notinKansasanymore

OhShantaShears, for the orthotomountia (right oShanta-ing) of your next big crafts project. OhShantaShalom, that fabulous new line of interfaith jewelry. OhShanta, somebody stop me! OhShantaChivas, for relaxing at the end of a hard day. OhShantaShoppingNetwork, in case you were wondering what to do with those old Corps sweats (although I found, several years ago, that the barbecue grill worked quite well, and tossed in my Corps diary for seasoning). and finally, OhShantaSnore, for that touchy problem you've been meaning to mention to your significant other . . . Man, we're going to be rich! Do any of you own an advertising agency, by chance? Because if you do, you really should hire me as a long-distance consultant. Let us not forget OhShantaMylanta, which you must need by now, after reviewing the new product line . . ..

Let us not forget OhShantaShave, for that mintysmooth experience you'll never forget, or OhShantaFanta, lime soda with that extra special "something."

Way to go, Rockamundo. Sounds like things may turn around. Good luck with all of it. Love, niKa.

My friend RockaroundtheClock: Just be sure that you discuss your strategy with your lawyer before implementing it. The judge has likely seen it before, no matter that you thought of it yourself. The judge has likely seen lots of dads in situations just like yours. If you ask him to do so, will the judge take your daughter in chambers, and simply ask her who she'd rather live with? No matter what, take advantage of your lawyer's experience. That's what you're paying the big bucks for. Good luck; I'll keep my fingers and toes crossed for you, and pray.

God bless your brother, sweet Rocky. What was his name? I will pray for his soul. And yes, that's what I meant by the alarm. I'd have been fine with it, either way. They grow up in the blink of an eye, anyway; eighteen years used to sound like a long time to me; now, it's a fingersnap.

Well, I was thinking. It seems that my family was pretty wide-spread, age- and education-wise, during this past school year. I teach at the college. My stepson was in high school. My stepdaughter was in middle school. My son was in elementary school. My daughter was in nursery school. A couple of months ago, we had a "false alarm." Next year, two at the high school. Instead of picking up precious cargo at four different schools, only three! More time to dance in the kitchen.

Fellowshipper, you be careful out there! Have fun; I am so jealous that my keyboard is turning green. Tell us all about it, when you get back. Godspeed.

Does anybody know where this sweet and wonderful woman is? We were friends in Tennessee, long ago and far away.

I'm a freak, and I admit it . . . I actually liked booooooooorscht. OK, got that off of my conscience, now. I still hate calisthenics and fun runs, though. Raise your hand if you ever ran the steps in Kenyon.

Thanks for reminding us to be thankful for something besides watermelon and grilled hamburgers this weekend. Here's a prayer said, and a glass raised, for all of the men and women who have died serving this great country. Just to name a few, my Dad's best friend and cousin, Buster. 2/3 of the men in my father-in-law's unit, on a certain hill, on a certain day in Korea. my Dad's next best buddy, who died next to him, but I don't know his name. Lori Piestewa. Love and respect to all of them.

Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooossssshhhhhhhh. That was me, shooting a flare to see whether anybody's out there. Hellooooooooooooooo. W-w-w-w-wat's up, doc?

Me, do that? How crass. Be nice, or I'll hit you with a gerund. It's raining here today; even the yard cats are holed up in the mudroom, having decided that it's not worth their while to venture out. Root beer has been replaced by strong coffee, as I go about making good use of my last day when both little ones are in school. Cheers, everybody.

By the way, Rockamundo, congratulations on your 200th post. Simonzoolander, I just saw a good video with your namesake in it. It's called "Keeping the Faith," with Ben Stiller, Ed Norton, and the-girl-whose-name-escapes-me-from-Dharma, oh, yes, Jenna Elfman. It's about three best friends from childhood, and something that they go through together when they're grown. I recommend it. Now, I'm going to make myself a root beer float. Pull up a chair, everybody. Ice cream bowl's on me. Dr. Pepper floats are available for the Southerners. Sorry, no sprinkles; the kids got to them first.

I need an airsickness bag. My husband needs one, too. Thanks be to God.

Oooooooooooh. Simon, you dog. I got your "reliable," right here . . .. I'm playin' in the back yard.

Found 'em! Thanks.

((((Exie:)-->)))) I caribou you, too.

Exie: But you were always on my mind . . . You were always on my mind. Waited 28 years for that one. "Ain't it funny how time slips away?" In 28 years, what have I gained? For one thing, buddies with connections, who put me on the backstage list, without my ever asking. For another thing, the peacefulness and satisfaction that I didn't need to go backstage to feel like I'd had a nice time at the concert. It was a beautiful evening.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone! This morning, my children sang: "I'll give you a daisy, a daisy I'll give you a daisy a day. I'll love you until the rivers run still And the four winds we know blow away." Then, they recited: "In all the world, there is no other Can take the place of my dear Mother." Then, they gave me a pretend daisy, made from one of their coloring markers with a hair pretty wound around the top of it. It was perfect. By the way, after I took two inches off of the sleeves,and four off of the trouser legs, the seventeen-year-old looked like a million bucks in my husband's old tux. There he went, with a new haircut, a white rose corsage, and all of our mixed emotions. This afternoon, my husband is sending our neighbor and me off to see Willie Nelson for Mother's Day. That might sound strange, but I've been wanting to see Willie ever since I missed him in Luchenbach, back in '75, because TWI leadership wouldn't let me leave the summer outreach field to drive a couple of hours to see the concert. To say the least, my better half is not "into" country music. Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain, here I come. Again, Happy Mother's Day, everybody!

Kathleen MacMillan, she of the wonderfully rolled "r's," married Phillip Brewer, who was in (I think) fourteenth corps. The last I heard, they were living happily in Portland, Oregon. Several years ago, I picked up a Newsweek magazine, or something like it, and I saw a picture of a man identified as Brendon McCann. It was listed with the pictures of two other people, and they were identified as IRA terrorists and bombers who had been shot dead on sight by British police. Was that our own Brendy McCann? I had heard shadowy rumors of IRA involvement on the part of some of our Irish lads, and the picture surely did look a lot like Brendy. Do you know anything about this?

Does anybody know where Dee is?

I know that they had daughters, and one was named Julie. Mark's whole family was in the way. His dad and brother were sweet, too; his brother Harm Olthouse married Deborah Sleeper, who was in the 7th. They Olthouses had more than one daughter, but I can't recall all of their names. Of all the folks who were "still in" that I spoke with a few years ago, Mark seemed the least afraid to talk to me, and also the kindest. I guess talking to one old friend who has a few differences of opinion is no great shakes, after one has taken care of a whole refugee camp in Vietnam. Cool couple.

waaaaaaaaa-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! It's my one-hundredth post on Greasespot. The seventeen-year-old just came over. I fit him with his Dad's tux, and will alter it just slightly. He will wear it on Saturday, to the high school prom. I just have to type that again, because it feels so good: the high school prom. When I met his dad, he was nine. Where does the time go? Now, he is the same age that I was when I got into the Way. How terrified must my parents have been?

Lydia, oh Lydia, that Encyclopydia, Oh, Lydia the ta-HAA-tooed lady . . . I just love Groucho Marx. Why are today's kids so odd? Beats me. I don't even know why WE were so odd . . .. Our fourteen-year-old recently revealed to us the musterion: she has a belly button ring. Her mother took her to get it a few weeks ago, and counselled her to keep it a secret from her father, mine wonderful husband. When he learned of the belly-button ring, his response was "Well, I did much weirder stuff than that when I was your age." He was not so happy to learn of the secret-keeping. I was downright . . . weeell, let's just say that I shook off my normal robe of easy-going-laid-backness. Could it be that our kids are so weird because it's genetic? Makes you kind of wonder about your parents' teenage years, huh?

How come nobody ever sends me a private message? Went to my first PTA meeting last night. By the time I'm done with the PTA, I'll be . . . wait a minute, gotta take off my shoes for this . . . okay, one hundred and seven. Rocky, that black robe disease can be tough. Good luck with that one, bud. [This message was edited by igotout on May 06, 2003 at 17:34.]