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.