sweasel.com

Is banana synonymous with doofus here, Weaz? Is there doofus in your genetic background? Was he always a doofus, or was it, like, adult-onset (type II) doofosity?

God knows there is in mine. Both sides.

Yesterday was also my dad’s bday.

Oh, there’s a definite Weird Gene that runs through the Weasel family. My dad insists that the only thing weird about it is a tendency to marry crazy people, and that’s how so much crazy got into the family. “Oh, yes,” he’ll say, “but his Aunt on the other side was committed, you know.”

Um-hm.

Anyhow, my big brother got a pretty heavy copy of the gene. He’s the one that set fire to his own field to see how many rabbits would jump out and burned his barn down. Like that. I’ve stayed out of contact as much as possible, because he’s just not safe to be around. For years, I lived in dread of the knock on the door.

I got a pretty mild variant of the gene, myself.

Oh! A Father’s Day/b’day combo. Hope you got him something nice, Dave.

Lo those many years ago I was born on Father’s Day. When I was a teenager my father could sometimes be heard to opine on the nature of “gifts.”

Happy birthday, Allen! (Whatever day Father’s Day fell on that year).

My father is still very sharp but no longer quite so quick. I called him up yesterday and said, “happy Father’s Day!” and he said, “and a happy…to…oh, you know…well, thanks!”

I’d have called the paternal badger but I was fresh out of Scrabble letters and a wine glass.

Poor old bastard drank himself to death.

The older I get, the more I understand why.

And how.

Thanks Weasel, #48 is imminent, is it painful?

We lost my dad several years ago, he had a bum ticker. I called my mom and my brothers on Sunday and we had some good laughs remembering him.

We have an “Eccentricity Gene” in our family. It runs from wildly to mildly.

The McGoos have the genuine Doofus gene – and its not adult-onset; we have it from birth. No eccentric-ness about it. It ain’t just bent – its broke.

Poor old bastard drank himself to death.

Mine did to. Drank until – as the doctor put it – there was nothing left to fix, and nowhere left to attach a transplant.

I visited Mom & Dads grave yesterday.

I have a pretty big family, and I think I’m the only really strange one. Strangest thing is that everyone else thinks I’m the most normal one.

By the way, I can already do the wheezefarts, myself, when I run. I just don’t lather as much as that horse.

48? I just passed it. No big.

The ones that hurt? 13 (I hated becoming a teenager). 18 (but I don’t want to be a grownup!). 30 (a farewell to all that). The rest? I haven’t minded. 40 wasn’t a problem at all. After this, still breathin’ is good!

I noticed that, belated Happy Birthday BTW. Now that I think about it, it’s not the number itself it’s what the number implies. I recently had my annual check-up, where the doc said “Allen it’s that time for those extra special middle aged guy tests.”

It reminded me of the “Palsy Tree.”

Between you and me, Allen, I don’t think there’s ANY damn medical reason for that annual test where my doctor jams his index finger up my butt. I think he just loves the noise I make.

26 is imminent, and it’s going to hurt, mostly because I am still dealing with the crushing of all my dreams. When I was a kid, I was so convinced that I was going to Make a Difference (TM). Yeah, um, not so much. It turns out I fail at everything except being a stone cold bitch.

*sigh*

*perks up* But I’m damn good at that!

That reminds me of a buddy of mine in the Army, Weasel. He told the CO that he would re-enlist for another 3 years if they’d waive that test for his re-up physical. They did, and he was perfectly happy to re-up for 3 more years.

Not enough stone cold bitches in this world, Mrs P. Y’all are sciency. That counts for a lot.

There is nothing wrong w/ excelling at stone-cold bitchhood. It’s an excellent skill to have. Went to a CWS game tonight, got to practice my SCB skills on all of the little unsupervised, overly hormonal teens.

I wrote – and then erased – precisely the same sentiment as Weaz, Mrs. Peel. SCB’s are in high demand in all the research areas, and most technical management positions. And the military absolutely loves them – as long as they’re smart, and you got that covered six ways from Sunday. Twice.

‘Course you could go into politics, but somehow I doubt you’d be a very good liar. No offense intended.

Weasel, be glad you aren’t Jewish. You would have really hated 13–bat mitzvah and all that. I did all the work, and my family had the party.
Turning 30 did something to me. I stopped liking birthdays and began telling people to ignore mine, please. Fools refuse to, of course.
48 was this and was more distressing than usual–but mostly because of circumstances (ie, being laid up with a pelvic fracture) One hopes that 49 and later will be better.

BTW, do you realize your brother has an amazing resemblance to Howdy Doody in that picture?

Mrs Peel, my wife had a refrigerator magnet that said “I’m not a bitch, I am the bitch.” Hey, ya gotta go with your strengths.

Howdy Doody! That’s who he reminded me of! It was really buggin’ me. If he was aware of it, no wonder he’s a banana.

Bravo, kishnevi.

har. When in NYC, I *almost* got a pretend license plate that said “Wicked Witch: My Other Car is a Broom.” I would have put it in my office cubicle and giggled to myself at the thought that the guys probably agreed with it. But at the last minute, I decided not to get it. Oh well.

And yes, I am a terrible liar. I can give a misleading/only partially true answer, but I can’t say something that is totally untrue.

kishnevi, if you ask my dad how old he is, he has to stop and think for a second. “Uh, this is 2008, right? *evidently subtracting* Uh…56.”

By the way, how is your screen name pronounced?

To keep my sanity as regards to the family, I think of myself as a changeling.
Plenty strange (the husband says not of this planet..but in a good way), as my real name is defined, but not batshit like the ‘others’ the wee folk left me with.

Among the many things she has brought to my life, the Weasel actually donated a whole year, once.

Being borderline innumerate, I’d lost count somewhere along the way and had been wandering around telling people I was a year older than I actually was.

With a rare flash of mathematical skill (believe me – we never check the bill in restaurants – neither of us can count), her Ladyship coolly pointed out I was a year younger than I’d thought.

It was rather a strange experience.

That happened to me in my 30’s, Badger. I thought I was 38 when I was really 37. And me an engineer with mickle math skills.

My motto has long been:

“Among them, but not of them”

alternately, “Alien in transit”

or, for those who remember the Firesign Theater:

“A real decent little fella, but not from around here”

Weasel, I’m a couple of months away from 49, and I feel better now that I did at 41.

And I sent dad 2 dozen sausage kolaches (had to send em frozen but he knows what to do) from the Czech Bakery in West, Texas. He loves those things.

48 ’tis not to be scareded of – mine passed like so much sweet summer breeze this past April. Alas, my family has a good deal of the f’tard gene: my 3 siblings are prone to asshat behavior while I work and work and work and try to Make A Difference also. Working and working and working and dealing with people’s asshat behaviors will turn one into a Stone Cold Bitch as well.

(mmm sausage kolaches)

Yeah, the finger wave is muy fun, but that greased seeing-eye pole they cram up there is da bomb. Haven’t had so much fun since I flew over my horse’s head (she stumbled) and laid there, stunned, while I watched the nag jump up and run right over me. Had a hoof-shaped bruise on my forehead for about a week. If she’da been wearing horseshoes, I believe I’d be misspelling a lot more than I do. At least.

I’m 28 and I feel like I’m way too old. I’m aging too fast!

It doesn’t help that I don’t look 28: I look somewhat younger. Or, rather, maybe it does help. I can pretend I’m younger.

I often forget my age, to be honest. Maybe because I don’t want to remember it. Feh. But then some maths expert will come about, ask me when I was born, and give me the bad news in a few seconds. Whatever it is, it’s too old!

(whippersnapper out)

Weaz, here is a chance to talk more about yourself, and please do. You have been tagged, should you in fact give a hoot.

Whoa! A tag! I’ll save it for tomorrow, BGG.

I love talking about myself. The problem with these things is, I’m too shy to tag forward.

Heeeeyyyyy…you’re blogging again! When did that happen? You used to be on my morning read list, before you hiatused.

Oh I’ve been back for a couple of weeks, not too active but I’m still kicking. Stop by for a visit now and again when you’re not too busy with all the critters.

(For Mrs. Peel)
If you say it Kish-navy, that’s close enough.
It’s from what was called, when my grandparents lived there, the city of Kishinev in Moldavia, part of the Russian Empire.
Now it’s Cushinau in the theoretically independent nation of Moldava. Moldavans are really Rumanians, so the new spellings are really just the Rumanian versions, and the old spellings are the Russian versions.

On the border of Moldova and Ukraine is the most interesting-sounding state: the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic.