Latest earth shaking headline from FOX NEWS: Brad Paisley Accused of Supporting Muslims for Being Named After a Pattern in a Scarf!

You heard it here first, folks! After getting Dunkin' Donuts to remove their Rachael Ray ad because of her seditious, terrorist supporting scarf, FOX NEWS is now going after Brad Paisley because it's obvious that he, also, is a far less subtle supporter of the terrorists. I mean, he unashamedly, publicly flaunts the name Paisley!



It's about time that a news organization as vigilant as FOX NEWS got after that subversive Rachael Ray. For months I've been aware that her constant pronouncing of "EVOO" on her alleged cooking show is really terrorist code for "Hey Herb, we're meeting tomorrow night at 7:o0pm to plan our next attack, then home in time to watch LOST."



We can all breathe a little easier today. "Fair and balanced" has been guarding the nation's butt, which is obviously somewhere no other news organization will go.

Beauty May Be Beheld by Only One, I've Found

So ....... when was the last time you shot off fireworks just for yourself? (Get your minds out of the gutter, for Pete's sake.) Well let me tell you, I just put about $65 into the night sky tonight just for my own personal celebration of being out in the country, alone and able to watch some pretty cool fireworks all by myself. OK so maybe I was celebrating a tad bit more than that, even, but that's enough, isn't it? A little Black Cat fun for one. Solo sparklers. Blasts and beauty beheld by the (for tonight) bachelorette.

Tonight was a good reminder for me that we all need to do what we want (if you can) when the mood is right. Rather than waiting for some publicly ordained moment for joy, celebrate as needed. It's kind of like instead of being told when it is appropriate to carouse, choosing how, when and why we feel the need to honor life here on earth and then going ahead with that choice.

If you're not lucky enough to live in a state where they don't care whether you blow off nine fingers and part of your nose in joyful celebration, I recommend moving to Missouri. Libertarians love it here ....... year round. Well, except for that dastardly helmet law, but we're working on that.

Cheers!

Sharon Stone and the Grace of God

Just heard on the news this morning about Sharon Stone's karma comment and China. She's certainly a beautiful person on the outside, I don't know her interior at all.


Sure would't mind having that body style, far as I can tell from here.

Nevertheless and beautiful bodies notwithstanding, the hub bub about Ms. Stone's statement got my attention and got me remembering ....... remembering how the blame for Hurricane Katrina and 9/11 belongs squarely on the backs of gay people. Oh you didn't know that? Well, Pat Robertson considers it so ...... what more do you need to know?

So anyhoo ..... what occurred to me is that this "karma game" is the new millennium, finger pointing version of the old "blame game". We just feel infinitely more enlightened when we're calling it "karma" instead of "blame".

In other words, we can blame those with whom we have issues for anything that goes wrong in their lives by calling it their "bad karma". So NYA NYA NYA ..... SEE, TOLD YOU you were wrong. Nanny nanny poo poo I KNEW IT was all your fault, see what happened to YOU - now you have your BAD KARMA!!




Problem with this is, who do we blame for our own foibles and tragedies? We all have them. Is Sharon Stone (who has had a severe stroke to deal with - maybe it was the fault of "Basic Instinct 2"?) REALLY blaming thousands of innocent people in China for their karma causing a horrendous earthquake? No, I don't really think so. I want to assume that she was just venting her distaste for the Chinese government and their mistreatment of Tibet. Politics is one thing, however, making karma assumptions where thousands, perhaps millions, of innocent people is concerned, is fully another.

This reminds me of another commonly used statement which I've often wondered about: "There but for the grace of God go I." I've heard many utilize this statement, often in a reverent manner, but always meaning something like, "whew, if I didn't have the grace of God on my shoulders, I may have ended up the same way THAT poor person did!" I've heard Oprah use this phrase, among many others who say it as though they are praising God. To me it wreaks the reverse. To me it sounds as though they praise themselves for owning the grace of God. I could be wrong ....... but to quote Charles Barkley, I doubt it.



So I've wondered ..... does this mean that the "poor person" did not receive God's grace? Does that mean that whatever the "poor person" did was warranted, because for some reason that "poor person" has fallen from "God's grace?"

Makes you wonder about God and love, doesn't it? Isn't God supposed to be about love? Isn't karma supposed to be about our own personal, private (PRIVATE) lessons? How dare we make the assumptions that we may know the reason for the tragedies in strangers' lives.

I'm riled this morning. Just a little bit. Because this has made me look at my own desire to judge those around me ...... albeit that quality occurs far less often than it used to, I still find it a difficult and nasty quality to wholeheartedly shake from my being. As I envision my painting of the world and the people in it without the constant cursory, instant and superficial judgment of others, I envision the world which I think God intended, whoever your personal "God" may be. It's not one with a holy finger pointed this direction, throwing earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes and toenail fungus at us when someone finds our choices distasteful, in their self-qualified opinions.

Why can't we all just get along. Hmph.

I poked myself in the eye

I read a quote this morning. It's a really good one by Marian Wright Edelman.

"Learn to be quiet enough to hear the genuine within yourself so that you can hear it in others."

Thinking to myself ....... I do hear other people. I love their authenticity, knowing the core of their being, feeling the love and caring that surges from their souls. This I feel from my good friends without exception, but do I feel my own core as well as I've thought? Do I know myself as well as I've imagined?

Today I doubt. Today I think that my desire to sit in my birthday chair, typing to friends, blogging, perusing eBay for that one thing our ranch still needs ...... may be my avoidance of life. I've been putting off the little daily necessities of life: bill paying, laundry, hanging out in coffee houses ...... in favor of sitting in my birthday chair watching the birds. I could be my Grandma. I'm watching life more than living it?

Maybe that's why I poked myself in the eye with a rusty wire yesterday. It forced me to leave my sanctuary, sit in a clinic waiting room (forever), have a doc poke me again in the eye with lidocaine (it stung) and dye (it was orange) and then shine a black light into my eye in the darkened room (pretty coooooooool, man!), and anticipate the hundreds in emergency medical bills we will now receive (again) because health insurance is - to be polite - shitty (that's as polite as I can be)!

Wait a minute ........ all yesterday's eye poke experience did was make me glad to be back in my birthday chair again.

Never mind.

What are they thinking?

I’ve been thinking of this since long before I was married. Hopefully that’s obvious, but just in case. Nevertheless here is the odd little social situation that came to my mind today after reading someone’s comment about something. I mean, the comment really had nothing to do with this BLOG, but there is a long distant connection. Trust me. LONGGGGG distant.

So here I am, laptop on lap, thinking about this subject while my sweetie pie finishes getting the Harley ready for this summer’s adventures. Yep, believe it or not, this is what’s on my mind right now. Why the hell do men stick their tongues down your throat on your first date? I mean truly, what are they thinking?

Is it that thanks to all the impersonal technology available to us (24 hour news reporting, spill your guts internet sites, cell phones ringing every 12 seconds) we have become inured to the age old wisdom of getting to know one another s-l-o-w-l-y and comfortably? Is it that some of them just plain don’t get past their high school boy kissing prowess?

Remembering back to my early dating days long (eons) ago, I recall that in my late teens and early twenties I enjoyed some very healthy lip action. Tongues were not involved. At least initially. That came later. Much later. Well OK, except for one unfortunate incident in high school. Worst kisser ever. Felt like my face was being swallowed by a wet fish ...... and he had the audacity to suggest that I was the bad kisser. Blech. Still makes me want to wretch.

High school notwithstanding, fast forward to my late forties and early fifties and men met here and there, not only on the internet (so it can’t all be blamed on technology). Picture it if you have the stomach for it. Meeting a strange man (little did I know how strange) for dinner on the south side of Milwaukee. He was
some kind of psychologist/psychiatrist from CHItown. Ok, sounded intriguing. I like psychology. Figured we’d have some good conversation during dinner.

Well, we didn’t. He was boring as hell. Kept staring at me like he wanted to devour me rather than his poorly cooked steak. Blech again. Maybe he just wasn’t my kind of guy ...... or maybe the look on his face just gave me the willies thinking he must not have had an encounter with a female for many, many months. Whatever. The look made me think of that old saying about how nobody needs a psychologist as much as a psychologist. Ok, actually I just made that up.

So fast forward to the end of dinner. I’m ready to head home to my lovely, peaceful cottage in Brewer’s Hill. All by myself. But no. He wants to see some of Milwaukee. I admit that this is a personality flaw of mine. I took pity on the poor little dude. I said I’d go for a short ride. “Idiot”, you are thinking. Yes, so am I. I even thought it at the time.

So here we are on our short drive so that I could show him some of the city. Ok, he just paid for dinner and I, feeling that my time had been bought (where did that idea come from?), agreed to this half hour task. He seemed undesirable yet harmless.

Sure as saliva we got five minutes away and he pulled into a parking lot to “look at the beautiful sunset”. Next thing I knew there was an arm around my neck and a tongue down my throat. BLECH. I mean ....... BLECHHHHHHHH. One might think that when a woman is trying desperately to get free of your grasp, while making gagging, retching sounds you might get the clue that she’s not into what you’re doing. Or is that just my impression?

Need I say this was the last time I ever communicated with this little patoot? Need I say that after the relatively same experience in high school, I did not have a second date with the dreadfully insensitive turd? I thought not.

Hmmmmm ........ I'm hearing that wonderful roar of a Harley. Think I'll go stick my tongue down someone's throat ...........

Bumper Sticker for our President

Ok, so James Carville emailed me this morning. He seems to like me because he's always asking my opinion about this or that. Today's request was for a new bumper sticker summing up W's progress the past five years.

Now you understand that I have to fit this all on a little weeny bumper sticker, so I had to choose my words carefully. Something to really grab the last five years by the .......... hair.

This should work:

Osama's breathing; recession's winning; oil prices x4
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED, W!

Spring has sprung in MOland

Zowee ...... I got up early this morning. Actually pulled my little black convertible out of the garage before 7:00 a.m. Yawn. Been a long time. This is unheard of since the seventies when my girls were babies and I had to get them to the day care center and me to work by 7:30 a.m. Can we say glad those days are done? But I digress.

The very first feeling I noticed upon rolling down the windows was being enveloped in a wet, moist, (yes I know that’s redundant, I’m trying to make a point here), warm cloud. Picture in your mind walking into the jungle exhibit at the Milwaukee “domes” in mid-winter. Picture sliding into a 65 degree steam room. Yep, 65 degrees this morning and heading for 70s. Sorry, my friends up north. I keep telling you to move to St. Louis!

Next sight that met my eyes was the green grass. Now 90% green and growing, I realized I’d be getting on our little tractor soon, mowing my paths and crop circles and smiling while the sun shines ....... or singing in the rain, whichever. Sounds corny? Maybe ...... or maybe it just sounds like someone who loves being out in her nature preserve, enjoying the elements so immensely that she’s usually seen smiling while riding. Without a seatbelt. Wild woman here.



Anyway, the smiling and crop circles are worth it, if only to confound my neighbors ..... fortunately at least 6 acres away. Crazy city woman, they're thinking ..... why does she mow like that? Because I can, I'm thinking. Why don't you?



Driving the mile and a half to our small town, locally owned little grocer is always a pleasure. Our winding blacktop passes farms, forest and fields, beautiful no matter the season. I love envisioning what this world was like for Native Americans ..... rolling hills, thunderous clouds, open spaces, sparkly spring fed streams and then the enormous Mississippi River. Yummy.



Tiny grocers are a treat and I foresee their return as gas prices ridicule us by heightening our economic impotence. As I had forgotten a few necessities for my hunny bear’s (gag now) weekly meals I searched the yogurt section for something which had not expired. OK, tiny grocers do have some minor drawbacks to be worked out. Out of the 35 or so cartons in the cooler I managed 5 strawberry flavors that had not yet expired several days ago. Yay - just enough!

You see I have a routine with my hubby. He agrees to support me like the Princess that I am, and I agree to spend his money any way I want. Seems fair to me. Before you say, "geez, must be nice to be a Princess", this does include cooking and caring for him like he is a King on the day and a half that he’s home each week, and making up all his meals for him so he can eat cooked full o’ love food when he’s on the road. He lives in one of those enormous semis all week long, traveling the midwest and often farther encased in a big metal rolling home that includes his bed, fridge, supper cooker and a few other necessities of life.



Yep, it looks just like that.

So here I am, blogging on my new laptop, sitting in my birthday chair, kitty crunching my left typing hand, windows open to the warmth and birdie tunes, NPR on the radio.

Life is good for a Princess.

Stereotypes Ad Nauseum

I am listening to a hilariously funny monologue by Larry Miller. Oh ya, it's cracking me up to hear the phrase "men don't hear what women say" 29,000 times. Soooooooo funny. Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuch a copout. Sooooooooooooooper tedious, moronic, boring, irritating, degrading and patronizing.



No doubt that I have become more sensitive to the plethora of society who cannot carry on a conversation. I mean a real conversation. I mean something other than a monologue about every minute detail of their and their friends' lives. I'm talking about the kind of monologue that goes on till my eyes have glassed over and I begin having the urge to kick and run. Yep. I glass over, fantasize kicking the current monologuer in the kneecap and then taking my ass on the road as fast as I can do so.

You might be wondering what the catalyst to these monologues can be. Is it my fault somehow? Is there something I do that leads these people to launch their diatribes and/or James Joyce worthy descriptions of people I've never met and whom I never hope to meet? Well you're right. It is me. I am the catalyst. How do I accomplish this amazing feat? I'll tell you how: I speak. I actually attempt to get half a sentence spit out in record time regarding some fascinating subject and then you know what happens. A WORD I have spoken interrupts the monologuer's flat line and ignites a distant memory in her catalogue file. At which time I'm interrupted with a 7 minute monologue on what that word means to her. Her card file opens, everything spills out and she proceeds to pick each card up from the floor, trying to sort everything in date order without pause for comment, as I ............. glass over.


Case in point. The other day my neighbor stopped over. After serving her tea on the front porch and exchanging (I use this word loosely) initial pleasantries, I began to explain why I had been on the phone in the midst of quite the animated conversation when she arrived. Since she overheard a portion of this conversation I felt a polite explanation might be in order. Having confused her for someone who might be interested, I soon realized how wrong I was! I had no longer gotten out the words, "That was a good friend of mine who just heard from one of my former boyfriends who ............." and she was off and running. Yep, she heard a familiar word: boyfriend, and BINGO, the card file opened.

"Oh, I had a boyfriend once who left me to go sailing around the world. Can you imagine ...... blah blah blah blah blahdy dah" for the next ten minutes."

So back to my original point. MEN don't hear what women say? Actually I agree. They generally don't. Why? Not because they can't, but because they don't care to listen. Listen is an action verb (back to those verbs). I have to take partial issue with the statement that men don't listen, however. I would like to suggest that most people don't listen. I am fortunate to have a dozen or so friends (both female and male) who know how to listen, analyze, converse and enjoy a true exchange of ideas. For these people in my life I am shockingly thankful. I blame all of you for making me impatient and contemptuous of those who choose not to do what you do so well.

I'm tired of the excuses. Not only is intention crucial for our ascension to a higher societal level; communication is equally as essential. If we can't perceive another's intentions because we choose not to hear them then intention means nothing in the whole scheme of our relationships. (Can anyone say George? Dick? Donald? Condie?)

I'm still sitting here watching Larry Miller and waiting for the punch line. Any punch line. What I've gotten so far is that men can't hear, men only want the remote control in their hands (well ALMOST only the remote control), men appear to listen to women on a first date only as foreplay to sex (amazing how fast they forget to do that, isn't it?), women remember every single word men say and hold it against them forever, when men say they'll call that really means they won't, when men say "I love you" that really means I want sex, and on and on ad stereotype.

That's OK. I stopped hearing him a long time ago.