A Crochet Cooter

I had to put the Tiny Cat Pants afghan on hold for the evening (but I worked on it at the car dealership while they were changing my oil and rotating my tires, so it wasn’t completely neglected) because I’m having lunch with Rachel from Women’s Health News tomorrow and I wanted to have something to give her at lunch.

But I love it!  Maybe I’ll just have her check it out to make sure it’s anatomically correct and whoop her up another one.

Of course, I took pictures.  I’ll put them below the fold for you more modest types.

Because I am Secretly Twelve, I Must Tell You

That our county clerk’s name is John Arriola.

Tee hee.

War is Expensive. Let’s Just Poison Our Young People Here at Home.

So, it turns out that, after a decade of our government trying to argue that Gulf War Vets who had Gulf War Syndrome were either lying or crazy (but not in a way caused by the war in any way, no sir!) and in no need of any actual medical help or attention, it turns out that a third (yes, you read that right, a third of the troops deployed in the middle east in round one of this clusterfuck) developed health problems now directly linked to their service in the middle east.

Yes, apparently having folks swallow carbamate pyridostigmine bromide and then exposing them to organophosphates and acetylcholinesterase inhibitors is a bad idea and makes them sick, for the rest of their lives.

God damn.

I really hope the lawsuits start flying.  A third of our Gulf War Veterans treated like unconsenting lab rats and then, then, when they get home, made to feel like lying nutjob fakers?

That is inexcusable.

(But really, thank the gods for Dr. Golomb and her team, who–now that they know what’s responsible for Gulf War Syndrome–are working on ways to mitigate the suffering of people who have it.)

Edited to add:  Speak of the Devil…

This May Have Its Advantages

I always thought that it would be cool to have a back-up singer follow me around all day.  I’d be all like “Do you have change for a fifty?” and my back-up singer would be all “Oooo, change for a fifty.”  Or I’d be like “I’ll have a chicken burrito” and my back-up singer would chime in, “Chicken burrito, yeah yeah yeah.”

I have just learned that the dream is close to being realized.

I’ve found a back-up singer.

Doo doot doo.  Back up singer.