A Request???
Somebody actually requested that I give them a link to my blog?  Dammit.  That's just like my friends....ask me to actually deliver something, rather than just whinge.
So as I lay in bed the other AM, listening to NPR (what? I know, it's not nearly far enough to the left, but Al Franken is no longer broadcasting)  I was trying to understand (again) how Trump got elected.  I mean, I KNOW  the how, but I just can't wrap my head around the fact that one third of the voters in the US are still in love with him.  So I tried the "back up" method of determining the 'why' of anything.  So, 3 (or 4 - determined by which poll I read) out of every 10 voters still like their choice, eh?  My friend used to continually remark while changing the television channels at lightning speed, "Another example of the 'dumbing down' of the American population." So maybe now, with the election of this diseased lecher, the dumbing down is complete?  This may be a dystopian future to rival the progression of climate change.  Backing up one step from that, (and after agreeing with that premise) would it be genetics?  Like the copy machines, have we just printed out too many humans and the double helix is fading?  Or, is it our educational system?  Have the corporations in charge of developing and printing textbooks finally succeeded in turning out young humans mentally equipped to just read and believe commercials?  I'm hoping it's that last one, and not the first.  That would be ironic.  Just as we succeed at cloning, we have no educated intellectuals to clone.  So if it's the educational system, backing up one step from that, what would we do, and what would've caused that?  I know that Oregon schools are failing...all you have to do is go here:   https://www.kgw.com/article/news/investigations/oregon-has-one-of-shortest-school-years-lowest-graduation-rates-in-us/283-560012138  and read this eyeball blistering report.  So taking a step back from failing the students in schools, where does that put us? I think that if we could just understand the importance of educating as many students as we could, to a least a Bachelor Degree level, it would begin to put the brakes on the "dumbing down" of America.  We need to stamp out the "I don't have any kids in school - why do I have to pay this tax?" attitude, and realize that critical thinking (and so, critical planning) in the future adult population of the country will be more valuable than even Bit Coin.  So then I actually had to get out of bed, and watch "Let's Make a Deal".  Wayne Brady solves a lot of worries.  "It's Door 3!  Door 3, you maroon!"
    

All the Old Stuff

Friday, December 13, 2013

Time Flies Ms Noud

Time Flies Ms Noud

I just got a piece of junk mail telling me this in a two inch bold headline.  I wouldn't mind so much except that A) No one else at the apartment complex got one,  B)  it was from my doctor's office and C) it was on an over-sized postcard that everyone else could see.  I mean, what would YOU think if your neighbor pulled that out of their mail box and quickly slammed it into a much-too-small-pocket?   "Hmmm...Overdue electric bill?  Terminal disease?  Wow. That's one mean doctor."  I smiled and said "Oh, dental check-up time." 
Seriously though, I'm taking it as a message from God.  For years I have sat around saying things like "As God is my witness Prissy, I will never be poor again".  And "God I really need to exercise more."  And "God I really need to lose weight."  And "God, I should go to New Zealand fly fishing. Why not?"  Since there was no reply I am going to assume that there is no good reason not to go fly fishing in New Zealand. Of course there's really no good reason not to do those other little things I asked for help on, but the New Zealand trip thingy seems more like it would be in the province of  God's bag of tricks.  If He can pull off getting me to exercise and lose weight too, I won't be turning that down.
This all started because it's Christmas and I haven't received one Christmas card yet from my far-flung family and friends.  This year, last week, I went through my address book for the first time in a long time.  After picking up all the torn scraps of paper and envelopes that fell out when I opened it (that's what passes for 'putting you in my address book' to me) I sat down and mailed a Christmas card to everyone in there that I was kinda sure was still alive.  It's now three days later and I have yet to hear back from anyone.  How depressing!  I know people are busy or moving or dead but HEY!  Time Flies!  Don't they know?  Doesn't their doctor warn them?  Of course there's a few other mitigating factors, the biggest of which is the fact that at age seventy-three this is the first time I've ever purposefully done this.  All my other forays into Christmas greetings were frantic replies to cards that had been sent to me making me say "God I really need to answer this person." Suddenly  I thought maybe the card was a message from God!  Then I thought of all the other things I needed to get caught up on, and the easiest was to update my yearly blog.
Whew.  Got that monkey off my back.  Now for that trip to New Zealand - I'm ready God.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Scratching, scratching, scratching

There is no salve that will cure someone of trying to do ink scratchboard technique pictures. I've stopped screaming for a moment and will be starting up again as soon as I put knife to scratchboard and realise that once more, my brain has forgotten to think in reverse. Or maybe is incapable of thinking in reverse, or is it inverse....or is it negative space I have to remember. Lets see, do I cut away everything that isn't in the picture? Scratch away the lines that form the picture? Scratch away the picture? How do I scratch in circles? Shouldn't it be called an " In-X-Acto Knife" when it's in my hands? How can I stop myself from reaching for the eraser when I screw up? Which is often. Oh wait...that doesn't look half-bad....oh no, now I've cut the dickens out of myself. At least I've stopped screaming, now if I could just stop bleeding....

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Chewing, spitting and scratching.

OK I'll admit it, I'm only a part-time grandmother. The rest of the time I'm still 25. Still, I have to return to the current time period because I love baseball and I love my shining-dime-perfect grandson's Little League baseball games. Despite almost freezing to death, sitting very, very still in frog-strangling rain and sucking the life from four perfectly good, newly-charged camera batteries at least once (and sometimes twice) a week, I have to say the games have been eye-openers right from the season opener. You probably think, as I did, that the baseball pros have worked hard and learned all those really interesting moves; the stretches, the wearing of tight pants, the lumps in between the cheek and gum, the tugging at tight pants, the bottom slapping, the scratching in obscene places etc., but it turns out baseball players are born knowing these things. As soon as they get the uniform, even at age 5 or 7, they turn into tiny little A-Rods & Jeters. Of course there's a big gap between looking professional and being professional. About a 20 year gap as far as I can tell. Usually there's more interesting action in the folding chair sections among the parents than on the field...and in neither area is much professionalism shown. Gotta bring the family (barking, defecating) dog despite all pleas by the team coaches and managers. Gotta yell (belated, totally useless) instructions ("Keep your eye on the ball" "Throw it to first!" "Tie your shoes!" "Do you have to go to the bathroom?") to their kids. Then there's the freely offered "constructive" criticism ("If that first base coach can't get it right I'll have to go out there and give him a lesson." "If that moron could field, my kid would've gotten up to bat again.") for the other people on the field. I try to keep my comments short: "Nice hit" "Good eye" "Good swing" and only occasionally enlighten them with succinct phrases to brighten the coaches and managers day ( "What a Maroon!" "Since when is in-the-dirt a call strike?" "He had his foot on the bag, four-eyes!") etc. They are lucky to have me, the only sane grandparent there.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

A New Conspiracy Theory

I have noticed a sinister connection between the size of one's bankroll, and the ability to avoid confronting unwelcome visitors. If you have a large home, even with a large mortgage, you have four, maybe more, exit/enter points. If you are living in a tiny apartment, you only have, as the Allman Brothers and many others have bitterly pointed out, "One Way Out." For example, I live in rent-assisted, senior living place and I only have one door. Every time I leave, I have to face a cheery someone-or-other who wants me to "chat" and then "have a nice day". When I owned a tiny mobile home, I had two doors; a front and a back door, although, one was visible from the other. When I lived in a large, single family home I had four doors; front, side sliding glass to patio and garage door; a door on every side of the building. I recently visited a home that was huge (by my standards), the owners were rich (by my standards) and they had five exits!! Front door, two patio doors, a back door and the double garage doors (I only count those as one door, although, there was also a side door to the yard that opened off the garage. There were exits on five different sides of the building! So, the richer you are, the easier it is to make a clean getaway. Coincidence? I think not.

National Befuddlement Day Winner

Bought a lamp at the Salvation Army for $2.99. Took it home, put in a bulb from an older lamp and switched it on: nothing. "Must be a burned out bulb," I think. Picked it up to unscrew the bulb and it flashed bright and then went out. "Nuts! Now I DID burn out the bulb." I threw out that bulb and put in a new one. Nothing. I flipped the switch a few times. Nothing. I picked up to take out that bulb, and it came on, but very dim for a 100 watt bulb. I sat it down. I wiggled the cord. Still dim. Hmmmmm. "Well, that sucks," I thought, picked it up and it flashed brightly and went out again. Great. Now I blew another bulb. I unplugged it and tightened all the connections, put in a new bulb and plugged it in: nothing. Swearing, I unplugged it, wrapped up the cord and sat it by the door to return it. Later, staring at it from across the room, I thought, "Nuts. Now I either have to return it or buy new guts for it. It must have a bad wire someplace. Unless..............." you guessed it. It has an on/off switch, but it's a "touch control" lamp. I spent a little while rinsing barbeque sauce off the two lightbulbs I retrieved, and started to enjoy my new lamp. Life is hard; harder for some than for others.

October 16

Still alive.

Time Flies Ms Noud

Time Flies Ms Noud

I just got a piece of junk mail telling me this in a two inch bold headline.  I wouldn't mind so much except that A) No one else at the apartment complex got one,  B)  it was from my doctor's office and C) it was on an over-sized postcard that everyone else could see.  I mean, what would YOU think if your neighbor pulled that out of their mail box and quickly slammed it into a much-too-small-pocket?   "Hmmm...Overdue electric bill?  Terminal disease?  Wow. That's one mean doctor."  I smiled and said "Oh, dental check-up time." 
Seriously though, I'm taking it as a message from God.  For years I have sat around saying things like "As God is my witness Prissy, I will never be poor again".  And "God I really need to exercise more."  And "God I really need to lose weight."  And "God, I should go to New Zealand fly fishing. Why not?"  Since there was no reply I am going to assume that there is no good reason not to go fly fishing in New Zealand. Of course there's really no good reason not to do those other little things I asked for help on, but the New Zealand trip thingy seems more like it would be in the province of  God's bag of tricks.  If He can pull off getting me to exercise and lose weight too, I won't be turning that down.
This all started because it's Christmas and I haven't received one Christmas card yet from my far-flung family and friends.  This year, last week, I went through my address book for the first time in a long time.  After picking up all the torn scraps of paper and envelopes that fell out when I opened it (that's what passes for 'putting you in my address book' to me) I sat down and mailed a Christmas card to everyone in there that I was kinda sure was still alive.  It's now three days later and I have yet to hear back from anyone.  How depressing!  I know people are busy or moving or dead but HEY!  Time Flies!  Don't they know?  Doesn't their doctor warn them?  Of course there's a few other mitigating factors, the biggest of which is the fact that at age seventy-three this is the first time I've ever purposefully done this.  All my other forays into Christmas greetings were frantic replies to cards that had been sent to me making me say "God I really need to answer this person." Suddenly  I thought maybe the card was a message from God!  Then I thought of all the other things I needed to get caught up on, and the easiest was to update my yearly blog.
Whew.  Got that monkey off my back.  Now for that trip to New Zealand - I'm ready God.

Scratching, scratching, scratching

There is no salve that will cure someone of trying to do ink scratchboard technique pictures. I've stopped screaming for a moment and will be starting up again as soon as I put knife to scratchboard and realise that once more, my brain has forgotten to think in reverse. Or maybe is incapable of thinking in reverse, or is it inverse....or is it negative space I have to remember. Lets see, do I cut away everything that isn't in the picture? Scratch away the lines that form the picture? Scratch away the picture? How do I scratch in circles? Shouldn't it be called an " In-X-Acto Knife" when it's in my hands? How can I stop myself from reaching for the eraser when I screw up? Which is often. Oh wait...that doesn't look half-bad....oh no, now I've cut the dickens out of myself. At least I've stopped screaming, now if I could just stop bleeding....

Chewing, spitting and scratching.

OK I'll admit it, I'm only a part-time grandmother. The rest of the time I'm still 25. Still, I have to return to the current time period because I love baseball and I love my shining-dime-perfect grandson's Little League baseball games. Despite almost freezing to death, sitting very, very still in frog-strangling rain and sucking the life from four perfectly good, newly-charged camera batteries at least once (and sometimes twice) a week, I have to say the games have been eye-openers right from the season opener. You probably think, as I did, that the baseball pros have worked hard and learned all those really interesting moves; the stretches, the wearing of tight pants, the lumps in between the cheek and gum, the tugging at tight pants, the bottom slapping, the scratching in obscene places etc., but it turns out baseball players are born knowing these things. As soon as they get the uniform, even at age 5 or 7, they turn into tiny little A-Rods & Jeters. Of course there's a big gap between looking professional and being professional. About a 20 year gap as far as I can tell. Usually there's more interesting action in the folding chair sections among the parents than on the field...and in neither area is much professionalism shown. Gotta bring the family (barking, defecating) dog despite all pleas by the team coaches and managers. Gotta yell (belated, totally useless) instructions ("Keep your eye on the ball" "Throw it to first!" "Tie your shoes!" "Do you have to go to the bathroom?") to their kids. Then there's the freely offered "constructive" criticism ("If that first base coach can't get it right I'll have to go out there and give him a lesson." "If that moron could field, my kid would've gotten up to bat again.") for the other people on the field. I try to keep my comments short: "Nice hit" "Good eye" "Good swing" and only occasionally enlighten them with succinct phrases to brighten the coaches and managers day ( "What a Maroon!" "Since when is in-the-dirt a call strike?" "He had his foot on the bag, four-eyes!") etc. They are lucky to have me, the only sane grandparent there.

A New Conspiracy Theory

I have noticed a sinister connection between the size of one's bankroll, and the ability to avoid confronting unwelcome visitors. If you have a large home, even with a large mortgage, you have four, maybe more, exit/enter points. If you are living in a tiny apartment, you only have, as the Allman Brothers and many others have bitterly pointed out, "One Way Out." For example, I live in rent-assisted, senior living place and I only have one door. Every time I leave, I have to face a cheery someone-or-other who wants me to "chat" and then "have a nice day". When I owned a tiny mobile home, I had two doors; a front and a back door, although, one was visible from the other. When I lived in a large, single family home I had four doors; front, side sliding glass to patio and garage door; a door on every side of the building. I recently visited a home that was huge (by my standards), the owners were rich (by my standards) and they had five exits!! Front door, two patio doors, a back door and the double garage doors (I only count those as one door, although, there was also a side door to the yard that opened off the garage. There were exits on five different sides of the building! So, the richer you are, the easier it is to make a clean getaway. Coincidence? I think not.

National Befuddlement Day Winner

Bought a lamp at the Salvation Army for $2.99. Took it home, put in a bulb from an older lamp and switched it on: nothing. "Must be a burned out bulb," I think. Picked it up to unscrew the bulb and it flashed bright and then went out. "Nuts! Now I DID burn out the bulb." I threw out that bulb and put in a new one. Nothing. I flipped the switch a few times. Nothing. I picked up to take out that bulb, and it came on, but very dim for a 100 watt bulb. I sat it down. I wiggled the cord. Still dim. Hmmmmm. "Well, that sucks," I thought, picked it up and it flashed brightly and went out again. Great. Now I blew another bulb. I unplugged it and tightened all the connections, put in a new bulb and plugged it in: nothing. Swearing, I unplugged it, wrapped up the cord and sat it by the door to return it. Later, staring at it from across the room, I thought, "Nuts. Now I either have to return it or buy new guts for it. It must have a bad wire someplace. Unless..............." you guessed it. It has an on/off switch, but it's a "touch control" lamp. I spent a little while rinsing barbeque sauce off the two lightbulbs I retrieved, and started to enjoy my new lamp. Life is hard; harder for some than for others.

My View on Religion

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOWx5G76pkU

Picasa Web Albums - PattyJo

Just in case you may be vaguely interested, you can see photos of stuff that I took at:
Picasa Web Albums - PattyJo: "http://picasaweb.google.com/sparkystarthefirst"

A Generational Thing

I have no one to talk to, so I talk to myself. Blogging is just an extension of talking to myself. I don't write down thoughts with the idea that Joe Schmoe from Kokomo will ever be interested in anything I might say about anything. Fred's Bank won't care about my thoughts on the banking system, and President Obama won't care if I like him or not. The Democratic National Party only really wants my money, not my thoughts, not that they don't receive a lot more of them from time to time than money in spite of that fact. No, blogging is just that; talking to myself.

That's why I think My Space and Facebook, et. al. ("My Face") and Tweeting is so strange. Blogging is a way to place ideas, opinions and thoughts about a random subject in grouped, logical paragraphs and examine them. But just posting Tweets, and single sentences about what you are doing now ("I'm buying new shoes" etc.) Seems so, so......well, so desperate! "Hey! I'm buying new shoes right now....is anybody out there? Does anybody care?"

Don't get me wrong, I've tried them all, and only Facebook seems remotely useful, because I can track what a few friends and occasionally what my children have been doing, even if they don't specifically email their activities to me. In this day and age, when we can't even be bothered to hit the "reply" button, this can be useful. But I have yet to "Poke" anyone. I'm too busy talking to myself.

It must be a generational thing.

Fishing for Absurdities

I don't have friends like that around anymore. A friend who is the perfect fishing partner. While having coffee before leaving, we argued about where to go. During the drive we argued over the parking spot; over upstream or down; over dry or wet. After arriving , we took our chosen paths and each was alone and unapproachable until back at the car or camp. These wonderful qualities may not be recognizable to anyone except another fly fisherman, but they were exquisite. But this was not where this friend shone the brightest.

At camp, this friend was the perfect companion and accomplice. A giant intellect, excellent raconteur, disdain-er of Mensa members, science and philosophy major, with myself being an enthusiastic, but self-taught minor, all subjects could be mulled over. The great authors and poets were exhumed, examined, explained, edited, applauded, ignored and often dismissed. Particularly prickly political problems were smoothly solved: blow them off the face of the earth. History would be rewritten. Yet this was still not the quality I am seeking to replace in my world.

In all ventures, a sense of the absurd and macabre was the greatest gift this friend had. And, the glory was, that not only was there the ability and willingness to note these situations and comment on them, but often in the most surprising and delightful ways, my friend would assist in creating them.

My two fondest memories: dressing all in brown, tying forked sticks on one's head, and, while holding the arms up like raised paws, crossing roads at night in front of automobiles, staring, for a split second into the glare of the oncoming headlights then bounding into the roadside brush, when the phrase "standing like a deer in the headlights" had just caught our fancy; and, chasing thieving porcupines through tall grass on a moonlit night, wearing only ultra-white briefs and untied hiking boots, while screaming, yelling threats and waving the hands.

I fear I shall never see the like again.

Email: Sigh

So it has come down to this. At first, I complained that no one ever wrote letters to me any more, they just called once a year on the telephone and thought that was enough. I was right.

Then, when the computer came around with e-mail, and I said, "I'll never get a phone call from my relatives again." I was right.

So I got a computer and e-mail, and for a while I could keep in touch with most of my relatives and friends, at least the computer users.

Now, they are all computer literate, but they can't even be bothered to hit the "reply" button and answer me.

Sigh.

My Space

I need more of it.
Aside from that, I have joined the legion of morons on Myspace.com. I have no idea if that's a good idea or a bad idea, but my grandson is there (in a private column) so I'll join for a while. I had already recieved a bunch of C**p before I could set the privacy settings from some pretty weird and desperate zombies who apparently have nothing to do but cyberstalk, so private it is. In self defense.

"Heckuvajobthere, Brownie"

OK, now I get it. Our lame duck fearless leader just made another pronouncement of agreement like the above. It was on the news today:

'In pledging similar assistance, President Bush said, “We have made these kind of decisions in the past, made one last night, and if need be we’re going to make these kind of decisions to safeguard our financial system in the future.”'

If you substitute "my rich friends" or "my cuhn-STITCH-unts" for "our financial system" in there, you have the answer to the nagging questions behind the behavior of Hank Paulson.

First, there will be no money to the companies that employ blue collar workers who have used up all their savings to try and hold on to their home (their one possession of personal value), who have watched their retirement savings go up in smoke and are told (regarding saving Social Security) "There's no problem, you'll just work until you're 75. By the way, your company just closed in the U.S. and moved to ________." Fill in the blank yourselves.

Second,there will be all the money necessary given to financial institutions to allow white and gold collar workers to keep their "holdings", regardless of the fact that they got themselves into this by manipulating the rules of capitalism. Apparently Lehman Brothers weren't behaving like good little Nazis with their behavior toward the current administration. Lost their "cuhn-STITCH-unt" standing.

The portrayal of GDub as a lame duck though, is wrong. He's systematically shredding what few rules remain for the protection of the middle class as he leaves office. Oh, and getting some free trips to foreign countries where he can sit among his rich buddies and smoke Cuban cigars legally.

Yes, I fear for our country's future.

How Did We Get Here?

I wasn't watching press conferences while GDub was in office. They were like scenes of automobile accidents I have driven past so I didn't look; the possible sounds and sights seemed too ugly to contemplate, so I looked away. But at some point during that time period, we went from "I feel your pain" when it wasn't a cruel joke, to asking and answering our own questions. This completely eliminated any possibility that a public persona might have to hear what he was actually saying, and eliminated the chance that any of his colleagues might say in response, "Hey! Are listening to yourself? Do you know what you just said?" No other or further questions are allowed, and the answer has been given. It also eliminated that nasty little split second in time that often rightly occurred in the third grade. That tiny flash of self doubt that creeps in just after shouting, "Me, me, me teacher! I know the answer!" and the moment the teacher points at you, and says your name out loud in front of the whole class. The speaker makes up the question, frames it his way and immediately answers it, defusing the entire exchange.

Q: "Could we have done things better?" A: "You bet... ... ..." (Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld - many times) This is usually followed by a few short sentences infused with reasons/excuses why it could not have been done better. Since no one else in the room has done any fact-checking, the discussion ends.

I'd like to think, as the financial bail out is played out, and TARP covers all, we will be hearing the last of this, but a prime example popped up in the Washington Post article yesterday to vex me. Scott M. Polakoff, Deputy Senior Director of the increasingly poorly named Office of Thrift Supervision is quoted:

"Are banks going to fail when events occur well beyond the confines of reasonable expectation or modeling? The answer is yes," he said in an interview. Asked and answered; sort of.

Notice how he ended all discussion by appearing to acquiesce to the low opinion of his job performance held by his inquisitors. In reality, he slipped in the "events occur well beyond the confines of reasonable expectations" phrase. Is he listening to himself? Does he know what he just said? His job is make certain that someone is watching over these people so that those same "events" do not occur. So I'm assuming that he is saying, "You are paying me to attempt a job that I know can't be done. I'll take the big salary, but I can't earn it."

To end this screed, I'll just ask, "Can an Obama administration stop this practice?"

I'll let them answer.

It's over! Hurray for our side!

However you voted, whatever your preferences are, you have to admit, summer and the election is finally over. I'm happy with the outcome, prefer cool weather and feel disgustingly optimistic (for me). I am enjoying the President-Elect's Change.gov web spot, where I can find out stuff about the transition and policy plans. It's something new (for me) to see a politician's promises in writing - and before he gets into office! Amazing. I am now not only a news junkie, but a policy wonk wannabe. The fact that a neighboring rural town has elected the first (known) transgender person (as they so delicately put it) as it's mayor has just been icing on the cake for me. It's as if they voted "Ed Wood" into office, and he's just as cool. It has made me rethink my attitude toward all my neighbors. There must be more than a few closet liberals around here. At the very least, they can look at the candidate's positions and not just the candidate's hair style.
Winter is settling in here with it's frozen fog and milky white skies. Most of the leaves are gone, the Canada Goose flocks have passed overhead and the crows have taken over town. They are a large, raucus and if you are small enough, a dangerous bunch. I watched them harass a gray squirrel attempting to pass over HWY 214 and the town using the telephone lines. The squirrel was almost pecked off several times as it attempted the four block high-wire act. There is a reason that its called "a murder of crows"; keep your Chihuahuas inside.
There is a small, quiet but earnest war going on in Mt. Angel between the Glockenspiel's caretakers, the Edelweiss Building's owners & operators and the local pigeons. With each attack they launch against the pigeons, the pigeons gain intelligence. The pigeons operate much like the true guerillas they are. There is a reason that they are called "feathered rats" in New York city. Now, with the installations of the automatically opening and closing doors on the Glockenspiel clock, the pigeons have learned to tell time, and have gained the patience of Buddhist monks. Their skirmishes with the fourth floor, rent-paying residents of Edelweiss are the stuff of legend. No amount of flags ("we salute 'em" they chirp) or scarecrows ("Them's good eatin'!") can deter the birds from using the random balcony as a rest area and up-scale alternative to Mt. Angel's many bell-towers and, of course, Pigeon Central, the hulking, gun-metal gray granary. As a mid-floor, rent-paying resident, I have not received any fall-out from this war, so I can afford to take a bemused attitude.

Almost Autumn

The summer is almost over. I can't say I didn't have a great time this summer, but I can honestly say that the summer was over too fast. The rest of the warm weather will be spent nursing my drought-stricken potted balcony plants back to health, and seeing if I can fit into any of my winter duds from last year. Big stuff.

I fell far short of getting all the things done that I wanted. I desperately wanted to get in a tandem jump (skydiving). It has to be a tandem, as I haven't jumped in years and really will never be able to afford the sport. Couldn't afford it when I was active in it, but I just blew everything off with the exception of feeding the kids, and jumped the rent away for an entire summer. (Well worth doing, if any readers were contemplating this).

I'm practicing holding my breath for the balance of the election run. Within the circles I travel, everyone is nominally right of me - Michael Moore is probably right of me, if the truth was known- and I have to hold my nose and pinch my lower lip to avoid blurting out "You're morons! He is NOT a Muslim!!" over and over again. It will be a squeaker I think.

As a woman who said, regarding Ronald Reagon's election run, "Nobody will vote for a man wearing lipstick and pancake make-up", I don't see how any thinking professional woman could vote for McCain and/or the fanatically religious (at least in public) little pit bull in lipstick he has chosen for a running mate. But I was wrong then, and I acknowlege that there seem to be quite a few woman in my small town who are ready and willing to allow the government to poke around in their privates and make life changing decisions for them. I try to explain to them gently that if the aged white men in the government are allowed to make a law stopping women from choosing abortion, eventually those same aged white men will be able to force them into having an abortion if it suits them. This will likely happen because of overpopulation and let's face it, women will have given them the right, by passing a law saying to the senators and congressmen :"You decide for me, I can't handle it." Most of them don't hit me when I say it, but they don't agree with me. Sigh.

Continuity in spite of myself

I'm sitting here looking at two very large, leftover bags of rich potting soil. It's almost March so this, in and of itself probably doesn't seem unusual to to anyone. But given the ugly mood that I've been in all winter, and most surprising to me, I wish I could use them. So, despite my gloom and doom, hope must spring eternal.

I live in a two room apartment with an uncovered, long, but narrow, south facing balcony. By June, it's 200 degrees out there every day. A human can't stand out there for the length of time required to do it, but an egg could be fried on the surface of that balcony by late May. I was hauling seven gallons of fertilizer - water (in jugs) twice a day, every day, just to keep last summer's flowers and two cherry tomato plants alive.

The apartment complex, in their boundless generosity has installed on each balcony, a large flower box, cantilevered out above the sidewalk below. They bring in the flowers that they love, a strange hybrid variety of "Hanging Geraniums" that are very popular in Bavaria and Switzerland. Our town is big on Bavaria, but it is not 200 degrees in Bavaria or Switzerland. Ever. The promise was, they were installing a drip watering system, rail to rail on each floor, from flower box to flower box, and we would have to do nothing except enjoy the mounds of tumbling pink blossoms. Unfortunately, the money ran out, and this system was "put off until next year". Now we have received an official letter explaining the lack of money or incentive or both for the watering system. That would be OK with me. I'd decided that I'd just buy some nice silk flowers and ivy and install them in potting clay. From the third floor, who'd notice? Or care?

That was not to be allowed. The "Hanging Geraniums" that made me want to hang myself last summer have been delivered, and the "Thanks for watering these" letter has been received and disposed of. No mention of what might happen if an occupant wants to go on a little vacation in July. I'm guessing that the mummified remains of "Hanging Geraniums" will be mine to dispose of, as well.

The Hideous Terminology of "The Fallen"

They're terminal, I agree, but they didn't 'fall', they were killed. Under the 'reign' of this president, when we are told (on September 11, 2001) that the only way we, as true Americans can show our 'patriotism' is to go out and shop, I believe that in our everyday lives we've lost sight of the fact that these soldiers didn't "fall", they were sent to their deaths for a stake in the Middle East oil. They were killed, and the use of hideous euphemisms like 'fallen' only serves to denigrate what's been done to them.
Now on NPR this morning, as a true sign of how far from grace that corporation has 'fallen' and sunk into the mud of political conformity, they recommend buying rock, pop and hip-hop records from the Armed Forces label, "For the Fallen". Again, I urge Americans to remember that these soldiers did not 'fall'; they weren't hiking and stumbled off a trail; they weren't bicycling and hit a pebble; they weren't skateboarding and lost it, they were yanked from their families, sent to war, were blown up, shot and died. No amount of calling it fallen, or shopping in the name of patriotism, or ignoring the harm that this president's term in office has done to our so-called quest for peace or our country's world-wide reputation, can change this. The young, old and middle-aged people in this country need to band together and reject being labeled unpatriotic because we either don't agree with our governmental policies or want to spend our entire lives with only shopping for a pasttime. If this means rejecting the new politically correct messages of NPR, then so be it. Your board needs to know that calling it a "bureau" in L.A. and a "bureau" in Washington, D.C. is laughable, and no longer legitimizes your reporting. And the existence of a presence on each coast does NOT make your corporation centrist. You are still, obviously a corporation, and I mean that as a pejorative term.