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The BOMB

Welcome to the BOMB.



The Blog Of the "Mother" of Bandit.
Bandit is my Hairless Chinese Crested--he's the "normal" one. I, on the other hand, am unrepentantly "pet-crazy." You know the type--the spinster who lives in the haunted house three blocks over with 72 cats...okay, so I don't have 72 cats, and my house isn't haunted--but my dogs wardrobe is better than mine! Need I say more? :~)
I've never been consistant at journaling, so the timing of my blogs will be sporadic at best. I just hope they are as entertaining to you as they are to me; however, be forewarned: Most of my blogs will be about The BaldOne. In spite of his Don King "do," I think he's just as cute as any of the Brothers B!
Now, if I can just remember not to get him wet--or feed him after midnight...

About Me

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My bags are packed and I'm always ready to seek out an adventure with Bandit and Moggy in tow. Bandit is my ten year old Chinese Crested, who I frequently call The Bald One or The BaldOne Boy (like he was one of the Baldwin Brothers). Moggy’s full name is Pip-Moggy. He’s my gansta-resuce kitty. I couldn’t decide between Pip (which are the spots on die and domino tiles) and Moggy (or Moggie when I mistakenly thought he was a she), so I combined the two. Moggy refers to the British term for "cat of unknown parentage .” So in essence, I have an almost bald dog, and I’ve named my cat “Spot.”

Fun Stuff (I'm doing now or have done)

  • Artistic Attempts weekly (alternating between Painting With A Twist, That Art Place, and Peniot's Palette).
  • Bunko with the Belton Bunko Babes monthly.
  • Participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge.
  • Spades and Liverpool Rummy with the Spadetts weekly.
  • The Mighty Texas Dog Walk, Austin (fund raiser for Service Dogs, Inc--they train shelter dogs to be Service Dogs, then give them free of charge to people with disabilities.)

Monday, September 26, 2016

We Are But Red Shirts in the Star Trek Opening Credits of Life.

I hate this time of year. Oh don't get me wrong, I really love this time of year--the beginnings of long awaited cooler weather;  the glorious sunrises that I see through sleep-hazed eyes on my morning commute to work;  the stunning sunsets in the cool of the evening--especially beautiful at the lake; the  red, orange, yellow, and maroon of turning leaves--if I can find a tree or three in a clump that aren't evergreen;  the fuzzy sweaters and tons of scarves worn ever so artfully by everyone except me;   the intoxicating smell of cocoa and over-priced, yuppie fru-fru coffee;  and even...dare I say it...pumpkin spice--in everything from drinks and deserts to car air fresheners and fish bait. Or so it would seem.

No, what I hate about this time of year is it's bragging time again. I like game-time trash talk and brags--those are fun and everyone knows it's just part of getting into the head of your opponent and psyching them out.  I'm talking about real life bragging. Work brags, aka Anual Proficiencies.

Once a year I have to pull out all the stops and remind my Supervisor how wonderfully indispensable I am. Even though I've been taught to be humble from the time I received my first complement.  Ladies don't brag.  Pretty is as Pretty does.  Actions speak louder than words.  And my Spades group favorite when someone decides not to play for a while:  You are expendable.  No that's not quite right, You are replaceable. Expendable belongs to the Star Trek franchise.

No matter what our Mama's write in the yearly Christmas Letter, truth be told, we are but Red Shirts in the Star Trek opening credits of life.

However, until I bite it, I'll do the annual brag. Like Kirk I'll take the conn and direct my course by recounting my many accomplishments. In Spock-like objectivity I'll throw out numbers and stats to remind my Supervisor how productive I am.   I will strive to remove the Bones-like subjectivemess from my appraisal (she has already acknowledged the times I have stirred up the status quo with an impassioned tearful plea to do the right thing for my Veterans).  I will communicate with the precision of  Uhura.   Like Chekov, the character I crushed on most, I will navigate the waters of self-promotion to present myself as accomplished rather than a brash braggart.  In the helmsman fashion  of Sulu I will stay the course, and  keep the Scottie "She's gonna blow, Cap'n!" desperation off the paper as, for the first time in 19 years, RNs are eligible for bonuses!

After all the spectacular self-evaluations I've written during the past two decades, I just hope I've not used up all the best descriptors to explain why I'm awesome enough to deserve a bonus, after all, I've made it past the Red Shirt Opening Credits.

Now Beam me up Scottie, I need to locate my thesarasus...




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