicion) that he had killed his guardian in cold blood.

I'll save you the more disturbing - and I'll admit curiosity-arousing - details from the police reports, as they only serve to cloud the issue (and haven't been made public by trial). Let's just say that Eugene seemed to be at a loss for what to do after he had enacted his homicidal rage.

He was compliant really means: I had no fucking idea. No, this isn't about me, but... I had no fucking idea.

And isn't that my job? Isn't it my job to KNOW? Would Eugene's uncle be dead right now if I had been effectively doing my job?????? Because a person has to be seriously pissed off at someone to stab them repeatedly while they sleep. Think about it - how pissed would YOU have to be to stage weaponry in your guardian's bedroom and then steal into the room, retrieve your pre-placed knives, and stab him in the face and neck 15 times as he slept? Not only that, but actually continue your murderous pursuit as your uncle tried desperately to save himself? You'd have to be pretty pissed, right? Pretty disturbed, right? Pretty affected, yes????

Doesn't that seem like the kind of anger that I should have NOTICED??????

Like I sad, this isn't about me... except as a reminder that we never know how close any one of us is to the event horizon at any given time. How close am I?

How close are you?

Today's Lesson

I know how to read Tarot cards. It's a silly thing, really. It's something I generally do as a gift to friends and family on the Sabbats, or when asked in special circumstances. As Yule approaches, I will do many readings for people who wish to discern direction in their lives.

So, today I was practicing on myself, which is more difficult than it seems. It's difficult to interpret the message of the Oracle when I could apply the general meaning to just about any situation in my life. It's especially difficult when there are messages that I am seeking, which often clouds the purpose of the layout and does not allow for objectivity in interpretation.

Reading the Tarot is much easier for others, as I am generally not privy to the obstacles, blessings, and challenges in their lives. Not all of them, anyway.

This is what I learned about myself today, presented as I would to whomever I was conducting the reading for (using a one-card spread designed to discern decisions that need to be made to fulfill one's purpose):

Give up on trying to be "normal" and relax into your eccentricities.

You have a choice in regard to a possible sacrifice you might have to make for the sake of personal and spiritual development. Rather than a sacrifice of some thing, it will be a sacrifice of an outer layer of yourself that is no longer necessary nor appropriate.

The Oracle suggests and recommends that your unique experiences, the peculiar qualities of consciousness that you move through in a day, are not just the product of a skewed imagination. You have moved toward your purpose without much thought or will - as is the way of things! - but it is now time to recognize your impact, gifts, and personal power and manifest them consciously.

You are in some ways extra sensitive to the forces which move the weather, roll the tides, and speak through Nature. There is a purpose for your heightened awareness, and you must now determine the right use of these special skills of yours, without concern for the opinions of others. Pursue your studies or embark upon an apprenticeship, or just be more attentive to the way you make important decisions in your everyday life. Forget about fitting in or even being understood. The time for camoflauge has passed.

The Clark Brothers

These guys are amazing. I mean amazing.

Just a band of brothers who grew up doing tent revivals with their dad... and here they are, competing on "The Next Great American Band" and tearing the roof of the sucker.

I've enjoyed The Clark Brothers since the beginning of the season... for their musicianship, for their passion, for the way they have me totally and uncompromisingly convinced of whatever it is they're demonstrating in that performance... and because I've never seen ANYTHING like that slide guitarist. I didn't know that instrument could even do that stuff.

But the reason this particular performance is so meaningful to me is because I'm not a fan of the Rolling Stones in any way, shape, or form. But The Clark Brothers heard something completely different in this very dark and belligerent song, and brought it to glorious, mesmerizing, and enchanting life. And for just a few moments, I believed.

Love My Car, But...

I love my nimble German car. It is powerful, sleek, uber-safe, and a total blast to drive. I've never kept a car as long as I've kept this one - I usually get tired of them long before the warranty even runs out. Not this one, though. This one fits me like a glove, even better than its predecessor, the BarbieMobile (1985 380SL convertible).

In the early 1980's Mercedes-Benz stopped handcrafting each auto that left the factory, and started mass-producing the bodies. While this move made MBZ far more importable and far more accessible to "the average Joe," they (in my opinion) compromised much of their reputation for automotive excellence and grand customer service.

Make no mistake - the power plants of current MBZ autos are just as amazing as the ones made in the before-the-pre-fab days. MBZ DOES NOT skimp on the blood and guts of the vehicle. But I gotta say that the nickel-and-dime crap is really starting to bug me.

MSU and I have a running joke that anytime I take my car in for service, it's going to cost $400.00. Doesn't matter why I took it in. Oil change? $400.00. Palm Tree tactical incident requiring a new passenger side mirror? $400.00. Headlamp replacement? $400.00. Of course, this is an exaggeration - oil changes don't cost $400.00. But they always find something else that needs to be fixed, thus bringing the total to $400.00 or more.

Yesterday I realized that I needed new tires, and I needed them NOW. Rather than take the car to MBZ for the tires (thus incurring a service bill of $400.00 or more), I took it to the friendly little family-run tire shop about five blocks away from my house. 20 minutes and only $200.00 later, I had a beautiful set of perfectly balanced Goodyears on my nimble German car. However, the tire guy advised me that I needed an alignment and that it couldn't wait. Unfortunately, they don't do alignments at the friendly little tire shop.

So, girding my loins for the $400.00 bill, I took the car straightaway to the local MBZ Service Department. I asked for the necessary alignment and also asked that they fix the passenger side lock, which has been ratcheting strangely for the past two days. The estimate? You guessed it - $400.00.

30 minutes later, Rick the Service Advisor called to tell me that the passenger side door lock sensor is failing and that it is compromising my security system. Of course! And that, naturally adds another $400.00 to the service estimate.

The point of this tirade is this: I don't care if my windshield wipers "sense" moisture and begin to swipe automatically. I also don't care if my headlights "sense" darkness and switch on automatically. There is a little computer that resides somewhere in the inner abyss of my engine compartment that calculates how many miles I have to travel before my next service is due, and not only tells me 1000 miles beforehand, but also tells me WHICH service and WHY, and I can assure you that I don't care about that. I don't care that I can unlock or lock my car, activate my security system, open my sunroof and windows, or start my climate control all with a touch to my remote-entry key, or that my car will "sense" when it is being compromised and lock itself automatically if left unlocked. I don't care that my glove compartment and center console are climate-controlled. I don't care that all my radio controls are located on my steering wheel, nor do I care that I can set everything from my seating preference to the language and brightness of my display panel with just a flick of my thumb. NONE of these things encompass the reason I bought this car, nor the reason I love it so much. And ALL of these things are the reason that my nimble German car is nickel-and-diming me to death.

In the many years that I've owned this vehicle, I have NEVER had a problem with the engine, drive-train, or any other "mechanical" system. Besides routine service, I've taken the car to the shop only for "luxury" systems problems and have spent thousands of dollars replacing sensors, tiny shock absorbers, and motors for seats, mirrors, windows, and automatic shades. For some reason, "Luxury vehicle" has come to mean "stupid electronic gadgets" instead of "handcrafted mechanical perfection," even though that mechanical perfection remains the hallmark and distinction of Mercedes-Benz. And it breaks my heart to no end to know that MBZ felt that - just to be competitive! - they had to compromise the inherent beauty of their machines to feed the egos of the yuppie masses who want the "status symbol" but don't understand what "luxury" really means.

:sigh:

I love my nimble German car. But I just spent most of the money I had saved for Christmas on a stupid door lock sensor that I don't want or need.

Grrrr.

Surprise! Another Relapse!

I've been doing fairly well with my Dr. Laura epiphany. Much better than I expected to do, as a matter of fact.

In general, it's paid off big in a lot of little ways. I'm less stressed at home because I'm letting things go and not nagging about help. MSU is more prone to doing things without being asked because I praise him copiously every time he does something that helps me. The kids are doing better because their dad is not as grouchy all the time.

But today is another story. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak.

I've mentioned before that MSU joined a gang. Foor the past six months, the gang has increasingly encroached on our family time, family duties, and family finances. MSU is now spending an average of two nights per week with his "homies" and also joining them for breakfast every Sunday at a place that's local to the rest of the folks, but 60 miles away from our house. Now, a gaggle of "mandatory" rides have been scheduled, at least once per week and sometimes twice. These rides are all-day affairs. And then there are the "mandatory" all-club trips, usually four days at a time and approximately $500 a pop. I think I mentioned that the last relapse I had was indirectly linked to the gang as well, as MSU never would have bought that stupid (and in the shop AGAIN) bagger had it not been for his association with his club.

So, now if I want to spend time with my husband - thereby practicing my Dr. Laura epiphany - I have to spend time with the gang, too. And if I want to go on the rides on the weekends, I have to spend the entire week trying to get my weekend chores done, not to mention having to farm out the kids and arrange rides to work for the two older girls. And buy gas and food and booze. And spend my precious weekends with practical strangers - fun folks, yes - when I really just want to curl up in my PJs and putter around the house.

All I can say right now is that everyone in this house is lucky today, because - guess what? - MSU is not home. He's - guess where? - with the gang. And I sat in traffic for two fucking hours on the way home today because his stupid Harley is in the shop - guess why? - leaking oil all over the place and he HAS to be on a motorcycle to go play with his little gang friends and this morning he took mine. Without asking. And I've been going along with my Dr. Laura project, letting him "do his thing" so his "emotional needs can be met," while I'm doing EVERYfuckingTHING else and he's enjoying his second (or third? Fourth? I've lost fucking count) childhood and pretending - again! - that he's free to abdicate his responsibilities because he KNOWS I'll do it for him. All this because I'm sooooooo fucking SUPPORTIVE these days.

Have I mentioned that I'm the primary breadwinner in this house? Anyone noticed me blogging about any wonderful long weekend vacations taken away from my familial responsibilities with friends that MSU barely knows (Okay, the 3-Day counts, but that's beside the point) as "stress-relief??" Remember any posts about me having all kinds of "extra" cash in my budget for "mandatory" luxuries other than the fucking roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, or food in our bellies? Suddenly, MSU's idea of a romantic getaway is fucking Vegas Bike Fest. Yes, THAT is the trip I took this year, and not necessarily because I WANTED to... I HAD to in order to take a trip with my husband. And instead of enjoying our kid-free hotel room, I fell asleep ALONE every night we were there only to be rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning by his drunken stumbling, muttering, and puking. Now THAT'S romance, folks. That's a trip worth remembering!!

(okay, yes, I had some fun. But that's also beside the point.)

And the man has the gall to complain that he hasn't "gotten any" this week. Hey, pal, head's up! YOU WEREN'T HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

::::sigh::::

And now that I've ranted, I can go back to the Dr. Laura Project with renewed zeal. At least THIS relapse is (so far, anyway) wholly contained within this sacred blogging space. Hey, I'm learning!!!

An Overwhelming Task

I’m supposed to be writing a timeline/brief for a multi-agency symposium regarding service provision to dual-jurisdiction youth and “where the system(s) fail.” I’m not.

Where does one start with such a project? Especially without pointing fingers, laying blame, or making excuses? To approach case management form a “systems” view is to analyze how we’ve intruded into people’s lives, offering “intervention” and often setting up an already dysfunctional and barely cohesive family to publicly fail.

What are the tools I have available for intervention? Well, I have motivational interviewing, which is supposed to allow me to gather the most information from my meetings with the smallest amount of effort, teaching, or criticism. Information gathered in this way is inherently suspect, as there is no guarantee that the interviewee is telling the truth, revealing ALL information requested, or has an adequate understanding of his/her own needs. Information gathered this way is touted to allow the client to explore his or her own ambivalence toward change, in order to facilitate intrinsic motivation to mediate their own behavior. Sounds good, right? And it would be – in an ideal population.

I have Evidence-Based Practice, which is a research-based approach to what works and what doesn’t work in systems ranging from the medical field to social services to law enforcement. Using information gathered from the motivational interviewing processes, I can assess a client for needs and risk, and then match services to the needs and to the risk factor. Of course, I would also want to match services based on responsivity as well – offer intervention in the native language, in accordance with certain special physical or mental health needs, or based on financial viability or transportation costs. Evidence-based practice shows us that “appropriate treatment” (treatment that matches risk, needs, and responsivity) works. Again, we have to assume that the information gathered is accurate and comprehensive, that families have been honest about their needs, that my assessment of the risks is objective and fair, and that I have enough experience, intuition, and creativity (not to mention time) to ensure that I am not over-servicing nor underservicing the client. Because over-servicing makes things worse. And under-servicing makes things worse. Duplication in services makes things worse.

I have traditional tools, such as intensive supervision, punitive sanctions, removal from the home/community, and Fourth Amendment waivers. These “traditional” tools, believe it or not, increase recidivism (depending on how recidivism is measured), and are therefore commonly held, from a multi-systemic point of view, to fit into the category of what doesn’t work. Do we rely heavily on these traditional tools? You bet.

So where, exactly, does the system fail these kids and their families? The case being reviewed in this symposium has been a dual-jurisdiction kid since he was ten years old. His mother is a methamphetamine user who has been “in recovery” for four years. His father has a new family and can’t be bothered with his mentally-ill and understandably angry firstborn. The kid has been in foster care, juvenile hall, residential treatment, day treatment, and special education. Despite comprehensive services, he continues to commit crimes, generally crimes of opportunity and impulse. Despite intensive supervision, he continues to fail academically and demonstrate habitual truancy. Despite punitive intervention, including custodial sanctions, he continues to abuse controlled substances and has stated that he is not interested in ceasing his drug use. Despite psychological services and psychotropic medication, the youth has failed to respond to cognitive behavioral restructuring and continues to hurt people without thought or remorse.

And now I am tasked with positing a theory about where the multi-systemic approach has failed.

:::::sigh:::::

I will have to come back to this question at a later date. I am overwhelmed at the moment.

My Baby is Married!!

Our eldest and her fiancee tied the knot on October 22 in San Sebastian, Spain. They enjoyed their overseas honeymoon, and returned to SoCal on November 1 to zoom into a civil ceremony (to make it legal) on the 2nd, then to party all night on the 3rd.

Here are two "engagement" photos (taken after the wedding!!)

Here they are in Spain!!!

And here is a photo of their civil ceremony on the San Diego Bay:


Maybe I'll be a grandmother soon!! Ha!!

Curiosity Killed the Cat (and a few others)

I've realized that I am often a victim of my own curiosity.

The fact that I'm naturally really nosy is one of the reasons I'm so good at my job (on the rare occasions that I get to actually do my job, that is). I like to research things. I enjoy digging up stuff. I really get off on getting up in people's grilles. My dream job has always been "Basement Hag" at the CIA... you know, the research person that everyone has to come to, but no one really wants to because she works in a dark, creepy basement and mutters to herself all the time and never brushes her hair. Yes, that is my dream.

Anyway, the Internet has given a whole new dimension to my nosiness. I can find out all kinds of things on the Net! Don't believe me? Google your own name and see what you come up with. Google your address, your significant other's name, your driver's license number, your hometown. Google your telephone number. Reverse search your cell phone number. Each search will open up even more avenues to nosiness. The Internet is a beautiful thing.

Here's the thing, though: I generally find things (if I'm really looking) that I didn't really want to know. Not necessarily with work searches (in that situation, I pretty much want to know everything, even if it's ugly), but with personal searches and research, I often find things that haunt me. Things that prove that if you give people an opportunity to suck, they will usually take it and run with it. Things that allow me to second-guess myself and my judgment. Things that make me sad, suspcicious, and incredulous. Things that enable me to be even less trusting than I already am.

Ok, so I deserve it, right? That's what I get for being so nosy, right?? Of course I do and of course it is. The infamous "they" say that "ignorance is bliss," and sometimes "they" are absolutely right.

Rock Star

I've said it before: I know what it's like to be a rock star. But the way I know rock stardom has to be - just has to be - so much better than the real thing.

For anyone who hasn't experienced the Breast Cancer 3-Day, it defies description. I like to call it Girltopia (though that's an inaccurate label, as there are plenty of men who participate as well). Maybe it's a matter of the sheer exhaustion that each walker and crew member is left with at the end of the day - exhaustion that remains at the beginning of the next day and permeates each person throughout the event until there is nothing left but simple humanity. Maybe it's the spirit united with thousands more in a common goal. Maybe it's people, having an opportunity to be their very finest selves, rising to the occasion with a force and energy that's palpable and more real than reality itself. Maybe it's magic.

Whatever it is, it keeps people walking, working, and giving of themselves far past the point where we expect folks to call it a day in their "normal" lives. Whatever it is, it boosts the spirit and feeds the soul. Whatever it is, I'm addicted to it.

For the past two years, I've participated in this event as part of the Route Safety Team, which is sort of like a motorcycle gang in pink. Instead of street terrorism, our M.O. is street smarts, street safety, street love. We stand at our stations, often hours at a time, and tend to the safety of the walkers as they cross busy intersections and wend their way through sometimes confusing route signage. When not on station, we patrol the route, looking for safety issues, walkers who need help, and offering motivation to people who are just trying to put one foot in front of the other for 20 miles each day. We give hugs. We tell walkers how far it is to the next rest stop or how close they are to camp and a hot shower. We give high fives. We tell jokes. We wear silly hats, tutus, kilts, short-shorts, and other goofy things, all in the name of giving the walkers a little inspiration to keep on going. We sing. We dance. Above all, we protect the safety and security of the walkers so they have one less thing to worry about in the midst of their blisters, their full bladders, their muscle cramps, and their friction burns. We ride out at sunrise and ride in well after sunset. We direct traffic, call ambulances and "sweep vans," find places that pose safety concerns and monitor them, and offer kind words, motivational speeches, healing human touch, and surreptitious stretching at red lights.

For this, we get rock star status. It's incredible really, to get so much in return for doing what comes naturally. We ride out of camp in the morning, and the walkers cheer. We ride into camp at night and the walkers cheer. We walk into clsing ceremonies, and the walkers cheer, cry, throw roses, run to hug us, and thank us profusely, heartwrenchingly, and with great conviction and passion. Why? I'm not sure. But I think it's because they know we are there... when they've passed one of us, they know another one of us will be just a block or two away, ready to smile, offer congratulations or a mile count, and assure them that they can keep going. And at the end, they're proud and incredulous at their own accomplishment, and overcome with emotion to see those friendly faces in a less arduous and painful circumstance.

That's how I felt when I was a walker, anyway.

So, "real" rock stars of the world, you got nothin' on me. You've got people throwing articles of clothing at you? Well, I watched a walker give a pair of clean, dry socks that she knew she'd need later to a walker who needed them now. You've got adoring fans who cheer your every move? I've got adoring fans who hug me even though I'm sweaty and smell bad, give me pins and small treasures that they made with their own hands, and thank me with tears in their eyes for standing in a series of intersections and telling them when it's safe to cross. You've got women who primp for hours to try to get a chance to throw themselves at you? I've got women who aren't afraid to come as they are and throw themselves into my arms because I know where a flushing toilet is. You dress yourself in black leather and tout yourself as the pinnacle of masculinity? I know for a fact that real men wear pink. You live in a palatial mansion because people will pay hundreds of dollars apiece to adore you in concert? I live, for four days per year, in a world where people fundraise for months in order to participate in an event that will change the lives of millions, that will wrack their bodies past pain, and that will go less noticed than your latest People Magazine cover, all for the satisfaction of saving lives - lives of people that they probably won't ever meet.

Sorry, Rock Star. I out-rock star you. I trump you with the force of 5800 spirits united in passion for eradicating the disease that took their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, wives, and friends - fathers, brothers, and husbands, too - before their time. I trump you with the vision of hundreds of "3-Day bustles" (fanny packs) trudging up a 30% grade at approximately mile 35. I trump you with my gratitude and my humility. I got rock star all over your sorry ass!!

And I love it.

The hardest part of the 3-Day isn't the hard work, the long days, the physical pain, or the heartbreaking reality of why we do it. The hardest part of the 3-Day is coming back to "real life."

Decorated!!

I've finished decorating my bike for the Breast Cancer 3-Day, and am getting ready to take it on a "test run" to make sure that I've wired everything safely and securely. You can't really tell from the pictures (I was in a hurry!), but there are about 100 LED lights wrapped around parts of the bike, all of which I colored (with a permanent marker) pink because I couldn't find pink ones. All of the lights are battery operated (except for the blue LEDs that light my engine and wheels), so I have little power boxes zip-tied everywhere. The saddlebags have light garlands with little beads a flowers woven in. Cool eh??

New Element Discovered!

I wish I knew who to attribute this to... pure genius, whomever you are!!

The recent hurricanes and gasoline issues are proof of the existence of a new chemical element. A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named Governmentium.

Governmentium (Gv) has one neutron, 25 assistant neutrons, 88 deputy neutrons, and 198 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.

Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, it can be detected, because it impedes every action with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium can cause an action that would normally take less than a second to take over four days to complete.

Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years. It does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact,Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass.

When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium...an element that radiates just as much energy as Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.