Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Finding a shopping cart: $75 – a bribe to a nice gent who emptied his booty in front of the store and had his wife run to get the car.
Grabbing the last 14 pound turkey: a black eye. But you should have seen the other guy.
Navigating the too-small aisles filled with too many people: rammed twice, once with my finger playing the part of my cart’s bumper. Must be payback for the parking lot incident.
Dealing with the umpteenth shopper who insists on parking their cart in the middle of the goddamn aisle: Three teeth-baring snarls, two throaty growls, one “move your damn cart, lady,” and a partridge in a pear tree…
Paying for groceries: “Whaddya mean my ATM card won’t read? Holybatshitkillmenow.” Magnetized strip? What the bloody hell? Merry Christmas Visa.
Getting home and having spawn unload car, put groceries away and stick a margarita in my hand: Priceless.
Edited to add:
It dawned on me that people who don't know me may think these things really happened. Literary license and all that. I'm a writer and given to exaggeration. I should be in politics.
The car ramming: only in my imagination. I got a great parking spot with nary a bruised ego or bumper. I got a shopping cart without bribing a single person, but I did have to wait for Cart Collector Carl to arrive with a new supply. There were five 14 pound turkeys, and I did have to lean in and grab one, where it proceeded to slip out of my hands and fall on my big toe. I really did snarl at the lady in the aisle - that sort of thing pisses me off - but I kept my mouth shut. Paying for the groceries: that really happened. Unpacking the groceries: really happened (I have the sweetest spawn in the world), however, they didn't make me a margarita.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I'm also hoping that Santa has something special for the generous family who looked past their grief and donated their loved one's organs so this poor woman could have a new life. Sort of makes all the other garbage that's going on pale in comparison. Maria, you're my new hero for the month.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I thought those sneaky peaky days were over. They’re all grown up and, presumably, willing to not fake their surprise. However, no one prepared me for this nosey beagle my son brought home from the Army. I’ve adopted her as my unreliable secretary, thinking she could earn her designer gin-laced kibble bits and perch on my messy desk. She sucks at secretarial work, but excels at smelling out anything you’d rather be kept a secret.
Not only did she drag down the new jacket I’d bought for my daughter, but she hauled out the new sleeping bag and three warmie snuggly blankets I got yesterday. It’s not enough that she gets into my daughter’s room and bags her underwear (which is really overpriced butt floss) and stuffs it into the couch. My aged auntie nearly stroked out when she sat on our couch the other day and found three pair of butt floss in the cushions. “Oh my stars!” Gah…I can still hear her shock ringing in my ears.
So now the beagle has destroyed my surprisies for my kids and taken years off my auntie's life expectancy. But you know what? I get the last laugh. I bought the beagle dog training lessons and a stay at the Betty Ford Clinic.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Excuse me. Redundant? They've ended the livelihoods of 700 people, and the best they can come up with is "redundant"? That's like saying Auschwitz was a "little misunderstanding."
As a purveyor of words, I look for them to make an appropriate impact in order to effect an emotional reaction. I'll admit that no one can do subtle better than our British cousins, and I love them for it. We Yanks are so in-your-face with our movies and literature, and much of it is overkill - like we believe our audience too stupid to understand nuance. Instead we belch it out like an overripe onion just to be sure you didn't miss it. Brits, on the other hand - dare I say it - assume their audience has a brain. We could stand to take a page from our across-the-pond friends in both vocabulary acuity and narrative exposition.
But I don't know. Somehow, here, it just sounds cruel.
It’s like they have little spies tripping back and forth to each factory. “Hey, DKY has the little roundie jobs in yellow highlighted tortoiseshell,” whispers one spy to the Dior crowd.
“Yellow highlighted tortoiseshell frames for all!” screeches Dior.
Problem is, I look crappy in yellow highlighted tortoiseshell round frames. In fact, I look like Harry Potter in drag. Do I need an excuse to look like shit? Hell no. I can do that all by myself.
And what’s with the rectangle frames. They look fab on Tina Fey. Then again, a burlap sack and flies would look good on Tina Fey. I am not Tina Fey. There are no less than three thousand rectangle frames in Lens Crafters. Bright red ones, orange, diamond studded jobs – which make me look like a bookish stripper. Talk about employment confusion.
What happened to choice? What happened to creative and unique? Imagine if the publishing industry took this route and banged out formulaic and unimaginative books season after season. We’d be out of business within minutes.
I just want a pair of glasses frames that have style than round or rectangle. I want to look good in them, to feel that I can wear them to a function and not look like I’m getting ready to bite someone’s jugular. I want sleek and smooth. Is that so hard to ask?
The last pair I put on drew a comment from the woman trying to make a sale; “Hey, those look great on you. You look just like a famous author.”
Damn, I’m such a whore. I bought them immediately.
Reason: foundation is too implausible.
Damn, no wonder we got out of the fiction business.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Rev. Wright returns to the pulpit
Nationalizing health care
Kissing my 401K goodbye
My jeans don’t fit
I can’t find a parking spot at the mall
I glorped on my favorite shirt. Again.
Fuck it. I’m with Atlas. Pass me the bucket…
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
So the other day I was determined to spend it stain free. Oh, I achieved what passes for my personal best in maximum adorable-ness. My hair decided to look nice for a change, and my brand new jeans were the perfect choice to go with…my favorite top.
Dare I tempt the Karmic Muffin, that skank hormonal biyatch who manages to arrange for every errant flick of spaghetti sauce or gravy to find its way to the front of my shirt? Hell yes. Why not? I was feeling lucky.
I made it through the whole day. I wore my apron while cooking spaghetti – the scene of the last crime committed against my shirt. Ahha, Mistress Karma, you won’t find me asleep at the wheel this time! Dinner was cooked, and oddly enough, not a single spaghetti glorp graced the front of my apron.
It was 10 p.m. – an entire day…stain free. My favorite shirt looked wonderful! I’d beat the bad juju. I’d prevailed. I celebrated my victory with a granola bar while watching the news. As I changed to get ready for bed, what did I see staring back at me in the mirror like headlights on a foggy night? Not one, but two chocolate stains from my goddamn granola bar. I have never, ever gotten a strain from those damnably good chocco pieces in my granola bar. Why now? Off in the distance I swear I could hear the Karmic Muffin chortling. Fuck. Off to my usual date with Spray ‘N Wash.
I wonder why the Karmic Muffin doesn’t have a problem with my new jeans. They were as fresh as a daisy.
Monday, December 08, 2008
- The number of physicians in the U.S. is 700,000.
- Accidental deaths caused by Physicians
- per year are 120,000.
- Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171.
- The number of gun owners in the U.S. is 80,000,000. (Yes, that's 80 million)
- The number of accidental gun deaths per year, all age groups, is 1,500.
- The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .000188.
So, statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun owners. Remember, 'Guns don't kill people, doctors do.'
FACT: NOT EVERYONE HAS A GUN, BUT ALMOST EVERYONE HAS AT LEAST ONE DOCTOR.
Please alert your friends to this alarming threat. We must ban doctors before this gets completely out of hand. Out of concern for the public at large, I withheld the statistics on lawyers for fear the shock would cause people to panic and seek medical attention.
Friday, December 05, 2008
So I got a good laugh out of a teensy article this morning that described how Carl's Jr. is promoting their new sirloin burger. The irony is that Carl's lost their lawsuit against Jack in the Box's gigging them for their Angus burger - "what part of the cow is the Angus?" - I adored that commercial. I got a good laugh because the reporter described the upcoming commercials as, "featuring yet another sexy blond and her slob boyfriend..." Good on ya, smart reporter. You see what many of us old farts see; skank sells, and how pathetic is that?
I can only imagine Carl's market research has proven these slutty commercials successful, and that they're appealing to the younger generation. So skank and stupid sells. Crikey, what have we become? I guess that's why it's been years since I've gone to Carl's Jr. Their commercials are an affront to anyone with a brain, and their packaging sucks stale Twinkie cream.
So Jack, dude, order me up one of your tacos, willya? Love ya, man - here's a free copy of my book.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Is there anything more cruel than to hear "I Want Candy" blasting out over the gym music system? Why the hell do you think the gym is so crowded, Mr. 24 Hour Fitness? Geez, have a little compassion.
Is there anything more humbling than watching a reed-thin woman hooked up to oxygen working on the leg curl machine? Talk about character development; makes me want to kick my backside every time I complain about a little hip pain.
Monday, December 01, 2008
In Long Island, a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death early Friday morning as he opened the doors to the store to allow customers. They were so excited to begin their shopping, that they mowed him down. As he fought for breath, people looked down at the floor and simply stepped over him to get to their destination.
Holy Christ. Is this what we've become? We can't Christmas shop because we face being trampled or shot? People are already cranky enough at this time of year; too many gifts to buy and too little money with which to do it. I remember reading stories last year about women getting into fights over a toy. Over a freaking, goddamned toy.
I haven't even started my shopping because I traditionally like to wait until shopper angst hits its apex and threatens to go nuclear. But as I sprout more gray hairs, I feel the tugs of mortality a bit more. Maybe the thrill of making the Big Buy is less important than simply surviving the holidays without losing a vital organ or my life. Whatever my previous motivations, I'm humbled that there are three fewer people who will celebrate Christmas because our sense of humanity took a back seat.
Maybe it's time to forgo the usual holiday trappings and go suck up some mountain air and hug a few trees.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
This reminds me of The Bridges of Madison County. I mean, EVERYONE loved the book. My good friend thrust her copy into my hands and gushed about the fabulous love story, the sex, blah, blah, blah. I’m probably the only person alive who hated this book.
I came to the opinion that people got so swept away with the hype they didn’t stop to analyze what elements made the book so good. After watching the dismal “person on the street” interviews and how little the liberal voter actually knew of Obama’s background, I became convinced that Obama’s “publishers” had done an equally brilliant job of hyping a “book” with zero content.
“Obama’s going to fix the economy!” one lady swooned.
“Obama’s going to put gas in my tank and pay my mortgage!” another screeched.
“Obama is going to make this country great again!”
When the interviewer asked who was responsible for the Fannie Mae/ Freddie Mac debacle, their expressions became as blank as a clean blackboard.
It was painful to watch these interviews because these folks had no clue to the realities of the liberal agenda. They go as far as CNN or MSNBC and believe whatever pabulum these propagandists spew out. Obama is an empty story comprised of great cover art, top notch publicists, a publisher who has a bottomless budget, and a readership that has had no exposure to great literature.
Sadly, the Republican publishers’ best efforts resulted in Cranky Old Men Without a Plan, a book with lousy cover art, a small budget, and content that tried too hard to emulate Obama’s story. Cranky failed to sell through, and that’s why Obama became a bestseller.
So now that Obama is a bestseller, will there come a time when some of those readers will decide to reread the book? And if they do, will they love the story just as much as they did the first time? Or will they begin asking “where’s the beef?” Will they suddenly find fault with some of Obama’s supporting cast and ask for more character development of William Ayers, Rev. Wright, etc?
Being in the publishing business, I’ve seen bestsellers plummet from the NY Times Bestseller List. A Million Little Pieces by James Frey comes to mind – a piece of fiction that was hyped as a memoir, and pissed of Oprah after her pathetic, unsuccessful attempts to defend it. Will Obama’s readers abandon him just as quickly? A book has to deliver the goods in order to maintain solid, steady sales.
In the meantime, it would be nice if the Republican publishing house decided to overhaul their management and redefine their mission statement. They need to get authors whose content can stand up to a harsh readership and close scrutiny. I bet they’d sell more books and gain a lot more readers.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Yeppers, I'm damned excited for this brave new utopian world where our overburdened docs and nurses will be unable to keep up with the new overflow of patients. I'm even more thrilled to see the consequences of this clusterfuck when we experience our very huge doctor shortage. And guess who will be the most outraged? Why, the government, of course.
I wish I could have nabbed Ms. Igotmyhandout by the short and curlies to explain the realities of us “rich” folk. We tighten our damn belts, just like real people. We had a gardener for years but decided that our taxes were going to shoot sky high, and we let him go. Buh bye Mr. Gardener. Five more houses in my neighborhood tightened their belts as well. In the course of two days, his client base dropped by half. Same thing happened with our cleaning ladies – I’m still in mourning. Three more houses in my neighborhood let them go, too. We’re still making the same income as before, but those whom we hired and fired are now bringing in far less. So who got hurt in these scenarios – us or those less financially stable?
Resorts are reporting fewer reservations, and people are staying home. This means resorts, hotels, food industries, and all the other support industries will be impacted, and that will result in layoffs.
I wanted to ask Ms. Paymewhatyougot who she thinks gets hurt when you strangle the golden goose. People who have money work damn hard to keep it. Rather than spending it and, therefore, helping to create jobs, they stay home, they tighten their belts. They save their money. So the poor, who Obama so desperately wants to help, are actually going to suck hind teat. And when we “rich” are sucked dry, what will happen to those folks whose hands have been digging into our pockets? Who will be left to rape? Does anyone believe “the rich” will be classified as anyone making $50,000? I’m betting yes because the idea of personal responsibility will have gone the way of the dinosaur.
Sure, it sounds funny now, but hey, I laughed my ass off at Demolition Man when Lenina Huxley told Sly Stallone’s character that anything deemed unhealthy had been outlawed. How long ago did NY ban trans fats from all their restaurants? Not laughing anymore, I tell you.
"It's demeaning," Michelle Raheja, an English professor at UC Riverside and the mother of one of the kindergartners. "I'm sure you can appreciate the inappropriateness of asking children to dress up like slaves (and kind slave masters), or Jews (and friendly Nazis), or members of any other racial minority group who has struggled in our nation's history."
She had the balls to meet with teachers and administrators in hopes that the district could discuss alternatives to celebrate T-giving without "dehumanizing" her daughter's ancestry.
"There is nothing to be served by dressing up as a racist stereotype," she said.
Racist stereotype? Is this woman kidding me? This sort of thing just makes my eyelids invert. Only in California do we derail an entire tradition based on one freaking lib honk. with a liberal agenda. What's worse is the school district is considering canceling the event or having the kids dress up in their spirit shirts rather than dress up in the costumes because "we all have to be sensitive and respect our diversity."
Screw that. If my kids were still small, I'd yank their little butts out of public school immediately. I'd give them a real education and teach them about our history because God knows the schools are dumbing our kids down. Dumb people equal easier manipulation.
Personally, I'd like to reenact another moment in history; the Boston Tea Party.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Alas, I knew I couldn't live up to NaMoWriMo's expectations, and nothing bugs me more than defeat. So I decided that LyNe2WriMo was a better deal. My membership and I sip margaritas and enthrall each other with our latest scene. Ok, so I'm talking to myself. Not the first time that's happened.
The scene I decided to write about was inspired by Monkeygirl's post about the fibromyalgia patient who signed into the ED with chest pain rather than admitting her real affliction. In all my research with docs, I never knew patients did this. It's crappy enough that patients use the ED for their primary care physician in the first place, but patients who lie so they can get treated first should be dealt with by submitting to an acid enema.
I love showing the idiocy and heroics of medicine as seen through the eyes of docs who possess both pathos and a great sense of humor because most of it is so unbelievable. I read Monkeygirl's posts, for instance and shake my head at the chutzpa and insanity of those ED patients. It's like these people are born devoid of a brain or common sense. You simply cannot make this stuff up. The scene is unfolding beautifully, and I expect to knock back several margaritas at tonight's meeting. But there is a huge, depessing problem. This scene doesn't fit in the current book - which takes place in the Amazon. I have to wait to get Kim and Erik back to the US. Damn, I hate writing out of order.
Good thing my LyNe2WriMo membership will understand.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
My buds all live in the Midwest or the East, and they talk about wind chill like it's a new flavor of ice cream. "The air is 39 degrees, but the wind chill brings it down to 30." Once I tried injecting some humor to our conversations. "Hey, the thermometer says it's 78 degrees out here, but the wind chill puts it more at 75 degre...hello? Hello? Hey, did you guys hang up on me? Hello...?"
Ah, the heck with 'em. I'll go crank up the air conditioner and put on a sweater.
Yes, you; the one who's hogging the leg adductor machine. I don't mind if you do twenty, fifty, or a hundred leg adductions, but for crying out loud DO THEM. Do not answer your cellphone and make me simmer to a slow boil. This damn gym only has one freaking leg adductor, and my bum hip requires that I use that puppy or I'll hobble around like a 90-year-old.
No! No! Don't punch that call waiting button! Argh!!! You've already gabbed for seven damn minutes - yes, I'm watching the clock - laughing gaily and making me wish that you would gain fifty pounds and grow warts on your eyelids.
Why do you force me to kick my own ass for not having the guts to walk up to you and suggest you move your designer shoes from the machine and lift your sculpted heiny off the seat freaking talk somewhere else? Ach, no! Don't you dare turn away from me. You know damn well I'm here, sighing louder than a dog in heat. That's it, say goodbye to your sister, who burned the ham last Thanksgiving and lit the table cloth on fire. Yes, I CAN hear your entire conversation! You giggle one more time, it's curtains for you.
Ah...you've hung up. WHAT? You're going to now do your reptitions? After ten freaking minutes on the phone? See how I've folded my arms? Don't I look pissed? Do you believe you're the center of everyone else's universe, or are you too self acutalized to care? Sure. I could have used other machines while waiting, but I already used them. This was my last stop. Lady, the next time I see you and your jewel studded cellie, I'm going to whisper softly in your ear. "Psst. I hope next holiday, your sister trips and lights your cell on fire."
I'm also going to hire Cranky Prof to come over and insult you.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Since I like to write about what makes people tick and the differences that drive them apart, 911’s post about muscials struck a chord in albeit funny ways. I’ve wanted to see Mama Mia in the worst way for months now. Hubby indicated that he’d rather have his eyelids inverted with rusty pliers than watch a musical.
What?? sez me. May I remind you, dear hubby ‘o mine, that you had the same reaction to Evita when it first came to Los Angeles a thousand years ago, but you took me because we were newlyweds, and that’s what newlywed hubbies do in order to keep their premenstrual newlywed wives on an even keel? You didn’t just love Evita – you LOVED it. It was YOU who insisted we see the movie version. It was YOU who bought the CD and DVD and played it until we all threatened to leave home after forcing the unreliable beagle to gnaw off your leg at the kneecaps. And what about Phantom of the Opera? We saw that how many times in
Methinks you big ol’ guys are closet softies who hide their “I’m in touch with my feminine side” because you know full well you’ll be thrown of the
I realize I just confused this with your getting out of emergency medicine.
Gosh. Maybe you really do hate chick musicals. Hmm. I have my spies out, just to be sure…
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
What's the big deal? Well, now our own countrymen have put American soldiers at risk. Hey, thanks, guys, that could have been my son you exposed. Had he been killed, the NY Times would be bathing in his blood. What the hell happened to this country? Would they have reported Pearl Harbor as a little misunderstanding and a bomb malfunction?
Happy Veteran's Day to all the selfless service people who gave their lives in the name of freedom. What a pity the newsies feel you're obsolete.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
The doc arrives, all business, and marks her hip. He looks at me as I have my hands wrapped around Mom's feet. "Feet cold?" No, sez I, Reiki treatment. He beams. That's fabulous, he says through a big smile. That ought to be standard protocol as far as I'm concerned.
So, like, I'm in love.
Surgery went well. Mom has a new suspension, and I have a new buddy in the medical field. All is well.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
My heart is broken, and I have never been more afraid for our future.
Who is John Galt?
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
These are the words of The Messiah at his various speeches. These are the lofty words used to incite the masses into a massive love fest. However, the UK Times found Obama’s Auntie Onyango living in a
Auntie Onyango told the UK Times that she was sworn to secrecy until the 4th. Gosh, he can shut her the hell up so he can win the election, but he can’t help her. My GOD. The arrogance is breathtaking.
I’m all for protecting sources, but, frankly, I don’t believe the Times made any deal with this unnamed source about not releasing the tape. When the article first came out in June, there was never any mention in the article about, “gee, we’d love to release the tape, but we made a promise.” In fact, no source was ever mentioned at all. The article is here. Now all of a sudden, when things heat up, the Times whips out this Deep Throat? Sorry, I’m not buying it. What I do buy is that the Times is in bed with all the other bloated, liberal mainstream media.
So last night when we tried to cancel our subscription, I actually had to wait until today. Why? The volume was so high on the circulation desk, that they made us wait. No problemo. When we finally got a human, we explained why we were canceling, and the guy hung up on us! I had to call back today, and, yes, I got to lodge my protest all over again. She said she was emailing my displeasure up to the editorial department where I’m oh-so sure they’ll be all over my request. Uh huh.
I’ll be very curious to see what happens if The Messiah wins the election and the media finally reaches a point where The One’s sheen begins to tarnish. This will happen when our borders are no longer safe, we’ve retreated from
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Edited to add that I saw an interview of the police department, and they had the unmitigated gall to suggest that if anyone hung Obama in effigy that it would be a hate crime. WTF? Because he's black? Puh-leeeze.
Monday, October 27, 2008
He didn’t mention anything about these guys’ salaries, but their pensions. Let me say it again - THEIR PENSIONS. Now Joe has a pension, as does every other senator, and it’s backed by the US Treasury. Guaranteed. No one can touch it, no one can steal it. In fact, it’s even free from the fickle fate of the stock market. And he can dip into it anytime he wants and suffers zero penalties. Pretty cool. So Joe is sittin’ pretty. But he wants to steal someone’s pension plan because these execs, he has determined, are too greedy.
I’d like to point out that this is the private sector that Joe is planning on meddling with. In order to pull this off, he has to nationalize all the companies. The government can’t even run the dept. of motor vehicles, let alone major corporations.
Whose pensions are next after they’ve raped all the CEOs they can find? After all, it takes big bucks to feed the liberal palate – they have very expensive tastes. Heck one CEO could keep Mrs. Obama in lobsters, Persian caviar, and champagne for quite some time. Won’t be that long before they’ll be forced to set their sights on the lesser being’s pension plans. That means all you teachers, firemen, and police are next. They’ll hit up the CEOs of hospitals as well. And then they’ll come for us, and all we’ll have to look forward to is a single check from Social Security because they will have already nabbed our 401Ks – money that came from our sweat.
Will the last person who remembers what America used to be please turn out the lights?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Just when I didn’t think the Dems would launch any further attacks on our freedoms, I see that they’re now after our 401 K accounts. Seems that a Democrat committee brought in a college professor because they were "intrigued" with his brilliant idea of nationalizing all our 401K's, tossing the money into social security and "giving" us a 3% return on our own money. Check it out here and here.
It’s real, kiddies, they really are out to take total control of every aspect of our lives and stamp out all opposition through the slobbering of the mainstream media and
**Amusing note, in googling to verify this, I typed in, “Dems taking over 401 K.” Google came back with this: Did you mean: demons taking over 401 K?
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Pahlavi was an American puppet, so he was an ally. But he was also a tyrant who ruled his country with an iron, paranoid fist. He owned the media, so Persians were only allowed to read “news fit to print.” He had a huge team of secret police called SAVAK, who were some of the most brutal element in the country. The common citizenry were snooped on, exposed, arrested, tortured, and killed. University kids weren’t allowed to associate with their professors unless it was in class or strictly adhered to office hours. Accidentally putting on a postage stamp upside down (which, of course, was his likeness), would have invited a watchful eye from SAVAK because this would have been seen as show of disrespect rather than a simple mistake. To this day, I still freak about putting an American stamp on upside down. Pahlavi’s rule was absolute.
Now I’m watching Obama and Biden tear apart an American citizen. They own the media – or at least most of it and, in fact, would love nothing more than to wipe Fox News Channel off the face of the earth because it would make their media ownership complete. Since they own nearly all the media, their minions set about tearing down all opposition – including an American citizen. His crime? Asking The Messiah what he plans to do about those taxes.
Obama is pissed at being cornered like this. How dare a small, insignificant bug question The One about ANYTHING? And look at Joe now. The media has torn this man’s life apart, snooping into his background, hoping to turn up something heinous. And Obama and Biden have cheered their media every step of the way. The union has turned on Joe, and now he can’t get work. The media camps on his doorstep and follows him wherever he goes. Is this what America has become, and why in hell are we allowing it? Is the media our Persian version of SAVAK, or will Obama hire those separately? Are there so many who are furiously jealous of others’ success that they can’t wait for Obama to get his grubby, undeserving hands on our money so they can now live better without having to work for it? Does anyone remember Evita, for goddsakes? Castro?
I’ve done nothing but despair the loss of my own country and fear for my and my family’s future should Obama prevail. Lord knows they’re working very hard to steal it. After all, they have the help of Ohio’s Supreme Court who will allow Acorn’s voter fraud to stand.
I’ve already lived in a tyrant nation, and I don’t want to do it again. My only solace is that, unlike the Persians, there remains a cadre of independent fighters whose ancestral blood still flows in their veins, and they will not yield to life with The Messiah and his minions. Thank God for Joe the Plumber.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Joe Biden and Barak Obama have been telling me for two years that we need to be afraid.
That was before he told me it’s my patriotic duty to pay taxes:
“It’s time to be patriotic…time to jump in, time to be part of the deal, time to help get America out of the rut.”
Does Joe not know that the “rich” don’t pay taxes, but rather they pass those increases on to the consumer that will result in higher retail prices and layoffs?
Obama tells Joe the Plumber that it’s not his intention to punish the wealthy, but that it’s important to spread it around to others to make it more “fair.” If Obama is going to force me to do my “patriotic duty,” then what is my impetus for working so hard and successfully? Maybe I'll just kick back and accept the government handouts. But then wouldn't America run the risk of being like Hawaii, who found out after only seven months that their universal health care imploded because those who could afford it dropped their old inusrance to get the freebie? Sure they would. Soon all of us ex-"richies" will kick back for the free ride. Then who will you force to do their patriotic duty, Mr. Obama? Have you read Atlas Shrugged? It used to be science fiction. But now it's reality, thanks to your great vision.
Getting back to Joe the Plumber, the man asked an innocent question about his dreams, and, as payback, Obama and Joe Biden have reviled, and mocked him in their speeches and allowed the media to uncover every teensy bit about him. Is this how we now treat free speech? Is this what the “Fairness Doctrine” is all about? Do Joe and Obama not realize that the Joe the Plumbers are the majority of
Then Joe Biden said this:
“Mark my words. It will not be six months before the world tests Barack Obama like they did John Kennedy. The world is looking. We’re about to elect a brilliant 47-year-old senator president of the
Given the provocative nature of this statement, I have to ask Joe Biden about the prudence of electing this inexperienced young man. Obviously our enemies see Obama as a weak, untested entity. Joe, you never said anything about how the world would test McCain, so I have to assume our enemies are more certain as to his reactions should anyone threaten our country.
In this critical time of so much uncertainty, is this the time to introduce an inexperienced man who is friends with some very questionable people, and allow him to impose his Marxist ideas of taxing the rich to give to anyone else, along with being the object of a guaranteed provocation of our national security?
So Obama and Joe have convinced me. I’m officially scared shitless. In fact, I don’t remember ever being more scared shitless.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Oh. You were serious about that?
So then I go into writer overload and begin pulling 12-hour marathons. By 8 at night, my brain is a puddle of goo, and I can barely put a conversation that doesn’t contain a dialog tag – as in, “ ‘Pass me the peas,’ Lynn said while trying to keep her nose out of the mashed potatoes.” Like, who talks like this? Even that annoying Suede from Project Runway, who spoke in the third person, didn’t use dialog tags in his own speech.
My sleeping patters also go haywire when I’m under a deadline. My usual dreams of Antonio Banderas sweeping me off my feet and whisking me away to the Bahamas are replaced with comma splices, voice, pacing, and the occasional witticism.
Sometimes I’m driven to clean. Or order one of my kids to do it. I think it derives from the fact that I need something in my life to contain order and cleanliness because it’s a sure bet my unfinished tome has none of these elements.
But I’m good now, back to writing with fervor and direction. What happened? I ran into a doc who was reading my first book stop. “I am so loving this book!” she cooed. I blink. This is a balls-to-the-wall surgeon, so I’m speechless and let her prattle on. She likes me. She really, really likes me. I bask in my Sally Fields moment before rushing back to my office. I take the phone off the hook and order my kids to make dinner.
Good thing, too, because sitting in my inbox was a threatening letter from my distributor demanding the cover design, tip sheets, and, oh yes, the damned book. Guess they have nothing on those witches…
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
~Thomas Jefferson 1801- who has just asked God to transfer his spirit to Mars
thanks to 'cat for the reminder
Monday, October 13, 2008
Thank you, Mother Nature.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Well, to hell with the both of you. I have lived responsibly, and this means I didn't sign on to a home loan that I had no ability (or intention) to pay back. I made sure to get a good education that would allow me the freedom to make good career choices. I have medical insurance and pay bigger premiums so illegal aliens and the poor can have free health care.
So, Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain, just who the fuck am I working for? My own future or your financial whims? Where does personal responsibility enter into your world view? I just went up and checked my passport, and yes, it does say American. Not Russian.
I feel like Dagny Taggart in Atlas Shrugged, which should be required reading for every American citizen, lest they forget this country's original foundations. Like Dagny, I'm clawing my way through the muck in order to keep my head above water. But the damned government is making this effort more difficult each year as congress passes pork bills faster than bunnies procreate.
At what point do I shrug under the weight? At what point do I say no to your stealing nearly 60% of my income? At what point do I give myself permission to discontinue working for you and instead begin working for myself?
Lastly, just who are the real terrorists? The ones who hide in caves or the ones who smile and hand out balloons while reaching into my bank account? At least Al Queda is honest about their intent to destroy me by bleeding me dry.
To protest this brand of terrorism, I just bought three "Who Is John Galt?" bumper stickers. One for each of our cars. Yes. We have three cars. So fucking sue me. We earned those cars and enjoy driving every one of them. I'll continue to do so until you force me to sell them so my family can eat. In the meantime, Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain, pick up a copy of Atlas Shrugged so you can prepare yourself for the revolt that's sure to happen. And may all Reiki practitioners send their energy to our leaders. They need help.
Friday, October 10, 2008
5:30 a.m. – at computer writing madly, trying to meet deadline
8 a.m. – cockatoo screams that it’s time to get up. Leave computer and go downstairs to uncover her.
8:02 – swearing ensues. Mine. Kids left shoes, glasses, napkins on coffee table, along with huge blog of brown blorch that I instantly set about cleaning.
8:05 – take glasses and napkins into kitchen. Toss shoes over the Great Divide (boxes that prevent cockatoo from escaping back half of the house to eat whatever antique wood crosses her path in the front half of the house) so cockatoo won’t eat them. Consider briefly allowing cockatoo to go ahead and eat the shoes, until motherly heartstrings wrap themselves around my neck and choke off my air supply.
8:15 – put glasses into dishwasher, convinced children don’t have a clue as to the purpose of this mysterious machine beside the sink. More swearing ensued. For the love of all that’s holy, these brats are 21,23, and 26…who broke their damn fingers? Clean hubby’s dirty dinner dish from last night. Only mildly pissed. After all, it was my idea to whip out a bottle of wine and sing old Three Dog Night songs in the backyard.
8:30 – Eating breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs…cooked to perfection. Ungrateful, piggish cockatoo eats half. Doesn’t clean up the kitchen, so I do the honors.
8:40 – stuff pill down dog’s throat. She hacks it up, and it goes skittering under the couch. Expensive medicine. I move damn couch to retrieve pill, which is now gooey and has hair sticking to it. Wash off pill and stick it and half my arm down dog’s throat.
8:42 – I give in. Give damn dog damn after-the-pill treat. I’m such a sap.
9:30 – got a good few pages written before son #1 needs me to follow him to drop off his car for an oil change. Consider telling him to take my bike – I’m hot on the trail of this chapter. I relent. I’m a mom. I do these things.
10:30 – back to writing after stopping off at store for emergency supply of tampons for daughter. How does this happen? I always had sixteen boxes of those puppies back in the days when such things occupied my frontal cortex.
11:30 – oh for crying out loud. Do I look like I know how to sew a hem? Just because my DNA marks me as a chick doesn’t mean I’m handy. I’m a writer and, therefore, given a pass from anything remotely passing as domestic. Do what all God’s children do, and take the jeans to the cleaner. They know how to hem. Cripes. Fine. I’ll iron the damn shirt because it’s my shirt you’re borrowing, and I don’t want iron burns on the front.
12:40 – finally on a big roll. The words are pouring out of my brain like Hemingway on crack. I’m brilliant, by golly. I'm smellin' the Pulitzer from here! I should…
“Uh, can I take you out to lunch?”
Ah geez. I suck. I’m navel lint. I’m an ungrateful hosebeast. I have the most beautiful kids and husband in the world, who adore me in spite of my tunnel vision during deadline time. They stop their own lives just long enough to remember the little things that will remind me of why I love them. Yeah, dirty dishes and shoes lying around pisses me off. But how can that possibly eclipse a warm, sweet smile, an infectious laugh, a tender hug that says I’m the center of their world, an out-of-the-blue invite to lunch? I swear, writing can make you crazy.
5:00 p.m. – “Yes, sir, I’d like to pick out that lovely straightjacket. Yes, the pink one with lace and pearls.”
Thursday, October 09, 2008
I blinked, feeling my left eye twitch. Finally. I was confronted with my worst nightmare. I knew it would happen one day, only I never expected it would come from the fruit of my womb. My son held up a clear plastic box that held roughly twenty crickets with their evil little antenna twitching to the tempo of their cricket-y symphony. I’ve lovingly called the box Dragon McDonalds for their easy pickin’s. Or Jiminy Cricket’s Last Chance Diner.
Regardless of the box’s name, I was to feed these grotesque monsters to his three bearded dragons while he took off for a concert in San Diego.
Doesn’t that sound something like a cross between Puff the Magic Dragon and Ethel Merman? Oddly enough, they’re cute in a scale-y sort of way, and I love to hold them.
What I will not hold is a freaking cricket. My son showed me how I wouldn’t have to touch a single cricket during the feeding. I. Hate. Crickets. To say they scare the shit out of me is an understatement. I’ve been known to jump on my husband’s head when I saw one skippy skapping across the kitchen floor. Mom tells me crickets in the house are a sign of a happy home. They never came to my home, where shrieks can be heard from down the street.
At the appointed hour of the morning, grossly under-caffeinated, I entered the sanctum santorum with my boxful of Jiminy Crickets and began channeling Princess Bride. “Hallo. My name is Indigo Montoya. You are dinosaur food. Prepare to die.”
I took the little tube out of the McDonald’s box and dumped ten Jiminys into the big mama dragon’s lair. She was in Nirvana. I began feeling pretty good about myself. A breakthrough, perhaps. I went over to the baby dragon’s tank and repeated the process. Hell yes, thinks I. I am woman, hear me roar. I am invincible. I am Sheena, Queen of the Jiminy Crickets. Eat me, you little worthless begga…holy shit…!
As if on cue, an escapee from the slaughterhouse came waltzing up the wall, winking his antenna at me. I haven’t sped out of my kids’ rooms that fast since the time my daughter barfed all over my new suit. I locked the door and thought seriously about torching the place. No worse nightmare could invade my dreams, let alone my waking life.
Never, never, never ask me to feed your damn dragons again.
I’m certain I’ve lost five good years of my life. Now my son must die. Send all Reiki hugs my way.