Wherever you're at, there you are.

Two-thousand Twelve.

2012-01-01T14:16:00.002-06:00

This will be *the* year...

the year I finally learn how to spell the word, "twelve." Seriously. Beyond that, I have no clue as to what the life will show me.

With the exception that life will show me how to fall in love again.

Come February (another word I will most likely learn how to spell without thinking) my first grandchild will enter the world. A little girl. I know whenever I am in her presence, I will be looking at life through a little one's eyes. I will live my life vicariously through her.

I am told by others who have traveled this path, my life will never be the same.

Counting

2011-10-25T13:44:00.000-05:00

i scream out the numbers

of the sheep as they pass.

in my mind, behind my eyes

that have seen too much.

the sounds I try to drown,

five-fifty-five, five-fifty-six...

the numbers rise each and every night,

the flock increases in size.

i'm losing count,

i'm losing my voice.

still the leaping sheep bleat

in response to the rhythm,

of my desire to forget.

Posting Poems Until Further Notice.

2011-10-17T15:34:00.005-05:00

I need to go on sabbatical,

a pilgrimage to find myself.

My soul, my heart

have gone missing.

Posting "Lost" signs everywhere

in poems and prose...

and silence.

I've exhausted the in-between,

the merged time of alert and asleep.

I'm tired of the obscured,

brought on by Bacchus.

To drink, to dream

to slip away...

A coward's folly.

2011-10-09T14:29:00.001-05:00

Autumn leaves fall like confetti

in a ticker tape parade.

Summer being sent off,

Winter being ushered in.

And in that brief time in-between

the hazy days

and the hibernation,

are moments

of reflection

as each leaf touches down.

More From the Poetry Corner of My Mind.

2011-09-26T14:28:00.003-05:00

I feel the nip of an upcoming winter

blowing through my open window.

It settles upon me with an icy feel of melancholy.

My thoughts tumble down like the dying leaves of trees

preparing for slumber.

I wish I could prepare for sleep.

Shake my arms, let things fall to the ground.

Close my eyes until I feel the call

to grow again.

Transitory Travels

2010-12-13T18:46:00.007-06:00

I am never without a camera of one kind or another. If I don't have a digital camera tucked in my purse, I always have my iPhone to snap shots whenever the thought moves me. Today I was out on this sunny day after a weekend of icy roads and blowing winds. I drove down to one of my usual stopping places, a boat ramp along one of the rivers that grace the town where I live. I was hoping to spot some bald eagles, but this particular place in the river had already succumbed to the frigid temperatures. The river was a sheet of ice. Slow-moving current and shallow depths prevented an open oasis for the eagles to fish. I stepped out of my vehicle and snapped a few pictures; a study in grey and white, blue and silver, as the sun gave false warmth to a frigid December day.

Closing my eyes, I recalled the same scene, months past. The river was flowing free. Green overwhelmed the eye in the height of summer. The sun-baked ground only reflected back the heat of the sun. The air smelled of an impossible perfume of warm grasses. Bird-song was a consonance, bordering on cacophony. As the bitter wind buffered my fur-trimmed hood, I opened my eyes to find myself transported back to the tundra-like view before me.

My memories left me as quickly as I opened my eyes, but reality, too had left me just as swiftly when I shut out the scene before me.

Life is transitory. It had seemed, like everyone says, "just yesterday when..." and soon enough I will find myself in this very same spot, taking snapshots of a flowing river, abundantly green trees, impossibly blue skies, bird-song as a soundtrack and the warm essence of sun-baked grass. I will recall that day when, on a whim I stopped to take a snapshot of an icy river on a cold day in December. It seemed like just yesterday...but it will once again return in a blink of an eye.

Close your eyes, and we become travelers in time.

Poetry Time

2010-10-18T21:29:00.001-05:00

habit creature

reacting with my jerking knee.

dealing with my bi-tropical

depression.

leave something

in the lost foundry.

brain-panning for gold,

foolishly.

take need

of my carelessness.

wanting for nothing,

selfishly.

Less Traveled

2010-08-02T16:58:00.005-05:00

To me, one of the more thought-provoking images is one of a path. Paths signify different ideas to different people. They bring up varying thoughts and emotions. Maybe some people see a path and it brings up feelings of uncertainty and fear. "What lies at the end of the path?" they may think, even before stepping foot upon it; they turn around and walk away, back to their known world. Or perhaps the uncertainty is a pulling force, causing one to run, arms outstretched, as if to take flight, their feet never touching the ground. Paths do go in both directions, though. A wanderer can, at any time turn around and walk back from whence they came.

But, there could have been something waiting at the end of the path. The "what is" becomes the "what might have been". Those who never venture will always be left with questions.

Yes...this "path" is allegory. If it were a real path, there could be monsters lurking at the end...or angels. Sorry, still waxing allegorical. I mean, there could be grizzly bears, or perhaps an ice cream stand. That is the thing about paths...they all lead to somewhere. Is the finding out worth the unknowing journey?

For me, paths and images of, hearken to the familiar poem by Robert Frost, which was about "roads", but the idea, the feeling is the same:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by...

Will I take the path, or is it the path I am on now?

Will it make all the difference?

This didn't start out as social commentary...

2010-08-01T18:11:00.004-05:00

I decided to go shopping today, which for me entails logging on to the computer and navigating over to the online store that sells just about everything...you know, the one that just isn't a river in South America. Stumbling along the Internet, I came across an article about a book that sounded like an interesting read, so off to Amazon I went.

On the home page sits the Kindle. The newer, smaller version with wi-fi is beckoning me with it's "under $200"price tag. I have been fighting the urge to buy a Kindle since it's debut. It's not because I don't feel that a digital download is less real because I can't hold the item in my hands. I have been downloading mp3s for years now. It shocks me when I see the number of purchased songs on my iTunes...ninety-nine cents at a time over the course of a few years. Let's just say it adds up.

Back to the Kindle...in my life as it stands now, a Kindle (or any e-book, let's be fair here) just makes sense. The past few weeks I have been bagging up old paperbacks that I will never read again, due in part to a period in my life when I ate up romance novels like chocolate bonbons (Godiva, mind you). I know I have blogged about this subject before, how there is just something about holding a book in your hands. Also there is a joy, a sense of pride I tend to feel when I look at the many shelves of books that clutter my house. Shelves of books I have read more than once, books I have yet to read. Books that are scattered throughout...a book on my bed-side table, a few books in a wicker basket next to my couch. A book in my "library", you know, the library with the porcelain seat? They all have bookmarks slid between the pages. All in different stages of being read. Right now, I have Contact by Carl Sagan, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anais Nin (pardon my lack of umlaut) and Henry Miller, 1932-1953, and A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemmingway...all in the process of being read.

Okay, I admit, I am somewhat showing off. One mark against the Kindle. It's not like I can walk up to someone and say, "Hey, wanna see my reading list?" without sounding like a total puffed up peacock.

But, as time goes by, and the older and obviously more practical I become, being able to carry my library with me begins to have it's appeal. Less stuff cluttering my house, and by extension, my life is appealing, also.

But what appears to be the center of it all, the heart of the matter, the big selling point to a Kindle (or Nook, or Sony's e-reader) is the ability to have whatever I want to read in a matter of minutes. I want it, and I want it now.

And there in lies the inherent danger. Society has collectively lost it's patience because of the Digital Age. Books, music, answers to nagging questions...they are just a click away. Computers, the Internet, technology has possibly turned society into people who feel that everything they ever wanted, ever needed is as close as their laptops. It's even there with email, instant messaging and social networks like Facebook. The anticipation of a reply has gone from days to sometimes seconds. Wondering where that old boyfriend ended up? Search his name....chances are you will be reliving old times within the hour. Instant gratification.

We have become impatient. We have forgotten how to wait.

We have also become society of hermits with no need to leave the house, but I will leave that for another post.

Allegory With a Side of Drawn Butter

2010-07-31T18:10:00.009-05:00

Eventually, it would appear on television...a commercial for Red Lobster. Close-up views of succulent meat, rosy-pink, speared lightly on the end of a fork, the money shot of butter, glistening and dripping off the sweet morsel...

image source

Anyway, the commercial would work it's magic, and as if I hadn't given lobster a thought in all my years on earth, I would become enamored, I mean hungry for lobster. Why Red Lobster? It's an unpretentious circus. I fit in well with its faux Cape Cod design.

The idea of lobster would gnaw at me for weeks, the texture, the sweet flavor, the salty butter a perfect foil, until I would find myself at the source. There I would be waiting to be seated, watching the lazy crustaceans lumber around the bottom of the tank. Most of them most likely die of boredom before ending up on a patron's plate, I am sure. After a few minutes of contemplating the lobsters' fates, I would be seated by the perky hostess, then asked by an equally perky waitress, "And what will you like this evening"?

"Coconut shrimp," I reply.

Was that the sound of a needle screeching across an album I heard? Coconut shrimp? Wasn't I there for lobster? Didn't I just hear myself say last week, "Next time I go to Red Lobster, I am having the lobster", which sounds a lot like "Next time I come to Red Lobster, I am having the lobster"? Why don't I order the lobster when that is clearly what I want? In that split second between where the waitress asks for my order and I make my choice, I tell myself:

"I don't have to eat lobster."
"Lobster is a want, not a need."
"I have went 'x' amount of days-weeks-months-years without lobster, I can go longer without lobster."
"Lobster is for other people, not for me."
"I don't deserve my heart's desire, um, I mean lobster."

Somewhere else in my brain, a small voice is telling me, "Order the damn lobster, will you?"

Well, what am I waiting for?

Memories in the Computer Age

2010-04-05T22:29:00.005-05:00

"She laid across her bed, her cat was at her feet. She took the blue latched jewelery box that she had kept hidden under her bed and ran her hand across the battered top, sending dust motes fluttering in the streams of sunlight beaming through her window, twinkling like stars in a night sky. Leaning back against her pillows, she slowly sat the box in her lap, playing with the latch tentatively, her mind vexed with second thoughts. The young girl drew a long sigh and snapped open the latch. Opening the box, she reached inside, pulling out a stack of envelopes that were tied in a thin, dime-store ribbon. Then she removed a few photographs and fanned them across the cabbage rose comforter.

Glancing through the photos, a pensive smile graced her face. Choosing one photo from the rest, she traced the outline of a young man with her finger; the perfect chin, the strong arms crossed across his chest, leaning against a tree with a suggestion of wickedness flashing in his dark eyes. His smile betrayed his eyes, though. His mouth was gentle, caring...

The girl sadly laid down the photo. The memories of a lingering kiss never revisited pulled at her heart like a twinge. Her gaze turned to the bound letters. She began to carefully untie the ribbon, but the twinge in her heart stayed her hand. Instead, the girl took the letters, the photos, the memories and locked them back away in the box. She slid the box back under her bed, vowing never to release the memories again".

Now, let us rewind and play the scene and see what it might look like today...

"She sat at her desk, her mouse poised in her hand. She clicked on 'Start', then located her 'Documents' folder, opening it with a double-click with the right mouse button. Leaning back in her chair, she slowly scrolled down the page. The young girl landed the cursor over a folder designated 'Past'. Her hand left her mouse momentarily before giving the mouse button another double-click, bringing up another window, showing .doc and .jpg files. Then she clicked and dragged one jpeg from the rest, landing the file onto her paisley print wallpapered desktop.

Wishing for a closer look at the file, she sent it into a photo editing program. She zoomed closer to get a better look at the man's features, pixels rendering at each click of the mouse...his eyes, his chin, his mouth snapping into clarity.

The girl returned the jpeg to it's original size. Pinching the bridge of her nose to try and alleviate a slight twinge of eye-strain, she closed out the editing program and maximized 'Past' from the task bar. Her finger was ready to double-click once more to bring one of the .doc files to the front. The mild eyestrain of a few moments ago morphed into a migraine. Instead, the girl closed the file. So she would never be tempted to revisit the past, she selected 'File--->Delete' and sent the Past to the Recycle Bin.

Try and write a moving story about that.

Buzzards

2010-04-03T17:03:00.005-05:00

My father and I were sitting outside the other day, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Summer had made an early appearance where spring had barely begun. The sky was as blue as my father's eyes I noticed as he watched a flock of geese fly overhead. Nearby, turkey buzzards circled lazily above the treetops, in twos and threes, relishing in the physics of aerodynamics.

Leaning back in his chair, taking a long pull from his beer, my dad announced skywards, "Go away, buzzards, you're too early. I'm not dead yet"!
My dad tends to have quite the gallows humor, but this was more a declaration of his pragmatic nature. It was nothing I wanted to hear, though.

He sought my gaze, I turned away. I'm still his little girl, and I want him to live forever.

Dad and the blogger, 1963

On the topic of being over the age of seventy, my dad recalled when he was a young man, he would look at men in their seventies as they would slowly walked by and he would wonder how they made do...how did they get by. How difficult it must be to be at that time in life. He then shrugged his shoulders and told me, "Well, look at me. I'm those men now, and I'm doing okay. I'm still alive, I get around just fine. It's not all that bad, it certainly could be worse".

I will stare down the buzzards. Better yet, perhaps I won't concern myself with the buzzards at all, for when they do finally proclaim victory over me, I wont be around to notice.

No Resolutions

2010-01-01T10:55:00.003-06:00

www.freefoto.com

Instead, I have hopes and wishes.

May all yours come true for 2010, and beyond.

Christmas, Holidays, and New Years

2009-12-25T12:29:00.002-06:00

However you celebrate, however you believe, may it be Happy and Merry, and may 2010 be *your* year.

The Piano

2009-10-15T09:24:00.004-05:00

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we lose that random sense of play. An unoccupied piano sits, keys beckoning to be touched, tinkled. Children will usually walk past, stop, check to see if their parents are watching, and tentatively plunk a few keys. Some will pound the keys unabashedly, laughing at the tune they created before their parents whisk them away. Occasionally a pre-teen will shyly sit down and play the inevitable "Heart and Soul" quickly like it was a covert operation, then slip away with the echoes of the last notes.

Adults, for the most part will hurry by, oblivious to the fact the piano exists. Some may even long for the day when they had time to sit down and lose themselves in playing a piece, one they perhaps practiced for a recital as a youth. They may even pause at the keys, but then chide themselves because they have no time, and besides, just because the piano is sitting there, it doesn't mean you have to play it, or play with it. There are more important things to do.

And some adults understand that sometimes the most important thing to to at the time is play.

**Thanks to my sister for posting this on Facebook. You can find her and her husband's blog here

Old post lurking in my drafts

2009-10-14T09:52:00.002-05:00

**Due to the fact that I can't engage my brain to write anything more taxing than "See Spot run", I have resorted to digging up a post that was left to linger in the edit pile**

I set up a Facebook account last week, because I'm such a busy and social person with my appointment book bursting at the seams. I have contacts all over the world, just dying to know every infinitesimal detail of my life. I fight off the paparazzi every time I step out my front door.

No, not really. Not even close. That's probably the reason I have a FB page.

I have three, count them 1-2-3 friends on my page..one who is related by blood, one who is by marriage, and the other who is "related" by the past. My brother-in-law tagged me last week with the "25 Random Things" meme. I capitulated. So here are my list of banal randomness.

1. I want to write a book someday. I blog instead.

2. I met my husband through a yenta-ish woman I worked with back in the '80s (wasn't everything back in the '80s?). I finally gave in after months of her telling me how wonderful this boy was and that I should really meet him. Actually it was my sister, who finally talked me into accepting a date from him. We will be married twenty-five years this November.

3. I am a hermit in real life.

4. I will eat an entire frozen bag of Brussels sprouts. After cooking, of course.

5. I have a huge collection of Marvel comics. Mostly X-men.

6. I have two daughters, 20 and 16 17. In school I was considered the least likely ever to become a mother.

7. I have a deep-seated fear of clowns.

8. I write far better than I speak.

9. I thought "Waterworld" was a good movie.

10. In high school, I was looked upon as "snobbish". Actually, I was scared to death and I thought if I was really quiet no one would take notice of me.

11. I like the fact that I am going gray.

12. ???

13. I don't think of myself as an adult in that I-really-should-be-sitting

-at-the-kid's-table way.

14. I am still waiting for my huge cardboard check.

15. "Oh, look! A bunny!!!

16. I sleep to dream. (I have no life...I have a Facebook account, remember?)

17. The only jobs I've had in my life was cooking at a hotel chain restaurant (I also bussed tables) and worked in the quality control department in a sewing factory. I also did a short stint at a family owned fast food place.

18. I don't like to cook, and I can't sew.

19. I wanted to play drums in the grade school band. My mom wanted me to play the flute. I ended up doing neither.

20. I almost lost my upper lip to a dog bite.

21. My teenage years were the worse years of my life.

22. I'm starting to read the books I never read in high school, although I may never tackle "Moby Dick".

23. I want Barber's "Adagio for Strings" played at my wake.

24. The Art Institute of Chicago, standing in front of the painting "A Street in Paris, A Rainy Day"...I wish I was there right now.

25. I'm surprised I was able to come up with 25 things.

***

Telling Tales

2009-09-08T18:35:00.002-05:00

It’s all make-believe, telling a story, writing a novel. Do I think that Patricia Cornwell had to be a murderer to write murder mysteries? Well, she does know her way around a morgue like Kay Scarpetta does, the main character of her long line of novels, so that helps her story writing. One of Jonothan Kellerman’s major character is a psychiatrist, and Kellerman has knowledge in that field. But, then there is James Patterson does he know what it’s like to be a teenager who has wings sprouting from her back? Doubtful. Yet he wrote another very popular series of novels based on just that. Hence, they have the background to give credence to their stories, but popular writers can suspend reality and write the fantasical They know of which they write, but they can create other worlds, realms and situations.

“Write what you know“, I have always heard. So what do I know? Even in my almost half-century of breathing, I don’t think I really know much about anything in particular. Not any more than the next person, if I were to give myself some credit. What I do know is I want to write. I also know how to day-dream. Hell, I sleep to dream. I can have one vivid imagination at times. Is that enough backing to write a book?

Should I take a writing class? I may, but I fear it will deter me more that enlighten me. Maybe I’d discover how the sausage is made, really made, and it would grind up my fragile little dreams into piles of hot-steaming pulp. Besides, I’d like to think that the process of writing is more organic than having to learn that process in a classroom setting. I don’t want to find out that there a formula to successful writing.

I have written before, in high school English. I wrote a short story about a man who was fixated on the tale of Abraham Lincoln’s foreshadowing of his own death, and how at the end of the short story, that fixation save the man’s life. I was proud of the story. My English teacher found my dialoge “trite”. What the hell did he expect from a sixteen year old girl? I did end up receiving a “B”, but all I could take to heart was the unflattering comment.

Is writing one of those things that, “either you can or you can’t”, like playing the oboe, or shooting a round a golf? With golf, not everyone can pick up a nine iron and swing it at a ball, executing a natural arcing motion, but most people can at least swing at the ball in somewhat of an swinging action, even if they end up topping the ball. I have picked up a nine iron, attempted to swing at the ball in the so-called natural arc, and proceeded to slam the club head straight into the ground, as if I was driving a railroad spike home.

I fear writing would come just as un-naturally for me. Forget choosing a sand wedge, forget having to take a Mulligan, I’ll just take all my broken shafts and go home.

It’s easy to write “what I know” if what I know are the thoughts in my own head. In a way it’s safer to just write about my thoughts, since who is going to dispute my them? They aren’t implausible story lines with unbelievable characters executing impossible acts, speaking inarticulate dialogue. I don’t have to justify thoughts. They are mine, damn it, but they do not make for good reading material, only blog fodder.

“Once upon a time…” Telling a story was so easy long, long ago. But, isn’t that how the process starts?

“Once upon a tine there was…”

A friend of mine wrote about writing in his blog. He told how he had asked his mother if some day he could become an author. In one of the most profound answers I have ever heard, she said, “It’s merely a choice one made.”

“Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to tell tales.”

**This is a repost from a post a from a few days ago. Write when fully awake to avoid mistakes, such as attributing the novels to the wrong author**

Embracing the Palindrome

2009-09-08T06:32:00.007-05:00

A weekend away probably wasn’t the best time to break an addiction. Yet, there I was, attempting to kick my dependence to Xanax, a crutch I had leaned on heavily now for over ten years. I had been addicted to not feeling, safe in the knowledge of knowing that squashing any feeling of fear was just a blue pill away, my bitter calm. My VIP pass into sleep at night.

I was special. I didn’t need to suffer a stomach full of butterflies or a fretful night, forever on the edge of sleep. I should have never had to rationalize myself out of irrational fear. But as I had distanced myself away from those feelings, those experiences, I had distanced myself away from humanity in some way.

We are not brought together by our strengths, but by our weaknesses.

Twenty-four hours in and without, I was finding myself feeling as if I had consumed a full pot of coffee over breakfast. Jittery, foot bobbing, knee-jerking. I was trying to turn the feeling into some kind of high, a rush. The "fight or flee" response was taking me for a roller-coaster ride, over and over.

I waited for the inevitable derailment, the tidal wave of panic, the sudden urge to rush to the nearest emergency room where I would beg and plead to be hooked up to an EKG machine, positive I was suffering a heart attack. Feeling that I was about to die, I would be witness to the whole scene.

Not that I was afraid of death. I just didn’t want to be around when it happened.

Short of breath, drenched in sweat, feeling as if the world was swallowing me alive, I would rush to the almost empty bottle. This is the game I would play as I was nearing the bottom of the well. How far could I stretch out my prescription before I would end up sitting pitifully in the doctor’s office, feeling like Oliver Twist, asking for “more soup, please”, fearful of being denied. This was just yet another round.

I’ve talked myself into this, could I talk my way out? Or would I succumb to the crutch leaning in the corner, borrowing another Dickensonian image.

What was I really addicted to? I was addicted to quick relief. But, aren’t we all, I wondered as my husband shook two acetaminophen into his hand to ease his pestering headache? Just make it go away…pain, discomfort, all the stings and arrows of life, as so commonly mis-quoted. I paced with indecision. Just go take a pill, will you? I needed to drive into town soon. Would I take the bottle with me, just in case, or would I pull up my big girl britches and leave my blanket at home? I so dreadfully needed to take a nap, since sleep had not graced me last night, my first night without help in ten years. I know what would happen, as it had happened before--I would be wrenched from my mid-day dream, if indeed I had gotten that far, taken by a wave of panic so strong, it would cause me to rush to the bathroom mirror to see if I looked alive, if I still looked like myself. I would be drowning in the undertow like I had so many times before.

This highly addictive substance, it took away my panic attacks, but it had also stole away aspects of my short-term memory. Time tends to pass by without notice, and before I would know it, it would be the fifteenth of the month and my water bill would be over-due. Had I taken out the garbage to the curb, or had I only thought I did?

In a cruel twist, this tic-tac sized panacea would also remind me by its absence as to why I have kept it in my life for so long. The panic that I would experience could be far worse than the panic that caused me to hook up with this nasty palindrome in the first place. I knew this from past experiences in attempting to walk without the crutch. I could slowly wean myself of this substance, but as in the words of King Baby, “I want it, and I want it NOW!” I wanted relief from the drug as quickly as I wanted relief from the panic. Couldn’t there be a drug I could take when suffering from Xanax?

After the three day mark, I will have most likely dove head first into admitting defeat. Right now, the referee is pounding on the mat next to my head. Ring the bell, declare the winner. I know it’s not me. It never is.

But in twenty minutes, I won’t give a damn.

The book which haunts me

2009-09-02T14:39:00.012-05:00

Back in the early seventies, I read a book that would change my life. It wasn't a self-help book, or a deep theological thesis. This book was meant to be distributed to schools and libraries, to be read to and by children. I don't think it was for sale in book stores. At that time there were actual book stores, owned by people with first and last names, neither of them being Amazon or Waldenbook. The shops were dedicated to selling one thing...books. Not having money to buy books because I was ten years old and I was buying bags of toy soldiers and balsa wood airplanes from the Ben Franklin at the time, I found myself at the town's old library in search of a different way to occupy myself.

The library was brick with a terra cotta roof. Two lions stood in a petrified watch on either side of the concrete steps. If they weren't really there due to a faulty memory caused by the passage of time, then they should have been. Inside was full of wood and dust and the smell of old paper with a hint of mildew. The sun would shine an amber glow through the high windows. The floors creaked, the chairs squeaked, but soon the almost reverent silence took over. I walked towards the children's section with its tiny chairs and small, round tables. I almost tip-toed across the aged floor as if there was a spell hovering over the space, and I did not want it to break.

As I ran my finger along the spines of the books stacked on the shelves, the varying thicknesses and heights of the books reminding me of a city skyline, I came across one that was a little thicker, a little more squat than the rest of the thinner books. It looked like the size of one of the books that lined the shelves of the adult section of the library. I never did like the fact that I was only allowed in the children's section. I so wanted to be able to check out a book from the other side of the library, with the long oak tables and high backed wooden chairs. I knew there had to be many secrets hiding in the shelves I could never reach. Excited, thinking that a book had been mis-cataloged, I pulled the it from between two slim, colorful books that held more pictures than words. Being young and still under the belief that books were to be judged by their covers, I turned the book over in my small hands. The book's plain grey cover showed a line drawing of a cat, curled up in a tight ball, napping.

"It's about a cat", I surmised, so it must be a good book, since I liked cats. There was no title printed on the cover, so this made the book that much more intriguing. Curiously, I turned over the book again to look at the spine where I knew the title would be.

If indeed the book was about a cat, that cat was dead because I noticed the word "ghost" in the title. Not being sure if I wanted to read a story about a cute little napping cat that was deceased, I started to place the book back on the shelf, taking one last glance at the title embossed on the spine.

"The Ghost of Opalina...well, 'Opalina' is a pretty name for a cat, alive or dead", I thought, and once more I pulled the book from the shelf. There wasn't a dust cover for the book. Knowing that the books my parents had at home had dust covers, and the dust covers had a paragraph or two outlining the story, I had to go on faith that a story about a cat named Opalina would be something I just may find interesting, even though she was a dead cat.

Then I saw the second half of the title. The full title of the book was The Ghost of Opalina or "Nine Lives". Always wishing that cats really did have nine lives, I decided that I truly did want to read this book written by someone named Peggy Bacon.

Carrying the book to the librarian's desk...not only was there book shops back then, there was also The Librarian, the one I thought actually lived in the library, just like I thought teachers lived at the school and nuns lived in the church basement...I approached the large desk with my book, wearing a somewhat smug look on my face because the book I was checking out didn't have a colorful cartoon cover like the other childrens books. On tip-toe, I reached up and gently sat the book down on her desk. She would certainly be impressed by my choice of reading material, how wonderful that a ten year old child would pick such a work of fiction. I wondered if she imagined me curled up on my bed, or some corner of my house, sun streaming picturesquely through the window, dust motes floating though the air like stars, the light illuminating my angelic face as the sun bounced off the page.

The echoing sound of the date stamp hitting the inside cover snapped me out of my quiescent scene. Looking up at the stern, crinkled face of the library-dwelling woman, she peered down upon me, nonplussed. She slammed the cover closed and handed me the book. I will never forget what she said to me.

"Back in two weeks."

I shuffled home, disappointed that the librarian was not as impressed with me as I was with myself. My book was held tightly to my chest, for one must never drop a book, my teacher had told me one day. She explained it would hurt the book, and at my young age, I tended to humanize inanimate objects frequently. It wasn't a long walk to my house, but it seemed so that day. I couldn't wait to find just the right place in the house where the sun would stream through the window, illuminating the pages and my face.

I finally reached my bedroom, closed the door behind me, curled up on my bed and opened the book to the first page to my first "novel". Being that the day turned cloudy, instead of warm sunlight shining on the pages, I settled for grey somber light, diffusing everywhere but the pages. Despite life not following my script, I read the book in less than a week, I was so transfixed and bewitched by the story. Maybe the librarian would at least be impressed by prompt return of the book, if not by my choice of reading material.

Almost forty years later I find myself scanning rummage sales and flea markets for this book, the book that forever marked me as one who becomes lost reading. I have read many books since then most regularly, except for a short stint in high school where "required reading" was foisted upon me. To me, nothing ruined the idea of reading more than having a teacher instructing the class that no college would accept a child who didn't read Moby Dick.

This book I read so many years ago is special. It is a touchstone...a very expensive touchstone, I have discovered after much searching. Alas, my beloved Opalina is the subject of a rare book. Perhaps someday I will be in an antique store, glancing at a bookshelf, and there the book will be, nestled between a copy of Valley of the Dolls and a service manual for a '72 Chevy Impala. Above the bookshelf will be a sign reading, "All books, five dollars". If so, maybe someday I will find myself sitting in a sunbeam, like Opalina sat in a moonbeam. Opalina recalled her nine lives in the light of the full moon, shining through the bedroom window. In the sunlight through my bedroom window, I will be recalling my childhood.

I could check the book out at the library where the librarians are young, and they no longer stamp books, they electronically scan them. I could very easily do just that, but memories shouldn't have to be borrowed and returned two weeks later.

Why I Blog #87

2009-08-27T08:29:00.010-05:00

...because I can't juggle cats.

In all seriousness, this question has been popping up a lot lately.

"Why do you do it? What's it all about, this blogging thing?"

"WHY?"

It doesn't bring me money, or fame, or even a large amount of notice. My reader base is small, my subjects range from the inane to the personal. Some may even say I'm somewhat "glurgy". Mostly, my blog is words, ideas, pictures in my head that need a way out, or the filing cabinet that is the contents of my brain will topple over, spilling out all it's misfiled information onto my cerebral cortex, where they will short out my neural pathways, causing a fire.

Spontaneous combustion is never a good thing.

In other words, blogging is an outlet, somewhat artistic since I take a thought and flesh it out, like dabbing on details to a painting or adding a few spices here and there to a stew. I may take liberties, but not in a James Frey kind of way. My blogging is more literary (I dare say) that an "Oh, by the way, I bought a new pair of Jimmy Choos today" fashion.

See what I did there? I took liberty in that last sentence because me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like me laid up in the hospital in a body cast. No, wait, that is exactly what me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like because that would be the end result.

So, short of said money-fame-notoriety, I do get something out of blogging. It's the little kid in me, stomping my feet, sticking out my lower lip and demanding, "Look at ME!"

You are looking, aren't you?

Also, it possibly may be little baby steps towards a writing career. At this rate, I'll be that ninety year old lady just publishing her first book. But that way, maybe the editors will be kind to me.

*This is number 87 in a series of "Why I Blog" post, which may or may not have 86 previous entries.

Heart and Soul

2009-08-27T07:37:00.005-05:00

I was thinking about the house, the one I grew up in, and the fact that soon it will no longer be "mine" in any sense. Many times I have gone over there when my dad was away for the summer, just to look around. There are a lot of memories in the house I would recall as I haunted the rooms. Some were mere shadows, others were as clear as a photograph.

Memories of Christmas and birthdays were clear and crisp and good. Mom liked to see our faces as we opened presents and soaked in the appreciation we showed her. Vacations were also a joy. We usually went to historical places like Boston or places of natural beauty like Niagara Falls. There was no knowledge or wonder in theme parks. We also spent time in Wisconsin many summers to visit with my dad's family. Leaving my home back then, just for a few weeks made me sad as I imagined the house empty, its large glass paned eyes watching us drive away. I would lie in the back seat, hiding my tears from my sister. I didn't want her to know that I cried for the lonely house. It seemed such a silly thing to do, but I could not help myself. The empty house looked melancholy.

See, I felt that the house had a presence, a soul. It was more than wood and glass and limestone. We even believed it to be haunted. Or maybe it was a playful little sprite who shone lights in the darkened attic, or made sounds of footsteps walking up and down the wooden stairs. Most likely it was just the fact the house was built in 1900, and its old bones were creaking, though the lights I could never explain. I have come to realize that the presence in the house wasn't ghosts, or sprites, or the soul of the house itself. It was the family who resided in it. It was us. The fact was made painfully clear, the first Christmas spent without my mom. The house echoed, even though it held our remaining family. My sister and I had left years earlier, but always returned for the Holidays and other family events. When we came back, it was if the house kept a place for us, and we slipped right in, like slipping on a well-worn kid glove. Our absence was temporary, and somehow the house knew that. Death, though, left not only an absence, but a deafening silence, never to be quieted, never to be appeased.

My dad is finally moving from the home I've known all my life, from it's converted coal room in the basement where his wine bubbled away, to the cluttered attic two stories above. As I walk around his new house, the house right next door to mine, I unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen where boxes of his kitchen supplies are stacked on the counters, one thought wafts through my mind.

"Welcome home".

For a house is just four walls, a floor and a roof. A home is much more.

Someday, the house I have known for over forty years will be sold and the new inhabitants, perhaps a family, will fill its rooms with bits and pieces of their lives. Maybe the ghost or the house sprite will entertain them with flashing lights in the attic and tease them with footfalls on the staircase. I am sure I will drive by and look to see how the old place is holding up. Will I feel a tug, a pang in my heart, a rash desire to run up on the porch and ring the doorbell, ask if I can have a glass of lemonade? Or will I just drive on by?

I will go to the place here my adult life resides. I will kiss my husband on the cheek, walk next door and have a beer with my dad, and go on the computer and find a silly cat picture to forward to my sister. I'll call my one daughter in Nebraska, and joke with my younger daughter who is still in school. I will hug my dogs and ruffle the bed-head fur of the cat. I will look fondly at the photo of my mom, the one I took one summer in the gazebo and realize that my mom is still here. For me, I have discovered, home is the people who inhabit your heart, not the structure that keeps the outside at bay.

Collections

2009-08-19T07:07:00.003-05:00

My mother was a collector. She loved old jewelry, mostly old pins, which she would wear with great panache on coats, blouses, and even the occasional sweatshirt. There was hardly a day when she would leave the house when she wasn't wearing a large sash pin, or a small cluster of scatter pins. One of my last memories of mom was helping her pick out which one of her Christmas pins she would wear on the day she never lived to see.

In preparing to empty the house, which is somewhat like preparing to eat a herd of elephants, let alone one, with the help of my dear aunt and uncle, we bagged and inventoried her pins for auction.

We have counted over one thousand pieces of jewelry as of yesterday.

My mom never impulsively bought anything, for the most part. To think that over the years she inspected each and every piece she acquired is boggling. I can imagine her, standing in front of a glass case in some antique store, holding a pin or brooch that caught her eye. Not only would she examine the piece, turning it around in her hands, looking for hallmarks, noting the style of clasp which was a good indicator of age, she would envision where she would wear said pin; would it look nice on that denim blazer hanging in the back closet? The one that she planned to wear when the leaves turned the same amber shade as the stone in the piece in her hands?

She would then look at the price tag, question whether or not to but the item, as to which my dad would say to her, "Buy it." Dad would have never told her otherwise. Trite as it sounds, if my mom would have asked for the Moon, my dad would have found a way to give it to her.

This happened over a thousand times. I'm not even counting the other collections...the art deco jewelry caskets, the Nippon, the milk glass, the platters...

I have talked amongst family and friends, the torn feelings over dispatching with these items, how in some way we are selling pieces of my mom. Family member and close friends have been able to take some pieces home, pieces that spoke to them in some way. I have more than a few myself. Every time I hold them in my hands, I think about how my mom held them in hers, imagining the compliments she would gather like yet another collection.

But, practicality wins over sentimentalism, and as each piece of jewelry gets tucked inside a cardboard box, I imagine I am releasing a bit of my mom, for as much as she personified the jewelry she purchased, she was and is far more than a sum of all her things.

The Traveling Show

2009-07-16T12:52:00.005-05:00

The husband calmly walks around the motor home, the one with the curtains drawn closed across the windsheild. Shirtless, and still wearing the same jeans from yesterday, his fifty-something torso is sagging over his belt and the sun shines off his tanned bald pate. He tucks his head inside a storage compartment and pulls out the tow bar so he can prepare to hook his car to the back of larger vehicle. He looks as he is preparing to leave after spending only one night in a campground nestled among the landscape of rolling hills.

The light sound of crunching gravel catches his ear and he looks over his shoulder. Obviously uninterested by what is causing the sound, he sets the tow bar down along side the car and continues back to the storage compartment to fetch more tools. The wife, also in her fifties is dressed in the pastel shades of one much younger; a pair of crisp cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Her honey colored hair is caught up in a lacy white ribbon. The ribbon floats behind her as she hurries towards the campsite. The wife's arms are reaching out in surprise, then they convey a question. As her feet touch the grassy carpet, she falls to her bare knees, hands coming together, culminating in a plea. Her husband glances toward her dispassionately as he prepares to attach the tow bar to the car's frame.

The wife, still in a position of prayer, cries to her husband. She tells him to only take the car. Leave her behind with the motor home. Unmoved by her lamentations, he walks towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, retrieving more tools. The husband looks toward her, shaking his head, smirking at her request. She finally rises from her supplication and wearily sits down on the picnic bench, placing her head in her hands. She looks at him beseechingly, wisps of hair coming loose from the child-like bow. Through tears she cries that she is having fun, that she hasn't enjoyed herself in years, and now he wants to leave. Don't take my vacation away, she implores. The husband says something to the woman, his face dark with fury. The woman leaps from the bench and runs to the door of the house on wheels, appearing to clench the hem of a skirt as if fleeing some hideous insect. Left in the wake of sobs and tears, the husband walks over to the tow bar laying on the ground and replaces it back in the storage container. He gathers his tools and sets them back in the trunk of the car. After closing the trunk lid, he proceeds to open the door to the motor home, and as if it were just another day in July, steps inside and closes the door behind him. Silence swallows up the dramatic scene and replaces it with the wind blowing through the willows, sparrows darting through the pristine blue sky.

From my darkened vantage point, I am left to gaze at the drawn curtains of the motor home. I feel like I have been watching a stage play, full of tumult and turmoil. Will there be a second act, or was this merely a one-act production, I wonder. Will the troupe set up stage in the next town, the next state? As I am left with fingers grasping the cliff's edge, I am haunted by the image of a woman in pink praying to her god who gives and takes away as easily as sparrows catch gnats on the fly. What haunts me more is my shameful reaction to the tableau.

"Woman, have some pride!"

Internal Dialogue

2009-06-08T19:08:00.004-05:00

I mentioned way back in time on this blog that I had started taking Paxil for depression, and as a result, I felt that it had really dampened my ability to write. Talking this over to one of my aunts over breakfast the other day, she asked, "Is it worth it?"

I have really given that question a lot of thought.

I would say if I were an author, one who made a life from writing, then unequivocally no. Definitely not worth not being depressed if a paycheck or a publisher were in play. Obviously in my case, that isn't the case. I'm just a lowly blogger in a sea of many other bloggers in the vast water-covered world that is the Internet.

Recently, I was reading an article on the Internet which asked the question, "Where does your blogging voice come from?" Which of course I then asked myself,

"Lisa, where does your blogging voice come from?" Quickly the answer came..."From my internal dialogue, of course."

And, of course, it was my internal dialogue that came up with the answer. The one that was always there...when I'm depressed, when I'm feeling neutral. When I'm drunk. When I'm sober. It's always there. It's there when I am singing made up lyrics to the songs playing on my iPod. It's there when I'm sitting outside, watching the birds and bunnies in my yard. It's even there when I'm falling asleep at night.

Although I will not ever share those here.

Anti-depressants never shut off the my internal dialogue, I've discovered. If anything, they may have shut down that part in my brain that feels the need to exclaim on a public forum, "Hey, there's bunnies in my yard! I wish you were here to see them with me!"

Because, isn't that what a blog is about? Inviting *you* to see what I see? Feel what I feel? Even if it's only one person who happens to stumble by?

And, yes, the bunnies are really cute! One is digging in the clover...

Be Careful What You Ask For...

2009-05-10T09:43:00.009-05:00

I've been asking my youngest to start a Blog. Well, she did today, I guess as a Mother's Day Present. A twisted, warped Mother's Day present.

I present to the blogging world, my kid.

http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/

Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!

◘◘◘

I needed a new laptop. Being very impressed with the free customer service my oldest received when her laptop BSoD'ed three days after the warranty expired, I ordered myself the same brand, you know, the one that starts with a "Dell".

I know I am not the best typist in the world, but I do know when I am not causing the cursor to appear somewhere else in a document I am attempting to type, like I sent it through some short-term memory time warp. Due to the fact that I so hate/loathe/despise to talk to Tech-Lack-Of-Support, I emailed Dell and am waiting with baited breath for a reply. Since Google is my friend, and conferring with my brother-in-law, I have determined that this brand of laptop has had issues with wonky keyboards in the past (go Google "wonky keyboards"and Dell will most likely come up in the top ten search replies).

So, we shall see what transpires. By the way, I've had to retrieve my cursor at least fifteen times while typing this post.

◘◘◘

My sister tells me one needs to be very specific when asking the Universe for something. Perhaps I should request a codicil.

A Child's Bouquet

2009-05-09T18:32:00.007-05:00

When Spring came to my childhood home and May finally appeared, our yard became flush with violets. Islands of purple amidst a green grass sea. Blooms bowing slightly on long stems. Along side the stone foundation sprouted clumps of Lily of the Valleys, the small white, perfectly formed bells hung like fragrant dewdrops from the strong green reeds. Nature worked Her magic by placing these two flowers to bloom at just the right time in the life of a child. Simple flowers that grew in such a way that they could be easily plucked by little hands. Violets, so vibrant in color, so subtle of scent. Lily of the Valleys, simply white, but complex in perfume and quietly exquisite in formation. Flowers in perfect balance, joined together at the right time to make a delicate child's bouquet...a tussy-mussy to be excitedly given as a token of love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Are you sure typing when the easier, I mean when they, and and I mean when being that that that that the audit deduct up to if?

2009-04-29T09:43:00.003-05:00

Technology is wonderful, if not funny in a "pull-your-hair-out-by-the-roots" kind of way. My new computer has voice recognition, where you can dictate emails, documents, and whatnot. It's not perfect, though, although I am sure the computer would blame my voice and lack of diction for any and all mistakes. So I thought I would dictate a blog entry without adjusting for what the computer thinks I am saying, just to showcase how wonderful and helpful this this may be in my life.

I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph

The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.

I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?

I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?

And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.

So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.

I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.

Fashion-not-sa

2009-03-21T10:56:00.005-05:00

Out of sheer boredom the other day, I picked up a copy of a woman's fashion magazine so I would have something to read as I waited in the school parking lot for my daughter.

It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.

The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?

I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.

The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.

Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.

So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.

And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"

I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.

Benched

2009-02-25T19:59:00.006-06:00

When the trees turn green and the wind blows warmly down the river valley, I will most likely find myself back to this place.

I have sat at this bench many times, for many reasons. Reflection, boredom, escape. I've sat, watching fishermen situated under the bridge, hoping for the big Walleye. Maybe they sit in their boats for the same reason I sit at this park bench, using a fishing pole as a prop so as to not seem purposeless.

I watch as barges float by, impossibly silent and serene. They look unoccupied, save a solitary figure walking against the flow of the river as he makes his way to the cabin. He looks like he is going nowhere, as if he is strolling in the opposite direction on an automatic walkway. I figure it probably isn't a very good idea to jump up and down in one place on a moving barge, especially if standing by a large object. Would they fall over it or crash into it on the way down?

I have sat at this bench a few times, daring myself not to leave the bench until way after sundown. Maybe a argument or a bruised ego found me here, and this bench is as far away as I will come to ever running away from home. The chill of the coming evening and the sting of mosquitoes, plunging their needles into my skin tells me my passive-aggressive nature will not win out.

I am always alone at this park bench, except for the constant companion of high frequency ringing in my ears, not unlike the sound of the mosquitoes zeroing in to steal my blood. The river draws me in, not physically, but emotionally. It is the ultimate "road not taken". I watch the river forever flowing within the boundaries of its shores until it finds freedom in the wide expanse of the oceans.

In comparison to the river, I am a mere creek, twisting its way out of existence before it can ever merge with the sea.

In the name of pride.

2009-02-23T07:26:00.004-06:00

I noticed that my youngest daughter was unusably quiet this weekend and was not her normal quirky self. Knowing what time of year it was, I had my druthers as to what the culprit was. So seeing that I had her full and undivided attention in the van this morning, heading for school, I asked her if she tried her best on her essay paper, which is her second attempt.

"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."

To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.

I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.

"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.

"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.

I don't think that counts though.

And she's gone.

2009-02-22T17:51:00.007-06:00

Last week, my daughter and son-in-law finally started married life together in another state after six months of separation. She called me to tell me about the duplex they are renting. "It has a dishwasher!!!" she excitedly pointed out to me. I am so glad for her husband, since the girl couldn't hand wash a dish to save even my life.

She called me while she was cooking her first dinner in their new lodgings, sounding as giddy as a toddler with a new Easy Bake Oven. She asks me how much is two-thirds of a cup. She senses my confusion and explains that she forgot to buy measuring cups when they went grocery shopping to set up their pantry.

She calls me every morning with a cheery "Good Morning", which is bizarre since she isn't a "morning person". While at home, I was lucky if I got a grumpy mumbled imitation of the greeting.

She calls me while she's shopping at the BX.

She calls me as she's driving through town.

She Calls Me. All. The. Time.

She's five-hundred miles away, yet I feel she is still here with all the phone calls.

I am so incredibly lucky.

Dashboard Moments

2009-02-04T13:01:00.003-06:00

Since I live a whole block too close to my daughter's school, and her unwavering fear of acquiring a driver's license (not like I am in a huge hurry for her to be driving anyway), I take her to and from every day. I'm not complaining mind you...we spend the time talking about everything from political issues to the upcoming Star Trek movie and how it better not end up full of fail, as she puts it.

One day I decided to stash a camera in my purse, just in case I might see something interesting while I was out and about. Sitting at a stoplight, first at the line, I thought I would snap a picture and try an experiment where I would post the resulting snapshots under the heading of "Dashboard Moments", and tell a story about what I viewed at that particular intersection.

So, without further ado (or adon't), here is my first installment.

***

The Green Mill Fire Aftermath

Most anyone who grew up in my town or surrounding area (you know who you are) probably ate at this restaurant which was at the corner of Columbus and Madison Streets. It was one of the longest running restaurants in Ottawa. My family and I ate there at least once a month when I was a child. I remember a man named Nick, who would meet my parents at the door, and welcome them with a flourish of , "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Leach! Your booth is open towards the back. Your lovely family can take a seat and your waitress will be with you very soon."

He actually knew my parents by name! We had our "regular booth"! I felt very special as he would escort us to our seats and hand us our menus. The booths were slightly worn down by years of patrons, and I had to sit on my feet to reach the table top comfortably. I remember that there was an unsaid rule that moms and dads ordered from one side of the menu where the steaks and seafood dwelled, and children ordered from the other side of the menu where the hot dogs, hamburgers and fish sandwiches lurked. I asked one day why I couldn't order a steak.

"Well, you are too young cut your own steak. Your Father ends up cutting it for you, and by the time he is done, his food is cold. It's not fair. When you are able to cut your own steak, you can order one."

Mom was right. It wasn't fair that my dad would have to eat cold steak, so I settled for a fish sandwich. Sometimes I would plead that I was "old enough" to cut my own steak, but after a few failed tries, my dad would set off to work, making sure my steak was cut in small enough pieces where I couldn't choke while eating. Dad would then start cutting into his cooled off steak and I would feel a twinge of guilt. If I was well behaved, didn't order steak, ate my dinner and didn't fight with my sister, I would get to order dessert. It was usually rice pudding with cream and cinnamon. I loved the candied orange pieces that hid among the creamy comfort of the pudding. I thought of them as little gems I had to dig for.

The Green Mill changed hands few times through the years, and I had always thought about stopping in for a bite, to see if I could transport myself in time where a cheery and graicous man named Nick would make me feel like I had the most important family in the world. But I never did, because reality is never as bright and shiny as the memory of a child.

Because all the cool kids are doing it...

2009-02-04T06:37:00.004-06:00

...I have a Facebook account.

Now, what do I do with it?

Winter Pallor, or, "A Paler Shade of White".

2009-02-03T07:09:00.019-06:00

I stumble out of my warm bed to be welcomed by the chilly morning air. I assume it's morning. My alarm clock reads 6:01 am, but the sun has other plans as it still is hiding below my horizon. I turn on the bathroom light and scowl at my reflection in the mirror, my skin's shade of white echoing the color of last night's dusting of snow.

I blame it on the lights above the bathroom sink...

Okay, enough of the poetic monologue...I am so frickin' sick of winter! It's yet another morning of single digit f*ckitude. This is the Winter of my discontent.

But, then, when have I ever been content with Winter?

***

In other personal news, because isn't that what a blog is supposed to be about? Personal stuff? My daughter's cat Valhalla, the cat who wasn't there, is now a permanent fixture on my living room chair. She has finally decided that there is more to the house than the upstairs bedroom. Val has bravely ventured downstairs, took on the corgis and won for now. There is a detente at the moment, sporadically broken by one of the corgis venturing too near Val's bunker on one of the dining room chairs, resulting in a barrage of hissing, barking, yelping, and bruised doggy egos.

And she is such an affectionate cat! Look at her rub up against my leg, meowing sweetly...awww!

"Mom, she isn't rubbing against your leg, she backing up against your leg", Rachel explains drolly, as only Rachel can. "She's in heat. Again."

Nothing like being reminded of the *feline birds and bees by my younger daughter. Gawd, I feel so used.

***

My son-in-law has graduated from his IT classes at the AF base in Biloxi, and is now home for few weeks, working in the local recruiter's office, ~~shanghi-ing~~ signing up potential recruits. In the first year my daughter and her husband have been married, they have lived apart. They will be moving to Nebraska and finally be starting their married live together. May reality slap them upside the head gently. Please.

So, in about a month, be prepared to read a weepy, glurgy post about mommies letting their daughters fly from the nest and all that while Perry Como sings "Turn Around" in the background. Hell, she flew from the nest years ago. At least she thought she did in her sixteen-year-old-I-know-it-all mind that prematurely reared it's head at age seven.

I knew enough not to let go back then. Hopefully I'll know enough to do so when the time comes.

*Yes, the cat is going to be fixed.

Divisive Benediction?

2009-01-21T07:02:00.006-06:00

It's a somewhat disturbing day when I agree somewhat with Glenn Beck.

Part of President Obama's message has been one of ending the divisive rhetoric and actions that has plagued this country for the past eight years. The "either/or" mentality of the the Era of W. The reaching across the aisles, figuratively and literally.

The act of the majority of this country, voting for a man that came from stock outside of White Bread America, showed that we too, wanted an end to the madness, and that we could expand our minds beyond the idea that someone too young, too foreign of a name, too black could lead a Nation.

So, was there any room for Reverend Joseph Lowery's benediction? In a time when President Obama, in his now famous keynote speech the the Democratic National Convention of 2004, invoked a different America with these words:

"There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America."

Compare these words to those invoked by Revered Lowery:

"We ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to give back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will embrace what is right."

Thought provoking, or ill-timed rhetoric? It probably depends on what side of the fence one is, a fence I thought President Obama sought to tear down...all fences...racial, political, spiritual.

I realize that this is a major time in history for African Americans, more so possibly for those who crawled through the trenches of racial discrimination so many years ago. Those who walked with MLK, those who saw him stuck down amidst his mountainous climb. The Little Rock Nine, children who simply wanted to go to school, who found the Arkansas National Gaurd blocking their way. The Tuskeegee Airmen who fought so bravely during WWII for this country, only to come home to find that they were still directed to take the back entrance.

So, I see where the good Reverend is coming from, but remember, it's a major time for us all. A time where we are beginning to judge a person by his words and deeds, and not by words that describe his appearance.

Bricks

2009-01-07T15:00:00.000-06:00

Just a short post. I'm helping to spread this through the blogosphere. Take a moment to visit this blog created to help a fellow blogger after a fire totally destroyed his home January 4th.

http://www.habitatfortravis.blogspot.com/

A Quiet Existence

2009-01-07T08:09:00.006-06:00

I'm still living at my dad's house as he recuperates from open heart surgery and a mild TIA he suffered the first week home, which was most likely the scariest moment in my life to witness. But it has left no shadow in its wake, thankfully, except for the lasting image in my mind, looking into my dad's blue-gray eyes, fearfully realizing that for a few agonizing minutes, he was not there, for the glitch occurring in his brain.

In the almost three weeks I've been here, I've discovered quiet existence. At times I feel I am in a monastery, as we sit monk-like, just being. Simple housework has become zen-like, along with observing the minutiae of daily life. I note the patterns in the carpeting the vacuum cleaner leaves behind. I inhale the scent of freshly dried laundry, wondering why my clothes at home don't smell the same as I make a mental note to pick up Dad's choice of laundry soap. I reminisce as I see Mom in almost every corner of the house though her collections of antiques and scattered snapshots depicting happier, healthier times. Dad occasionally notices the wind playing with the tree tops, commenting that the weather is changing. We both lightly laugh at the cat's antics as she randomly bats at a fake furry mouse, then darts away from it as if it suddenly became real. Sometimes we banter back and forth over some news item, snickering at the state of Illinois politics. I ask him if he wants lunch, or if wants to take yet another handful of medication as my throat closes at the thought.

The passage of time is marked with the emptying of Dad's compartmentalized medicine organizer, as if it were a calendar.

We sit together in this large house, silently, not because we have nothing to say to each other, but because we don't have to, if we choose.

This time spent in this house, with my dad, reminded me of his quiet acceptance. Life is what it is. Move on the best you can because another day is just waiting on the other side of the hemisphere. My dad could howl at the moon, curse at the harsh light of day. Who knows, he may in solitude. He may not. I do know my dad is anxious to get some semblance of his life pre-surgery returned to him. He is itching to be able to drive wherever and whenever, or be able to push himself out of his chair using his arms. I bet he's waiting for the day when he owns the t.v. remote again (he has relinquished it to me for some reason), when he can belch without apology...who knows, walk around the house sans clothing. He knows, though, that going on and on about what he can't do isn't going to make the day when he can arrive sooner.

I am going to have to return to my home soon. Back to my hyper corgis, the cat who isn't there, my too-small rooms stuffed with too much, well, stuff. Back to my daughter and her off-kilter humor that sometimes needs to be reigned in. Home to the other quiet man in my life, one who for whatever reason is not totally comfortable with lingering silence.

But, if I have learned anything living with my dad for this span of time, I have rediscovered that quiet place within me that can exist outside solitude. When the corgis bark and yip at imaginary sheep, or when my daughter channels Robin Williams, Jim Carrey and Stephen Colbert at the same time, or when my husband waxes unpoetical about glass manufacturing operations...all of the above usually happening simultaneously, I'll have somewhere to go.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T21:53:00.007-06:00

My wishes for you and yours this New Year...

Smiles and laughter.
Silly moments.
Quiet interludes.
Many hugs.
Health.
Dreams come true and wishes fulfilled.
Peaceful sleep and mornings filled with hopeful anticipation.
Epiphanies.
Good friends, good times, good food and good spirits.
A love which no words can describe its depths.
Simple things made profound by appreciation.
A well lived year.

Make it a good one.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T07:59:00.004-06:00

Merry Christmas, however that term holds meaning for you, and Happy Holidays.

I am finding my day away from my family this year. They are only a few minutes down the road, but it is still "away". My eldest daughter has a new family and new traditions to celebrate the day this year, as this is her first Christmas as a young married woman. My youngest, at sixteen is at home with my husband, I am sure playing Half-Life on her new Xbox, wearing her vintage-style motorcycle goggles, rainbow toe socks on her feet, courtesy of what she found under the tree yesterday.

I guess at sixteen, one can be flexible on which day to open presents.

I was not there to witness the unwrapping, as I am hovering over my dad for the next two weeks as he recuperates from open heart surgery. I have a feeling that he'll soon tire of me and kick me out, which is a good thing. He is doing amazingly well. Dad is navigating stairs and doing most routines on his own. When one thinks of the process of open heart surgery, being placed on a heart-lung bypass machine, having parts replaced and plumbing re-routed, keeping the body oxygenated while the heart is temporally turned off until it is zapped back into service...it almost makes the mechanics of the body, well, mechanical. Simple. But as we all know, the body is more complex than that.

So, my Christmas Day is spent back in my childhood home, waking up in my childhood bed. The bed is shorter than I remember, the room my bed now resides in smaller. The night-time sounds are the same, though. The expansion and contraction of the one-hundred year old home are the same as they were when I was a child, only this time I know they are not sounds of secret monsters in my closet or under my bed. The smells are the same, scents that evoke memories spanning forty years. Memories of those no longer inhabiting this space. Memories of my mom.

I awoke early this morning, and still in my jammies snuck downstairs, not to see a Christmas tree and a pile of presents, but to see my Dad, sitting in his easy chair, a cup of coffee on his side table.

"Good morning," he greeted me.

It was the best Christmas present I could have ever received.

The heart of the matter, and other reasons

2008-12-18T06:53:00.003-06:00

It's been awhile since I've added anything here, in this little spot of the Internet I call "ME" space. Not that there hasn't been anything to write about, I guess I just haven't felt the itch to do so.

So, without further ado, here is somewhat of a update, for those who wondered if I fell off the face of the earth, or if my laptop finally gave up the ghost:

My father had open-heart surgery Tuesday to replace his aortic valve. It was discovered at that time he would also need a bypass. He is doing as well as one can expect after having one's sternum cleaved open then wired back together. The surgery was very successful, and I will be returning to see him this weekend and hopefully bring him home. He's in one of the premier cardiac hospitals in the state about a two hours drive away, but as I sit here at my home, I feel like I'm thousands of miles away. I know that right now he is in very capable hands, but I still feel torn.

The ICU holding room is a very surreal place. It sits inside its own space/time continuum...like Vegas, but without the flashing lights and garish carpeting. Families huddle around in their small areas of real estate as if they are trying to collect warmth from an invisible campfire. They wait for surgical updates, biding their time until they can spend their allotted 15-20 minutes with recovering loved ones. Or loved ones who are trying to recover, or those who will never recover.

My father, in his situation, makes me realize, despite all the pain he is in, how fortunate our little family clan is.

We, being my husband, my sister and myself, spent some time with an elderly woman whose husband of sixty-two years was recovering slowly from a heart attack. She has been living in the ICU waiting room for almost a month. She had her suitcase and carry-all full of bottled water along side the chair she would sleep in at night. Quietly she would work on crossword puzzles, occasionally checking her watch to see if enough time had passed until she could spend another twenty minutes with her husband. That is how time passes in ICU, in two hour blocks and twenty minute increments.

When my husband asked her if she was staying at a hotel nearby, she shook her head and replied,"I've been with him for over sixty years, I'm not leaving him now."

Whenever I want to picture "strength" from now on, I will forever see this woman in my mind.

Other reasons...

About a month ago, I started taking a anti-depressant which is doing great for the black moods, but it has really done a number on my creative processes. I feel as if someone shoved cotton in the wanting-to-write center of my brain. Or, it could be as simple as the fact that I have removed "Sarah Palin" from my Google news alerts. My sister, who has some novels bouncing around in her head, waiting to be set free tells me that the lack of impetus to write lessens with time, so I will try and be patient. So, hopefully soon, I will emerge again and prolifically blog once more.

Lucky you, you dear readers.

What R/C Pilots do when it is too damn cold.

2008-12-07T12:36:00.007-06:00

Here is a video from one of the local newspaper's on-line editions which features my husband and my youngest daughter who have found a Winter outlet for radio-control flying. My husband is the one with the Nascar (natch) sweatshirt, and my daughter is along-side with her Godiva hair and emo glasses.

My husband and daughter usually fly planes that weigh in the pounds during the warm months. The planes they fly indoors usually measure in ounces. They are powered by small motors, tiny servos, and battery packs the size of half a stick of gum, if that.

It's a fun time. If there is the inevitable mid-air, the planes usually end up fluttering to the ground like stunned birds. No harm done. Dear Husband says even I could fly one, but I could never wrap my head around that "right-is-left-and-down-is-up" when the plane is flying towards you.

Black Friday Death

2008-11-28T11:53:00.003-06:00

According to the breaking news this morning, a Walmart worker was trampled to death after opening the doors at 5am to the sales-maddened throng waiting outside. Other sources are reporting that a woman also miscarried after being knocked to the ground.

Other shoppers were upset when the police closed the store afterwards.

Does the thought of saving $200 on a flat-screen television equal losing any sense of humanity? Does common sense get tossed out the window, so much so that nobody even conceives the danger that is mob mentality?

I can't blame the slumping economy for this. Black Friday Blitzes have always been marked down as a "must do" date on many calendars, along with weddings and birthdays and the Fourth of July. The huge variety of electronics and other gadgets, items that supposedly are to make our lives easier, or objects to distract us from life in general are usually the main items that cause many to storm the castle of consumerism. Really, how exciting does a Black Friday Sale on Fruit of the Looms sound?

I feel that the stores that perpetuate this atmosphere of MUST HAVE NOW!!! are culpable. The masses are spoon-fed weeks before with "leaks" of one-day sales. The "first-to-have" title when new games or cell phones are released also play into the Sheeple mentality.

"I got the new iPhone!"
"Well, I stood in line for ten hours so I could be the first one to buy it."
"You're the man, dude!"

"I knocked down three shoppers to be one of the first people in Walmart!"
"You're the man, dude!"

Really, are these stories we want to be regaling to our grandchildren someday? "I survived the Black Friday Blitz of '08!" As it is, some Walmarts hand out pins emblazoned with past Black Friday survival stories to their employees as a badge of honor.

Shopping as "Survival of the Fittest". I'm waiting for the new reality show, coming soon to a network near you. But, it's worse. It's "Shopping as Bloodsport".

Christmas in July, please! (In honor of Black Friday)

2008-11-27T19:20:00.004-06:00

You know, I so hate this time of the year. Winter, us humans naturally go into a hibernation state. Something we never totally brushed off after eons of evolution. Snow falls, temps fall, sun sits lower in the sky, even at noon, no longer at it's lofty zenith of the height of summer.

Time…slows…down.

Then, just to screw around with human's natural want/need/desire to hunker down and stay warm under a pile of pelts made of cotton and flannel and wool, hopefully with a warm mug of toddy cradled in our hands…Marketing Demons declare it's SHOPPING SEASON!!! Drag yourselves out the warmth of home and hearth (even those without a fireplace) and slog around in the frozen muck and frigid wind to do the "Holiday Thing". Denizens of mallcrawllers, no longer crawling, but rushing, tripping, fretting…any antonym of "leisure" would work here just fine…a glazed, dazed look, something like a lemming might look like as it follows it's fellow lemmings off a sheer cliff. This is why it's been said Christmas should be in July.

Hell, then I would probably be bitching about the human's natural instinct to seek shade and cool shelter in the heat of the day instead of running around like crazed lemmings…

Thankful

2008-11-26T07:42:00.004-06:00

For those who celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving. May your festivities be as stress-free as possible. This year there will be no cooking by anyone in my family as we decided on something different as the only thing being made by me this year are reservations. Small house + two dogs + person who hates to cook (me)≠ a happy, carefree celebration.

Whereas, my husband loves to cook for Thanksgiving. Well, if by that you mean drop a turkey in a vat of hot oil for an hour cooking, then, yes, he loves to cook. No, I should give him a break. Fried turkey is as Alton Brown says, "Mighty good eats", especially if you don't burn down your deck in the process. No, he has never set anything ablaze because I discovered the secret...turn OFF the gas, slowly drop bird in oil, after and only after the bubbling-popping-spattering of oil is done, turn the gas back on.

Well, it works for us, but I'm not promising anything for anyone else. And besides, I'm digressing. Sometimes I swear I'm channeling Andy Rooney, and he's still alive, last time I checked.

Anyway, I am looking forward to a nice dinner out with my husband, both my daughters and my dad, always thankful that they, and all the rest of my family and friends who aren't sharing our table, are in my life.

Thank you.

There must be an analogy here, somewhere.

2008-11-21T06:26:00.005-06:00

Sarah Palin, in probably one of her more pressing duties of the day, visited a turkey farm to "pardon" one lucky bird, then went on to brainlessly babble on in yet another interview. Honestly, I didn't really hear a regurgitated word she said. Once again, I was transfixed by the ongoing train wreck that is Sarah Palin.

People, you cannot make this stuff up.

Come the the Dark Side...We have Catnip!

2008-11-19T14:51:00.010-06:00

Growing up, I was strictly a cat person. There's a picture of me somewhere, five years old, sitting on the floor, bathed in sunlight, cradling a kitten. A look of utter bliss graces my face. This was my first foray into the world of Cat People. Then, there was the stray cat I spent an entire summer, trying to entice the poor creature out of our dilapidated garage and closer to the back porch, just so I can tame it and give it a better home. She, and her eventual kitten lived with our family for almost twenty years.

When I started out in my adult life with my husband, we eventually adopted cats with various unfortunate, short-lived results until finally I was given two white kittens who became a part of our growing family's lives for many years until old age took them. During that time, my husband added a dog to the mix, since he was decidedly a Dog Person. To my surprise I became extremely attached to this slobbery mess; so much so, we got another dog. After Bud passed away and left our corgi without doggy companionship, we added another corgi, because like potato chips, you just can't have one, or so I am told.

So, to say the least, I had become a card-carrying Dog Person. No more cats. Not that I stopped liking cats, I just didn't want to be owned by one. Until today.

I'm used to my husband bringing home some strange things from the factory where he works. I never thought he'd bring home this:

He had bonded with this cat when he discovered her litter of kittens. The kittens stayed feral unfortunately and were eventually rounded up in a factory-wide wild animal trapping campaign. Knowing the local situation of over-run animal shelters that no longer take in stray cats and the new "kill stray" law in our county, my husband spared this cat from euthanasia. Sadly, her kittens will not be able to avoid that fate.

My daughter, in some strange Viking stage, has named her "Valhalla". Val hasn't met the corgis yet. That will be a slow acclimation, for sure. I hope all goes well, because it took me all of three seconds of holding this fluffy, purring fae-like creature to remind me that I am still a Cat Person after all.

Postscript: Anyone who makes any comments along the lines of "It has no body!!!" will be slapped about the head with a wet trout.

Post-postscript: Courtesy of my smart-ass sister...

It's a ME post.

2008-11-15T09:40:00.006-06:00

I usually don't make posts strictly about ME, but I haven't posted in awhile, so, deal.

I have deduced that I must Vulcan. Or some other kind of life form. I do not have iron based blood, or at least my body doesn't like being an iron-based life form. My body obviously hates iron, as was determined at my iv infusion yesterday. Being anemic all my life, and having doctors for years drolly tell me, "You have low iron" with all the importance of "You have a hang nail", I never took anemia seriously. I just figured I would live life in a mostly dopey, energy-bereft quasi-life. Until one day I went to a new doctor who put me on prescription strength ferrous sulfate, which my gastro-intestinal track would rebel at every time I would give the prescription a chance. After a few months I would just give up, giving up energy to spare myself a shut down colon.

So at my last yearly round of blood work, it was suggested since my HBG was in the single digits, that I would have an infusion of Venefor, basically a solution of iron sucrose dripped into a vein over the course of h-o-u-r-s. I arrived at the infusion center, thankful I wasn't there for chemo treatments like most the inhabitants there. Knowing that Venefor can cause allergic reactions in some patients,the technician started the test run drip of a diluted solution, and within two minutes I was reacting adversely. Hot flashes, shakes, numb extremities. It felt like my brain was trying to leave my body. Shortness of breath was beginning. I shakily told the technician, "I feel really weird, get this out of my arm NOW!!!" She couldn't turn the machine off fast enough.

I had a whopping 10 ml infused. Not a lot.

So, I ended up calling my husband at work to come to drive me home, because after sitting for a hour spent, I was still experiencing waves of panic, which only got worse as the day progressed after I came home. Last night I was ready to tell my husband to take my to the ER, but then around 9 pm, I finally was able to take my nighttime dose of xanax and within 10 minutes I was able to talk without getting short of breath. I took one more benedryl to help control the histamine reactions I was still having (which are hard to separate from panic attacks) and slept the sleep of the drugged.

This morning, I am much better, but I am not pushing myself.

I called my doctor yesterday, Dr. Dry-As-Toast-Left-Out-On-The-Counter-Overnight-Then-Put-In-A-Dehydrator, and told him I will be more than willing take oral ferrous and mirilax for the rest of my life and live with the occasional nausea. After all, it could be worse, as I remembered the chemo patients I saw in the room with me, dealing with far more than I could ever imagine. He said that he will never let me have iv infusions again and wrote me another script of intestinal-biding ferrous sulfate.

Funny thing: I had read enough about this procedure to know what the negative results could be, and asked the technician about the chances of having an allergic reaction, anaphylaxis being the most serious. She assured me said she had never had a patient have a negative reaction.

"Well, I hope I am not your first". Jinx.

One percent of patients who have infusions do have bad reactions such as mine. Maybe I should go out and buy a lottery ticket.

More than I could ever say.

2008-11-11T00:38:00.005-06:00

This was Keith Olbermann's "Special Comment" last night on MSNBC "Countdown" program. If you have six minutes, watch. Please.

I hope MSNBC doesn't have this video pulled from the many video hosting sites in usual proprietary fashion. This needs to be heard. This needs to go viral.

The fruits of opinion

2008-11-10T09:35:00.007-06:00

I have been trying to wrap my head around the Proposition 8 issue these past few days. And all I can come up with is this question...

"Give me a good reason why".

I have already determined that if the hypothetical gay couple down the hypothetical street gets married, it doesn't lessen for me what it means to be married. I think when Brittney and Kevin were married, or when Brittney married her high school friend in Vegas in an union lasted a whole twenty-eight hours, that was far more of a slap in the face of that institution called marriage.

But, of course we can't keep stupid people from getting married on a whim, but we can prevent committed, loving, caring people to wed, based on the sole reason that their genders match?

And the reason for that would be...?

I read somewhere somebody's opinion on this issue was that "same-sex couples do not have the right to redefine marriage for the rest of us"

And now they have the Law to back them up on that...just like back in the Sixties when interracial marriage was denied. When it was perfectly normal to send a different racial group to the back of the bus, or to different schools, or to separate drinking fountains.

In 1967 when the US Supreme court said that Midred Jeter and Richard Loving, an interracial couple could marry, did that act really redifine marriage? Marriage was still marriage, that didn't change. What did change was that it redefined what it meant to be a citizen in this country.

This isn't an issue about the right to marry. This is an issue about who is and who is not considered an American citizen. Peel it apart, see it for what this really is.

To all my cat loving friends who voted for Obama

2008-11-08T11:28:00.002-06:00

God probably hates Bloggers, too

2008-11-07T06:27:00.005-06:00

I have always felt that with freedom of speech comes responsibility. I hear people say, "I have a Constitutional right to say_____________", but then are shocked and angered when the replies come pouring in.

You have a right to say whatever. I have the right to voice my opinion. That also is freedom of speech.

What if the message is so inflammatory, so vile, so devastating, so demoralizing that is shocks the majority of the population? What if the message isn't really a message, but abuse, one that causes undue mental pain and suffering?

Shirley Phelps-Roper, ringleader of the Westboro Baptist Church, is often seen with family members (the church is compiled mostly by relatives of the patriarch, Fred Phelps), some as young as seven, holding signs stating "God Hates________". Fill in the blank, as the church has a stockpile of signage decrying that God hates everyone from gays, most celebrities, to more or less, the World...everything and everyone with the exception of the Westboro Baptist Church.

And those are the milder signs. Other signs spouts words and depicts images that couldn't be shown on prime time television. How these signs sneak pass public obscenity laws is beyond me.

To reach the largest audience possible, they picket funerals and now recently high schools that dare show "The Laramie Project", a play depicting the story of Matthew Sheppard, who was beaten to death for being gay.

I don't know God personally, but I highly doubt He appreciates being used as a personal pitbull.

According to a documentary from the UK, entitled "The Most Hated Family in America",when a a young boy who was participating in a hate protest was asked if he knew what the sign he was carrying meant, he answered that he didn't know.

Why is a seven year old boy being forced to represent a idea he doesn't even understand? This boy is being taught how to hate. He is being taught how to be a bigot. That is child abuse, in my opinion.

Speech is a tool. Like any tool, in the hands of young children, that tool can hurt or maim. Any responsible adult would explain to a child that a knife was sharp and one needed to exercise caution when using it.

Phelps-Roper, more or less, is handing this child a knife and telling him to "have at it", not warning him of the inherent danger that lies within. Not only is he hurting others, he is hurting himself.

A seven year old child being taught that the supreme being of his Universe is one of hate. If a "religion" wasn't involved here, we'd be calling it "brainwashing".

Spew hate in the name of your god if you must, but please keep your children out of it.

Email Woes

2008-11-06T13:34:00.005-06:00

Having changed over to DSL and acquiring a new email address a little over a year ago, my inbox has been blissfully bereft of spam.

Well, I have finally been discovered on the grid, just in time for Phishing season.

I was urgently notified by Wells Fargo that I must check my account. Urgently. Well, I don't even have a Wells Fargo account. I urgently turned the email over to Wells Fargo fraud division.

I have won the UK Lotto three times in the last month. Yay, me. I didn't even know I bought tickets. I am so full of win.

Nigerians are desperately seeking my help in transferring ginormous amounts of money that used to belong to some poor shelp who was killed in some tragic tiger incident six years ago, and now his money is collecting dust in some bank. What ever should we do with it? We know! Ask some American if they'd like it.

My Stimulus check is in the mail, and I can arrange for the IRS to direct deposit the funds in my bank account. No, sorry, keep the money. I wouldn't want to appear as a Socialist by accepting. You know, "spreading the wealth" and all. Besides, "Stimulus Checks" was soooooo last May.

My favorite, the one that I received today wasn't really phishing spam, since it was from Publisher's Clearing House, and I do sometimes dabble in their sweepstakes. It urged me to be prepared in case the "Prize Patrol" were to show up on my doorstep.

"Are you a crier, a screamer, or a silent gasper?, it asked. Wow, that sounds like a really lame pick up line.

"Just like those winners who are surprised on TV, you could find out". Um, I'll be the overweight, middle-aged, caftan-wearing hausfrau who's in desperate need of a haircut, trying to keep my corgis from bumrushing your van and attacking your celebratory balloons. The sounds I'd be making wouldn't pass the FCC sensors, so in answer to the question, I guess I'm a "beeper".

But, if it wasn't for Spam, I wouldn't have any email at all.

Crocodile tears of joy?

2008-11-05T20:14:00.004-06:00

Hey, Jesse, still wanna cut off Obama's nuts?

It wasn't the perfect ending.

2008-11-05T17:23:00.004-06:00

I was disheartened to read that "Prop 8" was passed in California.

I will never understand opinions such as, "Allowing gay marriage will undermine what it means to be married". Or, this even worse, ill-conceived brain fart, "What's next? Letting men and dogs marry? Legalizing Pedophilia?"

I loathe adding that last part, but there are people who propagate that swill. As a serious argument, is this the best the dissenting side can come up with?

My marriage is relatively strong, as marriages go. The only people who can undermine that is my husband and I.

People talk about this as an moral issue. Where's the morality in not allowing a person to be told of their partner's medical status while he or she is laying in the hospital because he or she is not "family"? Where is the morality in telling a person that their partner cannot be covered under their partner's health insurance, because they are not considered a "spouse"?

Where is the morality in telling a couple that their commitment, their love, their union is less than what the "status quo" dictates?

Gays did not make a choice to be gay. The choice they want to make is to be recognized as married in every sense of the word.

Why can't it just be that simple?

Footnotes

2008-11-05T06:44:00.004-06:00

At 10 pm last night, with the vote counts coming in from the west coast, MSNBC announced Barack Obama the projected winner of this long campaign. Soon after, I listened to McCain's concession speech, thinking it was moving, it was focused, it was concise...all the qualities that his speeches had lost in the final leg of his campaign.

It was also gracious. As I just commented on a friend's blog this morning, if only those who voted for him could be just as gracious, I thought as I heard boos echoing from his audience at the mention of Obama.

Being a stay at home mom and hermit, I am usually not subjected to "in your face" opinions of others. My husband and daughter hear the voices of ill-content at their workplaces, and what they tell me just makes me shake me head in amazement and a sense of sadness. Too bad they can't hit the delete button like I can with mass emails spouting the same.

Last night was an emotional night. I tried to take it in stoic stride, but it was difficult. It's an exciting time, a watershed moment. I keep on hearing people comparing this time to that of when John Kennedy ran for President. I don't like making comparisons like that. People should be allowed to stand in their own shadow, not somebody elses', though I wonder if this is how my parents felt back in November, 1960.

Obama, now is the time to deliver. America, now is the time to give him time, the chance and realize that change doesn't happen overnight.

Thoughts on Election Night

2008-11-04T21:10:00.005-06:00

The way the numbers are tumbling in, I guess I could turn off the telly, crawl into bed, and sleep the sleep of the deliriously happy...then I remember those eight years ago when I crawled into bed, sleeping with the though of a Democratic win, only to wake up with Chad.

Who the hell was Chad, and why was he hanging? Anyway, we all know the rest.

I think I will stay up and watch until it's a done deal. Besides, I doubt I will ever see another election night like this again in my lifetime, and I'd like to take this all in and have something to tell my grandchildren. You know, y-e-a-r-s down the line. You hear that, Robyn? Y-E-A-R-S!

Looking ahead, who will the Republicans have waiting in the wings for the 2012 run? They must have someone else besides Sarah Palin that could possibly light a fire under their collective you knows.

FOOTNOTE: CNN just called it! I can go to bed now, but I'm too excited to sleep!

Baited Breath

2008-11-04T06:27:00.003-06:00

First, if you haven't done so yet, VOTE. I know as much as it is one's right to vote, it is also one's right not to, but it you choose not to, you essentially give up your rights to complain if the elections do not go your way...or cheer if they do, in my opinion.

I voted last week on the last day of early voting, and I will honestly say that it was the first time in my many years of casting my vote that I didn't feel I was stepping on a butterfly. Nor did it feel I was voting for the "lessors of two evils".

Today though I, along with the rest, will wait. Somewhat nervously, since I don't feel that this is going to be a "landslide" victory. Time will tell.

Life at the speed of Walmart

2008-11-02T12:45:00.007-06:00

I had always thought that as I grew older, the passage of time flew faster. Trying to pin down dates and times before they fluttered away was like trying to capture a budgie that had escaped it's cage. Just as my hand was poised to gently grasp the still bird, it would burst into flight and exit through an open window.

Time, like the fugitive bird, is having its way with me.

The one accomplice in the fleeting of time I have discovered is the stocking schedule in retail, something I begin to notice right around the middle of July.

School is barely out for the Summer, and the stores are already stocked with back-to-school supplies.

I receive my daughter's first mid-term report in the mail near the beginning of September and the stores are decked out in Halloween costumes, isles stocked with the nauseating smell of sugar in various shapes and sizes. In another section of the store, shelves are sparkling with holiday tinsel and shiny glass ornaments, which is difficult to contemplate while still wearing warm-weather clothing.

Ah, poor Thanksgiving...it gets lost in the shuffle, tucked away somewhere between baked goods and Nesco roasters, then disappearing almost as quickly as it takes the average family gathering to wolf down a turkey with all the trimmings.

Finishing up my last-minute hustle for holiday gifts, sales of rolling filing cabinets, manila envelopes and office supplies hearken the approach of Tax Season, as if it were too, a holiday. Along for the ride are marshmallow Peeps and plastic Easter baskets, a sweet distraction from the looming date with the Internal Revenue Service. In the sale isles are last years New Year's Eve plastic champagne flutes and paper whistles. Now, how could I have possibly missed New Year's?

And then it starts all over again. School supplies return to the store like the return of an errant parakeet to his empty cage.

Walmart, quit rushing me through life. It rushes by way too quickly all by itself.

Academic bias?

2008-11-01T10:44:00.008-05:00

About a month ago, I wrote a post about how I didn't want my president to be "like me".This was in response to Sarah Palin ramming her idea down America's throats that she was "just like us". Just like the "Hockey Moms" and the "Joe Six-Packs", and whatever other labels she threw out like so much bread crumbs at a city park. I felt that the last person that should run for public office should be anything like me, or like the millions of average people in this country. I wanted someone extraordinary, which would imply someone who had a hell of a lot more education and experience than me, and I would like to think I was not alone in that opinion.

But, so many people want for President someone they can identify with, someone they could see themselves sitting across the table with, eating a piece of pie, or having a cuppa joe. They see a man clearing brush on his movie set ranch in Texas and fall head over heels in admiration...they see a man in a mortarboard and gown adorned with gold braids and they back away in a desperate need to avoid a lecture.

We've all probably have raked the leaves, but we all haven't walked through a college campus. It's a common denominator issue at play. Easily understandable, but at times, that thought process should be put on hold.

Here's an interview with Monty Python alumni, John Cleese, making some valid points on Americas' seemingly biased attitude towards academia. He touches on it around the one-minute mark.

If I need a doctor, a lawyer, or someone to advise me in financial affairs, I would want to seek out who I felt was the most qualified in their field, not someone I considered a friend. Do you ever hear, "I'm going to have an appendectomy by Dr. So-in-So because I had a beer with him the other night and we shot a few rounds of darts and I really had a good time"? No, hopefully most people would research and seek out a doctor who is deft with a scalpel...may not have the best bed side manner, but has a excellent success rate.

So, I say again, I don't want my President to be "like me". Think about it...how scary would that be? It's frightening enough that based on his fifteen minutes of fame, Joe the Plumber (who may or may not have a six-pack) is considering a run for Congress, and that the McCain/Palin ticket is using his pearls of "wisdom" as talking points in their floundering attempt at a campaign. And now, at a campaign stop Friday, McCain introduced Joe as his "mentor".

And I thought Halloween was over with.

Frickin' Freet

2008-10-31T08:00:00.003-05:00

It's Hallowe'en. Have a good one, I guess.

Can you tell I am not a big fan of Hallowe'en? We teach our kids not to take candy from strangers 364 days a year, then tell them it's okay to do so on one day, just because it's "Hallowe'en".

Which, by the way, was shortened from "All Hallow's Eve", hence the apostrophe between the ees, where people dressed real scary-like to chase away the evil demons before November 1st...All Saint's Day, a holy day in many church calendars. Like the Saints couldn't do that demon-chasing themselves? Shows you how badly planned out this holiday is.

I'm just so glad I no longer have little ones to drag through the streets (daddy's idea, not mine). No, wait, my sixteen year old just announced to me last night she is dressing up as a pirate and traversing the neighborhood with her bf and bbfs. Ask her, I get confused with all the acronyms these days. It's bad enough that I know one of those acronyms stands for Boy Friend...but, I digress...at least I don't have to accompany her, as I am sure it would totally cramp her style. Totally.

But, I will still run out to the store at the last minute and buy bags of candy (once again, not my idea) and hand it out to the rugrats who come to my door, with me basking in the knowledge that I won't be the one dealing with their sugar rushes come bedtime. Maybe I'll even get into the spirit of things by dressing up as an acerbic, cynical menopausal bitch. Oh, wait...nevermind.

And, in conclusion, what the hell is "candy corn"? It doesn't taste like corn. It really doesn't taste like anything. Besides, I thought corn was more a symbol of Thanksgiving, not one of zombies and mummies. "Oooh, here, have some scary corn, you scary kid. Now, get off my scary lawn!"

Early voting

2008-10-30T16:28:00.008-05:00

I wasn't going to take advantage of early voting, but dh came home from work this afternoon and declared, "Let's go"... so off to the government complex we went to cast our votes. This the first year my state has implemented early voting.

There was a line. In all my years of voting, I have never stood in a line to vote. I see this as a good sign, regardless of who the people were voting for. It's good to see a lack of apathy concerning one of them most important decision one should make every four years.

After a stomach-dropping announcement of "We don't have you in the database", I asked her to spell back my last name. My inept lip has problems with "B" and "P", so she heard the latter instead of the former when I initially spelled out my name. After that, the process went smoothly.

Now, I just hope I don't forget that I remembered to vote. I can see myself waking up in the wee hours of the 5th in a panic.

If your state has early voting and you mind has been made, take advantage.

Commercial time in the end stretch

2008-10-30T07:29:00.005-05:00

Last night I watched Obama's "infomercial", as it has been called. I thought it was well done. It hit the right notes, it tugged at the right strings. It showed a man in control, who talked in dulcet tones, elegantly and precisely. Even though it was a well crafted piece of theatre, Obama delivered his lines with belief and conviction and a true caring...something W. could never do, for the smirk in his voice would give him away.

I'm sure though, all it did was "preach to the choir". Maybe a few who are supporting the opposing side tuned in to watch, in some bizarrely curious way, kind of in the way I will occasionally sit and watch Bill O'Reilly, screaming at his bloated, talking head.

Hopefully it swayed the fence-sitters, help shift their view, make it harder for them to perch on the pickets. I just hope the sway is in Obama's direction.

This morning, I turn on the morning news to McCain talking about Obama and his "broken promises". Promises of sitting down together and discussing public financing. A chat across the table that never materialized, for whatever reason.

"Talk me down!", as Rachel Maddow pleads in one of her segments of her nightly show on MSNBC. Please explain to how Barack Obama's commercial (and the millions that it cost to produce) isn't going to be his demise in the end.

It's a valid question. Was a promise broken? And if so, why? Or is this just McCain crying "sour grapes" because his campaign didn't light fires like Obama's? I admit, I am not very savvy when it comes to politics, and even less when it comes to the financial side of politics.

In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the wisest choice for Obama to run a thirty minute spot on most of the major networks. Actually, if one wanted to see the mettle of the man, all one had to do was go back to his 2004 keynote speech at the Democratic National Convention, a young man not running for President, but just at the very beginnings of his Senatorial career. Four years later, his message is the same. It shows his message from last night is not merely the rhetoric of presidential aspirations, it is a true message of hope.

Mocked effigy

2008-10-29T06:39:00.004-05:00

In West Hollywood, a man has decked out his home for this "holiday", and for whatever reason cannot understand the hoopla that is surrounding said display.

John McCain poping out of his chimney as Satan. Sarah Palin hanging from a noose.

McCain aside, the effigy of Palin is the one that is creating the most outcry. And I couldn't agree more. We all know that if it were Obama in place of Palin, it would be considered a hate crime because of the color of Obama's skin.

The Feds eventually gave Chad Morrisette, the creator of the macabre tableau a visit yesterday and determined that no violent intentions were afoot. Morrisette declared that, "If it's a political statement, it's that (McCain's and Palin's) politics are scary to us."

Okay, make Palin a witch, then...don't hang her from a tree. Mock lynchings are not cool. I don't care who is at the receiving end.

Mad Libs for Bloggers

2008-10-23T23:15:00.002-05:00

Geez I just got hit on the head and recalled that I have not updated this since you last visited... You would not believe I spend all my time in front of a computer. Seriously!.

I am absorbed with setting fire to people wearing Crocs, selling my soul to Google, just generally being of great concern to society in general, my day drifts aimlessly from sun up to whenever. I am not being a whinging Pom or anything. as well you should know.

I declare solemnly I will try to remember my blog password more often in future. No, really! What do you mean you don't believe me?

Have a go at it...

Medicated troops

2008-10-23T19:37:00.005-05:00

According to a news story on tonight's "ABC News with Charlie Gibson", reporting on the issue of re-deployed soldiers:

Twelve percent of soldiers in Iraq and 17 percent of those in Afghanistan reported taking antidepressants, anxiety medications or sleep medications in the Army's most recent mental health survey.

A few years ago when my eldest daughter decided she was bound and determined to join the Army, despite the fact that at the time she was not only was taking medication for ADHD, but also a beta blocker to control a potentially serious heart condition. I was told, not by her recruiter, but by someone higher up in the chain of command who I had sought out for an opinion not based on quotas, that as long as she was taking a needed daily medication, she could not join the Army. It was added if in the future that she found herself not needing to take medication, she was more than welcome to enlist, which today, if my daughter wished could, since she is thankfully no longer in need of medication.

It goes without saying that someone with a heart condition would most likely not be physically fit to join the military. But what is the military's stand on medications for ADHD, such as Ritalin, the medication my daughter was taking at the time?

According to a military statement, "Because Ritalin is a controlled drug with considerable abuse potential it cannot be to be taken by recruits in basic or advanced training".

Anti-anxiety medications have a very high instance of dependency and abuse. Xanax is probably one of the most abused of psychriatic drugs, as are most drugs in the Benzodiazepine family. Knowing form personal experience, they are usually fast-acting in dealing with anxiety, but have a short shelf life in the body. As soon as the drug has left the system, the panic and anxiety comes crashing in, thus a dependency is developed. A dependency that most likely would keep one from being accepted into the military in the first place, according to the Department of Defense.

So, is drug dependency, or the possibility thereof a disqualifier, or not?

Sarah goes shopping!

2008-10-21T22:16:00.002-05:00

The RNC must not have taken well to Sarah Palin and family's cold-weather duds, so, they decked them out in new threads form Neiman Marcus and Saks 5th Avenue at the tune of $125,000, this according to Politico.com.

The down-to-earth hockey mom didn't insist on shopping at Kohl's? Wal-Mart? After all, she's just like us every-day Americans.

That's okay, may the new wardrobe be a nice parting gift November 6th.

Confident Blogging

2008-10-21T12:48:00.003-05:00

I was reading an article on the subject of confident speaking, and I came across this tip:

"Only say something when you have something to say"

I feel this is pertinent to my blogging.

There have been many times when I'll start typing away on some inane subject when the thought shadows my mind, "Where the Hell are you trying to go with this?" It is then when I realize that I am blogging for the sake of making a post. Or, sometimes (like this morning when I actually went back and deleted this morning's post) I'll find myself posting about some timely subject, just because I feel I have to put in my .02 cents.

Even at this moment, I find my fingers wanting to hit the correct combination of keys that will delete this post.

Maybe blogging isn't for me and I should go back to "Dear Diary".

Maybe I'm a frustrated writer who can't devise a story or create characters out of thin air (such is my brain), so I have turned to foisting my opinions on the browsing mass (not enough people read here to be considered 'masses') who accidentally find themselves here through a keyword search.

Maybe I'll just keep on blogging, inane as it is. Confidently inane, to be more precise.

The New Pharaohs

2008-10-17T07:52:00.010-05:00

"We need slaves," my friend says. "We need slaves to build monuments. Look who built the pyramids - they were slaves."

--From the online issue of The Guardian, Oct. 18, 2008

Sadly, this is not an unique condition, where the richest of men stay rich upon the backs of the poorest, building monuments to their vanity. When I first saw pictures of the Burl-Al-Arab Hotel in Dubai, looking like it had just majestically sailed into port with it's unfurled sail design, I was amazed. The man-made islands, the spiraling skyscrapers...beautiful architecture that should be heralding the expansive imagination and the amazing innovations of building techniques of the new millennium, instead have become shrines to Avarice and Hubris.

Architecture speaks of a people. It makes a statement of who we are, how we want to be remembered. When the message is tainted by inhumanity, it becomes propaganda. It becomes a lie.

It becomes a façade.

From Disney to Hollywood

2008-10-16T15:35:00.007-05:00

First, it had been pointed out in different blogs and mentioned by pundits that the meteoric (or is that mediocre? The words sound alike, I tend to get them mixed up) rise of Sarah Palin was something that could have come from a Disney screenplay. Hockey-mom becomes one "Oh, Shit" away from the big chair in the Oval Office.

Now we have a story that reeks of Hollywood..."Joe the Plumber".

Oh, sorry, Hollywood already did that. How one man gets thrust into the center of a Presidential election. The movie was "Swing Vote", starring Kevin Costner.

Gawd, I can't wait until after November...

The Home Stretch

2008-10-16T06:51:00.010-05:00

In past postings where there was a political theme. I spent most of the time bashing Sarah Palin (because she is such an easy target) and John McCain, than highlighting what I thought were positive aspects of Barack Obama, and why I feel he should be the next President of the United States.

I guess it's more entertaining to rail against than it is to rally for, definitely a trap I fell in. Is it to easier to drive the point home in a negative, rusty old land shark that's spewing foul exhaust, clunking through an alley than in a shiny, perky electric scooter-car, humming quietly down a tree-lined avenue?

That might have been an unintentional analogy, but anyway...

In political circles, I am sure that there is nary a one who has tread the political waters who hasn't sat in a room, or dealt with a group who at one time or another had less than shining reputations. That being the case, every politician probably is or was guilty of something at one time or another, if one wants to take the 'guilt by association' route. So, last night when McCain, without segue, threw out the Bill Ayers gauntlet, Obama took the gauntlet, examined it, and explained it for what it was. It was a simple glove. He then set it aside and went back to the issues.

But, such is life in political debates. Mob mentality dictates a Jerry Springer atmosphere, if the past rallies are any indication. They want to see the folding ladders and chairs thrown into the wrestling ring, because they know that is when the fight is really going to get bloody.

Last night, Barack Obama looked at the ladders and folding chairs and pointed out that they were made of light-weight aluminum. He cold have easily picked up the folding chair and hauled off with "The Keating Five", but he didn't. Instead he calmly, rationally spoke about what America is really interested in hearing...what are the problems, and how he believes his path is the one to take in fixing them.

Last weekend at the Goose

2008-10-14T07:52:00.015-05:00

Columbus Day weekend here in the States gave the family a four day weekend, so we drove the old camper to Wisconsin to help my dad close up camp for the Winter and to enjoy the Goose's last weekend for the year.

Our camper is down there, somewhere.

When Nature provides hills, one takes advantage.

The weather was more like Summer than Fall. Days in the mid 80's, cool nights that allowed us to have the windows open...no need to fire up the furnace. The trees were just coming into color in the valleys, but the higher elevations were bright with orange and yellow. With the exception of hordes of lady bugs, it was a picture-perfect weekend.

One of the many cart-ridden paths. Oh, I guess one could walk on it, but why? Oh, exercise...

Speaking of ladybugs, I remember ladybugs as cute-as-a-button things that didn't deserve the title of "insect". I wouldn't flinch if one landed on my arm...in fact, I would watch it crawl around for awhile, like it was was some minuscule cat. Now, they bite and let off an offensive smell, like damp, rotten leaves (well, that is what they eat all the time, what else would they smell like?) And don't even get me started if I discover them en masse, tucked away in a crook of a tree or a corner of a shed. **shiver**

Before we pulled up stakes and headed back to Illinois, we took the golf cart (preferred mode of transportation in the campground) for one last drive around the park. The semi-permanent residents who were still there were rolling up their canopies, stacking various items in garden sheds, making sure windows were locked and blinds closed. Making last-minute checks to make sure everything would be secure for the Winter. As we drove past one older couple that we had befriended, we waved and wished them a good (and short) Winter, and that we hoped to see them next year.

"We hope to see you, too", was the reply, tinged with bittersweet.

It made me think that 'next year' for many of the campers is most likely not an assumed given, either due to age, or health. Then I realized that for any of us, the 'next', whether it be year, month, day or second, should never be assumed.

That's what makes places like the Goose, the people who call it a part-time home, and time spent there precious. But then, such is life. Even as I sit here, at home, mundanely typing away at an entry for my blog.

A reflective Moon on the Rock River

Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...today is his birthday!

2008-10-09T12:00:00.001-05:00

This is my dad. I've been told I look a lot like him. The last person who pointed this fact out to me, I replied, "Thank you!" I'm sure if I was male, I too would be considered handsome, although being female, I really don't know where that puts me in the looks department. Doesn't really matter, as long as I have his blue eyes.

We also share an odd sense of humor and a quiet demeanor. We both share not wanting to be the center of attention, which in my case is strange, considering I write a blog...a somewhat egocentric thing in life to do, I believe.

The name of my blog comes from my dad. He may not be the originator of the line, but I remember him stating it many times in my life, and I found it very profound. Maybe that is an ability my dad has...that he could take a simple phrase and deliver it in a way that makes it rival Confucius. Either that, or he's the consummate bull-shitter.

Actually, if he wasn't so confounded by the art of writing, he'd make a good blogger.

Happy Birthday, Dad. You've given me more than I could ever repay.

This sums up my teen-aged life

2008-10-09T10:13:00.001-05:00

My daughter pointed this video out to me the other day. She said it "made her feel old".

She's nineteen. What the *frell does that make me?

Anyway, enjoy, reminisce, feel old.

*I'm a Farscape f-bomber, not an Battlestar Galactica f-bomber, which has nothing to do with the 80's, but, what the hey...

Why so serious?

2008-10-08T22:30:00.002-05:00

According to the Boston Globe website, on Fox News "Hannity and Colmes" show tonight, there was a joint interview with John McCain and Sarah Palin, and one of the subjects that came up was the debates. Here is what Senator McCain had to say about how he and Governor Palin "advise" each other before an upcoming debate:

“Well, the only advice we give each other is to have fun -- two words. And we talk before the debates and just -- have fun. And it was obvious that certainly Sarah was having fun at her debate, and I was trying to have fun at mine. And I think we did.”

Is the McCain camp even taking this election seriously? Maybe they think they are so certain of victory they feel they can have a laissez-faire attitude about a very serious process. McCain asks a relative unknown to be his running mate, and she admittedly doesn't even blink before she said "Ya betcha!" (or something to that effect), and this is okay with the Senator? I put more time and effort into deciding what flavor toothpaste I want. But, hey, that's just me.

Maybe it's a "Maverick/Pitbull" thing. Last time I checked, though, mavericks were loose and reckless and pitbulls were unpredictable and dangerous.

I understand that the whole debate process has turned into another form of entertainment, like survival shows and celebrity dance competitions. Maybe that's the reason for the "fun" attitude of McCain/Palin. But when you add that to McCain's hasty pick of a VP, one who winks when debating the issues, his announcement of his sudden "suspension"of his campaign so he could rush back to Washington and deal with the financial crisis that left many shaking their heads in one big massive "what?"...it's a pattern of short-sighted planning and highly questionable moves.

But, hey, it's all in fun. At who's expense? I just hope it isn't at the expense of the American people in the end.

Ikgla wants to convert your children!

2008-10-08T13:33:00.010-05:00

I don't know who or what "Ikgla" is, or why it's "the lye", but this doll has many mommies worried.

BEWARE OF IKGLA!!!

Isn't there enough real issues in the world without feeling the need to report on a doll spouting "Ikgla"? Evil doll, just evil!

Oh, sweet irony

2008-10-07T19:22:00.004-05:00

Husband O' Mine came home today with an armload of Green Bay Packer swag for the semi-resident Cheese-head, my eldest daughter. One item in the pile of offending green and yellow was a car flag. At closer inspection of the flag, I find this:

*snorf*

I won't pop her blisters, but...

2008-10-06T21:49:00.009-05:00

I usually don't do this, but if you have the time, please head over here where you can read about my sister's plans of walking sixty miles in 3 days in the Susan G. Komen Walk for a Cure for breast cancer in Chicago, 2009.

When she plans on doing anything, that usually means she's going to do it. Determined and committed, she is, and admittedly crazy. She's a fellow blogger...she and her husband write the Cozy Kitty blog listed over there on the right somewhere, where you will find a link to her training blog. Just reading it makes me tired.

And proud.

Internet vs. "IRL" diatribe

2008-10-04T08:00:00.005-05:00

The local newspaper of the town I live in has been reporting an ongoing story about a local couple wanting to open a Bed and Breakfast inn. Neighbors voiced objections, and when the initial story broke, many people, as their want, left comments about the article, voicing their opinions. A few of the comments took on a slanderous bent when an anonymous poster alluded to bribing the Planning Commision by the couple. After the couple withdrew their petition due to city ordinances, they cited that the opinions made in the comments section of the paper were libelous and a defamation of their character. The couple then attempted to go through the courts to order the local paper to give up identifying information on the person who made the bribery comment.

Today in a Chicago courtroom, the judge dismissed the couples' effort that would have forced the local paper in giving up such information, agreeing with the local paper's attorney when she stated that "no reasonable person would give any credence to comments posted online."

I want to put aside comparing comments, opinions and out and out heresy, since I never read the offending comment. I'm talking about not what was said, but the medium it which it was said. Do the opinions and ideas I expound, the words I choose, carry less weight because I type them using a computer? Is the meaning lost because they are reduced to so many ones and zeroes, and when I hit 'enter' they reappear once again as my thoughts for all the world to see on many other computers, opposed to let's say, having the same comment printed in a newspaper someone holds in their hand? Does standing on a soapbox at the corner of First and Main and yelling my words make them even more real still?

The people I talk with online, are they less so because I can't touch them? Are they less real? I remember when I first went online in the late nineties, I spent time chatting with people all over the world. It was a big deal for me back then. For example, if I mentioned that so-in-so in New York was getting married, my husband would give me an odd look and reply, "Oh, that's your Internet friend." No, she's my friend. Period. I talk to my sister online...is she less my sister at that moment, is her life less because we are not relating "IRL"?

Is this how people thought when the telephone was introduced? It's a good thing that Bell's assistant, Mr. Watson didn't think a disembodied voice was just that, less than the whole of the person deploring "Watson, come here, I need you!", or the acid Bell had spilled on his leg would have burned through to the bone.

According to a website that tracks Internet trends, about 40% of adult Internet users read newspapers online. The Internet is becoming less and less 'disembodied' and more 'IRL' as more people depend on their computers to deliver them information.

I commend my local paper for sticking to freedom of speech and the right to privacy, and a person's right to stay 'anonymous'. I can't agree though with the fact that somehow a person is not 'reasonable' because they choose to take to heart something they read online, that since it was just on the Internet, it should be taken with so many grains of salt.

Yes, there are many things about the Internet that should cause people to "pass the salt, please" when reading, just as there are many things found on any newsstand around the world. I just don't believe a judge should determine which source is more valid. I believe that is up to the reader. To me, ideas are ideas, no matter where I read them and I don't need a judge to tell me which words or comments I should deem relevant.

Two cents, for what it's worth

2008-10-03T06:21:00.008-05:00

Just a few points about last night's debate between Joe Biden and Sarah Palin:

Sarah Palin did exactly what I expected her to do last night. I did not expect her to "crash and burn", and honestly, I didn't feel like watching another train wreck. After the Katie Couric debacle, I am sure Palin went through a crash course in VP 101. So, her ability to auto-pilot her way through the debate was no surprise.

I've read that she is a "good" debater, albeit a snarky one, in my opinion. In the 2006 Alaska Gubernatorial debates when asked rhetorically what positions in her administration would there be for her opponents if she were to offer, Palin suggested that former Governor Tony Knowles would make a good chef.

Her ability to toss zingers at her opponents to me isn't a sign of a "good debater". It's like faling back on curse words when one has a limited vocabulary. Yes, I know all politicians have and use quips and barbs. They make for good sound-bites. It seems though when Palin quips, she comes off as being catty. Even when she is trying to inject personal sincerity, like when she mentioned Biden's wife who was killed in a auto accident, adding, "Her reward's in Heaven, right?" it comes off like a non sequitor. Or at least an oddly placed thumb.

Maybe Palin thought she was bringing light-hearted banter to the table when asking Senator Biden at the start of last night's debate, "Hey, can I call you Joe?" (like, what else would she call him, yeah, don't ask, I can imagine). But the chummy, cutesy banter falls flat for me. When she "talks" to the American public, denoting them as "Hockey Moms and Joe Six-Packs", it shows that she really is insular to the rest of the country, and I don't mean location-wise. Does she really feel a need to slap on some stupid label on the people she is trying to reach, as if that makes them more tangible for her? It's ingratiating and patronizing.

Obviously, I have a problem with Sarah Palin that goes beyond politics. It's visceral, guttural and most likely not logical. When she keeps on harping, "I'm just like you!", all I can think is how much she isn't like me. Or anyone else I know, for that matter. I don't know who "Joe Six-Pack" is, whether he's a beer drinker or likes to hang out at the gym a lot...either way, that isn't my husband, or my dad, or my neighbor. Hockey isn't a practiced sport in my area, but if "Hockey Moms" are anything like "Little League Moms", that even distances me further from feeling any connection.

Oh, was that me waxing stereotypically? Just going with Palin's line of thinking, that's all.

In all honesty, I don't want a President or his Second in Command to be like me at all. The only connection I want to feel is one of security knowing that the persons that were elected by the people, work for the people, and that once elected, know what the hell they are doing.

Shark-infested Waters

2008-09-30T12:12:00.007-05:00

In an article in the NY News and World Report, Sarah Palin had this to say about Joe Biden, her VP opponent, at a rally in Ohio:

"I've been hearing about his Senate speeches since I was in second grade."

Where exactly was Palin going with this? She could have been commenting about the man's verbosity. But, when one has been a Senator since 1972, I would like to think the person has racked up a lot of words in that time.

If one were to look at this at an age angle, Sarah is forty-four, which would have made second grade thirty-seven years ago, basing that Palin was seven at the time.

How old was her running mate when Sarah was in second grade?

Just saying...is it wise to make a crack (or a loosely-veiled dig) at your opponent's age while you are standing next to your seventy-two year old running mate? Hell, who knows what Palin meant to point out with that comment. Anyway, regardless on what the comment meant, I sure hope Palin remembers to use that zinger at Thursday's debate.

McCain has been crying "Gotcha Journalism" in regards to Palin's past interviews. But, for the love of Mike, tell the woman to leave the fishing lures at home. The waters are well full of chum as it is.

Round One

2008-09-27T11:23:00.008-05:00

Yes, I watched the first debate last night. I wondered if I had listened to the debate instead, would I have came away with a different opinion. I had read stories back in the day about the Nixon/Kennedy debates that those who listened to the debate on the radio felt that Nixon did very well, whereas those who watched the debate on television, which happened to be the first televised Presidential debate, felt Kennedy walked away with the prize. After all, on radio, no one can see you sweat, as Nixon did profusely on stage, not to mention his over all ill-at-ease demeanor portrayed on televisions across the nation.

So, as much as I tried, I could not ignore the posturing and body language and McCain's totally lack of eye contact towards Obama last night during the first debate. Where Obama stood tall, and actually turned and looked at McCain (okay, at first it was at folksy Jim Lehrer's urging), debating not only issues, but the man himself, McCain hunched over his podium, and smirked his way through the debate, barely turning an eye towards his opponent.

And, if I were to close my eyes, as I am mentally doing so at this moment and recalling what I heard, I come away with two opposing voices, phrases repeated over and over...how many times McCain pointed out that Obama was naive and doesn't understand, whereas Obama pointed out that in many instances McCain was right with some of his decision making in the past.

Obama gave McCain's credit it's due, whereas McCain gave Obama no quarter. Not like Obama was asking.

For the most part, I felt the debate last night was tit-for-tat. I don't think either one rode away with the political brass ring in a major way. Both dodged questions, gave half answers, stuck by their strengths, played in their safety zones. The usual way Presidential debates go..no surprise there.

But at least Obama stepped out of his to admit when McCain was right.

But, then, according to McCain, Obama is naive and just doesn't understand.

100th Post!

2008-09-26T07:38:00.003-05:00

Sarah's Next Door Neighbors

2008-09-25T23:06:00.009-05:00

Sarah Palin knows International Politics because she lives next door to Russia. Well, she certainly does. Vladimir Putin probably flies right over her house, you betcha, when he's "rearing his head", as she explained to Katie Couric in the infamous interview that left most people totally gob-smacked.

This is what is "next door" to Alaska. Big Diomede Island, next to Little Diomede Island (U.S. has claim to that one). Big D is inhabited mostly by Innuit, more precisely, the Chukchi people. It's roughly eleven square miles in area. Most likely these people have never even heard of Sarah Palin.

Sarah, who?

If Sarah Palin believes her proximity to Russia makes her knowledgeable in international affairs, then the fact that I live a block away from a hospital I believe qualifies me to run an MRI machine.

Scary thought? It should be.

Bailing out a hole, forget the boat.

2008-09-25T07:40:00.005-05:00

*The "flawed" financial plan proposed by the President, the $700 billion bail-out...no, let's put it this way...

The $700,000,000,000 plan to bail out the economy. To staunch the hemorrhaging of Wall Street. To save us from a long and disastrous recession. A situation that didn't happen yesterday, or last week, or last month. This has been y-e-a-r-s in the making, and NOW it's an issue of major crisis?

"'October Surprise', much?", I thought as I tired to fall asleep with Anderson Cooper last night. Since that wasn't happening, I turned off Cooper, fired up the boat anchor and googled the blogosphere.

Seems I'm not the only one who's blogging about the timing. Most had valid points, though there were a few tin foil hat bloggers tossing out their two cents. The same folks who believe that the Hadron Collector when fully operational will create a Stargate...

I'm not suggesting that this is the type of surprise that had been whispered about where Bush would find a way to suspend the elections and inciting Martial Law here in the States by creating a reason to escalate the war in Iraq (or when the Stargate opens).

"We are in the mists of a serious financial crisis", he announced solemnly and somewhat fearfully, as if it just appeared, like headlights in front of a startled deer (Bush did have that look to him last night, if you saw the news conference). More accurate of a statement would have been, "We have been in the mists of a financial crisis for way too long."

The writing on the walls of all the foreclosed homes have been here for some time now. For years now, I would drive around what used to be cornfields and see McMansions and mega-plexes pop up as quickly as mushrooms after a summer storm. I would ask myself, "Who are these houses for? Is there a mass exodus to the mid section of my state that I don't know about? Are there plans for large factories or businesses to come to this area? Will there be actual jobs?"

No, it was all for speculation, hence the term "spec-homes" or "spec-buildings". That worked in the movie, "Field of Dreams". If you build it, they will come, and all that. This isn't Hollywood, though. But to give the masses a prod, out comes the "adjustable rate loan".

Why did so many people believe that "adjustable" could only go in one direction?

The "American Dream" is shoved in our faces every day, like lipo-sucked and tummy-tucked bodies in magazines...and they are still air-brushed before making the pages. A roof over one's head has become a five bedroom, 2 and a half bath home for a family of four. Soccer-mom transportation went from Ford mini-vans to Cadillac Escalades. It seems that somewhere down the road, nothing was considered out of reach...the question stopped being, "How much is it?", to, "How low can I get the payments?"

Oh, and now you can have your lipo and your tummy tuck on a credit plan, too.

When did money lose it's tangibillity? Where will $700 billion come from? Which pocket will be dug in this time, since $530 billion has been taken from one pocket already due to the Iraq/Afghanistan war? Whatever pocket it is, it's all from the same pair of pants. And guess who's wearing those pants?

*I tend to rant when I blog about subjects not well versed, ie, I don't know a hill of beans about, so excuse me. Politics being one, and economics being the other, so maybe I shouldn't blog about these issues. But if someone can announce that slamming two particles together will open up a stargate, it's all game.

The Great Wall of River Muck

2008-09-23T07:17:00.003-05:00

The above picture is of a chain-link fence (it's not a solid wall) outside one of the high school football fields in town. As I drove by, I saw that the sprinkler system was actually watering the field.

I highly doubt the grass needed it.

Tripping over Stumble Upon

2008-09-22T12:29:00.005-05:00

I have become addicted to Stumble Upon. In my many hours of clicking on the little "SU" button on my toolbar, (okay, not hours, I do have some semblance of a life. Really. I do.) I have discovered one thing about the Internet.

It it rife with CATS. Not like that's a bad thing, but what is it with this obsession with cats? Maybe it's because it's just not as funny when a dog is stuffed into an empty 12-pack, or that one will never see a dog perched precariously atop a door, waiting to spring upon unsuspecting owner, I mean ownee. And the pictures of sleeping cats in unflattering positions with a empty bottle of beer...those are obviously humorous setups. We all know dogs are known to be beer-holics, and can at times be found in this position naturally.

Well, at least mine would be if I would give them half the chance. They prefer wine instead.

Now, anyone who thinks I am aiding and abetting to the the delinquency of an animal, minor or otherwise, should know most of my blogging is done with that look...you know, the one where I'm peering over my glasses, thinking, "You're really are falling for this, aren't you?" look. So save your phone call to the ASPCA.

Anyway, SU has pointed out to me many little corners and crooks and nannies I would have never found before. Like this little FYI page.

And I was wondering why I was getting migraines when I would blog. Or when I would read my blog...aw, c'mon, admit it...y'all do it. You all go and read your blogs to see if what you wrote last month is still as relevant, or witty, or profound as it was when it first burst forth from your keyboard.

What, you don't? Oh, gawd, I really don't have a life.

Coming up for air just in time for an unprecedented flood.

2008-09-17T15:22:00.010-05:00

This is video (ignore the voices in the background, I hate my voice) is of the raging Fox River as it rushed beneath the bridge coming into my town, flooding the low-lying areas along the river bank. When you live in a not only a one, but a two river town, let's just say a jon boat is probably a smarter form of transportation than a car when living on the wrong side of the dried out Illinois-Michigan canal. In the background (if you look reeealy hard) there is a train trestle bridge that is loaded down with freight cars so the river doesn't wash away the bridge. On a good day, the river is usually twenty feet below this bridge.

The Fox River reached record flood stage earlier in the week, surpassing a twenty-six year old record. This closed the high school (which is located at the Fox-Illinois river junction) for most the week as a precaution, much to the joy of my daughter. I'll remind her of her joy when summer vacation starts a week later than usual. And, hey, it isn't snow day season yet.

No boat docking for some time.

This building does have a parking lot, the shore is supposed to be on the other side of the trees. There is a river walk somewhere, just don't know quite where.

Hard to see, I took this through my windshield. This is a two block stretch of street, about two blocks away from the river bank. The day after I took this picture, the sawhorse blocking (haha) the road was under water.

Allen Park? What Allen Park?
(picture taken by a friend and fellow blogger)

This was all compliments of the leftovers of Ike which caused two straight days of solid rain. Of course, nothing compared to actually having Ike in full as Texas did. Water does recede on it's own, thank goodness. Buildings and rubble don't take care of themselves, alas.

Reaction to Tragedy

2008-09-12T08:39:00.005-05:00

Yesterday was September 11th, seven years removed from that horrible day where many lost their lives, and those who survived, their lives were forever changed. Humanity reacted to that day in ways as diverse as humanity itself. My childhood friend, whom I kept in close touch with through the years no matter where life took her, sat in front of our televisions, hundreds of miles apart, watching the news, in tears of sadness and disbelief.

In the following days, I found myself doing strange things, like closing my blinds, because I didn't want to see the outside, as if outside my window had become a terrifying place. Strangely though, my view of the television never altered from the 24-hour news channel. I stopped reading magazines and turned off music, since these seemed to be trivialities in light of the darkness that descended. I puttered around my house in a somewhat manic fashion, because sitting in one place felt like drowning.

Yesterday morning, seven years to the day, found me on the phone with my childhood friend. Once again, sobbing, hundreds of miles separating us, as she told me that her twenty-five year old son had unexpectedly passed away barely an hour before.

I am finding that I want to react in the same manner that I did seven years ago, like a diver remembering just when to tuck in relation to the water to execute the perfect dive.

The mind remembers what the body wants to forget, but I realize that I am not a diver. I am a friend, and one that writes a blog, questioning whether or not this is too personal for Web 2.0.

Yesterday, my friend lost the largest part of her life that a mother could lose. A child. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children. Thousands of people shouldn't have to lose their lives in a seemingly inconceivable way.

The scale and scope is different, I realize, but the reaction is the same.

I'll see my friend today, and we will do what friends do in times like these. This time though, the miles won't be separating us as they have so many other times in the past.

A Second Chance?

2008-09-10T19:15:00.006-05:00

It appears that Illini Park, along with other state parks may see a future after the public outrage after news hit that the Illinois government planned to shut down twenty-five parks and historical sites across the state (not to mention cut the budget of drug, alcohol rehab programs, and for the Department of Children and Family Services).

I don't know how long of a future the parks have, but they have one, nonetheless, which as we all know, is better than no chance at all.

I just thought I would make mention of this after my emotionally-wrought entry in response to the closing Illini Park. There may be more sunsets and campfires in the years to come.

A man hears what he wants to hear...

2008-09-10T15:48:00.009-05:00

In a stop in Virgina, Barack Obama, obviously not listening to the little voices in his head screaming "SHUT UP!!!!", spoke (mis-, or otherwise) on the McCain/Palin ticket...

"You can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig."

Most people heard this metaphor, loose as it was, and depending what side of the fence they were on, ran with it. Or not.

Did he call Sarah Palin a "pig"? Did he say Sarah Palin wears lipstick? Did she call John McCain a pig, if Palin were to give McCain a kiss?

Better yet, did Obama just say something stupid in the heat of the moment? Most likely.

Since Obama was so metaphorically inclined, he should have said something along the lines of "making a silk purse from a sow's ear". I mean, I think that is where Obama was heading, or least trying to, with his lipsticked pig metaphor.

Other words, Obama was most likely pointing out that the "Oh, wow, gee-whiz!!!" that is Sarah Palin is an attempt to cover the fact that, hey, this is still John McCain, this is still the possibility of four more years of the past eight years, this is still business as usual, but with a new player...who I point out (and hopefully most people) is not a pig, may wear lipstick, may own silk purses, and is not a sow's ear.

I am reminded of my favorite of all metaphors, pointing out how easily manipulated we, the masses are:

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances--Wm. Shakespeare

Trolls in the flesh

2008-09-09T09:31:00.005-05:00

In my many years of living on the Internet, lurking in various forums, enjoying a short but sweet experience of freindship in an IRC channel, one thing I learned...Do Not Feed The Trolls. You know, those extremist keyboard jockeys who type the most inflammatory dribble under aliases and sock puppets, just to get a rise from someone. Hell, anyone. And, usually, someone does bite, and lack of hilarity ensues. But, if you starve them, ie, don't reply to them, they skittle away like little cockroaches.

Ah, if it could only be as easy in Real Life.

Who am I pointing the Troll Stick at? The Westboro Baptist Church, who has taken the literal translation of the Bible as many fundie churches do, but in this instance, adding the stink of wet, sweaty "Troll" to the message. It's not enough to mainly base their messages, if not the whole foundation of their "church" on Leviticus (a man, mind you, NOT God) 18:22 "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination." They feel the need to jump up on their trollish bully pulpit and tell America that "God Hates America, Sweeden, Fags, Catholics, Billy Graham...anybody and anything except the WBC". Also that every catastrophe that has happened in this world since 9/11 is due to "God's judgement on fag-enablers".

Oh, why Sweden, you ask? WBC picketed a vacuum cleaning store because the store sold Swedish vacuum cleaners, and since Sweden took action against a minister who spoke against homosexuals, well, God hates the Swedes, too, and most likely those who buy their products.

The seventy or so members of this church, mostly family of the patriarch/leader Fred Phelps (who a few of them are lawyers, just like dear old dad was before he was debarred) have in the past picketed at funerals for fallen soldiers of the Iraq/Afghanistan war, along with the funerals of the Sago Mine Disaster. They also take advantage of catastrophes to spread their trollish messages, most recently, by thanking Hurricane Gustav, like they previously had thanked God for Hurricane Katrina for destroying New Orleans.

Westboro Baptist Church seems to have only one purpose, and that is to troll the World by using God as its Sockpuppet, using the excuse of "rejoicing in God's judgements". I am sure the church doesn't see it that way. Extremists never do.

But, rip away all the externals, the who, what and whys and what do you see? A message of HATE from people with some sick superiority complex, led by one very hate-filled man.

Yes, the irony is not lost on me...this very post is "feeding the trolls".

On a Mission from God?

2008-09-02T19:11:00.004-05:00

Well, that's what Sarah Palin's opinion seems to be regarding sending troops to Iraq, if her speech to a graduating class at the Walsila Assembly of God church is any indication.

I understand that for those of belief find comfort in praying to a Higher Power asking he/she/it to watch over our Military, or our loved ones, or the elderly woman who lives alone down the street. But to loftily label an ill-entered war as "a task that is from God", well, gee, I guess that makes it just hunky-dory.

Weren't the hijackers on 9/11 supposedly on "a mission from God (Allah)", too? How about The Spanish Inquisition? The Salem Witch Trials? Were these atrocities sanctioned by God?

I am in NO way comparing our military to a terrorist entity or a raving mob. Or a power hungry church hierarchy. I am just pointing out that I really doubt God approves of these kinds of messages. At least I hope the God of my knowledge wouldn't put his stamp of approval on these actions of men.

But then, I could be just one more person speaking for God, and I think there is enough of those already.

Windows Mojave

2008-09-01T14:59:00.004-05:00

Windows Vista is running a commercial that I have seen many times on Hulu online videos, but I am sure it's been on traditional television somewhere in the States. It shows a person sitting at a table in a nondescript room, being asked by some unknown person, "Why haven't you switched to Vista?"

"I've heard too many bad things about it", "It's buggy", or other responses along the same lines.

The person posing the question then shows the person being asked about their disdain towards Vista a laptop using Windows "new" operating system named "Mojave". The people being shown the new OS ooh and ahh over Mojave, declaring their wonderment and approval, announcing that they could see themselves using this system.

"Oh, by the way, this is Windows Vista", the questioners announce, and then the participants voice their surprise and how they will most likely run out and give Vista a try.

Me, I would have been incensed that I was made to look like a fool. I don't see that as a positive way to sell a product.

Microsoft has resorted to tricking people into giving their product a second look?

I think many people didn't rush out to get on the Vista bandwagon because they first researched, they read reviews and comments from those who actually used the product. They did their homework. Most consumers are smart consumers. Microsoft seems to think otherwise.

The Fire Dies

2008-08-29T19:05:00.001-05:00

Surfing the news tonight, I came across this ever increasing trend in today's economy.

I just was shocked to see how close to home this swing of the axe would be.

Illini State Park in Marseilles was just over the river from where I lived. My dad would take my sister and I fishing there. Well, more like teaching me how to bait a hook and cast a fishing line, since I don't remember much actually catching fish. But, that never really seemed to be the point of fishing with my dad. It was zen like, watching the river flow and swirl in different directions, waiting for my bobber to disappear beneath the water's surface. To actually snag a fish would have broken the trance.

When I was a Girl Scout, scout troops from around the district would spend a week of day camping, where the different troops would set up little camping areas across the park. We would spend days hiking, learning to cook by campfire, and earning our badges. The older girls would be lucky enough to actually camp overnight throughout the week. That would be my first foray into tent camping, which I quickly learned, I did not like. The week would end with a variety show of sorts for the public that the scouts practiced during the week. Then the night would come to a close with a large bonfire and promises to return next Summer.

As I grew older, it became a place to try out new freedoms behind the wheel of a car. Some tried out more freedoms than I did, though, those freedoms involving the back seat. I was strictly a driving with Meat Loaf blaring from my 8-track kind of girl.

Then, just recently, I "rediscovered" Illini Park when we bought our little camper. It became my escape where Ottawa felt like a hundred miles away, not just shy of ten. There was a little ice cream stand that became the nightly meeting place of many retired folks. If you wanted to know what was going on, you didn't need to read the paper, just head down to the park and have ice cream.

And there was always that river flowing past me, zen-like.

The past two years I was able to enjoy these get-aways, and the nights would always end with a campfire.

Now, for Illini, all campfires will quickly smolder away to memory.

I would be remiss if I didn't state this...I just lost a place to relax...hundreds of people lost their jobs.

A woman for woman's sake?

2008-08-29T13:45:00.006-05:00

Today, John McCain picked Alaskan governor Sarah Palin to be his running mate for the GOP.

The Democrats couldn't offer you a woman, but the Republicans can...so there!

That's the feeling I get. Or maybe that's just me.

Yes, I'm most likely seeing this through a cynic's eye. Obama could have easily done the same, pick a woman VP to calm the feelings of those felt let down by the party when Clinton didn't win the nomination. But, he didn't. If he did, I would call 'pandering' just as I am with McCain.

Then, I could be wrong. I'm sure it's a very savvy move, politically.*

*In desperate need of a sarcasm icon.

Cheezburgerized Blaidd

2008-08-26T12:28:00.004-05:00

I had to. I was compelled. This pic of Blaidd screamed for Cheezburgerization.

What if?

2008-08-25T18:03:00.004-05:00

Newsweek ran an article entitled "So What If He Were Muslim?", which pointed out the religious bias and prejudice that runs through, as this article concentrates on, the political arena. The article also pointed out briefly the political run of Mitt Romney, a Mormon, and the fact that there hasn't been a Roman Catholic in the White House since JFK. So, religious bias has been muddying the political waters long before this election, yet not as strongly as today.

So many people have tried very hard to color Barack Obama with the Muslim-laden paint brush from the very beginning of his political run, based on mass emails, and opinions of my DH's co-workers, from what he tells me, although I doubt his workplace is of the exception.

"I'm not votin' for no Muslim!" seems to be the daily rally cry in the break room, when it has been made very clear that Obama is not a Muslim (as if that should really matter). And there is nothing one can say to these people to sway their opinion, which makes me wonder what is the real issue here.

When I read the above mentioned article, I started thinking, "What if Barack Obama's name was 'John Smith', and he was a long time Protestant, who just happened to have a father who wasn't a Caucasian...a black man?"

What if 9/11 never happened? What if Muslims weren't thought of as "Enemy No.1" by many as the Japanese were after Pearl Harbor?

What if no one could label Barack Obama with anything besides the obvious?

I think the real issue would come to light, and I wonder how many would be as eager to voice their racial prejudice as easily as their religious/cultural prejudice? I wonder what the mass e-mails would look like then?

I bet if you rip off the label of the Muslim paint can, you will find the original label underneath.

It's all racism, no matter how one paints it.

Back to the Flatlands

2008-08-24T16:26:00.011-05:00

A very nice weekend was had by all. The old camper made the trip and back without a hiccup. I met a lot of nice people at my dad's campground, and visited with an aunt and uncle I haven't seen in almost twenty years. There was a lot of socializing that I'm not usually accustomed to; my idea of camping is mostly spent in quiet solitude (is there any other kind? Noisy solitude?), but no one seemed to mind when I would wander off by myself, or take off on my dad's golf cart, the vehicle of choice of campers.

Hike? Moi?

DH and younger daughter tried their hand (hands?) at lure fishing, and DH actually landed his first Northern. Younger daughter caught, as she said, a lot of "not-a-fish".

Sent back to the wild soon after

I spent my time reading, cursing GSM Internet access, or lack thereof, and taking pictures like someone who'd never been out of state before.

Pier where the Not-a-fish can be found.

Saturday night was amazingly clear, and with the lack of light pollution and no moon to wash out the dark, I was finally able to look up and see the swath of the Milky Way, arching across the black velvet sky. Forty-six years old, and it I had never seen it before until that night. I stretched out on a blanket and stared at stars I could never see at home.

Did I finally see a pelican over the weekend? Who cares? I surely didn't.

Camping, pt. 2

2008-08-21T08:20:00.001-05:00

This afternoon, the DH, younger daughter, the corgis, and I will be heading up to Wisconsin for a weekend of camping. We decided to be brave and venture out with our 20+ year old camper 200 miles to spend the weekend with my dad, fishing, visiting around a campfire, and hopefully not finding ourselves at the side of the road with a major mechanical failure on our hands.

At least it has new tires. And, no, it's not on fire.

I may even have access to Internet while I'm there.

I won't have a river to watch flow by this time around, but I will have a marsh that I can spend time bird-watching...which reminds me, I need to pack my bird watching guide. I understand there will be egrets and herons, possibly some bald eagles, and if I'm lucky, some pelicans. The inside joke is, everyone in my family has seen pelicans here in my town, except me, so I don't believe them. Up until now, pelicans to my knowledge are big birds that sit on piers somewhere off the coast of California...not the riverbanks of Illinois, or the marshes of Wisconsin, as now my dad tells me.

See, he's in on it now, too.

I guess I could now turn this posting into something deep and mindfully vast, but I won't. It's just a "Hey, it's me here, just blogging about my upcoming weekend. Move along now. Nothing else to see here."

That is, until I come back next Monday with pictures...maybe one or two will be of the elusive (at least to me) pelican.

First Day, 2008-2009

2008-08-20T08:19:00.005-05:00

Today started the ritual of waking up in the morning a half-hour late, because I assumed I set my alarm on my cell phone correctly, then realizing I didn't (thank Bob for an internal alarm that eventually wakes me a half hour later than intended). Then, the stumbling out of bed, tripping over the dog and yelling up the stairs to wake up my daughter.

She also assumes she set her alarm clock. She has no internal alarm for a back-up, though.

Then I fire up the laptop then fire up the stove to boil some water for coffee. The water boils way before the laptop loads enough so I can log in. The laptop loads long before my daughter makes her appearance.

Luckily, she is not a girly-girl, or the next forty-five minutes would be spent in agony, waiting for her to apply make-up, pick out an outfit, run a straighter through her hair...as it is it's "throw on a black t-shirt and jeans, run a toothbrush around her mouth, hunt down the errant sock, grab shoes and a brush and spend the drive to school ripping the brush through her way-too long hair as she sheds all over my van's interior.

Today, I try and navigate though the throng of first day of school traffic. The buses, the young drivers, and an occasional police car, bottle-nosed as other kids whizz by on skateboards, or slunk by on...did I really see a pair of fluffy bedroom slippers?

I know there are stomach-dwelling butterflies fluttering everywhere. The butterfly swarm seems to be much larger this year, at least in my stomach, that I know. My daughter is heading for school this year with the usual uncertainty and trepidation, cranked up a few notches. She's in her Junior year. There is more emphasis in "What are your plans for college?". My daughter is still thinking in terms of, "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Just help my daughter get through high school first, please.