Don't Mince Words

On December 7th, I had a young coworker come to me about a Facebook post he saw.  “Hey Marna, am I an ass?  A friend just posted ‘Don’t Forget Pearl Harbor’ on his wall.  I just thought it was a little odd,” he stated.

I thought about it, knowing a lot of these kids today, have parents who have not served in any war.  So, I framed my response in the form of more questions.  “Does he have family that was there or maybe in an internment camp?”  No, that was the crazy thing, thought my coworker.  “And, get this – he just became a naturalized citizen two years ago!”  I suggested that he remembers his history well and he is very proud to be American.

Nine days later, I was at/on/around/in Pearl Harbor and I have to say after a long, emotional day of history, we should not forget Pearl Harbor.  And I’m not talking Tea Party crazy, gun raised, “get the Japs” kind of remember.  We have to remember how the act incited a nation, which was practicing isolationism, to support and protect our freedoms.  Our military became stronger, our industrialization got even better, and women worked and supported their families and the men at war any way they could.  Maybe it’s nostalgia, but we seemed like a cohesive nation back then.

When you go to Pearl Harbor, it’s a quiet and respectful experience.  I watched old folks in wheel chairs get pushed up the ramp at the same time as babies in strollers.  We all wanted to see and understand the vastness of this underwater grave and what it represented.

Remember Pearl Harbor, every hour, every day that we live
Remember Pearl Harbor, and the crime we can never forgive
Through the sweat and toil
Through the blood and tears
Keep this battle cry ringing in our ears
Remember Pearl Harbor, let this song keep us strong through the years

I will never forget Pearl Harbor.

Newman and his pallbearers

Newman’s brewery memorial service was well attended.  An amazing cat who can really get people to turn out!
 

Team Honda

I was already thinking of my dad this week.  It would of been his 90th birthday.  But when I had a tire blow out, the memories flowed more.

A year before I could get my learner’s permit, my dad would take me to the Montgomery Wards parking lot to practice driving.  It gave him an excuse to get out of the house and away from my mom and it let me learn three-on-the-tree and quick clutch action.  In addition to acquiring great manual-drive skills, he taught me how to check the oil, radiator, and change a tire.  This knowledge has kept me less dependent on shifty service station guys and AAA.

While I was driving two visiting Chinese coworkers south to Los Angeles, I heard the rumble and knew I had a flat.  I put my hazards on like dad taught me and coasted off the road.  We got out of the car and the right rear was a goner.  So, I popped the trunk, pulled out the full-size spare, the wrench, and the jack and set up shop.  My coworkers marveled at my mechanical abilities.

“Mah-nah, you know how to do a lot of things,” they said.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even throw my weight into the lug wrench to move the nuts.  I was going to have to break down and call my tow service.  As soon as I grabbed my phone, two guys in a SUV pulled up.  One loosened the lug nuts as the other began the slow twist of the jack.  Within five minutes, my 101 pit crew had silently changed my tire.  When they were off the ground, I thanked them and gave them WetOnes to clean their hands and offered them $20 for beer.

“No, no. It’s OK.  Merry Christmas,” one replied.

When we pulled back on the highway, one coworker asked if they were “Mexican.”  I told them I thought so, but as far as I was concerned, they were helpful, just like my dad.

I promise I won’t turn into a mommy blogger or a new mom who thinks she’s got the best baby on earth.  But until I date again, all I can do is sing the praises of my new rescue dog.

Dixie showed up as a stray at a SoCal shelter with pink toenail polish on.  That’s a sure sign she was living with a family or with a tweaker that wanted something to do.  She walks beside my knee on leash.  She always craps next to the curb.  She sits.  She lays.  She goes down when another dog approaches.

I knew Dixie was an alpha female the first time I took her to the beach.  I wanted to believe she was just socially awkward, but when I watched her play, she was the four-legged version of a bull-dyke field hockey player.  This was confirmed when she stopped squatting like a dainty lady to pee and backed up to telephone polls and squirted.  She enjoyed marking over the leg-cocking boys and making her own urine graffiti.

Friday I took her to get evaluated for doggie daycare.  I told them she was three, high energy, and liked to play rough, but I didn’t think she was aggressive.  She just needed to pick her playmates wisely.  After testing her two hours, she was approved to join the team.

Now I wait and see how many days before she’s fouled and put on the sidelines.  Even good babies have their bad days.

The other day I was searching on OKCupid.   There were six men between the ages of 37 and 60 that were my height or taller, held master’s degrees, and lived within 50 miles of me.  I’m serious.  Six men.  I decided I had better luck at finding love on Petfinder and adopted a three-year old american bulldog/boxer mix from my old rescue in Los Angeles.

After a Facebook dog-naming contest amongst my friends, we decided to pay homage to the late, great Tex by naming this girl after a region and getting an “X” in her name.  We settled with Dixie.  I wasn’t sure the name was the right one until I stopped in Petco with her on the way home and said “Hey Dix, come here.”  I’ve been saying “hey dicks, come here” for years now, so I kept the name.

We have spent the weekend bonding and she is settling in nicely.  At least a dozen guys have told me I have a “nice dog” this weekend.  Welcome, Dixie, you are my new dick magnet.