First, of course, there's the death of Hamas No. 2 (how many friggin' No. 2 guys do they have, anyway?) by Israeli missile. Virtual sweets all around; another Jew-killer bites the shrapnel.
Then there's this gem from Louisiana:
All right everyone, vacation in New Orleans this year in gratitude.
And what's not to like about this? Jewish women and Jeeps!
Israeli ERA Watch: While Saudi women can't drive, Israeli women are racing around the desert on survival courses. You go, girls! permalink | |
The FedEx driver pulled up about five minutes after I posted the below. I've been playing with my new computer since then, with a few breaks for phone calls.
My computer screen is better than my television screen. I just put in The Fellowship of the Ring to test it, and found myself almost unable to stop watching it.
But I did.
Now to find a Windows XP book that will tell me how to get rid of the more annoying parts of XP.
And wow, this 14-inch Sony monitor is tiny compared to my new 17-inch screen.
Posting may be light, except for posting about the new computer. At first, I was thinking perhaps I should have gotten a smaller screen. But not once I started playing around with it. And I'm thinking the weights are nearly equivalent, what with the Sony battery being so darned heavy.
Now I need a new case for the new laptop. One with wheels, preferably. Time to go shopping. For a big one. Seventeen-inch screen, remember. Hoo-boy, I'm going to be geeking out for a while. Weblog? Weblog? I have time for a weblog?
Okay, I'll try. Especially since I haven't loaded Dreamweaver on the new computer. And I'm too lazy to write code from Notepad. permalink | |
Y'know, FedEx was supposed to have delivered my new computer no later than 4 p.m. yesterday.
It is now nearly noon. We're looking at twenty hours overdue. Twenty hours.
Time to call them again. permalink | |
Let's try a new format this morning.
Shocked. Shocked, I am.
That's surprising, too.
Gee. Ya think?
ButbutI thought Jordan and Israel were buds!
There. Short, brief, to the point. If you can't comment on the different issues here, you need to learn how to multitask better in the modern information age, folks. permalink | |
Today, I'm sending you to a place where I get many of my links. I feel like I'm giving up a big secret. But I'm tired, just finished working at the Sucky Job, I have a sore throat and some kind of sinus thing, am on cold medication, and the Yankees lost again. Plus, my new laptop did not arrive in Virginia, because some idiot in FedEx scanned the wrong number and sent it back to my mother.
I am cranky. Go here and you will find a plethora of news about Israel and terrorism that will likely piss you off as much as it does me.
And by the way, if there are any anti-Semites out there looking for a scrap tonight: Bring. It. On.
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This is what cats do for their afternoon naps when it starts getting colder outside. Find the highest, warmest spot in the house.
That black thing above him is my black sweatshirt, which is now black and white. A few days ago, I was missing Gracie when I woke up in the morning. I heard her washing herself, but couldn't find her. Not on the bed. Not under the bed. Not in the laundry basket. Finally, I looked up into the closet, and saw her sitting on my sweatshirt. She jumped down immediately, so no picture yet. I'll get one.
He sure looks contented and peaceful, doesn't he? Okay, fat, too, but hey, I've already told you my philosophy on that: A fat cat is a happy cat. Tig's very happy. permalink | |
So about half an hour ago, Worf woke up from his morning nap. And grabbed my sneakers, since I left them on the floor next to my chair, since I thought they were safe, because Worf wasn't feeling well. Apparently, this morning, he was just cold. Yep. Cold. Ridgebacks have very short fur. They're originally from Africa. They sleep with blankets over them during the cold months. At least, they do in this house.
So. This is Worf, this morning, feeling his oats.
He still has the tumor. And Heid's still going to bring him to the vet, and we're still hoping it's operable. But Heidi says everything I was worrying about is Worf's behavior when he's cold. Phew.
My slipper now has dozens of tiny tooth marks in the sole. I was going to buy new ones, anyway. permalink | |
Just when you think the anti-Israel groups can't get much lower, out comes this news:
Yeah, and Mussolini made the trains run on time. So that makes it all better, right?
That's one AP story. Here's another:
Gee, why would we think Hizbollah is a terrorist organization? The Khobar Towers? The JCC in Buenos Aires? 241 Marines killed in their sleep? I'm just not making the connection. Asshats. And this disgusting both-sides-of-the-issue crap that's been creeping into all AP stories is making me think there is no objective news service anywhere.
Shame on the Presbyterians for this divestment program, but deeper shame for meeting with terrorists and attempting to initiate a dialogue. You want Israel to change her policies? Fine. Meet with Israel, lay out your case, and see what happens. But to meet with terrorists and threaten an economic boycott? I haven't heard the Presbyterian groups call for an end to suicide bombing. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? It's starting to stink around the edges here. Why wouldn't a Christian group go after the Muslims who are slaughtering Christians in the Sudan, and threaten to boycott companies that deal with China and France, major trade partners of the Sudan?
Yeah, I know why. So do you. I just don't feel like saying it anymore. permalink | |
If you've been reading this weblog for a while, you've heard me refer to Worf fairly frequently. He's Heidi's eight-year-old Rhodesian Ridgeback. He's a hundred pounds of pure muscle and one of the biggest pains in her life, what with his tendency to get into dogfights and, well, bite people sometimes. He has a very short list of people that he likes, and I've been on it for years. Which is a good thing, because many years ago, after I'd already met Worf, I walked into Sorena's bedroom while Heidi was putting her to bed, and Worf growled at me like he was about to bite my leg off. I stopped dead, Heidi spoke sharply to Worf, and he wagged his tail apologetically. Oh, that's right, he seemed to be thinking. It's you. He'd forgotten I was there, and would brook no danger to Sorena.
He's never bit me, because I've never given him the opportunity. I respect the growl. I walk slowly in a strange dog's presence. I let him approach me, instead of the other way around. And after I'd started visiting Heidi regularly, Worf got to the point where he only barked in welcome or in play, never the bark that means "Come any closer and you'll get to test my jaw strength on your arm." (Which, actually, I now get to do because he grabs my arm when we play, and let me tell you, his jaw could easily break my arm.)
I remember first time he "bumped" me. Ridgebacks will walk between your legs as a sign of affection. Worf bumps very few people, unlike the Ridgeback I met in Bloomfield one day, who bumped me as soon as he met me. (Slut.) I was standing in the kitchen, talking to Heidi, when Worf pushed at my legs from behind. So without thinking, I stood up a little higher. He's tall enough that he has to duck a little, and he usually doesn't. We kept chatting away until it hit me what had just happened, and I said, "Hey! Worf just bumped me!" Heidi smiled.
When Sorena was younger, and Worf wanted someone to play with him, he'd sneak into her room and grab one of her soft dolls. Heidi and I would be in the kitchen talking, and we'd suddenly hear a wail, "Mommy! Worf has my dolly!" Down the stairs Worf would come, devilish expression on his face, his tail wagging furiously. Heidi would go one way and I'd go the other and we'd trap Worf between us and rescue the dolly. And try very hard not to laugh. Now, Sorena helps me rescue my sneakers from Worf.
Worf is smart enough to have recognized what packing a bag means. Before I moved to Richmond, on the last day of my visit, he'd see the green bag come out and he'd look very sad and stare at me while I packed. The message was clear: Don't go. It's gotten to the point where I feel like Worf is my dog, too, and I think he thinks the same way. I'm the only one who can dogsit for Heidi. I'm the only person who can come into their house when they're not home, and leave it unscathed. She's always said that if her house is ever robbed and Worf doesn't have any gunshot wounds, she's going to tell the police to go question me.
Worf's tumor is back. It's grown. It's in a different area. It's not looking good. He bumped me when I got here yesterday, and I shifted my legs and he yelped. You can see the bump on the side of his face. He's wheezing constantly. He didn't try to play with me this morning when I got out of bed. He came over and said hello, and then went back to bed. My sneakers are on the floor next to me. He didn't even try to grab one and run with it.
We are very worried. Heidi's bringing him to the vet this week. If the vet says it's a waste of time and money to operate again, this is probably the last week of Worf's life. It's going to get very, very painful around here if we lose him. Sorena wasn't even three when they lost Worf's predecessor, but she's eleven now, and it will hit her hard. It will hit us grownups hard, too. I cannot imagine this house without Worf in it. I cannot imagine not being greated at the door by him. I cannot imagine not having to put my shoes in the guest room so he won't grab them and make me chase them for it. I cannot imagine not getting annoyed because Worf won't stop bumping me and I'm trying to talk to Heidi, or do something in the kitchen, or simply walk to another room.
I cannot imagine life without Worf, and don't really want to. Not yet. Not for a few more years, please.
Update: Scroll up. Worf just made me look like an idiot.
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Ze'ev Schiff has a fascinating analysis of the end of the IDF operation in Gaza, and what will happen when the settlers are withdrawn next year.
Read the rest.
Another point of view, from Arieh O'Sullivan (I so love that name):
I don't really understand what that quote means. Anyone else? permalink | |
I answer: Nope. Nothing we can do. It's a free country, and people have the right to vote for whom they please, and to try to convince other people to vote for whom they please. But the thing is, using the High Stakes logic:
Hate to break it to you kiddies, but that makes George W. Bush the chosen one. Which would put Kerry and Edwards into the category of Slayerettes. And didn't we all simply hate the Slayerettes? (Especially Kennedy. I wanted her dead so badly I'd have joined the Preacher to get it done.)
I have come to the conclusion that I simply don't care about celebrities putting themselves out for Kerry. They have the right to do so, and I have the right to think they're idiots. As long as they're not funding terrorists like Cat Stevens, I can't seem to raise any ire for them any more. permalink | |
Nobody knows the tired I've been: You have no idea how tired I am. Bone-tired, heart-tired, mind-tired. The Sucky Boss from the Sucky Job That Would Be A Fine Job If Asshat Wasn't The Boss is getting to me. And I think the six-day work week is starting to get to me. I snapped at my students today (although they were misbehaving) and still felt grumpy at the climbing gym. Thank heaven for little girls: A party of 9-year-olds cheered me up, finally. They were too cute. But I'm still exhausted.
Thanks to everyone who hit the tipjars last week. I have no idea who hits the Amazon tipjars, which I think is what you folks want. I can't thank you personally, except, well, yeah, I can. Thanks. Personally.
Toldja I was tired.
I can't believe the kid is wearing me down: There was a double Bar Mitzvah this weekend. Ethan and Harrison are two very sweet boys who were more disappointed than anyone when I cancelled my Bat Mitzvah last year. Nearly every time I've seen Ethan since then, he's asked "Have you set a date yet?" I told him I'd reschedule it when things got better. Every schoolday this year, as well as every other time I've seen him, he's asked, "Have you set a date yet?" A week or so ago, I asked him if he knew what the expression "running a joke into the ground" meant, which got him to ask "Is it deep enough yet?" before asking me if I'd set a new date.
So I was thinking maybe November 2006, when my class from last year reaches B'nai Mitzvah age. There are only five of them, and one will be doubling with her brother this summer. And if I do have my Bat Mitzvah, after all this, Ethan had better be at mine. I went to his and Harrison's.
They were superb.
[Yawn] Okay, that's it. My eyes are closing, and it's not even nine o'clock. Not even the Yankees are going to keep me awake tonight. permalink | |
Last week's blogs are archived. Looking for the Buffy Blogburst Index? Here's Israel vs. the world. Here's the Blogathon. The Superhero Dating Ratings are here. If you're looking for something funny, try the Hulk's solution to the Middle East conflict, or Yasser Arafat Secret Phone Transcripts. Iseema bin Laden's diary is also a good bet if you've never been here before.