The Hippie in Me

I'm not ashamed to admit - I used to be a full-blown hippie. I realize that my conservative, Republican husband is mortified that I just said that in public, but it's true. I used to dance at Dead shows, eat granola, and wear my stylin' Birkenstocks ALL YEAR ROUND. I even used to smoke a little green and drop some happy tabs (sorry, Mom).

You'd never know it to look at me now, but I was once a free-spirited, wild child. Yeah sure, I still recycle and rock out to "Kacey Jones" when I hear it on the radio, but my hippiness is pretty watered down these days. (Trust me, yours would be too if you married my husband!) However, every once in awhile something happens and the peace lovin' hippy in me comes out of hiding.

Today I was reading the news on the internet (as I often do at my extremely boring job), and I came across the article US Targets Iraqi Wedding Party. 40+ people were killed and the majority of them were women and children. Of course, the US says that particular area was a hot spot for Iraqi "insurgents", and they'll probably say that there was enemy fire first, but we all know that's total bullshit. (At least, I HOPE you know that's bullshit.) And as more pictures showing our abuse of the Iraqi prisoners continue to surface, I'm finding it harder and harder to be proud that I'm an American.

I realize that I will probably be blasted with angry emails over that last statement, but sadly, it's true. I challenge you to read some of the stories in Riverbend's blog, Baghdad Burning, and not feel like we're doing something TERRIBLY wrong in Iraq. Why is it that I keep hearing about innocent women and children being killed? Aren't they the ones we are over there to "protect and liberate"?

Now, don't get me wrong, I am all for protecting ourselves from terrorists. I was just as horrified when the twin towers fell as the next person. But going over to Iraq and bombing everything in site in hopes that we might get lucky and kill a terrorist is not the answer. What if the situation were reversed, and they had just bombed an American wedding and killed 40 people? Tell me that this country would not be going crazy with rage and yelling for revenge. And yet we expect them to just put down their weapons and give up? Yeah, right.

Slave to the Scale

Dieting sucks.

And for those of you who have never had to suffer through the whole torturous dieting experience? I'm sorry, but you suck, too.

Every day is a battle. There's a constant dialogue running through my head - don't eat that cookie, don't drink that beer, don't even look at that Ben & Jerrys or it will spontaneously glob onto your thighs. It's enough to drive a person crazy.

I realize I'm not obese, but when you're five foot one, a few extra pounds really show. And it doesn't take long before those few extra pounds become more than a few, and you start to look like a squirrel with a mouthful of acorns.

As I've said before, I tried the whole low-carb thing (at this point, who hasn't?). After weeks of counting every carb that went into my mouth and losing NOTHING while everyone else around was dropping pound after pound, I finally admitted that I was part of the very small percentage that a low-carb diet won't work for. It figures. So a few weeks ago I decided to go back to the old standard of counting calories and started on the Slimfast Plan. Five pounds came off slowly but surely, and I was pretty darn proud of myself - until this past weekend when I sort of fell off the wagon.

Jun's death brought out a whole host of emotions I never knew I had in me, and with it came a serious need for comfort food. Lots of it. After a rather large slice of apple pie, some chocolate chip cookies, a piece of greasy Kentucky fried chicken, a "strawberry pizza" with whip cream and tons of sugar, some jalepeno poppers, a Big Mac that I secretly snuck in when my husband was out running errands, and a few beers to drink away my troubles, I shouldn't have been shocked at the reading on the scale Monday morning.

But I was. And now I'm miserable.

I know I shouldn't beat myself up over it. After all, a good friend of mine died for God's sake! But it's still pretty disappointing. And if you had to go to Florida in less than two weeks and face your Grandmother, Slave to the Scale, who will "tsk, tsk" when she sees you and comment endlessly on every pound that you need to lose, you'd be bumming, too.

The End of the Road

Sunday afternoon, our very close friend, Jun Huh, died in a motorcycle accident. My husband and I were the first to hear the news from the coroner's office, because when they had gone to Jun's house to try and find his parent's contact information, they found our wedding invitation on his refridgerator. Hoby's aunt works for the coroner, so when she heard that they had found our invitation, she called us right away. Imagine having to tell his mother that her son died on Mother's Day. Not that there would ever be a GOOD day to get that sort of news, but somehow that just makes it seem so much worse.

I've never had any of my close friends die. When I first heard that Jun was dead, I didn't believe it. Not Jun! We were just with him the other day, eating sushi and talking about a girl he's interested in. We had made plans to throw a party together this summer. He can't possibly be gone! Any minute now he's going to come walking through that door and say it was all a big mistake.

Then after the disbelief came the anger. Why the hell was he still riding that stupid motorcycle? Hadn't he learned his lesson when he got into an accident last time? The guy always drove like a maniac. We had all warned him and told him to get rid of that damn bike! Why oh why didn't he listen? It's almost like he had a death wish all along.

And now that the rage has subsided, there's only an aching sadness left. And the tears. Lots of them.

I know this sounds like a cliche, but he was still so young. His life got cut short before he had found out what his purpose for being here was, before he finally met "The One" and settled down, and before he had the children I always knew he'd be so good with. Since I heard the news, memories of Jun have been randomly surfacing and playing in my mind like an old home movie. And now I'll never know how it was supposed to end.

Oh Jun Bug, I hope you know how much we loved you and how much you'll be missed. Things won't be the same without you.

The Gun Lady

There's this lady in my office that I get a real kick out of. She used to be a policeman (or is it police-woman these days? Who the hell knows anymore.) She's one of those loud mouth, Dr. Laura-loving Republicans who probably belongs to the NRA and loves to tell you how the Liberals have screwed up the country. She looks innocent enough, but don't be fooled. This woman could kick some serious ass.

This lady - let's just refer to her as The Gun Lady - loves her firearms and isn't afraid to use them. It's become sort of a running joke in the office to count the number of times she refers to wanting to shoot someone/something during the course of the day. It pops up so much in her converstations that I couldn't help but start keeping track, and so the Daily Gun Tally was born. Today's tally is only at 2 so far - a child molestor she heard about on the news ("I'd shoot him in the right in the balls!") and the guy who gave her grief at the supermarket ("I'd shoot the tires out of his parking-place stealiin' beemer!"). Yup, what a world it would be if only The Gun Lady could do her thing! Don't worry - she's not some psycho who's on the verge of going postal - it's all in good fun. But let's just say I'm certainly glad she's on my side. When I finally get a real job and get out of this place, I'll definitely be keeping her number.