About that last blog....

That's what happens when Radar is on vacation.

Radar McGinnis, great nephew of Radar O'Reilly of M.A.S.H. Fame. Radar is the unsung hero of all the voices in the van. Radar runs the monitors; in charge of all in-coming data, filters input and assigns responses accordingly. Radar is the one who distracts Scrapper and Sniffles at every opportunity for the health and well-being of all concerned. Radar keeps an eye on the traffic while all the voices in the van are running amok. Radar passes out the assignments in a manner that allows us to function without physical harm or serious jail time.

Radar not only monitors, filters and distributes all incoming stimuli, he also exerts major censure skills as necessary. I miss him. The voices miss him, and everyone who has to have contact with me probably misses him too.

Radar keeps me from feeling overwhelmed, keeps me centered and grounded. He makes me feel I'm not alone in all this, and it's not just me versus the voices in the van. Not to mention the rest of the world.

I thought he went AWOL from the stress, so I went back on the happy pills, but he hasn't come back, so the happy pills aren't really helping. In response to his absence I sleep. Radar is my compass, my barometer and my homing device. Without him I'm adrift without a paddle.

I think I took Radar for granted—overworked and under-appreciated him. I've learned my lesson. When he comes back I will treat him better. Way—WAY--better working conditions, and more fringe benefits, including more time on the treadmill/Pilates gym/Yoga mat, more creative time, and/or a manicure/pedicure at least once every three months if at all possible.

Seriously. Radar, you have to come home because I can't handle all this without you. I SO get what an awesome job you do and going forward I WILL honor your work, efforts and contributions, and compensate you accordingly.

So Please, Radar....

Finish your Laphroig, douse the smoldering fire, come down from the hillside, bid the local wildlife and clouds above farewell and come home to me. Without you to cover my backside, I'm just another ass.

How does one put a huge sliver of their psyche on a milk carton?