Just trying . . .

. . . to be helpful.

So, I'm walking through Kohls when a woman dropped one of the "unmentionables" she was carrying to checkout.

Perhaps I could have thought of a better phrase than: "Pardon me, ma'am, but you dropped your panties."

Perhaps not.

Ruminations . . .

. . . at random

Moving out
I knew it would take SOME red tape to effect my transfer to Naples, but the sheer volume is mind-boggling. So far, I have completed:

- Offer acceptance
- Transportation agreement
- Overseas suitability statement
- Military Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act acknowledgement
- Transportation agreement
- Rotation agreement
- Permanent change of station questionnaire
- Certificate of medical examination
- Application for gov't employee passport

Next up: medical exams, passport submittal, receipt of orders, and God knows what else.

Christmas goodies
My elder son (the MD) has, for some time, been mildly obsessed with baking. That may be an understatement, because "mildly" is in neither his vocabulary nor his psyche. That aside, a package arrived to day with a dozen or more types of holiday confections. Fudge, several variations of cookies and cakes, and peanut brittle. The peanut brittle tastes exactly like that my mother made, something no one else has been able to accomplish. Of course, all this comes six weeks into my "lose a bit of weight and get more fit" program. I am greatly tempted, but after shedding 10 lbs, I have made a solemn vow to have no more than one per day - and not necessarily every day.

Black and Tan
Having failed miserably at making a black and tan, I bought a couple of "cheaters" from Bass. I sent one to Ian also.

I'm dying to try it, but then there's the "lose some weight and get fit" program, which is not compatible with mass quantities of stout and ale.

Well, maybe just one . . .

I can see clearly now . . .

. . . says Mrs. B

At least she will after January. Mrs. Bulldog will be having cataract surgery on one eye on 06 JAN 2010, and the second three weeks later.

Amazingly, it's outpatient surgery. In and out with an eye patch.

I'm saving up comments like: "Arrrrrgh matey, where's me grog?"

If you don't hear from me after January 6, she didn't think it was funny.

This little item . . .

. . . reminded me of a poet in the family, Alex Sykie, the nom de plume of the new son-in-law.

I find this . . .

. . . strangely comforting.

Official orders . . .



. . . arrived today by email.



There were ONLY fifteen attachments that I need to review, fill out, sign, forward, or otherwise manipulate.





Unless something very strange happens, Mrs. B and I are on the way to the ankle of the boot in a few months.

Dr. Strangelove . . .

. . . or, How Ian Learned to Fly a B-52.

Yep, that's Ian, the proper Englishman who recently married my all-American daughter, at the controls of a B-52D Stratofortress. His flight instructor (me) is sitting in the first officer's seat patiently offering hints to prevent us from flying at negative altitude.

Actually, we're sitting in a B-52D training simulator at the Strategic Air and Space Museum near Omaha Nebraska. There are dozens of aircraft in this museum, and ALL of them are inside. If you look at the size of some of them, you can imagine the sheer size of the building.

Amazing. Simply amazing.