Ghosts of Christmas Past

Truth be told, this is not my favorite time of year.  Shoppers assaulting each other over games and tech products, Santas in abundance, screaming children, stores stocking Christmas products even before Halloween is over and often times, party goers simply nipping at the Magical Rum Punch just a wee bit too much.

But, this year I thought I should dig deep into my Grinch Bag and pull out some little bit of happy memories and jot them down.

I like to think of the Wonder Years, Rudolph, Frosty and Charlie Brown as having all been somewhat modeled after the Gartlan years on Yolanda Avenue.  A "wonder" we didn't kill each other, someone always had a "red nose", someone had a chill, but then suffered a "meltdown" and finally, a little Christmas tree and Snoopy came to the rescue.

The 60s were an adventure.  I was whole-heartily convinced my parents were on some sort of fashion-interior decorating acid trip when they initially purchased what was probably back then, stylish and smooth furniture.  You know the type...avocado green shag carpet, some sort of bizarre yellow ...was it Goldenrod...not to be confused with GoldenSeal, although I suppose if my parents were into the smoking of the herb, they might confuse their furniture with a really warped trip. No, my parents were the epitome of the all American 60s family, right down to the Plymouth station wagon in hideous yellow, with no air-conditioning, and my Dad's hunter green Ford LTD with an AM/FM radio. 

My dad Peter was one hell of an excellent man.  Always dapper in his business suits, running out the door to sell real estate in the San Fernando Valley, and Mom packing lunches and sending us off to school.  We even had Carmen, the nanny, who I still hold with deep affinity.  There were swingsets, slides, fort building, a swimming pool, a dog and a cat.  There were raucous fights between siblings, time-outs, "go to your room", "you're grounded" moments that still waft in and out of my  recollections.  Some pretty awful, some pretty awesome.

Christmas was a 50-50 deal to me.  Some memories I have are terrible.  I still feel the scars today, and it's affected my interpretation and general dislike of the holiday.  But, then there are the golden moments, where the dreams of a little girl come true, and joy moved me more,  just as they do today.

We had our traditions.  Every family does.  We were into the St. Nick Day, and the giving of an ornament for the tree marking that particular year.  The purchasing of the tree; I suppose some Rotary tree lot, or church sponsored deal.  The tree trimming was completed by the whole family to start with, followed by the lackluster appearances as we got older.  And then there was my parents' Epiphany Parties after the holidays.

We had a fairly nice sized living room which you did not dare enter without good intentions.  A white sofa, a few nice chairs, a piano, fireplace and a ....HI-FI!  My Dad would turn on the record player and load up Bing Crosby's White Christmas, still one of my favorites.  And in the corner of that green shag carpeted room, my parents would place the Christmas tree.

Always above 6 feet, although not too much, the delivery of the tree was a grand day.  It's as though you just knew Santa was lurking somewhere; maybe the backyard, in the attic, the garage, the side yard.  He was somewhere.  Although a staunch, Irish Catholic family, we still have some Santa tossed in with the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  My mother had a lovely crèche which was fun to unwrap from a box held together with twine, and over-sprayed with fake snow, Christmas tree lights that no doubt had seen better days, and loads of ornaments.  Some years it was the tinsel all the way around, other years it was the dripping type tinsel, that was forever being pulled at by the immensely obtuse and completely too heavy, Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Thankfully, as far as I can recall, there never was flocked trees.  I tend to imagine that being odd since we lived in southern California, and it rarely snowed.

Dad really had a thing for Christmas.  He'd make it a Saturday task to hang outdoor lights, and then move inside for decorating.  He'd always buy some extra boughs of tree branches.  After the tree was decked from head to toe, and even sometime leaning from one side or the other, Dad went to town on the rest of the house.  He would take snippets from the extra boughs, and before you knew it, the place looked like a Douglas Fir walked right in the house and exploded.  Little twigs of green, tucked into the corner of a frame, or on a shelf.  The stuff was everywhere.  I still wonder, but never can recall asking, what Christmas was like for my dad when he was a young lad in Ireland. I guess that's on the "shoulda, coulda, woulda" list.

If we were really committed to it, the family would do the Christmas eve Midnight Mass, and then were allowed to open ONE gift before retiring for the night.  This habit was easier, when we were older, but as kids, we never seemed to get past 10p.m. 

Usually Santa made his appearance sometime after midnight, and one of us would wake up the other kids, and 8 eyeballs would pop open in the wee hours...0400 to see what Santa had left.  I think back now to how I might have reacted if a bunch of kids appeared at my bedside telling me to wake up.  My parents handled it in stride.

There was the Dolan and Waggoner families who would come for the Christmas dinner, the stories shared over a fantastic meal prepared by my mother, who, quite possibly, made the best sweet dinner rolls shaped in a Christmas tree ever.  Turkey, trimmings, dessert.  It was a gut busting event.  Dad had a thing for Almond Rocha, so by dinner time we had either eaten too much of that, or See's Candies, and became sick off candy cane overdosing.  And no Christmas ever passed in our house without first being required to attend Mass.

I still recall counting out change in Bullock's Department Store, at the foot of an escalator, so I could buy my Dad a bottle of British Sterling.  We never did the little red ship cologne, but went big on the sterling stuff.  There were times spent telling Santa about Barbie dolls, toys, electric rollers, perfume, and the popular but unrealistic, new car. 

Sometimes I dream of being able to go back to those memories and actively re-live them.  But, like all things past, you visit them a bit, put them away in a box, and tie it with twine until the next Christmas rolls around.

Queen of the Double Wide on Wheels

Sammy Kershaw serenaded the country audience back in the '90s with "Queen of My Double Wide Trailer", and I found myself astonished as to who might want to live in a trailer park.  Those were the days when I was more of a snob.

Words that come back around to take a large chunk out of my ass - a big bite ... here I sit, in my RV, in a trailer park, writing about this very topic. 

We bought a RV in March, 2013.  Our condo recently went under contract, and hopefully will close at the end of November.  We've been living in very rural North Routt County, Clark, Colorado since Father's Day weekend.  Off grid has been an adventure.  No internet, no cable.  Water being brought in, rather than just turning on a faucet.  It's been a reality check, but a great reality check.

So, when winter came knocking a few weeks ago, the logistics had to be reconsidered.  In an area that easily sees up to 500 inches + of snow, living in the back 40 was not going to be very wise.  We moved in to town this past weekend, and smack dab in to the KOA campground.  A real life trailer park.

Looking around at the diversity of RVs, I am blown away.  You have the hippie stoner dudes who live in a small Streamline; I'm not sure how they all fit in there.  Next to them, a large 5th wheel Voltage with 2 slide-outs; I believe they are hunters, as I have not seen them since we arrived, and it's rifle season.  Last night an immense 5th wheel rolled in, pulled by a semi-cab, with license plates from Montana; a real palace - 3 slide outs.  They stayed one night. 

Today 2 friends from ski patrol moved in.  One has been coming here for 11 years, and filled me in on the skinny as to who lives here during the winter season.  He told me about some couple who own a million dollar rig, are also "swingers" and were on the hunt for people to swing with them - that sounds like the people I envisioned to living in a trailer park. 

I'm still a snob, although I've mellowed over the years.  A trailer park will do that to you!

Idiosyncrasies of Men

A recent conversation with my brother had me thinking that he had figured out the female race.  Oh, how wrong he is!

As I sit here at The Clark Store, plugged into my lifeline, otherwise known as the free wifi table, I can easily overhear the guys' take on life.  Oh how I wish my brother was here.

4 men, all with coffee or cokes, grubby clothes from shoveling shit - all types of "shit" and an odor or cow poo and mud, are discussing today's issues.  They are the champions of the world, or so they think.  It's enlightening to hear the conversations that range from moving big piece of wood with a skid steer, to family visits, how the "little lady" NEEDS their help for chores around the house, doctor visits, the price for a head of cattle, sharing pictures on their smart phones, sports scores, shooting bear,  outfitters in town,  killing, preparing, seasoning and then eating bear.  They are also discussing who pulled which tag for where, who has the BIGGEST, ha ha.....elk.  I'm loving it. Oh, and don't forget the guy who just killed the "biggest moose I ever saw, down in Soda Creek".

I know where all the great hunting spots are now; not that I really care to  know.  I'd rather hunt democrats.  But, in case you need to know...down near Ted Turner's ranch, boy scout ranch, Cimarron, soda creek, brown's park, 20mile.  Of course, if you're not from the Rockies, these locations might need a Garmin to locate. 

I love my brother dearly.  Aside from being my brother, he is my friend.  But he is slightly clueless when it comes to how he perceives women vs men.  These 4 ranchers at the table next to me are even sharing recipes as to the proper way to make jerky; while one even laments that he has never heard of a jerky cutter. 

Even more entertaining, is one young buck talking about how "tight his AR-15" is.  What would an old fashion man party be without gun talk.  But then again, Steamboat did just host a female gun shoot. 

Life is good, and every once in awhile it's very, very informative to hear how the opposite sex perceives the never ending battle between the sexes. 

Government Shut Down - Get A Pet Instead

It's been a long two months since I have written anything on my personal blog.  I have been devoting my time to my husband's blog site (www.mollydogimages.com)  and also traveling a bit before the snow flies.  Truth be told, it's already begun its flight.  Ugh, the white stuff - which I disdain.  I suppose residing in the Rocky Mountains has something to do with the weather that follows fall.  Silly me.

Living off grid has advantages and disadvantages.  Peace, tranquility, unencumbered lifestyle - you get all this and more when you reside in your RV, on a piece of property.  However, the down side, if you were to even consider it such would be the small toilet, small stove, the amazing one gallon shower, no Internet, television, cable reception, etc.  Mix it all together, and I believe it balances everything out in the long run.

The government shut down.  I've been just ready to explode over this news.  One of the things that irks me more than anything is that Congress, the Senate and THE POTUS are still receiving their paychecks, while other government workers are being furloughed.  Can anyone recognize the hypocrisy of that one?  In states like Utah, where multiple National Parks are located, a force government closure will deeply resonate through the pocketbooks of those who rely upon tourism that comes from nature's ample parks.  Even here in Colorado, we've been affected.  The closure of Trailridge Road means that those who were nearly wiped out during the recent flooding are pretty much stuck with very, very limited ways to escape.  Up until the government closure, at least some of those stuck in Lyons, Drake, etc were able to utilize Trailridge Road.  No more.  Does anyone in Washington, D.C. even listen or care about the "little person" suffering?  Does the wooden headed Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid care an ounce for those who are without fresh water?

So, I've been away from my own blog for 2 months.  During that time, I enrolled in school.  I'm taking small steps to further my medical career.  I am the oldest person in my class.  That's okay with me.  With age comes experience, and perhaps an ability to add something to the subject at hand.

While away from life in general, I've been surfing the 'net more often and come upon many, many rescue sites for animals.  I've always had a yearning; somewhat of a mythical draw towards animals.  They love unconditionally, they do not judge.  Everyday has the potential for something new.  I love it. http://www.vrcpitbull.net/dog/ , Is one of my favorite websites along with http://bestfriends.org/.  If dreams could come true, I'd love to work for either of
these organizations.  Their mission statements are a near to exact of my sentiments towards life. 



Look into the eyes of this happy little creature , named Brinkley, that lives at www.villalobos.com in Louisiana, and tell me his little smile doesn't bring instantaneous relief to a heavy day.



Or this handsome man, named Douglas who lives at www.bestfriends.org in southern Utah.  There are close to 1500 animals at this red rocked sanctuary, and they are always looking for volunteers.  Having spent a few volunteer visits to Best Friends, I never felt more loved.  There were special cats and dogs that just captured my heart.  In fact, when our beloved Mac dog died, we had him buried at Angels Landing, within the shade of red rocks on the Best Friends' grounds.  The place is magical.

So, while the government dicks around with our future, I try to look at it one day at a time.  To see deer in our front yard, or simply helping a small bird who flew into a glass porch door, we look at the marvels of the animal kingdom, and almost can forget what is happening around the rest of the work.

 

 

HAVE A GREAT DAY - GO PET A DOG, SCRATCH A CAT'S EARS, OR LISTEN TO NATURE.

Let's Talk PEACE

Most Christians have heard of him by now.  St. Francis Assisi.  Born in Umbria in 1182, Francis was responsible for the birth of the Franciscan and Dominican orders.  He quite literally lived the Bible, the Gospels, and spreading the word of PEACE.  Not just a verbal announcement of Peace, but in his everyday life's work.  A man of small stature, Francis exuded JOY.  Building a house, brick by brick, constructed of peace, happiness and a sincere longing and passion for others to experience the utter serenity that Jesus Christ taught throughout the Gospels.  St. Francis also received the Stigmata; a replication of the wounds that Christ suffered during his Crucifixion. 

So, how do I go from my usual rants and raves on all this political or of high anxiety, to a topic that is completely the polar opposite of that world?  Great question.  A catholic myself, I chose as my patron saint, Francis of Assisi.  A true believer of his message, I also reveled in the fact that St. Francis is the patron saint of animals, and the State of Colorado.  Those that know me well shouldn't be surprised when I say that I have rescued my fair share of wayward animals, much to the dismay of my parents when I was young, and now to my loving and tolerant husband John, who shrugs off a new furry friend as "well here we go again'. 

This weekend, our beloved Monsignor Tom celebrated his 60th anniversary (and 85th birthday) of taking the Holy Orders.  The joyous event was held at the Steamboat Sheraton Grand Ballroom.  And it was GRAND!   Fr. Tom, a Brooklyn native, known for is good nature, sharp wit and dry humor, packed the joint.  It was a Rolling Stones concert, sans the Stones.  Fr. Tom had past and present parishioners in attendance to witness a spectacular moment.  People from Aspen, Vail, New York, the Bahamas, New Zealand - all over the country were packed into the standing room only palladium to witness and be blessed by Fr. Tom.  Mass was celebrated with the presence of 8 priests, an abbot from nearby St. Benedict Abbey in Snowmass, CO and of course our own Fr. Ernst and Deacon John Franklin. 

The guest of honor was there, in his wheelchair, but alert and gregarious as always.  Time and age has begun to show in Fr. Tom's ability to stand for any length of time.  His voice quivered when he stood to address the congregation after Mass was over.  His sermon was to the point, direct and shot straight to the heart.  PEACE, JOY AND LOVE.  Fr. Tom called us to learn from the newly appointed Holy Father Pope Francis.  He spoke of the ability to truly immerse ourselves in the spirit of what St. Francis of Assisi lived, and what our Pope Francis preaches to Catholics, in fact all people, all over the world.  The message isn't complicated.  In fact, it takes absolutely no extra time, strength or complication.  It's the Golden Rule.  Treat others with respect.  Love with unlimited power.  Exude peace in your everyday life.  Toss a smile towards someone you may not know.  These actions go a long way in making others feel better, and all the while, giving yourself a shot of gratitude for your own life.

A few years ago, I read the book, "The Shack".  I did not give it much thought, as I perused the shelves in the book section of Target.  I was on one of my many rendezvous to Moab, Utah where I garner my strength from the red rocks and peaceful beauty of the simplistic desert scape.  I often stop in Grand Junction, Colorado to hit the potty, and perhaps grab a few books.  I read almost anything available, and relish I each and every book I hold.  Has anyone ever experienced the joy of holding a book?  Sweet feelings!

At any rate, where was I? Oh yes, "The Shack".  Starting out as a family who is grieving and attempting to come to grips from the horrific murder of their young daughter Missy, Mack, the father,  is having a difficult time with his relationship with GOD.  Now  listen - before the eye rolling begins.  No matter your religious, spiritual or high power beliefs, most of the free world has some sort of conversation and repertoire with GOD.  We all experience a unique bond with the big guy.  So, as the book carries on, Mack begins his long journey and then mystical meeting with God and the Holy Trinity.  I fear that divulging anymore of the grit to the story will give away the final chapters and revelations that Mack experiences - but let's just say, I see some St. Francis all over the book.

St. Francis upon his death bed was to have recited Psalm 141., the Psalm of David.  He lived his life for the Gospel, for servitude to the poor of spirit, the weak of heart and to teach the love of GOD.  If during your reading of my blog entry today, you take an extra 5 minutes to consider the lesson to be learned from St. Francis, I can't help but wonder...

WHAT WOULD LIFE BE LIKE WITH A LITTLE MORE PEACE, JOY & LOVE?

Baiting a Hook - Fishing Tips

Recent headlines have left some groups whirling in a dirty dust pile.  All the colors of the rainbow have been brought to the forefront of the human gene pool.  You can be black. You can be white.  Hispanic, Asian, etc.  You can be half, or a 1/3, 1/4.  To hear some media outlets describe race, it sounds like a recipe for baking an upside down pineapple cake with chocolate frosting and whip cream.  Ludicrous.

The way I see it, liberal media spends far too much time poking a stick in the race card.  It's as if a small child, with a sharp stick, is prodding and poking at a very ripe, and very dead carcass  The carcass in this case being America.  An America as we knew it was.  As a whole, we humans haven't evolved completely.

News stories report that a dozen or so black teens were murdered in Chicago during the course of the Zimmerman trial.  Where was the outrage and media coverage for those kids?  Did Sharpton and Jackson suddenly become deaf mutes?  Ignoring the obvious facts that crime exists on a constant basis; that statistics from the FBI show proof that 91% of homicides upon blacks were executed by other blacks, doesn't make for happy race baiting fodder.  Sharpton and other race baiters mock and ridicule their own race by ignoring those facts.  Perhaps race baiters garner some sort of macabre personal gratification by pontificating on the nonsense of alleged racial inequality within the borders of America.

Sure, it's easy for me, a white woman, to point a finger at the race baiters and easily see through their thin veils, and realize they are serving only their best interests.  Where was the outrage of liberal media, liberal leaders, race baiters, etc when O.J. Simpson got off vis-à-vis "jury nullification"?  Don't hide in the shadows and imagine or pretend for one moment that Simpson wasn't guilty as sin in the heinous murders of Brown-Simpson and Goldman.  All evidence pointed in that direction. 

My mother recently said to me..."You don't need to be so outspoken.  Sometimes it's better to sit quietly"...  Ah, Mother.  I'm not a radical by any means, but when I see something that is wrong, I am going to say something.  I'm not a sideline kind of girl.  I'm not a pick a fight kind of gal, either. 

I often wonder about blacks, and their choices of role models.  There are so many positive, wonderful blacks who have excelled in society, government, medicine, music and history.   If I can, as a white woman, see all these incredible attributes, why then do the youth of today pivot towards the negative?   Is it a lack of higher education, or the absence of a male father figure in their upbringing?  Is it the drug scene, and the money, bling, cars and women? 

What it would it be like if race baiters switched bait, and started tossing a line out to the positive role models that exist in abundance?  Why not promote education, staying in school, defying the false enticements of the drug scene?  Why do race baiters dangle victim bait in front of the kids who have yet to form solid opinions, and push them into the belief system that society as a whole "owes" them something?  What about the positive notion that hard work does pay off.  That being a moral, decent person is something to be proud of?

The tackle box is full of bait, but sadly, and at the expense of today's floundering youth, the likes of the Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton and liberal media are hooking our children, and then tossing them back out into a sea of troubles.

The Wilds of the Animals - Or Angry Rioters

So, ..................a huge sigh.  I've been thinking about animals.  Our move to the country has been enlightening to say the least.  I have no television, cable reception, and my phone gets Internet, but it drains the battery, and I have failed to master pecking out messages on a tiny keyboard.
Every morning, I drive 8 miles to a local grocery, café, etc to plug into an outlet and get my addiction.  It's brutal. 

Without modern technology, I have been blessed with an abundance of time to enjoy nature in all its glory.  I take the time to listen the birds, or the sound of the wind as it passes through the tall grass.  It's mesmerizing.  Deer amble through the hayfield.  Other small creatures make their way through adjacent fields, and the river gives passage to the trout and all life in the small piece of heaven we reside on.   The wilds of the Rocky Mountains go on about their lives all around us.  We are but a tiny, almost invisible spec of pollen in the big picture.

I look at the animals and what they must endure to ensure their survival.  They are tough.  If roads, cars and hunters weren't a daily source of turmoil, animals are part of the huge cycle of life.  Eat, or be eaten.  They are smart.  They survive against odds that mankind can't even begin to fathom. 

And now we come to the segment of "angry rioters".  Some refer to the rioters, acting like goons as animals.  I believe that is an insult to animals.  Goons destroying property.  Goons on the freeway.  Goons rioting.  All because the justice system worked.  A jury found Zimmerman not guilty on the charges brought forth by the State of Florida.  Color seems to fall into everything nowadays.  Its repugnant, stale and nauseating.  Get over it all ready. 

I watch the animals in the fields.  I see the wind rush through the cottonwoods.  Today, a warm sunny day in the Rocky Mountains, I am once again reminded at the terrors and dangerous obstacles the animal kingdom must face.  A dead deer on the side of the road, victim to a car.  I sigh at the realization that animals face far greater troubles than an idiotic goon rioting on Interstate 10 in Southern California. 


"...With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast."

Dylan Thomas

White Russians, Black Irish, Creepy White Ass Cracker

I swore to myself that I would not touch the race card with a ten foot pole!  But, today I read that CNN  has taken to referring to George Zimmerman as a "white Hispanic".  With that said, the flood gates have opened and all bets are off.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about the colors in a crayon box.  Being raised by socially liberal, Democratic parents, colors were for drawing.  We did not cast labels on human beings.  A person was judged by the "...context of their character..."(MLK's famous speech) and that was it. 

Justice is blind?  Really?  It appears that someone paid for Ms. Justice to get Lasik surgery, because she seems to be very, very keen on the color of defendants lately.  Maybe CNN and heavy breather Chris Matthews took up a collection for blind as a bat, Ms. Justice.

I was very shocked to learn that whites can also be referred to as "creepy white ass crackers".  Maybe Nabisco can produce a line of these tasty little snacks.  The racially charged slang's that are pummeled at whites, Caucasians, homeys, crackers, etc... seem to bounce right off them.  They are, after all, just words.  What did mom & dad teach us?  "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

I'm not implying that slavery was not a wretched, horrible part of history.  BUT, so was the extermination of the Jews under Hitler, the genocide performed by Pol Pot, the massacres of the Tutsi and Hutus, the mass exodus of running, killing and forcing the Americas FIRST people off their lands and onto to barren reservations, straight towards poverty, alcoholism and oblivion.... (the Native American Indian).  So, thus far, in all those evil encrusted acts, one thing is true and accurate.  There was a rainbow of colors being slaughtered.

"I was born and raised a poor black child"...the famous one liner from Steve Martin's, "The Jerk" was funny when the movie debuted, and after watching it in reruns, it's still funny.  But, how many will see it as a heavy duty, subliminal racist sling? 

I was born a white girl in southern California.  I knew there were different shades of colors, but never paid attention to it.  I had and still have friends of all shapes, sizes, colors and religious backgrounds.  I don't look at people through rose colored glasses.  I see just fine with the specs I have on.  Perhaps, as a white woman, I was the only one paying attention to MLK when he gave his famous speech on context of character.

So, here we are, on the cusp of yet another racially charged case of black vs.  creepy white ass cracker.  The main problem with this is that George Zimmerman is a Hispanic male.  The media has played the trial, ad nausea,  even "pausing" for commercials.  Interestingly enough, I've yet to see an ad from Keebler Cookies for creepy white ass crackers. 

We've heard the experts analyzing the case from every angle.  What  if, what if, what if?  In the long run, all I've seen and heard is evidence that supports Zimmerman's report that he was assaulted and battered by Martin, and that Zimmerman acted in self defense.  Was Zimmerman a bit of a cop wanna-be?  Probably?  Could he have been a bit over zealous in his neighborhood watch routine?  Yes.  But... this trial isn't about that.  It's a case of self defense.
 
We read in the headlines how the Sanford P.D. and the state of Florida are gearing up for possible riots when the verdict is announced.  Suddenly, I am looking through my car window, caught in heavy rush hour traffic, on the Hollywood Freeway, after leaving work early. No one in their mind wanted to be caught in the mid-Wilshire district after those verdicts were read - Rodney King. 

What about the poor fellow, Reginald Denny, who on April 29, 1992,  was minding his own business, driving a truck through south central L.A. on Normandie when: 

..."his rig crossed Florence, a group of rioters enraged over the Rodney King verdict rushed toward him, pulled him out of the cab and beat him to within an inch of his life. The attack ended when Damian Monroe Williams took a cinderblock and bashed Denny's skull, fracturing it in 91 places and causing severe brain damage. "Read more: http://www.time.com/time/specials/2007/la_riot/article/0,28804,1614117_1614084_1614511,00.html #ixzz2YqMw7yOS

What does this story say?  Does our system of justice allow for riots if groups feel slighted when things don't go as they want?  Are we really a society that needs to prepare for riots if a "white Hispanic" is found not guilty of second degree murder of a "hoodied" black kid?    Is this what Martin Luther King and  civil rights founding leader Medgar Evans were about?  History  would say no.  The 1963 assassination of Evans, outside his house, in front of his family was key in churning the hatred of blacks and white.  Although it took almost 30 years for justice to prevail,  Byron de la Beckwith was caught, tried,  found guilty, and ultimately died in prison.  Justice was served.  The former KKK member is probably enjoying some sauna time in hell. 

So, why, if a white jury can find Beckwith guilty of a racially charged murder, in the deep south of 1963 -  why can't we have the faith to look towards JUSTICE and rely upon her to do the same in 2013? 

When Hell Shows Up On Earth - June 30, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June 30, 2013.  The Inferno raged, and 19 brave souls left this world.  GOD loves the firefighter.  He admires their bravery.  The heart of a firefighter beats eternally through the brothers and sisters they leave behind.  Memories are forever, they say.  This must be true.

The devil may lick the hot air, sending it's raging fury in orange red flames, soaring with angry fingertips, touching all around it.  But, GOD sends his army - an army of firefighters to quell the rage of the devil.  The alarm bells sound, the firefighter knows the time has come.

GOD knows some may fall by the side of the road; consumed by the ravaged evil of the flames.  But, they suffer not.  GOD sees to it that the angels bring a respite of cool embraces to carry the brave firefighter to heaven upon angels' wings. 

High above the fury of flames, 19 firefighters curse the devil with all their might.  To heaven they are bound.  Their loved ones left behind.  "Cry if you must", they utter with a whisper.  "I have not left you forever.  We will meet again.  We shall share an embrace". 

The devil never wins these torched battles.  GOD sees to it that the land is reborn; green grass, trees, flowers all return to blanket the ash-laden ground.  The memory of 19 brave souls are also reborn...as angels in heaven, forever watching their brother and sister firefighters.  "We will meet again, my friends.  We will meet again."

Colors from Crayons - All Broken

Evidently, the crayon box is full of missing Crayola colors.  Those remaining in the box have been pulled by the ACLU and other nonsensical groups that still believe that double standards and the PC gurus rule the ideals and premise of free speech.  What a shame - especially since words like onyx and ecru seem to be popping up in more and more crossword puzzles.

Let me establish some little tidbits of facts as they relate to my upbringing.  Much to the shock and dismay or even chagrins of others, I was raised in a somewhat liberal, Catholic Democratic household.  My parents, immigrants from Ireland, were morally conservative, but were socially liberal.  Colors were crayons, not labels slapped on human beings.

However, it seems that those days are long gone; replaced by the PC police.  It's frightening to open my mouth for fear of being labeled a racist.  In fact, this has occurred before.  A work place slander was shot at me, a direct hit to the back of my head.  Apparently, some distinctively ignorant liberals could not differentiate my inability to vote for Barack Hussein Obama due to his obvious lack of experience, and in all their mind-reading talents, thought my disdain to the POTUS was color based.  In all actuality, the USA still does not have a "black president" but rather a man whose father was African and mother was a white American.  But hey, that's just a sticking point.

Personally, I challenge readers to search their minds: past & present as to whether or not they have ever uttered a less than flattering comment about someone based upon their skin color, ethnic DNA, religious beliefs...anything.  Unless you are the Messiah, no one is perfect, and mistakes and regrets are part of the human experience.

The news has been peppered by the major no-no words uttered by Mrs. Paula Deen, a southern style chef, and at one point, a popular show on the Food Channel.  Apparently, Mrs. Deen is part of litigation, and during a recent deposition she was asked, under oath, if she had ever uttered the word, "nigger".  She complied and answered honestly.  I'm not really a fan of Mrs. Deen.  I can't cook to the caliber of my own son's culinary creativity, and as many times as I have watched "Chopped", I am capable only of preparing grilled cheese and oatmeal.

What shocked me though was the Food Channel giving her the axe, and refusing to renew her contract.  I suppose that every media outlet has the right to decide who they want to have representing their product - in this case - food.

However, this whole case seems to reek of old fish and even smelly cheese, in the DOUBLE standard arena.  For the life of me, I am duped.  A black person can refer to another black person as a "nigger", "nigga", etc., and that's appropriate.  Caucasians can be referred to as "cracker", "honky", etc. by blacks and its seems celebrated by pop culture.  
(Just listen to any rap artist i.e. Kanye West, Tupac Shakur, Lil Wayne, Biggie Smalls).

I refuse to embrace the notion that blacks seem to believe there is some sort of due owed them from the horrendous and unfortunate parts of U.S. history and the Civil War.  While I completely agree with the horrors of the Civil War, far more Caucasians were killed during that war.  Let's not forget the disgusting and disappointing prejudices against immigrants over the past 150 years.  Jews coming from Europe were horribly treated, as were the Irish, Italian, etc.  Discrimination is not a color based form of the human condition.  It happens to everyone, regardless of skin color.

Rev. Jesse Jackson might as well be known a race-baiter, along with other boisterous dummies on both sides of the political spectrum.  Who can forget the crap that spews from the likes of Al Sharpton or  anti-Semite Louis Farrakhan, directed towards Jews and Caucasians ? Venomous outbursts that go unpunished and/or excused.  Then society picks Paula Deen as the new poster child for race, unsavory comments and a total lack of tolerance or forgiveness.  The double standards astound me.

This is by far one of the most controversial topics to be discussed in current affairs.  No doubt I will alienate half of my reading audience with this topic.  I am comforted by the fact that my true friends now me as someone who could give a bloody damn about skin color.  I don't care.  I tend to follow MLK's words about character rather than skin color.

August 28, 1963 - I was not born yet (4 months later), but I firmly believe that to be one of the greatest moments in history, and the high point of the Civil Rights movement.

MLK spoke of a dream where little white children and little "negro" children could hold hands, and that we would be "judged by the content of our character".  Do those brave words no longer apply to modern day society? 

My crayon box is full of colors.  What about yours? 

House of Cards - A Real Life Political Play

Lately, I have found myself utterly captivated by an original series on Netflicks.  House of Cards, starring Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright is an exceptional series about the political plays going on inside Washington.  If it were not so utterly plausible, it would not be as entertaining.

Kevin Spacey's character is a politician who seems to be running the other politicians around, dictating just how and when to pull schemes out of hats, like a magician of sorts.  His dutiful wife, Robin Wright, seems to tolerate the political life, although she spends a great deal of time cavorting with a former lover.  Not to be outdone by Kevin Spacey's character, who is also dancing between the sheets with a naive political reporter.  A kind of sex for inside tidbits for the goings on inside Washington's dysfunctional whore house.

I have established that Spacey's character is a democrat and most of the characters are also democrats.  This really is not relevant.  The hysterical parts for me are events like true life Republican Sanford who got lost along the Appalachian Trail a few years ago, and was found to be doing the no-no dance with his mistress instead.  And if his paltry resignation years ago was not pathetic enough, somehow  he is like the prodigal son to South Carolina, and has been re-elected again, beating out Stephen Colbert.  So, the point being, playing footsie is a bi-partisan event.

House of Cards is riveting.  There are new plots running through every episode, with twists and turns along the way.  There are familiar faces throughout the show.  What is scary, almost petrifying about the series is that I imagine real life Washington to be almost a carbon copy for Kevin Spacey's naughty and conniving political figure.  It's as if I have turned on Fox News (any news source would suffice) and am seeing all the dirty politics going on in today's world.  We have the IRS, Atty Gen Eric Holder and what might appear to be a very scary incident involving reporter James Rosen, and investigation which make me believe that Big Brother is really watching us.  We have the Benghazi murders being covered up, which Obama is finding out will be more difficult than perhaps he might have initially imagined. 

Maybe House of Cards and current politics are simply mirroring each other's playbooks.  Oh, that's downright mortifying.

The Old Bait & Switch

I've been writing this blog for a couple of years now.  Topics touched upon are far and wide.  Hormones,  menopause, grape Popsicles, military honors, epithets, remorse, sadness, joy, elation and over all a sense of accomplishment.  I'm quite confident that along the way I've pissed off my fair share of people. 

Bill O'Reilly has a "Word of the Day" at the end of the evening program he hosts.  Once, the word was makebate.  As a former school teacher, Mr. O'Reilly seems keen on getting the English language across to his viewers.  Once am educator, always as an educator.  Upon hearing makebate, I looked it up and found the word to more or less be a fairly accurate description of who I really was.  Even as I write my blog, I'll leave the word for anyone interested in furthering their language skills.

So the events of late.  Tornadoes and loss of human life are always going to be a tough pill to swallow.  There is no getting around trying to explain a large funnel cloud dropping out of the sky and tearing one house to the back stoop, and then moving on, skipping 3 or 4 houses along the way, and then dropping down again, but this time on a school, full of children.  Why?

Then, before the dust settles from people picking up their lives out of a tree, 2 blocks over, Ms. Lois Lerner gets up in front of an oversight committee, denies or should I say, emphatically defends herself, but not before taking the 5th.  What's the point of going to the trouble of emphatically rattling of some innocence, only to pleading the 5th?  Strange.  Odder still, now Ms. Lerner is on Administrative leave.  hmmmm.

Poor James Rosen from FOX News, and  his poor parents, having creepy government snoops looking for ?????  what?  His aftershave?  His favorite deesert? What about investigating old gal pal Helen Thomas?  Surely, she got some interesting schtick to dig through.

We have the 2 crazed men with blood stained hands, kitchen knives, meat cleavers, standing in London, screaming as to the injustices in their own country.  So, what better logic than to go to the United Kingdom, chop the living shit out of a British soldier.  No sense.  None.  Or the fact that someone with a big set of cajones didn't take a meat cleaver to them.

And at the end of it all, we have BENGHAZI!  We have Ambassador Chris Stevens, Glen Dohery, Sean Smith and Tyrone Woods.  We will always have BENGHAZI.  The President has little to no apparent interest in really trying to find out the truth.  Meanwhile, these mens' parents grapple with the weight of the world, and hearing how their sons died with honor from a man who knows nothing of the word honor or what that world physically entails,

So, bait and switch.  What does it mean?  I just listed a short chapter of the past few days...I wonder what next week will bring.

The Babies of Kermit

I'm tired.  Exhausted would be more accurate of a definition.  My fatigue reaches right down to my toes, which I can feel, partly in thanks to steroids.  However, with the steroids come the irregular sleeping patterns, fancies of honey peanut butter sandwiches, tapioca pudding and asthma.  I just completed a small walk, at 0200, with my fearless companion, who at any point could have abandoned me,  possibly running to investigate the kitties with white tails, or worse even still, the rollie pollie prickly rodent who, with one quick slap of the tail, will deliver  your dog a snout full of barbaric quills and a very steep vet bill.  But, when it comes to steroids, you bless them and curse them all at the same time.  I am awake to write.

We are in the middle of moving from a condo to a 31 foot trailer.  This is no I love Lucky or Lucy jaunt either.  This is the permanent move where everything is going, sans a few tiny personal items, and the rest will be auctioned off.  The once thought of an "easy" button is out of batteries, or maybe I burned it.  But, what started out as an organized sense of chaos, in reality, is anything from that word.

In the middle of this disaster has been my absence from my daily addiction of true news watching.  Sure, last week, I watched with heavy heart at Mr. Hicks and his fellow witnesses testify as to the TRUTH behind Benghazi.  And when news medias' replayed, ad nausea, former Sec. of State's angry fist pounding rant on the senate table, I couldn't struck by her choice of pea green clothing, and her emphatic, "what difference does it make" diatribe.  Somewhere in the back of my head, I saw the play "Wicked" pop up in my mind.  All that was missing from that part of the act was for her face to be painted pea green as well.  Okay, I take it back, she was missing the broom and black pointy hat.

But, still, this is not the topic of the blog.  Tonight, as I tossed and turned from the effects of steroids, I could not control my contempt for yet another stooge in the great mystery of news stories this week.  Yes,  Pennsylvania had an abortion doctor, the likes of ; actually even more diabolical the Tiller Tiller the Baby Killer, on trial for the murder of little defenseless babies and also an adult victim who died from an apparent drug overdose while in Dr. Gosnell's care. 

The evidence showed that this MONSTER, for there is no other word to describe him,  snipped the spinal chords of aborted babies who were born alive, after intended abotions. A 7 month gestated baby being brought into this world, and against all odds, surviving, only then to have a doctor *do no harm* snip out its little life.  And to make it more reprehensible, he did it 4 times that we know of.

Did we learn nothing from the times of Hitler and his experiments at the hands another imp of Satan, Dr. Josef Mengelson?  Is all we have left in this world are the numb, cold, emotionless  empty shells where our hearts once belonged?  Whether pro abortion or not, have we slipped to a society and actually think that snipping the spinal chord of an innocent child seems to be of the norm?

What's next?  Will we have doctors who say and somehow logic their way into a defense that..."well, his head trauma was all to great, and we might have been able to fix it...but snipping his spinal chord seemed easier".

My question is also to the women who were having the abortions.  If a child is born alive after an abortion, does that child immediately become part of a ward of the state, thereby becoming  the legal responsibility of society?  When do we owe a legal obligation to fight to save their little life?  Aside from the horrific notion that a doctor is somehow performing 3rd trimester abortions, how, on the other hand do we have hospitals all over the country delivering these wee little babies, the using all means possible to keep them alive?

I just don't understand, or maybe really, I never will.  Is ignorance Bliss?

BENGHAZI - AMERICA DESERVES THE TRUTH

Where do I go from here?  It's been a long month.  I believe my last post was almost a full 30 days ago.  My absence is not for lack of hot topics, or diatribes, but rather what I perceived as a full schedule.  Ha ha.  What a gas.  ME -  a full life of things to do.  It's not as though I took off for some month long discovery trip to my beloved homeland of Ireland, or decided that it was high time to start looking for the exact spot where life began, deep in the jungles of Africa.  No, nothing  of  high excitement.  Just life here in Steamboat; watching the snow come and go.  In truth, far more COME of snow, then melting; although right now I am hopeful.
Today the whisleblowers come forth on Benghazi to offer their testimony on the murder of 4 brave Americans .  Amb. Chris Stevens, Sean Smith, Tyrone Woods and Glen Doherty.  During an October 19, 2012 interview with jester Jon Stewart,  President Obama cited, rather flippantly,...
'Because I would say, even you would admit, it was not the optimal response, at least to the American people, as far as all of us being on the same page.'
Obama responded: 'Here's what I’ll say. If four Americans get killed, it’s not optimal.'
He continued: 'We’re going to fix it. All of it. And what happens, during the course of a presidency, is that the government is a big operation and any given time something screws up.:...

Killed: Ambassador Chris Stevens, left and diplomat Sean Smith were among those killed in the attack on Benghazi

Heroic: Former Navy SEALs Tyrone Woods, right, and Glen Doherty, left, were also killed in the mortar attack

So, I have chosen to include the photographs of these brave Americans, so that we might not forget them.

It seems, in general, that after a tragedy strikes, we come together, arms up in the air, pontificating as to the "how dare those Muslims" do this to us.  Then the hype settles down.  We walk away.  Our arms return to our sides and we go about our lives, never looking back at what has occurred.

The same could be explained with regards to the recent bombings at the Boston Marathon.  Up went the arms of disgust:  "How dare those Muslims" started passing through the lips of angered Americans.  Low behold, 2 Muslim/Islam/extremists/angry young men, whatever politically correct terms you wish to use, were found to be behind the heinous act of homeland terrorism.

My day is full.  I have a list.  One of the items on the list is to listen to these important hearings with regard to Benghazi.  Why?  We, as Americans, have a right to know what happened.  Where did the failure occur?  Why did we hear Sec. of State Clinton sit in front of a microphone and emphatically state how people on the ground treated Ambassador Stevens' body with respect, only to then see, in horror and disgust, the truth -  a photograph of Ambassador Stevens being dragged through the street, dead and having been sodomized. respect, If Hillary Clinton believes that sodomizing a dead American is a form of respect, is she REALLY TRULY who we want as our next President?

I'm not playing a Democrat vs. Republican satirical joust right now.  These are the facts.  President Obama and Sec. of State Hillary Clinton fell down on the job.  They need to be held accountable for the murders of 4 dead Americans.  We, the people, DESERVE to have our leaders held to a certain standard.  GOD will sort all the sludge out on judgment day, but until then, our Government toils away, digging through high, stinking piles of shit, furiously trying to find the ounces of truth.

Ambassador Stevens, Glen Doherty, Sean Smith and Tyrone Woods DESERVE nothing less.

The Crowbar in Passwords

Lately, I have become overwhelmed and perturbed by the world of passwords.  We have them for everything.  Secret numbers, symbols, letters all lined up and then jiggled, like one might do if they we trying to resolve a running toilet.  It's annoying.

I'm not the type of person who is particularly fond of asswords, ooops a Freudian slip.  Of course I meant to say passwords.  This blog vehicle requires passwords that are cannibalistic.  Half the time, I find myself shaking my head, as though someone will create some type of atonement for the times I was cursing at the computer screen.

But really, consider this whole thing.  In a population that is forever growing, how many people, who are somewhat computer savvy, can actually exclaim a conquest over the turbulent maze of "your password is too short, or does not have an enough numbers, or needs a symbols such as an %,&,#,@ "? 

Blog Spot, which I really enjoy for blogging provides you with a password so that you can share or email your blog entry.  I find myself turning my computer to odd angles, or take my glasses off, which are bifocals, or shaking my head wherein to pretend disorganizing the bugs in my brain.  Alas, no path seems to offer a solution to the password trick.

So, under symptoms of  menopause or just plain age related eyesight, I can be  patient until Tom Selleck decides to come to my house and enter passwords all day while I admire him, through the bi-focals!

Remembering the Street Lamps

It has been a complete month since my last entry.  This blog and its contents are like a neighbor or friend.  I feel a solid chunk of guilt and remorse for being away for far too long.

With recent health issues which have overtaken my once leisurely way of life, my intentions were at least of merit.  Everyday brought a new set of goals, which included penning a few word strings in my blog.  For whatever reasons, the act of writing fell by the wayside.  The thoughts would be primed in my mind, ready then for transference to keyboard and pecking at the keys.  Yet, everyday I either found an excuse or plum forgot to muse about menopause.

So, why is tonight different from the past 30 days?   There's a great deal on my mind.  Back surgery played a few tricks, losing a few friends occupied my mind and broken heart, finding that another friend had breast cancer weighed heavily upon my mind.  I have several reasons.  Taken one by one, they may have been fought against, and even become victorious over, but given and/or taken as a whole, the 30 days of self imposed exile seems to have allowed me to regroup and get my muckers ready to do battle.

That large, over fed rodent Phil gave everyone a laugh and inappropriately exclaimed,  "you fools, spring is around the corner".  He's got a pretty good gig, although I read that he may be indicted, and has a possible death sentence of his head.  I live in the Rocky's, and spring would not appear to be here as of yet.

As the snow does melt on warm days, the snow departs, giving way to soaking brown piles of recycled dog refuse.  I believe this is the year I shall purchase one of those handy contraptions so that I do not need to bend over to scoop poop.  We stayed on top of our dog droppings all winter, but no one is perfect and there are other dogs cruising the neighborhood.  I relish for spring to arrive, but the revelation of brown poops piles tends to put an odor on the whole season.

With the change in time, comes the longer days.  As a child, we had a crowd of kids who would gather for bike riding, adventures, fort building, all without the benefit of cell phones.  We knew the party was over by the appearance of the street lamps coming on at night.  Those were carefree days.  I miss them.  Thankfully, those same childhood friends are still in my circle, and from time to time we are able to lament over days of carefree fun.

Eventually adulthood reaches us all.  We are in the process of packing up our house, painting, replacing kitchen cabinets, installing new interior doors, and making the place look like a million bucks.  I will be relieved when every room looks somewhat normal, sparse, but normal.  I will rejoice when an offer comes our way, and we can move on to our next adventure, hopefully before the street lamps come on.

Steamboat, snow and a yearning for SUN

On any given day you'll likely find me sequestered in my home.  No, there's no POTUS here!  My self imposed exile stems from the picture on your left.  The Steamboat Barn, an advertisers wet dream, draws many a tourist, and truth be told, locals alike, to snap a photo of this legendary icon to the Yampa Valley.  The sequestering comes not from the Barn, but rather the white stuff in the back ground, better recognized as SNOW.

It's a nice enough barn, and I am even willing to concede that during certain alpenglow sunsets, I find myself in awe of the beauty and all that Mother Nature's provides us, free of charge.  Well, almost free.  Nothing is really FREE anymore.

The winter blues have rendered me in a funk of SAD.  Indeed - I am sad.  Sad over the way our country is headed. Sad that the POTUS was re-elected.  Even more sad with where the moral compass is pointing.  But SAD, seasonal depression/disorder permeates my body from just about mid-September, with the deliverance of the first season's snows,  all the way through to May, after snow melts and MUD season begins to torment me.

Little doggies' footprints followed by my dearest husband's shoe prints, parade upon my wood floors.  Mud season brings MUD.  Rain, even more snow.  By the time the mountain closes for the season, I'm on the first plane to all points west and warmer.  Moab, Utah, a mere 6 hr drive:  5 if you drive really fast, breaks into the 80s by May.  Flights to Southern California can be had for a song if you hunt, seek and destroy Travelocity right about now.

In April, even the Grand Canyon, can afford a weary, wintered soul a reprieve and rejuvenation of their soul. This particular Grand Canyon trip, in 2011, was euphoric.  Not only did weather cooperate, but I was with such divine friends, that I almost never left.

This winter, in all its glory, and with 7 weeks or so of ski season still to be had, I've found the "smoking deals" and anxiously await 3 weeks in Port Hueneme with my second family, at the beach cottage.  Oh, how I dream of a day when I can persuade my ever loving spouse to be enticed to return to the west coast, if even for a week.

Melancholy is no way to go through life.  To lament over a lost love, or impending doom, or walking dead zombies - well okay, all those warrant an ounce or 16 ounces of sadness.  But, when relief in the form of a beach and sand is just mere months away, I can wage a silent and victorious war against the snow.

With visits to the LEFT coast, I can slip myself an ativan to endure the liberals, or perhaps they can enjoy one or three in order to endure me, and we're all on the same magical Big Lebowski White  Russian wave length.  I can venture to Andria's Seafood located at the Ventura Harbor.  I can nosh on thick and creamy New England Clam Chowder. Once I even felt a Tommy Burger was part of the trip, but alas, my stomach has other plans for me.  Can you say, "Rolaids"?

I visit my adopted nephew of sorts,  Sean.  My god-daughter Amanda and I walk her dog at the beach.  My friend Julie and I stroll her small beach side mean streets, at night, in our bathrobes - her a glass of wine, me a glass of non-alcohol anything.  We act like silly school girls.  We talk about all things nonsensical.  It's magic.  I visit my son Michael's grave at San Fernando Mission Cemetery.  I spend time with my lifelong friend Kris.  We argue, not with each other, but with every other insane, homicidal driver on I5.  We discuss Washington, D.C.

Most importantly, the west coast relief project provides me time with my son, Bryan.  A professional chef, my son cooks for me; or supervises me during my feeble attempts at Bananas Foster.  This Mother's Day, you will find me on a boat, with my son, on California's waters, fishing! Yes, fishing.  With my recent back injury, I can barely lift 10 pounds, but the chance of me hooking a great white shark or even a wayward  500lb guppy are slim.  However, any time spent with my son is like a drop of sunshine in my heart.

I've been absent from my blog for almost 2 weeks now.  I've had plenty of topics to rant about -  Charles Dorner, the ex-LAPD officer who turned terrorist, and murdered 5 people before becoming a piece of kindling in a Big Bear cabin.  I've endured hearing the FLOTUS announce an Academy Award winner.  I suppose next year, FLOTUS AND POTUS will simply declare themselves winner of every nomination.  And sadly, I awoke one morning to have my husband announce to me, before my morning coffee, that Pope Benedict XVI was to resign his post as Holy Father tomorrow, February 28, 2013.  But that, in and of itself, will be a topic for another day.

I had another round of facet joint injections in my spine, with 50-50 relief, and news of more to come.  I've had coffee dates with more of my special friends in the last few months, then I've had in years.  They fill me with hope and sincere well wishes.  I'm blessed for that.

My fervent hope and wildest dream is for a 1x a week blog entry (keep the moans to a dull roar) so I can relieve myself of all that moves me...almost like a much needed bowel movement.  Until then, I gaze outside my living room window, and wonder how many others are enjoying the full moon.

How did you get that BRUISE?

Life, post DVTs (aka blood clots) is an adventure.  Recently, my body has become somewhat of a dart board of black and blue marks.  I'm not even sure where these nasty looking bruises come from.  There is no rhyme nor reason as to their pattern.  And what is even more perplexing, if not even bizarrely entertaining, is that I can go to sleep and wake up the next morning, wondering where the latest round has appeared from.

I love dogs.  They are an extension of my soul and spirit.  My confirmation name, St. Francis of Assisi is appropriate.  When I was younger, I was the kid my parents dreamed or had nightmares about - the one that brought home some sort of animal, whether furry, feathered, quilled, or scaled.  All animals deserved a chance.  To my parents' credit, most creatures made a stop at our house, some stayed longer than others and some survived, and others received aid until they could pass from this life, over the Rainbow Bridge with dignity.  They were all welcome.

So, now living on coumadin, I am somewhat careful as to just how many gregarious doggies I can handle, or how may time my cat should be allowed to bite or scratch me.  A few dark spots here and there were gently and kindly diagnosed a "liver spots", better know as age spots.  I realized; an Epiphany of sorts, that I was reaching the mid point of life; that is, if we judge life spans from birth to 100.

Liver, not being high on my culinary tastes - I have renamed the liver spots, a more aesthetic sounding  "life experience" spots.  I love that name far more than liver.  Somewhere I figure there is a platter of onions awaiting me.  No way.  

The recent king daddy of bruises is behind my left calf.  It's a doosey.  And even more thrilling is that fact that I have no recollection of how it got there.  The lines and small spots I attribute to my over zealous dog, happy to see me when I walk through the door at the end of the day.  I wear those bruises as a bizarre badge of honor; someone loves me!  It's the ones that just appear from out of some secret jar of coumadin mystery bruises.

I suppose the alternative is another DVT, or worse pulmonary embolism.  I can mark those off my "been there, done that" list.  I can even mark a trip to Disneyland off as done. 

Talking Pretty

Lately, due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been hitting the reading racks with ferocity.  Some lovers of books stick to one vein of topics.  Murder/mysteries, crime novels, fact, fiction, poetry, self-help - everyone has something that entices the soul.  For anyone that knows me, I'm a political person who thrives from Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity  & Bill O'Reilly.  I also have a passion towards history. 

Since I injured my back in March 2012, my choice of topics has remained the same, but has now included humor, poetry, classics and an author introduced to me by dear friend - DAVID SEDARIS.  Often times, books can lag bite.  Some people who recommend books might  start their recommendation with "give it time, the first few chapters are a bit slow".  I go through the painstaking labor of endless chapters, and reach the end, all along thinking to myself..."it's got to get better"...alas it never does. 

DAVID SEDARIS is anything but boring.  I will be honest in saying a few chapters left me in a neurotic state - like watching Al Pacino's "Dog Day Afternoon", but what's a little neurosis when the rest of the book threw me into little grins, internal belly laughs, giggling, a smile and thoughts of "did this guy live my life"?   

Me Talk Pretty One Day is a collection of little tidbits of some one's childhood and life's experiences.  While each chapter is laid out like a short story, Sedaris weaves them all together, into a neat little package, and delivers a wonderfully funny book.  With chapters titled "Jesus Shaves" to the "Tapeworm Is In", a casual Barnes & Noble finger flipping browser might be drawing the conclusion of "WTF'???? And truth be told, I very well may have been one of those consumers. 

My dear friends, Don & Connie have known me the span of my life. They are like parents to me.  Both are lovers of literature and language.  I see their polite eye rolling when I announce my love of all things conservative and republican.  However, they are also keenly aware of my deep love for literature and that I do have a sense of humor.  A few months ago, a large, heavy package arrived from Amazon.  Once unwrapped, I found the complete works of e.e. cummings.  Tears rolled down my face - such a marvelous gift.  I caress that book often and each time I open to a new page, another one of e.e.cummings poems graces my eyes.

So, during December, when facing an unreal amount of stress, Amazon delivered another package.  An early Hanukkah present?  Yes!  No card attached, and none was needed.  The minute I saw the title, and read the first chapter, I KNEW!  My friends, my dearest, most treasured parental friends had done it again. 

It's a blue cane!

As some of you may be aware, I slipped and fell almost a year ago - March 14, 2012 to be exact.  It  was a thrill of a lifetime, akin to colonoscopy preparation!  I managed to break 6 water glasses and a coffee pot on my way down and miraculously landed on a floor rug, being spared the multitudes of killer glass shards that could have become lodged in my backside.  Whew...my butt is a pretty big-ass target too, so the rug is the hero of the story.

Lucky me.  Blarney to that; well maybe if you look at it from my ass's perspective in that I am glass free, but that as an Irishwoman, I managed to fall in the first place.  And, add to which indignity, I fell in March, my favorite month for Irish-ness.  I managed to herniate a disc and since then,  life has thrown me a few curve balls.

Today's fashion statement for me is a blue cane.  My fierce Irish Shillelagh is a bloody fine example of all things Irish, but alas, it's bronzed tip makes for a dangerous duel with the ice and snow of Colorado.  Thus, I found myself in the little old lady aisle of our local Wal-Mart, shopping for a cane.  Who knew there were so many styles to choose from.  Colors galore.  Pink ones with spots, leopard patterned poking sticks, flexible ones - handles of all grips and materials.  I almost felt as though I was shopping for a car.  Usually one expects me to be flying around on a broom stick. 

Being sensible, and realizing I was purchasing a cane, not a Gucci handbag, I settled on a steel blue cane, that can be folded if needing to be stored, with a nifty skid proof bottom, and rubberized handle.  It does compliment my blue jeans, and a Columbia fleece jacket.  Fashion has never been my forte.  Who could have imagined that cane shopping was a task that I was accomplished at?  What the hell is wrong with this whole scenario?

So, here we are - a typical Colorado winter.  Flipping -22 degree temps, mysteriously warmer days of 10+, or even wet, heavy snow very much like today's weather.  My trusted cane has served me well thus far.  I remain vertical, rather than horizontal.

Along with the cane, I have obtained a temporary (I pray this to be true) handicap placard for my car.  I had an epiphany of sorts a few weeks ago, when I could barely make it from a parking spot in Timbuktu to the doors of our grocery store, that I might require a bit of a luxury with a placard.  It was a sad day for me.  In my mind, I was relinquishing my status as an able-bodied person to some sort of broken robot, who needed a lube job.

My back is still a mess.  My surgeon is by far one of the finest; working with the U.S. Ski Team, and also "inventing" a titanium device which was implanted in my spine a few years back and had, up until I fell,  relief.  Sure, we all suffer from "back pain" or a "stiff back", but that nifty little X device was a gift. 

Pain is a new word in my vocabulary.  Actually, if  I could be so bold as to further that statement with:  unrelenting, horrific, never ending back pain that has taken over my life, changed me, and made me something I don't really recognize anymore.  Most days I manage through it with a stiff upper lip, chipper attitude and Irish genes.  I write my husband's photography blog, write in my own journal, think of  ideas on how to bake the perfect souffle, and yearn for conversation.

The title of my blog, when it was born a few years ago, was meant to be a parody to the grace-filled path of menopause.   Then, politics started to creep in, along with an almost Seinfeld-esque take on life in general, things that scream odd, obscure, bizarre or contemptuous about everyday life.

Tonight I felt the need to write about my spine, what it is putting me through, and the warped JOY of buying a cane.  I had 2 root canals recently, and to most dental patients who might have the sympathy pains of..."oh ouch, you poor thing",  I sat back in that dental chair, exclaimed "bring it on" and let the dentist drill away.  I'd rather have 100 root canals, if only to be relieved on this monkey on my back.

So, in closing tonight, as I am unable to sleep because my legs keep falling asleep, and the Percocet has yet to kick in, I will spend 10 minutes complaining, and then getting a satisfying giggle in that I just got excited about buying a cane.  Life is just full of little tidbits of fun. 

PEACE and PERCOCET...have a great day.

CRAP-THE OTHER KILLER

Recent moves by our POTUS to style his own 2nd Amendment, got me to thinking about other killers we have in this world. 

Okay, so liberals and the Hollywood weirdos are on the happy wagon about guns, gun violence and that their anointed one, the POTUS, should further his agenda in someway banishing guns from America. Forget that it is about a piece of paper, written over 200 years ago, by brave men. Forget all that stuff, and go after another piece of our freedom.  Ridiculous.

I am not implying that recent school shootings are to be overlooked.  However, over reacting is not going to help anyone either.  Seems like America just likes to overreact.  Let's talk about all the other things that have caused deaths.  Bombs, knives, any variety of things.  But there isn't a cry from the far left about those things.

So, today, while perusing the grocery aisles, I got to thinking about things that kill thousands of  people each year.  CRAP.  You know what it is - put down that Twinkie, or cheese stuffed crust slice of pizza..  Push away from the table, put down the Mountain Dew and start examining what we put in our mouths every day. 

Clogged arteries, big obese bellies and butts, smoking cigarettes, drinking booze in abundance, everyday lives.  We do it to ourselves, which is even more incredulous.  I don't hear the POTUS or liberals going on a tirade about Twinkies.  There is no ban on bagels and cream cheese. 

This is not going to be one of my long, drawn out tirades because quite frankly I am pissed off.  I am pissed at those who are not fighting for our Constitution.  Is it not worth it?  Or is it easier to sit on the couch, with a beer and a bag of animal cookies, watching the POTUS toss his executive orders around like there is not a care in the world?

Ann Coulter's Dishwasher

Reading Ann Coulter is one of my favorite past times.  Her last essay was in regard to the annoyance of a silent dishwasher.  For those of you who think Ms. Coulter is a political antagonist, you are wrong!  Well, perhaps just misguided or uninformed.

Ms. Coulter starts off with a mention of her irritation with political happenings and all things Washington,  D.C.  With this, I must agree.  If 2012 was a thorn in my political side, 2013 isn't starting off much better. 

A friend recently blogged about variations of terms such as "kicking the can down the street" and "fiscal cliffs".  I thought, after reading his blog, that both those phrases could go hand in hand when describing the shenanigans happening in good old Washington, D.C. 

The fiscal cliff has been, or was, or will be and might even continue to be, the phrase of a decade.  Some refer to it as "looming" or a "Thelma & Louise" moment.  I am but a mere menopausal housewife, and my interpretation of it is a bunch of idiots who haven't the slightest idea of how to create a budget and live by it.  Just what are we paying these goons in Washington for, anyways?  Even worse, how did they get elected?  Oh, that's right - we, THE PEOPLE, lost our minds, and voted for dummies.

In the middle of this stench pile is our POTUS.  He gets in his tax payer jet, flies to Hawaii for a few short days, then flies back to Washington to deal with the impending doom of a fiscal cliff, and then, egregiously flies back to Hawaii to resume his vacation.  How many wasted gallons of jet fuel did that cost the United States?  Before anyone gets their panties in a wad, I am not besmirching the POTUS a vacation, but when we are asking everyday Americans to live within their means, nickle and dime their budgets, go without because of a failing dollar, etc, then how can we, THE PEOPLE, take any of these suggestions to heart when we see the POTUS flying back and forth, simply to stick his nose into the fiscal cliff .

I've got to ask - why didn't he just save the tax payers a few bucks, stay in Washington in the first place?  He could have done his arguing with John Boehner, wasted time, then when it was all said and done, board Air Force 1, head over to Hawaii and enjoy time with his family.  It should be that simple.

I like Ann Coulter's stories about silent dishwashers - I believe the House, the Senate and the POTUS could take a lesson from that.