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Friday night the teenager hobby lobby store hours had a bellyache. He doesn't get sick often so any pain or sniffle or sore throat or general malaise surprises him. Consequently, he's not the kind to suffer in silence. Makes it tricky for the blonde and I to judge just how sick he really is when he comes down with something. But his bellyache was bad enough that he turned down our usual Friday night pizza, asked for a rain check on our scheduled movie, and put himself to bed. That's odd, the blonde and I said to each other. Half an hour later he was downstairs like a bullet, on his way to the bathroom. Afterwards, he said he felt better and went back to bed. He slept like a log and got up late Saturday morning. He still had a bellyache, he said. I asked him where it hurt. He put his hand on his right hip. "Oh oh," I said and told the blonde. "Oh oh," she said. I called the doctor's office, where fortunately they have Saturday hours, and described his symptoms to the nurse. "Oh oh," she said. The blonde brought him in to see the doctor who said, "Oh oh." He sent them right over to the hospital where the resident on duty at the ER said, "Oh oh." All afternoon the teenager was poked, and prodded, and bled, and scanned, and when all the tests were done the surgeon was called in. He looked at the results and said, "Oh oh." By nine-thirty the teenager was minus his appendix. There were no complications. He was fine. He spent Sunday and Monday morning in the hospital and came home Monday afternoon.

Friday night the teenager had a bellyache. He doesn't get sick often so any pain or sniffle or sore throat or general malaise surprises him. Consequently, he's not the kind to suffer in silence. Makes it tricky for the blonde and I to judge just how sick he really is when he comes down with something. But his bellyache was bad enough that he turned down our usual Friday night pizza, asked for a rain check on our scheduled movie, and put himself to bed. That's odd, the blonde and I said to each other. Half an hour later he was downstairs like a bullet, on his way to the bathroom. Afterwards, he said he felt better and went back to bed. He slept like a log and got up late Saturday morning. He still had a bellyache, he said. I asked him where it hurt. He put his hand on his right hip. "Oh oh," I said and told the blonde. "Oh oh," she said. I called the doctor's office, where fortunately they have Saturday hours, and described his symptoms to the nurse. "Oh oh," she said. The blonde brought him in to see the doctor who said, "Oh oh." He sent them right over to the hospital where the resident on duty at the ER said, "Oh oh." All afternoon the teenager was poked, meta search and prodded, and bled, and scanned, and when all the tests were done the surgeon was called in. He looked at the results and said, "Oh oh." By nine-thirty the teenager was minus his appendix. There were no complications. He was fine. He spent Sunday and Monday morning in the hospital and came home Monday afternoon.

Friday night the teenager had a bellyache. He doesn't get sick often so any pain or sniffle or sore throat or general malaise surprises him. Consequently, he's not the kind to suffer in silence. Makes it tricky for the blonde and I to judge just how sick he really is when he comes down with something. But his bellyache was bad enough that he turned down our usual Friday night pizza, asked for a rain check on our scheduled movie, and put himself to bed. That's odd, the blonde and I said to each other. Half an hour later he was downstairs like a bullet, on his way to the bathroom. Afterwards, he said he felt better and went back to bed. He slept like a log and got up late Saturday morning. He still had a bellyache, he said. I asked him where it hurt. He put his hand on his right hip. "Oh oh," I said and told the blonde. "Oh oh," she said. I called the doctor's office, where fortunately they have Saturday hours, and described his symptoms to the nurse. "Oh oh," she said. The blonde brought him in to see the doctor who said, "Oh oh." He sent them right over to the hospital where the resident colon cancer info on duty at the ER said, "Oh oh." All afternoon the teenager was poked, and prodded, and bled, and scanned, and when all the tests were done the surgeon was called in. He looked at the results and said, "Oh oh." By nine-thirty the teenager was minus his appendix. There were no complications. He was fine. He spent Sunday and Monday morning in the hospital and came home Monday afternoon.

This is the lead image and queen sheet headline at DR this morning. Is this what we can expect from the right wing at the height of humanitarian crisis? Of course, the wide angle and the viewers low vantage only makes this more imposing -- and that's without the drawn guns. ...And, did Matt realize all the soldiers are white? UPDATE (4:30 pm PST) : I happened to catch some FOX News today, and even watched FOX and CNN side-by-side for a while. It was hard to believe these two outfits were looking at the same event. CNN was focused on the logistics of emergency relief. FOX was speculating on large scale civil disobedience.

This morning I came across John Kass's column in the Chicago Tribune, "Finally, wronged cop gets some support." Admittedly I've been a very, very busy girl, dealing with some major family issues, deaths in the family and 'life' in general, so I remember reading his earlier column and then forgetting about it. John, thank you for today's column. medical savings account Part of John Kass's column is here: " Last Sunday I told you about Mette trying to repeatedly avoid conflict, being chased down the street, then getting pushed hard by the drunk "two or three times," according to the judge's own ruling, before punching the drunk once. And for that he gets 5 years? "To all the people who read your column, words can't express how it makes me feel to have this much support," Mette said. "Everybody is calling. It's in the news now, and it's tough to describe how good the support makes me feel. I just want people to know that I appreciate them." So many of you have called and written, I figured it was time for an update. But Mette doesn't have much time. He's losing his job as a Chicago police officer. If something isn't done, he'll report for prison Nov. 9 and meet the inmates, who'll know he's a cop. And what do you say? "I say I can't believe this is happening, either. But I'm going to prison for defending myself, for landing one punch on somebody who attacked me with both fists? That's what I can't believe.

Friday night the teenager had a bellyache. He doesn't get sick often so any pain or sniffle or sore throat or general malaise surprises him. Consequently, he's not the kind to suffer in silence. Makes it tricky for the blonde and I to puppy training tips judge just how sick he really is when he comes down with something. But his bellyache was bad enough that he turned down our usual Friday night pizza, asked for a rain check on our scheduled movie, and put himself to bed. That's odd, the blonde and I said to each other. Half an hour later he was downstairs like a bullet, on his way to the bathroom. Afterwards, he said he felt better and went back to bed. He slept like a log and got up late Saturday morning. He still had a bellyache, he said. I asked him where it hurt. He put his hand on his right hip. "Oh oh," I said and told the blonde. "Oh oh," she said. I called the doctor's office, where fortunately they have Saturday hours, and described his symptoms to the nurse. "Oh oh," she said. The blonde brought him in to see the doctor who said, "Oh oh." He sent them right over to the hospital where the resident on duty at the ER said, "Oh oh." All afternoon the teenager was poked, and prodded, and bled, and scanned, and when all the tests were done the surgeon was called in. He looked at the results and said, "Oh oh." By nine-thirty the teenager was minus his appendix. There were no complications. He was fine. He spent Sunday and Monday morning in the hospital and came home Monday afternoon.