PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I have no interest, ever, in being shot into outer space. The very notion makes me claustrophobic. Not even if you sent a monkey or a dog with me.

Criminals are uber-stupid. UBER. If I could put the umlaut on that word in Blogger, I would.

Private investigators are tres cool. I can't put the accent mark on that one, either.

When you go to Detroit for a five-day backgammon tournament, you come home and use the qualifiers "uber" and "tres" a lot. We're still researching why.

When JWo is home, the dogs stop barking at everything.

I have started being able to sleep. In fact, just took a three-hour nap.

I keep discovering things they've taken. That part really sucks.

I read the Wikipedia summaries about the Book of Job. Because last weekend, I kept thinking, "Huh. This is starting to feel a little like I should maybe change my name?"

As a kid, I read the play "JB", by Archibald Macleish, a hundred times; it is a modern-day parable of Job, and how he cries out for God, even on his dung heap. Thankfully, I haven't a dung heap. Or boils. But if the locusts come? I have a big flyswatter, and I'm ready.

I am blessed with wonderful friends and family. Blessed. And grateful.

I turn 38 in two days. I feel like the month of June aged me, rapidly, but I don't mind. It won't always be this hard. And, as I said just a couple short months ago, in answer to the question, "Will you be ok?": "I don't have a choice." Of course we have choices, we choose our paths, and while I'm prone to falling down and tripping, I am always and forever going to choose the path through, towards the sunshine and stars, towards the voices of friends, a black dog at my side, knitting in a bag, and whether it's today, tomorrow, next year or seventeen years from now, I will always be ok. The reason I bring up all this Job stuff is not that I believe my life is a parallel, for it has not been destroyed, but to show we have the choice, to have faith that life will get better, rather than allow ourselves to become mired in sorrow and anger and bitterness. The subconcious of my mind brings it to the top, because even though it's been 20+ years since I read that play, the lesson remains.

But I still want to punch the burglars in the nose. Hard. Actually? I decided putting cosmetic lip plumper? Like "Lip Venom"? On all areas where there's sensitive skin? Would be a really satisfying revenge.

And then after all their skin's drenched in Lip Venom, we'll put 'em in a space suit & shoot them into outer space. With monkeys. And locusts.