I've been struggling through the up-coming presidential election for a while now, I guess as long as everyone has been. I struggle with all of these kinds of elections. I take my right to vote more seriously than other people do, or so it seems. I've met people who refuse to vote.
Which I really don't get. These are the same people who flaunt magnets on their car that say "Support Our Troops." They brag about their own military service, their son's, their daughter's, even their parents or grandchildren's. They never hesitate to salute a solder and commend his service when they're out at the grocery store, but they won't exercise this basic component of that democracy the soldier defends. To me, that is insulting to the soldier and transmits a double standard to the world. To me, this is not how you show your patriotism.
The turnout for this election is being pretty awesome, so maybe we're starting to get it again. People are suddenly turning out in record numbers to make sure their voice is heard. I don't know if it's because the current administration has messed up in so many ways that people are just fed up, or if the idea of a black president has sparked everyone's enthusiasm for the democratic process. It might just be a combination of both. Either way it's nice to see. That is the most basic way of showing your patriotism, in my opinion.
I just hope we don't have another repeat of 2004.
When I cast my vote this year, I'm voting for Obama. I like the clarity of his thought. I like the way he chose not to depend on taxpayer money to fund his campaign. I like how he thought about the uses for negative campaign tactics and used them only for specific purposes and reasons as opposed to just bashing an opponent for the sake of drama. I like how he has been willing and able to honor his opponent even as he is running against him. I like how he expresses himself without being condescending or patronizing.
I appreciate Obama's assumption that I am, not only an American, but proud of it.
I support our troops, but not necessarily the policies and government that put them where they are. I would love a woman to be second in command of our country, but one who is qualified, and not so willing to base her experience solely on her own geography. I don't want our president to be elected because he succeeded in using scare tactics. I want a president who won't waffle on decisions because of an admitted lack of knowledge.
I'm still open minded. McCain still has a chance with me, but if he thinks using scare tactics, being condescending, patronizing and flaunting the tits and ass of his running mate is going to convince me to switch sides, then he must be as out of touch with his potential constituency as Obama claims.
I am patriotic. I vote.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Friday, November 30, 2007
Child Killed For Failing to say 'Please'
There are days when it's just too heavy for me to handle.
A few weeks ago, the body of a small child was found washed up against Galveston Bay. Police gave her a wide age range, between two and 5 years old. We all know how vastly different a two year old can look from a five year old, so this had to be the first evidence of something gone horribly wrong in such a young life.
Police named her Baby Grace, another clue as to how old this child really was. And the first clue that the police saw that this was a deliberate death - not an accident.
The police artist gave Baby Grace a bright smile with individual teeth, and open eyes with irises that take up the most of the eye. The open mouthed smile was another clue, as were the irises. Children have to grow into their bodies sometimes, and Baby Grace was no different.
While the idea of finding a child floating in Galveston Bay is horrifying, one would like to think it was the act of some insane psychopath who went on some random rampage. Maybe he kidnapped her from the safety of her bed some dark night while her parents had dinner within earshot. (Unfortunately, she wasn't Madeline McCann.) Or she was lifted off some playground somewhere while the mother happened to look away just long enough to pull a cell phone out of her purse. (Apparently, no children had been reported missing in such a manner during the time frame in question.)
We all should have known better. There was no Amber Alert issued on Baby Grace.
Baby Grace's legal name is Riley Ann. She was two years old, just barely out of diapers.
Her stepfather had such a fragile ego; such a slight hold on his own personal sense of manhood, that not only was he offended by the fact that this child forgot to say "please," but that she wouldn't refer to him as "sir."
The absence of such "politeness" and "respect" bothered him so much, he decided to call in sick at work so that he could "teach the girl a lesson." He lost control of all psychological senses when he started beating this small child with a belt. Baby Riley Ann was in such a state of hysterical fear, she couldn't say whatever words she had in her vocabulary, let alone think of the right ones to use to stop the hitting. The beating ended by the stepfather grabbing Riley Ann by the hair and throwing her across the room, slamming her against a hard tile floor.
Shortly thereafter, Riley Ann stopped crying.
Forever.
Riley Ann Sawyers died in absolute, bone liquifying, blood curdling terror.
And the one person in her life who might have had the power to stop it approved of the action being taken against her daughter. Mommy Dearest.
Riley Ann was killed. The abuse, for her, at least, is over. She's free to play in peace.
But how many other children is this kind of thing happening to on a nightly basis? Because mark my words, Riley Ann's case is not unique.
Rest in peace, Riley Ann. And go with the Grace of G-d.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Thanksgiving
And there went Thanksgiving.
I don’t know what happened, but I am noticing that every year that goes by, the clock ticks faster. I remember, as a child, Summer Vacation would yawn in great stretches of time. Three months off school? That was like an eternity! Now I just finish blinking away an eyelash trapped in my eye and 8 months has gone to the winds. At the rate it’s going in 10 minutes, I’ll be 97!
I'm 39, not 97. And not 40 either, thankyouverymch!
I might as well be 97. I feel like it more often than not. My back hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. Some mornings I wake up and it’s everything I can do to pull myself out of bed to get to work. I creak and groan as I work through my morning routine. Don’t even ask me about navigating stairs! I really should be in some kind of physical therapy, but having just started a new job, I don’t have the insurance needed to pay for that yet.
Yet.
I have a job; I'm thankful for that.
It’s coming. They keep telling me, the insurance is coming. For the first time since I started suffering chronic pain, I’m actually looking forward to physical therapy. Sure it’s a royal pain (both literally and figuratively) while you’re doing it, but in the long run it’s gotta help right? Yah, maybe.
At least my problems can be solved and are not terminal. I'm grateful for that.
Which brings me to Thanksgiving (via which route, I’m not sure). I spent the majority of it at home. I made roast beef. Why did I make roast beef and not turkey? Because these days, it’s just my dad and me, so why go through a zillion years of turkey leftovers when we both prefer roast beef anyways? It was good. I baked it slowly in the oven and it came out so tender it was just falling apart. I’m looking forward to roast beef sandwiches for dinner tonight.
It's nice to be able to afford roast beef again.
I also took my father running around to various gigs and engagements. Being the daughter of a musician still recovering from major neck surgery can have its drawbacks. One of the big ones: I’m now a full time chauffer. And I hate to drive. Sitting at the wheel too long makes my neck and back hurt and those hurt enough as it is, but it’s for my dad, so whatcha gonna do?
I am sooooo thankful I have a dad. He is still with me and I hope he is for a long time to come. He is, right now, the only family I have.
So, there's always something to feel thankful for.
And that's what Thanksgiving is all about, isn't it?
I don’t know what happened, but I am noticing that every year that goes by, the clock ticks faster. I remember, as a child, Summer Vacation would yawn in great stretches of time. Three months off school? That was like an eternity! Now I just finish blinking away an eyelash trapped in my eye and 8 months has gone to the winds. At the rate it’s going in 10 minutes, I’ll be 97!
I'm 39, not 97. And not 40 either, thankyouverymch!
I might as well be 97. I feel like it more often than not. My back hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. Some mornings I wake up and it’s everything I can do to pull myself out of bed to get to work. I creak and groan as I work through my morning routine. Don’t even ask me about navigating stairs! I really should be in some kind of physical therapy, but having just started a new job, I don’t have the insurance needed to pay for that yet.
Yet.
I have a job; I'm thankful for that.
It’s coming. They keep telling me, the insurance is coming. For the first time since I started suffering chronic pain, I’m actually looking forward to physical therapy. Sure it’s a royal pain (both literally and figuratively) while you’re doing it, but in the long run it’s gotta help right? Yah, maybe.
At least my problems can be solved and are not terminal. I'm grateful for that.
Which brings me to Thanksgiving (via which route, I’m not sure). I spent the majority of it at home. I made roast beef. Why did I make roast beef and not turkey? Because these days, it’s just my dad and me, so why go through a zillion years of turkey leftovers when we both prefer roast beef anyways? It was good. I baked it slowly in the oven and it came out so tender it was just falling apart. I’m looking forward to roast beef sandwiches for dinner tonight.
It's nice to be able to afford roast beef again.
I also took my father running around to various gigs and engagements. Being the daughter of a musician still recovering from major neck surgery can have its drawbacks. One of the big ones: I’m now a full time chauffer. And I hate to drive. Sitting at the wheel too long makes my neck and back hurt and those hurt enough as it is, but it’s for my dad, so whatcha gonna do?
I am sooooo thankful I have a dad. He is still with me and I hope he is for a long time to come. He is, right now, the only family I have.
So, there's always something to feel thankful for.
And that's what Thanksgiving is all about, isn't it?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 03, 2007
Avs avs avs!!!
Once upon a time, back in the dark ages of my youth (I am feeling particularly ancient today), I read a Sci Fi book that touched on cyberspace and the avatars therein. Don't ask me to remember the name of the book as the title and the main plot have escaped me. This book lingers in my memory only because of the observation the author made about avatars.
In this fictitious world, the author claimed that avatars, representations of ourselves on the internet (avs), came in many different sizes, shapes and ideals. You could generally tell what kind of person you were talking to by the av they wore. Avs ran the gamut, but you could glean some useful information from them.
The working classes, for instance, tended to buy the mass produced avs that were sold at some Walmart equivalent. A three-pack of avs with the same basic features. You could choose hair color, eye color and body type according to the manufacturer's choices, but they all tended to look pretty much alike. Barbie and Ken avs, you could say.
Slightly more expensive, but still available at this Walmart equivalent, might be the avs that have come into being at Second Sight and other 3D chats online now. Perfectly proportioned men with ripped abs, nice heads of hair and all the stylish clothes. The female counterparts are slim with nice proportions of their own at chest level and the taut roundness of legs and buttocks a good many of us women wish for and don't have. These avs weren't quite as cheap as the Ken and Barbie avs, but they were still readily available.
Then there were the specialty avs. They were usually tweaked versions of the second category of avs. People played with these avs and "shaped" them into something a little more. . . outrageous. They were no less revealing, however. You can imagine the sort of person who would be willing to wear an av of a 6 foot tall penis, for instance, complete with a PA. Or even a woman with such a large bosom her head is just a little pimple positioned at the top of her cleavage. Trolls, perhaps, or people who have nothing better to do but wish for more sex.
Ironically, the avs that were the most revealing of status and personal taste were the ones that looked the most like "real people." Men in regular clothes who may or may not be part of the management of their jobs. Women who wear jeans and tshirts to grocery stores and showed evidence of an established life with a few children to care for. Hair would be styled, but not glamorous. Skin tones would be more realistic than Ken's or Barbie's. Body types were not mythologically proportioned.
It took more commitment to designing your av if you made it realistic. One had to think a little more in order to make skin tones realistic, or add the slight crows feet and laugh lines one would expect of realism in humanity. Thus, in this world, the realistic avs were the most expensive. You weren't doing badly if you could afford to look normal.
I tend to show off the products of my age a little more (by age, I mean place in time and not chronological age). Most of my avs use the kinds you might see at Second Sight, or more likely, the ones you find on MySpace pages. They're called "dolls," or "baby dolls." They're colorful little pixel creations that stand maybe half an inch high. If you get a large doll, it's maybe an inch high. The baby doll on this blog is MUCH bigger than most of the dolls I've seen. The larger ones tend to have a little bit of a sensual allure to them. I like the smaller ones. They're more mischief and playful.
Like me.
I also have a couple of avs that are "real people." Those tend to have a contemplative and thoughtful mood to them. There might be a little bit of sensuality underlining these avs, but it's never the main focus. These avs are for thought and expression; not for snagging trolls.
One thing is for sure: I will never be the type who chooses to be seen as a walking set of boobs.
In this fictitious world, the author claimed that avatars, representations of ourselves on the internet (avs), came in many different sizes, shapes and ideals. You could generally tell what kind of person you were talking to by the av they wore. Avs ran the gamut, but you could glean some useful information from them.
The working classes, for instance, tended to buy the mass produced avs that were sold at some Walmart equivalent. A three-pack of avs with the same basic features. You could choose hair color, eye color and body type according to the manufacturer's choices, but they all tended to look pretty much alike. Barbie and Ken avs, you could say.
Slightly more expensive, but still available at this Walmart equivalent, might be the avs that have come into being at Second Sight and other 3D chats online now. Perfectly proportioned men with ripped abs, nice heads of hair and all the stylish clothes. The female counterparts are slim with nice proportions of their own at chest level and the taut roundness of legs and buttocks a good many of us women wish for and don't have. These avs weren't quite as cheap as the Ken and Barbie avs, but they were still readily available.
Then there were the specialty avs. They were usually tweaked versions of the second category of avs. People played with these avs and "shaped" them into something a little more. . . outrageous. They were no less revealing, however. You can imagine the sort of person who would be willing to wear an av of a 6 foot tall penis, for instance, complete with a PA. Or even a woman with such a large bosom her head is just a little pimple positioned at the top of her cleavage. Trolls, perhaps, or people who have nothing better to do but wish for more sex.
Ironically, the avs that were the most revealing of status and personal taste were the ones that looked the most like "real people." Men in regular clothes who may or may not be part of the management of their jobs. Women who wear jeans and tshirts to grocery stores and showed evidence of an established life with a few children to care for. Hair would be styled, but not glamorous. Skin tones would be more realistic than Ken's or Barbie's. Body types were not mythologically proportioned.
It took more commitment to designing your av if you made it realistic. One had to think a little more in order to make skin tones realistic, or add the slight crows feet and laugh lines one would expect of realism in humanity. Thus, in this world, the realistic avs were the most expensive. You weren't doing badly if you could afford to look normal.
I tend to show off the products of my age a little more (by age, I mean place in time and not chronological age). Most of my avs use the kinds you might see at Second Sight, or more likely, the ones you find on MySpace pages. They're called "dolls," or "baby dolls." They're colorful little pixel creations that stand maybe half an inch high. If you get a large doll, it's maybe an inch high. The baby doll on this blog is MUCH bigger than most of the dolls I've seen. The larger ones tend to have a little bit of a sensual allure to them. I like the smaller ones. They're more mischief and playful.
Like me.
I also have a couple of avs that are "real people." Those tend to have a contemplative and thoughtful mood to them. There might be a little bit of sensuality underlining these avs, but it's never the main focus. These avs are for thought and expression; not for snagging trolls.
One thing is for sure: I will never be the type who chooses to be seen as a walking set of boobs.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Harry's leavin'?
Naw.
Harry's just gonna become human.
And isn't that the moral of everything? We all have to deal with our humanity at some point in our lives.
Why should Harry be any different?
Besides, self sacrifice is much more interesting than mere death.
Harry's just gonna become human.
And isn't that the moral of everything? We all have to deal with our humanity at some point in our lives.
Why should Harry be any different?
Besides, self sacrifice is much more interesting than mere death.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Questions
I found this questionnaire at one of the websites I frequent. I thought it would be fun to put it up here. If you'd like, "copy" it, answer the questions, and post it on your own blog. Or post it here. It's just for fun. Don't take it too seriously
Please describe yourself in just three words.
Funky, engaging, cute.
Why did you choose to start a blog?
Because I like to write. Keeping a blog is a good way to hone your skill while providing you with the chance to think about things that come through your life. I tend to treat this blog more as a journal, though, rather than a "real" blog.
Are there any recurring themes you touch on in your blog posts?
Memorials and children. I like doing yearly memorials for people I admire; like firemen, or the victims of 911. I also have a great fondness for children. I enjoy getting the quick glimpses of how the world looks in their eyes. Besides, I'm a kid at heart.
How personal do you get in your blog? Are there things you won't discuss?
I get fairly personal. I tend to believe that feelings, unless you're a real social deviant, are pretty normal and it's OK to share them. I won't get so personal everyone knows where I live. I won't publish my phone number.
There are children who read my blog, so I try to keep things mostly clean and easy for them to read. I don't believe in censorship though.
Do you have any favorite bloggers or groups you like to read?
I do. I have quite a few blogs I read, but I'm still working on getting permission to link them here, so you'll just have to wait to see whose they are.
Any final wisdom, thoughts, advice?
Keep an open mind when it comes to your own blog. Just start writing. Maybe a theme will come up, maybe it won't. If you take it too seriously it becomes a chore and we have enough chores in life to deal with. Blogging shouldn't be one of them.
Anything you'd like to let your readers know about you?
I'm open minded, easy to get along with and friendly. Unless you come charging at me with narrow mindedness and stubbornness, I'm not going to bite when you respond to my blog.
Feel free to reach out and play here.
Please describe yourself in just three words.
Funky, engaging, cute.
Why did you choose to start a blog?
Because I like to write. Keeping a blog is a good way to hone your skill while providing you with the chance to think about things that come through your life. I tend to treat this blog more as a journal, though, rather than a "real" blog.
Are there any recurring themes you touch on in your blog posts?
Memorials and children. I like doing yearly memorials for people I admire; like firemen, or the victims of 911. I also have a great fondness for children. I enjoy getting the quick glimpses of how the world looks in their eyes. Besides, I'm a kid at heart.
How personal do you get in your blog? Are there things you won't discuss?
I get fairly personal. I tend to believe that feelings, unless you're a real social deviant, are pretty normal and it's OK to share them. I won't get so personal everyone knows where I live. I won't publish my phone number.
There are children who read my blog, so I try to keep things mostly clean and easy for them to read. I don't believe in censorship though.
Do you have any favorite bloggers or groups you like to read?
I do. I have quite a few blogs I read, but I'm still working on getting permission to link them here, so you'll just have to wait to see whose they are.
Any final wisdom, thoughts, advice?
Keep an open mind when it comes to your own blog. Just start writing. Maybe a theme will come up, maybe it won't. If you take it too seriously it becomes a chore and we have enough chores in life to deal with. Blogging shouldn't be one of them.
Anything you'd like to let your readers know about you?
I'm open minded, easy to get along with and friendly. Unless you come charging at me with narrow mindedness and stubbornness, I'm not going to bite when you respond to my blog.
Feel free to reach out and play here.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Merman in the Pool
"There's a merman in the pool."
Hannah tried not to jump to conclusions. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Monica's puzzling statements.
"I'm thinking tomato and cheese in a pita pocket. What do you think?" Hannah said casually as she peered into the fridge.
"No. We ran out of balsamic vinegar," Monica replied. "What should we do about the merman?"
"Oh. I thought you were going to the store last night." Hannah refused to show any surprise at her friend's odd statements.
"Hannah, listen to me! We have a merman in the pool and we have to do something about it. All that chlorine can't be good for him."
Hannah looked over the fridge door and looked at Monica. Maybe the stress of a rocky marriage to a man she wasn't sure she loved had finally gotten to her. But why dream up a merman? Why not another man? Or knowing Monica's proclivities, another woman?
Monica, for her part, was looking out toward the pool. She had a worried look on her face, but it was underscored by a line of wonder. How many times do you have a merman visiting your pool? And such a handsome one, no less?
Monica's impatience finally got to her, and she grabbed Hannah's hand and pull-dragged her out the back sliding doors.
"See!" Monica pointed.
Hannah's jaw dropped as she looked toward the pool.
The merman had just burst through the surface of the water, his hair was dark bronze with lighter gold and red highlights streaked through. His muscular shoulders were well defined without being over done, and they flowed out to well shaped, almost chiseled arms. Inviting. You could sink into those arms.
The merman didn't come out of the water all the way, just enough to give the girls a glimpse at a perfectly formed fin that started just below his waist. Its color mimicked flowing ocean waves with shades of green and blue accentuating sensuous peaks and valleys in all the right places. The merman was perfect.
And he knew it, too. As Hannah was realizing Monica was telling the truth, the merman flashed both girls a look that proved beyond any doubt that while the merman didn't have a tail, per se, he'd certainly had some before. Hannah and Monica both inhaled deeply and adjusted their positions to accommodate the additional feelings forming deep in their bodies. Then the merman dove back into the water with the graceful ease of experience.
Hannah was gobsmacked.
"There IS a merman in the pool!" she breathed just as Monica's husband came out to see what was going on. Daniel did a double take at Hannah, then bit his tongue. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Hannah's puzzling statements.
;)
Hannah tried not to jump to conclusions. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Monica's puzzling statements.
"I'm thinking tomato and cheese in a pita pocket. What do you think?" Hannah said casually as she peered into the fridge.
"No. We ran out of balsamic vinegar," Monica replied. "What should we do about the merman?"
"Oh. I thought you were going to the store last night." Hannah refused to show any surprise at her friend's odd statements.
"Hannah, listen to me! We have a merman in the pool and we have to do something about it. All that chlorine can't be good for him."
Hannah looked over the fridge door and looked at Monica. Maybe the stress of a rocky marriage to a man she wasn't sure she loved had finally gotten to her. But why dream up a merman? Why not another man? Or knowing Monica's proclivities, another woman?
Monica, for her part, was looking out toward the pool. She had a worried look on her face, but it was underscored by a line of wonder. How many times do you have a merman visiting your pool? And such a handsome one, no less?
Monica's impatience finally got to her, and she grabbed Hannah's hand and pull-dragged her out the back sliding doors.
"See!" Monica pointed.
Hannah's jaw dropped as she looked toward the pool.
The merman had just burst through the surface of the water, his hair was dark bronze with lighter gold and red highlights streaked through. His muscular shoulders were well defined without being over done, and they flowed out to well shaped, almost chiseled arms. Inviting. You could sink into those arms.
The merman didn't come out of the water all the way, just enough to give the girls a glimpse at a perfectly formed fin that started just below his waist. Its color mimicked flowing ocean waves with shades of green and blue accentuating sensuous peaks and valleys in all the right places. The merman was perfect.
And he knew it, too. As Hannah was realizing Monica was telling the truth, the merman flashed both girls a look that proved beyond any doubt that while the merman didn't have a tail, per se, he'd certainly had some before. Hannah and Monica both inhaled deeply and adjusted their positions to accommodate the additional feelings forming deep in their bodies. Then the merman dove back into the water with the graceful ease of experience.
Hannah was gobsmacked.
"There IS a merman in the pool!" she breathed just as Monica's husband came out to see what was going on. Daniel did a double take at Hannah, then bit his tongue. It wasn't usually all that wise to respond too quickly to one of Hannah's puzzling statements.
;)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Come, Let's Make A Date
There is just something about the Tango. Have you ever watched it? I was watching a travel channel program featuring Buenos Aires, Argentina. The place were the Tango was born. Buenos Aires looks fascinating and has an amazing history to it, but the real reason I'd take anyone up on an Argentinean vacation would be because of the Tango. There just isn't a sexier dance.
The sexiness of it isn't hard to understand when you look at Tango's history. It's said to have started in the lower class quarters; brothels to be exact. It might have been an excellent advertising tool for "the girls." Something developed to ensure a "score."
Imagine it: he sees that girl over there at the bar. She's got jet black hair being held together in a tight knot at the back of her head with a scarlet colored scarf. He notices the flash of her dark eyes. She's a healthy girl, with a nice voluptuous figure. But the night is young and there are so many women here. Maybe he will take his time, have another drink and consider his options.
Then she slinks over to him, letting her feet hesitate in each step just enough for her walk to be sultry. She's got "that look" in her eyes. Her dress flares and moves tantalizingly, hinting at a young lithe body underneath. Her shoulders have a feline quality about them. Her arms are lazy in her gait. Her attitude is alluring.
Before he knows what is happening, she's taken up residence in his arms and they're locked into rhythm with each other. Her eyes sneak a glimpse at his mouth, then dart back to his eyes. He looks down at her neck, her collar bone, her breasts, then he comes back up to her eyes for some air. Her leg wraps around his, ankle caressing his calf. His hand on the small of her back feels muscle form and move underneath the skin.
See the dip? He did that for a reason. It's a not-so-subtle hint at how and what they will do when there aren't so many people around. A quick slide and a twirl brings her back up and their eyes lock. Mouths are open, tasting the air they're both giving off. Pheromones have a role in the dance too.
*Sighs*
Its origins might have been base and rude, but now it's an art. Even the upper classes want to learn it. They go in droves to Argentina for a chance at having a lesson or two. I would jump at the chance to be as alluring and sensual in a dance.
Did someone turn the heat on?
The sexiness of it isn't hard to understand when you look at Tango's history. It's said to have started in the lower class quarters; brothels to be exact. It might have been an excellent advertising tool for "the girls." Something developed to ensure a "score."
Imagine it: he sees that girl over there at the bar. She's got jet black hair being held together in a tight knot at the back of her head with a scarlet colored scarf. He notices the flash of her dark eyes. She's a healthy girl, with a nice voluptuous figure. But the night is young and there are so many women here. Maybe he will take his time, have another drink and consider his options.
Then she slinks over to him, letting her feet hesitate in each step just enough for her walk to be sultry. She's got "that look" in her eyes. Her dress flares and moves tantalizingly, hinting at a young lithe body underneath. Her shoulders have a feline quality about them. Her arms are lazy in her gait. Her attitude is alluring.
Before he knows what is happening, she's taken up residence in his arms and they're locked into rhythm with each other. Her eyes sneak a glimpse at his mouth, then dart back to his eyes. He looks down at her neck, her collar bone, her breasts, then he comes back up to her eyes for some air. Her leg wraps around his, ankle caressing his calf. His hand on the small of her back feels muscle form and move underneath the skin.
See the dip? He did that for a reason. It's a not-so-subtle hint at how and what they will do when there aren't so many people around. A quick slide and a twirl brings her back up and their eyes lock. Mouths are open, tasting the air they're both giving off. Pheromones have a role in the dance too.
*Sighs*
Its origins might have been base and rude, but now it's an art. Even the upper classes want to learn it. They go in droves to Argentina for a chance at having a lesson or two. I would jump at the chance to be as alluring and sensual in a dance.
Did someone turn the heat on?
Friday, June 01, 2007
The Honeymooners
I can't BELIEVE Speaker is going to get away with it! He KNEW he had a TB problem and he still exposed dozens of people to this rare form of TB. Even if we assume he's right - that the medical community didn't think it'd be much of a problem for him to travel in the beginning (key words: in the beginning), eventually he DID know the whole story, and he STILL decided going on his honeymoon was more important.
The CDC even called him while he was in Rome, for crying out loud, and told him to go to an isolation unit there. Of course, he refused. Probably because he wanted one more night of intense intimacy with his new bride before he "turned himself in." That, or he is so coldly ethnocentric that he believes the only "quality" health care is "Amurkin." (Forget the fact that we "Amurkins" can't even decide on how to deal with what should be a basic human right: health care.) Report to an isolation unit in Rome? No way, dude!
Instead, lets put more airline passengers at risk before finally arriving in Canada where he smuggled himself in. Either the border guard who processed him is idiotic, or he was bribed. Hmmm.
Canada to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to Denver. My home town. Only I don't want him here. Yes, I know we have the National Jewish here and it's THEEE leading hospital when it comes to respiratory care. But why should I care about him when it is so blatantly obvious he wouldn't have cared about me had we been on the same flight?
Speaker is from a rich family. He was born with all the advantages wealth and status can give you. He is used to getting his way. In other words, Speaker is a spoiled little boy who cannot possibly comprehend the consequences of his thoughtless actions.
Or can he? Do you think he's claiming all this guilt, and doing this "I just want forgiveness" act because it suddenly hit him that what he did was wrong? He is a lawyer, after all. If one person one any of those flights comes forward with this extreme and rare form of TB...
Can we say "attempted manslaughter?"
Nah! He's gonna get away with it and THAT ticks me off!
The CDC even called him while he was in Rome, for crying out loud, and told him to go to an isolation unit there. Of course, he refused. Probably because he wanted one more night of intense intimacy with his new bride before he "turned himself in." That, or he is so coldly ethnocentric that he believes the only "quality" health care is "Amurkin." (Forget the fact that we "Amurkins" can't even decide on how to deal with what should be a basic human right: health care.) Report to an isolation unit in Rome? No way, dude!
Instead, lets put more airline passengers at risk before finally arriving in Canada where he smuggled himself in. Either the border guard who processed him is idiotic, or he was bribed. Hmmm.
Canada to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to Denver. My home town. Only I don't want him here. Yes, I know we have the National Jewish here and it's THEEE leading hospital when it comes to respiratory care. But why should I care about him when it is so blatantly obvious he wouldn't have cared about me had we been on the same flight?
Speaker is from a rich family. He was born with all the advantages wealth and status can give you. He is used to getting his way. In other words, Speaker is a spoiled little boy who cannot possibly comprehend the consequences of his thoughtless actions.
Or can he? Do you think he's claiming all this guilt, and doing this "I just want forgiveness" act because it suddenly hit him that what he did was wrong? He is a lawyer, after all. If one person one any of those flights comes forward with this extreme and rare form of TB...
Can we say "attempted manslaughter?"
Nah! He's gonna get away with it and THAT ticks me off!
Monday, May 28, 2007
Memorial Day
IT IS THE SOLDIER
It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the Soldier, not the poet
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer
Who has given us freedom to protest.
It is the Soldier, not the lawyer
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.
It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.
~Charles M. Province
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Yum
I like cooking; specifically, baking. I find that baking fills the house with heavenly odors that tug at the comforting strings in the brain. I will admit, when it comes to baking something like white bread or sour dough bread, I will use a bread machine. It's not just the lazy factor that makes this decision, it's the timing. I can fill the bread machine with ingredients before I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning to the smell of freshly baked bread.
Mmmm. There is no better alarm clock.
Quick breads area always fun. Seems any church with any kind of congregation has a zucchini bread recipe. Banana breads aren't far behind that, but I like the exotic kinds. Orange and cranberry bread, or nut bread made with hazel nuts and macadamias. Apricot orange bread.
Mmmm. Pass the cream cheese please.
Muffins are just quick breads made in smaller portions, but some muffins are heavier than others. I just made donut muffins the other night. REALLY good. They're heavier with a tighter texture to them, and they're usually made with nutmeg as the flavoring, but I used cloves and cinnamon instead. I got one, my dad ate the other five.
Shortbread is another thing I like making. (Not to be mistaken for sweetbreads ;) ) The basic recipe is easy enough, and just about everyone has the ingredients, but you can play with it and get really creative. A well placed dot or two of jelly always brings on the ooh's. If the jelly happens to be transparent, like apple or mint, you'll get the ahh's to go with it. If you have some halved walnuts laying around, you can top a circle of shortbread with it. It not only adds a nice flavor to the cookie, but it is also a nice looking touch. I always get really nice compliments when I make stain glass windows. All you need for that is a basic shortbread recipe and a few jolly ranchers.
Mmmm, shortbread!
Baking is a stress reliever. With the problems I've bee running into with school, and the hassles of work and paying a mortgage, the stress of living is getting to me. Baking is a cheap, easy and yummy way for me to let off the pressure.
But what do I do with the excess?
Hey, want any cookies?
Mmmm. There is no better alarm clock.
Quick breads area always fun. Seems any church with any kind of congregation has a zucchini bread recipe. Banana breads aren't far behind that, but I like the exotic kinds. Orange and cranberry bread, or nut bread made with hazel nuts and macadamias. Apricot orange bread.
Mmmm. Pass the cream cheese please.
Muffins are just quick breads made in smaller portions, but some muffins are heavier than others. I just made donut muffins the other night. REALLY good. They're heavier with a tighter texture to them, and they're usually made with nutmeg as the flavoring, but I used cloves and cinnamon instead. I got one, my dad ate the other five.
Shortbread is another thing I like making. (Not to be mistaken for sweetbreads ;) ) The basic recipe is easy enough, and just about everyone has the ingredients, but you can play with it and get really creative. A well placed dot or two of jelly always brings on the ooh's. If the jelly happens to be transparent, like apple or mint, you'll get the ahh's to go with it. If you have some halved walnuts laying around, you can top a circle of shortbread with it. It not only adds a nice flavor to the cookie, but it is also a nice looking touch. I always get really nice compliments when I make stain glass windows. All you need for that is a basic shortbread recipe and a few jolly ranchers.
Mmmm, shortbread!
Baking is a stress reliever. With the problems I've bee running into with school, and the hassles of work and paying a mortgage, the stress of living is getting to me. Baking is a cheap, easy and yummy way for me to let off the pressure.
But what do I do with the excess?
Hey, want any cookies?
Monday, May 14, 2007
Carts and Rafts
My father gave me an absolute intolerance for anything arts and crafts.
Papier mache is too messy and even if you can keep things from getting too messy, after a few weeks it starts to mold up and turn green.
Gross.
Native American beadwork is nerve wracking. Not only is it time consuming and the layout of the designs complicated to duplicate, you wind up with little pieces of waxed string, bits of beeswax and little tiny colored beads ALL OVER THE PLACE!
No thanks.
Cross stitch and embroidery are very pretty when they're finished, but OH MY GOD!!! Both activities just make me want to fly into pieces.
And crochet makes my arm hurt. Crochet is not an activity you should practice if you have a tendency toward carpel tunnel syndrome.
*Sighs*
Knitting? My father hasn't taught me that yet.
;)
Papier mache is too messy and even if you can keep things from getting too messy, after a few weeks it starts to mold up and turn green.
Gross.
Native American beadwork is nerve wracking. Not only is it time consuming and the layout of the designs complicated to duplicate, you wind up with little pieces of waxed string, bits of beeswax and little tiny colored beads ALL OVER THE PLACE!
No thanks.
Cross stitch and embroidery are very pretty when they're finished, but OH MY GOD!!! Both activities just make me want to fly into pieces.
And crochet makes my arm hurt. Crochet is not an activity you should practice if you have a tendency toward carpel tunnel syndrome.
*Sighs*
Knitting? My father hasn't taught me that yet.
;)
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Feelin' Good After All These Years
Back in the Dark ages when I was young and carefree (I'm still carefree, but I am by no means young anymore), I had a job as an intern at the campus where I went to school. I HATED it.
Why?
The boss worked me and worked me and worked me. Every time I walked through that freakin' door, there was something for me to do. And it wasn't just one thing either. I had a zillion things to do and only about 5 minutes to do it all, and that was on top of everything else I had to do that was actually IN the job description!
I never dissed a person in authority so much as when I had that internship. I hated that boss man!
Then I watched Shear Genius last week. Actually, I watched the episode this week, but it was last week's episode that has stuck with me all this week.
Tyson had control of the order last week. He, of course, got first pick of all the models and blades to do his hair styling with, but he also decided who got second pick, and third pick, etc.
He made Tabatha last. Poor Tabatha. She's the awesome hair stylist with a trashy mouth, who can pull class out of her ass when she bloody well feels like it. I like the woman. She got stuck with the last model and had to cut the girl's hair with a pair of craft scissors. (Remember those from kindergarten? Gross old safety scissors designed to do as little cutting as possible to keep children safe. Damn things can't even cut through warm butter!)
Tyson has a mean streak.
But then I figured it out, (long before the show spelled it out to me, mind you).
Tabatha has the potential to kick Tyson's ass in this competition and Tyson bloody well knows it.
So maybe, maybe, that boss of mine during that internship I held while I was in college, MAYBE he saw something in me that knew I could meet the challenge.
You know what?
He was bloody right!
Thanks Tyson and Tabatha for helping me to figure it out.
(Even if you have absolutely no clue of my existence.)
Why?
The boss worked me and worked me and worked me. Every time I walked through that freakin' door, there was something for me to do. And it wasn't just one thing either. I had a zillion things to do and only about 5 minutes to do it all, and that was on top of everything else I had to do that was actually IN the job description!
I never dissed a person in authority so much as when I had that internship. I hated that boss man!
Then I watched Shear Genius last week. Actually, I watched the episode this week, but it was last week's episode that has stuck with me all this week.
Tyson had control of the order last week. He, of course, got first pick of all the models and blades to do his hair styling with, but he also decided who got second pick, and third pick, etc.
He made Tabatha last. Poor Tabatha. She's the awesome hair stylist with a trashy mouth, who can pull class out of her ass when she bloody well feels like it. I like the woman. She got stuck with the last model and had to cut the girl's hair with a pair of craft scissors. (Remember those from kindergarten? Gross old safety scissors designed to do as little cutting as possible to keep children safe. Damn things can't even cut through warm butter!)
Tyson has a mean streak.
But then I figured it out, (long before the show spelled it out to me, mind you).
Tabatha has the potential to kick Tyson's ass in this competition and Tyson bloody well knows it.
So maybe, maybe, that boss of mine during that internship I held while I was in college, MAYBE he saw something in me that knew I could meet the challenge.
You know what?
He was bloody right!
Thanks Tyson and Tabatha for helping me to figure it out.
(Even if you have absolutely no clue of my existence.)
Monday, April 23, 2007
Enigma
I bet that when you
started to read this you thought
that it was a poem.
Isn't it funny how people
will go on reading even if
they know they
are being fooled?
~R.L.
started to read this you thought
that it was a poem.
Isn't it funny how people
will go on reading even if
they know they
are being fooled?
~R.L.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
99 Red Balloons
When people are forced into extreme situations, bravery must be measured in different ways. There was bravery of all kinds taking place in the concentration camps of World War II.
The courage it must take to see your 12 year old daughter on the other side of a chain link fence lined with razor wire must be incredible. It's the closest you can get to her, but the distance might as well be comparable to the moon's. You might never see her alive again, but would you want to miss the chance?
Or the desire to escape your prison so completely you come up with a whole new way to teach mathematics to children. You have no paper, no type writer, no calculator. The only technology you have access to is the few inches or so of grey matter inside your skull. Wetware.
A woman gathers up colored bits and pieces the Nazi guards might have thrown away and arranging them so she could show the children around her what flowers look like.
The gypsy who danced in the dark of the night, then collapsed because she was too weak to keep it going.
The 10 women who saved the fat clinging to the gruel they were fed. Then finding a Rabbi so they could light the candles of Chanukah. Fellowship. There is strength in numbers. Even small numbers
The American soldier who found the strength, both physical and emotional, to walk across the compound and steal a pot of broth for the starving inmates in his unheated barracks and the frigid cold of winter.
And the Nazi guard who "didn't see" the desperate act of said soldier.
They were all humans determined to keep hold of their humanity in spite of the fact this radical regime insisted on treating them like contaminated animals who deserved nothing better than to be put to death. Or worse, to be experimented on like rats in a laboratory.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
The courage it must take to see your 12 year old daughter on the other side of a chain link fence lined with razor wire must be incredible. It's the closest you can get to her, but the distance might as well be comparable to the moon's. You might never see her alive again, but would you want to miss the chance?
Or the desire to escape your prison so completely you come up with a whole new way to teach mathematics to children. You have no paper, no type writer, no calculator. The only technology you have access to is the few inches or so of grey matter inside your skull. Wetware.
A woman gathers up colored bits and pieces the Nazi guards might have thrown away and arranging them so she could show the children around her what flowers look like.
The gypsy who danced in the dark of the night, then collapsed because she was too weak to keep it going.
The 10 women who saved the fat clinging to the gruel they were fed. Then finding a Rabbi so they could light the candles of Chanukah. Fellowship. There is strength in numbers. Even small numbers
The American soldier who found the strength, both physical and emotional, to walk across the compound and steal a pot of broth for the starving inmates in his unheated barracks and the frigid cold of winter.
And the Nazi guard who "didn't see" the desperate act of said soldier.
They were all humans determined to keep hold of their humanity in spite of the fact this radical regime insisted on treating them like contaminated animals who deserved nothing better than to be put to death. Or worse, to be experimented on like rats in a laboratory.
Today is Yom Hashoah.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Native Pride
As a girl, I remember sitting in front of mother as she sprayed water onto my hair to tame the fly-aways, ran sharp combs through my hair and braided my hair as tightly as possible to get a smooth and clean look to support elaborate beaded barrettes and hair ties. It was all part of a routine, a preparation process that was the norm on the Powwow Trail.
Teasing out the snarls in hair that is so thick its weight alone can inflict headaches is not easy for a small child to live through, but what you learn as you're growing up is that it's all part of weaving a spell. Haven't you noticed the fascination with Native Americans since Columbus landed? Lots of times it's been expressed negatively, but it's also been a positive thing. Especially lately. People want to be Natives.
"I'm Cherokee, but I can't prove it."
I also remember wearing jingle dresses and elaborate shawls. Later, as I matured, beautiful cloth outfits decorated with shells or coins entered into my wardrobe. A couple times I was even privileged enough to wear a full buckskin with beadwork that would have done any nation proud. They all look good and most who see them look in wide-eyed wonder at the work that went into the creation and its stunning effect.
But jingles and shells and beads are heavy, and wool and buckskin is hot. Powwows are notorious for being held in the summer months so it's not uncommon for these elaborate outfits to be worn in 95-plus degree heat. Large quantities of cold water are often drunk to keep the body moving, but after a while, hot is just hot. Native Americans have been known to suffer for the spells they weave.
It's pride, in its most basic sense.
I sat at my mother's feet while she pulled and tugged and manipulated my hair into tight fitting, elaborate braids. I clenched my teeth around the sharp pains as she anchored those elaborate barrettes and sometimes beaded crowns into my hair so that I could show all who looked that I am proud to be from the Lakota tribe.
I wore outfits made from wool, stitched with beads and shells and flaunted buckskin proudly in 90-plus degree heat in various powwows because I wanted to show off who I am. Sure, I look Native American with my long, long black hair and my high cheekbones and dark skin, but look at me now! My heritage and personal family culture is stitched in this outfit.
I might not have been able to articulate it at five years old, but somehow I knew, KNEW, even then, that I had something to be proud of.
I come from the proud nation of the Lakota, can claim familial ties with a distinguished line of medicine men, strong women and prominent people.
The women of my line are among the very, very few who have the right to carry and wear a chief's blanket.
Power? I have it.
Dignity? I was born with it.
Spells?
You're Cherokee, aren't you?
Teasing out the snarls in hair that is so thick its weight alone can inflict headaches is not easy for a small child to live through, but what you learn as you're growing up is that it's all part of weaving a spell. Haven't you noticed the fascination with Native Americans since Columbus landed? Lots of times it's been expressed negatively, but it's also been a positive thing. Especially lately. People want to be Natives.
"I'm Cherokee, but I can't prove it."
I also remember wearing jingle dresses and elaborate shawls. Later, as I matured, beautiful cloth outfits decorated with shells or coins entered into my wardrobe. A couple times I was even privileged enough to wear a full buckskin with beadwork that would have done any nation proud. They all look good and most who see them look in wide-eyed wonder at the work that went into the creation and its stunning effect.
But jingles and shells and beads are heavy, and wool and buckskin is hot. Powwows are notorious for being held in the summer months so it's not uncommon for these elaborate outfits to be worn in 95-plus degree heat. Large quantities of cold water are often drunk to keep the body moving, but after a while, hot is just hot. Native Americans have been known to suffer for the spells they weave.
It's pride, in its most basic sense.
I sat at my mother's feet while she pulled and tugged and manipulated my hair into tight fitting, elaborate braids. I clenched my teeth around the sharp pains as she anchored those elaborate barrettes and sometimes beaded crowns into my hair so that I could show all who looked that I am proud to be from the Lakota tribe.
I wore outfits made from wool, stitched with beads and shells and flaunted buckskin proudly in 90-plus degree heat in various powwows because I wanted to show off who I am. Sure, I look Native American with my long, long black hair and my high cheekbones and dark skin, but look at me now! My heritage and personal family culture is stitched in this outfit.
I might not have been able to articulate it at five years old, but somehow I knew, KNEW, even then, that I had something to be proud of.
I come from the proud nation of the Lakota, can claim familial ties with a distinguished line of medicine men, strong women and prominent people.
The women of my line are among the very, very few who have the right to carry and wear a chief's blanket.
Power? I have it.
Dignity? I was born with it.
Spells?
You're Cherokee, aren't you?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A Shifting Hole
My life is shifting.
First I quit the nice cushy job. Big shift.
Then I started school and got a cushy job without all the pay or benefits I had. Big shift.
Now, people are sort of shifting out. Major huge shift.
It seems that some of the relationships I thought I could count on are starting to fade. Not necessarily a bad thing, just something I have to adjust to.
Actually, it probably is a good thing, at least in the short term. Next quarter looks like it's going to be pretty intense, so I'm not sure how much time I will have to talk to people anyways. Looked at in this light, having a few less distractions might be a good thing. I will be able to concentrate.
Or will I?
I don't blame it, really, on anyone in particular. If there is a mistake that's been made here, it's my mistake.
I didn't say I'm a goddess yet. I'm still in training, so I can still make mistakes.
My mistake, in this instance, is that I always meet up with and pick people who find it easy to let me simmer on the back burner. Something that fills the house up with yummy smells and pleasant associations, but only needs stirring from time to time. I get noticed when I'm burning and demand attention.
*Sighs*
It's not like I'm looking for worshipful devotion here. You don't have to walk through red hot coals for me (although sometimes it might be nice to know you're willing). I'm talking about basic stuff. Keep in touch. Toss me an email telling me your life is Hell right now, and you might not be around for a while. Send me a card telling me that you found the romance of your dreams and you were itching to share it with me. Call me and ask "hey, how goes it?" Let me know that what I think/do/feel/want matters and has validity sometimes.
The back burner gets boring. "Oh there's Mari. I guess I should talk to her."
Or worse, I wind up having to remind my "friends" I exist.
Ring ring ring. Hey, remember me? I'm someone you've known for ages. Yah, her. The one you're always saying is your best friend/sister, the woman you love.
Her.
It's a problem I've had all my life. It started with blood family, it's continued with friends and teachers in school and it's on-going with people in my life right now.
The song "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago should not be a goddess' anthem, in training or not.
Ah well. Perhaps after I finish school I will have time to breathe again, and after I catch my breath, I can figure out how to stop this vicious pattern that leaves me constantly alone.
I want to know that my presence is actually desired and appreciated by those I've come to care about and love myself.
I have to figure it out. Goddesses aren't supposed to be alone unless they want to be.
But school comes first right?
Sorry folks. Even Goddesses have moments they spend in deep holes.
First I quit the nice cushy job. Big shift.
Then I started school and got a cushy job without all the pay or benefits I had. Big shift.
Now, people are sort of shifting out. Major huge shift.
It seems that some of the relationships I thought I could count on are starting to fade. Not necessarily a bad thing, just something I have to adjust to.
Actually, it probably is a good thing, at least in the short term. Next quarter looks like it's going to be pretty intense, so I'm not sure how much time I will have to talk to people anyways. Looked at in this light, having a few less distractions might be a good thing. I will be able to concentrate.
Or will I?
I don't blame it, really, on anyone in particular. If there is a mistake that's been made here, it's my mistake.
I didn't say I'm a goddess yet. I'm still in training, so I can still make mistakes.
My mistake, in this instance, is that I always meet up with and pick people who find it easy to let me simmer on the back burner. Something that fills the house up with yummy smells and pleasant associations, but only needs stirring from time to time. I get noticed when I'm burning and demand attention.
*Sighs*
It's not like I'm looking for worshipful devotion here. You don't have to walk through red hot coals for me (although sometimes it might be nice to know you're willing). I'm talking about basic stuff. Keep in touch. Toss me an email telling me your life is Hell right now, and you might not be around for a while. Send me a card telling me that you found the romance of your dreams and you were itching to share it with me. Call me and ask "hey, how goes it?" Let me know that what I think/do/feel/want matters and has validity sometimes.
The back burner gets boring. "Oh there's Mari. I guess I should talk to her."
Or worse, I wind up having to remind my "friends" I exist.
Ring ring ring. Hey, remember me? I'm someone you've known for ages. Yah, her. The one you're always saying is your best friend/sister, the woman you love.
Her.
It's a problem I've had all my life. It started with blood family, it's continued with friends and teachers in school and it's on-going with people in my life right now.
The song "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago should not be a goddess' anthem, in training or not.
Ah well. Perhaps after I finish school I will have time to breathe again, and after I catch my breath, I can figure out how to stop this vicious pattern that leaves me constantly alone.
I want to know that my presence is actually desired and appreciated by those I've come to care about and love myself.
I have to figure it out. Goddesses aren't supposed to be alone unless they want to be.
But school comes first right?
Sorry folks. Even Goddesses have moments they spend in deep holes.
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