Different?

Sweet Daughter wanted a handgun for her 4th birthday. While a-typical for most 4-year-olds, that’s old news around this house. But from time to time I’m reminded I’m a little … different.

First, there was the t-shirt incident. I was wearing my stamp act t-shirt.

I asked Sweet Daughter if the picture bothered her. She said it did, a little bit.

“But why? It’s just a picture of the skull Daddy uses at events.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” And she was fine.

Part of the Detached Hospital's Dental Display

Then there’s Sweet Daughter’s first grown-up party at the Gunnie Prom in Charlotte last Saturday. She was told what to expect, and what was expected of her, and I brought a kid-friendly-yet-appropriate activity for her so she wouldn’t find um, annoying ways to entertain herself. (Well, other than when she decided she needed to deliver something to Breda at the end of the row of tables, and decided the quickest way to accomplish this was to run the gauntlet under the row of tables. It was like she dissapeared into thin air. Good problem solving skills at least.) And when we got to the restaurant and she started holding her hands over her ears because it was too loud, I managed to find some earplugs in my purse for her. All moms carry those, right?

Special thanks to Breda for assistance with the artwork!

But yesterday morning she woke up and told me she’d had the worst bad dream of her life. Worse that the big, bad wolf, even. She said that she’d gone to the “NRA Gun Convention” (we’ll work on the redundancy issue when she’s older) and she’d taken her own purple pellet pistol to the indoor range because they’d asked to see it, but then they wouldn’t give it back. “They said it was too cute and they wanted to keep it. They played a trick on us!” she said. “It was really those ketchup people that want to take our guns away!”

I guess she remembered our conversation in the grocery store earlier in the week when I explained that we didn’t buy a certain ketchup because the family that owned the company didn’t want us to have guns.

I’m starting to think I’m not like other moms.

Three things

First, a picture of my Blogfather taken by Sweet Daughter.


Second, I’d like to dispel the rumor that I’m 7’ tall. You're off by 12". You can guess which direction.

Third, here is a close-up of the H-S booth guys. I didn’t get the face of the guy on the left (he was looking away anyhow), but look as his body language. *grin*

Charlotte: NRA 2010

I'll let the other cool kids tell you about what's going on, but here's how my day has gone so far.

This is right before Sweet Daughter knocked over the 10' sign. Everyone was really very nice about it. She was squirreling around because she wanted to go here:

I can not say enough nice things about the people running the range sponsored by Pyramyd Air. And Sweet Daughter got to shoot a rifle. Then we stood in line to see ...

What a nice, nice (and photogenic) gentleman. I got up there and realized I had nothing whatsoever to say to him other than "Hey! I like blowing stuff up, too!" How original. When I told him that SD had asked for a handgun for her 4th birthday, he said "I can't give you a gun, but I can give you this." And he handed her a challenge coin.  Whatever sum of money Glock is paying him, he is earning every penny. And, speaking of Glock, they did a very, very good job of handling security around R. Lee AND making it seem like they were simply there as hosts. Providing extra hospitality. Yeah, that's it.

And last, but not least, the H-S Precision Booth.

Shorter Half did not take up The Atomic Nerds on thier offer to win some free cocoa mix, but you will notice the booth is empty.

AND I got to meet Say Uncle and wave at Snowflakes in Hell Joe Huffman (apologies to all - I was misinformed!) up in the media booth. I feel like such a poseur.

Why me?

While packing for the trip to Charlotte this weekend, I found some orange and ginger scented body spray tucked away in a travel bag. I squirted some on and immediately realized why it was hidden away. I now smell like a freshly polished dining room table.

Small talk

Breda has a link to an article on whether size really matters. As one that grew up at the opposite end of the height spectrum , I can tell you that when your sleeves and pants hit 4 inches above your wrists and ankles, you don’t exactly feel elegant, either. But I digress.


I first met Shorter Half’s family when his little sister graduated from high school. I’m over a foot taller than she is, and she was trying very hard to make small talk. (“Small” talk, get it? I crack myself up.) She wondered if a lot of people asked me if I played basketball in high school. I answered in the affirmative, and then, completely unbidden by my brain – the words just fell out of my mouth, I swear – I inquired if a lot of people asked if she played miniature golf.

True story. Luckily she laughed.

Origins of a National Anthem

I was talking to Bitter Young Guy at the office this morning and it turns out that he didn’t know that our National Anthem started out in a gentleman’s club in England. The Anacreontic Society was dedicated to "wit, harmony, and the god of wine," but their (alleged) primary goal was to promote an interest in music. The melody for The Anacreontic Song (a.k.a. To Anacreon in Heaven) was written by 16-year-old John Stafford Smith in the mid 1760’s and if you try to convince me that this melody was composed without the assistance of liberal amounts of alcohol I'll disbelieve you. The song was first published by Longman & Broderip in London in 1778/1779.

There is one school of thought that thinks the melody may have originated in Ireland, but to each his own.

Regardless of origin, the song traveled across the pond, and was popular enough that Francis Scott Key’s brother-in-law noticed that the music fit Key’s 1813 poem Defence of Fort McHenry and put them together. The pairing became known as The Star Spangled Banner, but wasn’t officially adopted as the national anthem of the United States until 1931.

The original lyrics are below – and you thought “O say can you see …” was difficult.

The Anacreontic Song

To Anacreon in heaven where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be,
When this answer arrived from the jolly old Grecian:
Voice, fiddle aud flute, no longer be mute,
I'll lend you my name and inspire you to boot!
And besides I'll instruct you like me to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

The news through Olympus immediately flew,
When old Thunder pretended to give himself airs,
If these mortals are suffered their scheme to pursue,
The devil a goddess will stay above stairs,
Hark! already they cry, in transports of joy,
A fig for Parnassus, to Rowley's we'll fly,
And there my good fellows, we'll learn to entwine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

The yellow-haired god, and his nine fusty maids,
To the hill of old Lud will incontinent flee,
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the biforked hill a mere desert will be,
My thunder, no fear on't, will soon do its errand,
And, damn me I'll swinge the ringleaders, I warrant
I'll trim the young dogs, for thus daring to twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.

Apollo rose up and said, "Prythee ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my votaries below
Your thunder is useless - then showing his laurel,
Cried, Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
Then over each head my laurels I'll spread,
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread
Whilst snug in their club-room, they jovially twine
The myrtle of Venus and Bacchus's vine.

Time for warm weather cocktails

I just had my first gin and tonic of the season. Ahhhh. Now I’m motivated to see if I have any Pimm’s left in the liquor cabinet. My previous roommate “borrowed” my last bottle, and never replaced it. We have a local ginger ale that goes quite well with it, lacking the proper fizzy lemonade. Hmmm, that sounds like something that would travel well this weekend – they’re calling for temperatures in the upper 80’s in Charlotte. Now I need to go add cucumbers to the grocery list.