Mel Gibson as Psycho? Aug 13, 2006

What is wrong with Mel Gibson? The man has lost his marbles. Kirk Douglas spoke out about Mel's drunken tirade during which Mel had some horrible things to say about the Jewish people.

According to Douglas, there is a Talumidic saying to the effect of "When the wine goes in, the truth comes out." I guess he's not buying Gibson's excuses.

It's really hard watching the fall of Mel. He's been one of my favorite stars of all time. He's sexy, and seemed smart and together. You didn't hear much out of him participating in far-out behavior. He appeared to be a devoted father and husband.

I guess he saved all for one fatal incident. His career is dead. The only future he has would be as spokes-ass for a white supremacy group.

Born and Die in Kentucky, August 11, 2006

I discovered a stupid opinion I have.  I have lots of opinions, but I usually manage to agree with myself.  It's a rare occasion when I disagree with my own self.
I have this superiority issue in re: my neighboring states.  This is quite incongruous, because I'm not prone to being clannish about anything.  I don't have "school spirit" when I think of my alma mater.  I don't have a great deal of pride in the city I live in. You won't catch me waving an American flag.
But for some obscure reason, I'm proud of being from Kentucky, and would not want to be born or die in Ohio or West Virginia.
I was at work when this profound knowledge was revealed.  I have to make copies of people's personal documents on occasion.  Social security cards and birth certificates are rather interesting to me.  I can tell from the number on a social security card if a person got their Social Security card while living in a state other than Kentucky.  Kentucky numbers begin with 40*.  Though I can't tell you off the top of my head which numbers Ohio and West Virginia have, I do recognize them when I see them.
Of course birth certificates tell where a person was born.  You get a little snapshot of their life.  If their parents were married when they were born, and what the mother's name was.  Old birth certificates tell the race of the parents and the occupation of the father when the child was born, as well as where the parents lived at that time.
I must have been unusually contemplative today, because I noticed a woman's birth certificate showed her mother had been single when she was born about 30 years ago.  That was rare then.  She is a single mother herself.  I wondered what impact it has on a person to be born to a single mom.
The next person had been born at a hospital across the river in West Virginia.  About 25-30 years ago a lot of the locals had their baby at that hospital because they had a Neo Natal Intensive Care unit and neither of the hospitals here had them. 
I found it disturbing that a native Bluegrass resident would have their child in West Virginia on purpose.  I then found it ridiculous that I felt that way.  What does it matter? 
We are all born and then we die.  Does it matter where these events occur?
I thought about it, and I guess it's about geneology.  It's a lot more difficult to find your roots when people are scattered to the four winds.  At least that's what I hope it is.

August 8, 2006... How young is too young?

A lot of times I have  young guys that show more than a passing interest in me. 
I have to admit it is a bit flattering to have guys half my age hitting on me, though we all know WHY most of them are doing it.
Then there are a few that fall into a more serious category.  They seem to have a genuine interest in establishing a real relationship.  That's when I start getting confused.
Let's say he shares a lot of my interests.  Likes the same music, can hold a conversation with me, and is really an interesting person.  He is someone I think I wouldn't mind hanging out with.
But he's younger.  HOW MUCH YOUNGER IS TOO YOUNG???  Anyone who is 8 years younger than me is closer to my daughter's age.  I don't  know that I'm comfortable with that.
It is said age is only a number, and that's not entirely true.  It is a number, but it is  not only a number.  There are differences in perspective based on how long you have lived.  Understanding comes with age. 
How can I decide how young is too young?  Perhaps I need to look the other direction?  If  a fellow is older than me, how old is too old?  Perhaps that would clarify things for me. 
I would date a guy 10 years older than me with no thought about it.  15 years ....  if the fellow shared a lot of my interests.  20 years..... that's pushing it.  I can't see me dating someone that's 70 at this point in time.  I won't categorically say no, but I do doubt it.
So?  I guess I would consider a fellow who was 43 or so, but any younger?  Nah.  I think that would be pushing the limits of rationality

Aug 5, 2006 The Barnyard

Current mood:calm

I went to see "The Barnyard" with my children and 3/4 of my grandchildren.  I loved the movie.  It was hootalicious!  My only 2 gripes with the film are:
1)  Male cattle are commonly known as bulls.  It is only in the broadest sense that cow is used to describle a male.  Cow is the female term.  When one of the males in the movie died, the tombstone said something like "Here lies ____ , he was a great cow."  It should have said here lies a great bull.  Period.
2)  Said bulls, or whatever you want to call the male of the bovine variety, DOES NOT HAVE UDDERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Great Caesar's Ghost, people, no bull has an udder.  It is the bovine equivilant of breasts!  EVERY bull had an udder.  These udders were bright pink, four teated udders.  I found it to be utterly silly. 
Look.... my way of thinking is this:  It is okay to make a movie that portrays animals with human characteristics in a very absurd fashion.  If they had made fun of the bulls having cow boobies, that would have been funny, but I feel it's important to stick to basic truisms though.  Bulls do not have udders.  That's like making a cartoon where all men have large breasts.... Hm, now THAT might be interesting!

Stomach viruses scare me!

Are you afeared of stomach viruses? Here's a little post from my MySpace blog, written in 2009:

• Countdown to doomsday, t -38 hours & counting

  ..

  There are few things in this world that I have real-time fear of.
  What do I mean by real-time fear? It's a fear I have personal experience that caused the fear. My recent blogging of my arachnephobia is based on real-time experience: My family members have been bitten by mean spiders.
  Fear of nuclear annihlation is not real-time. It's based on the horror I've seen on televison or in print.
  Gastrointestinal viruses are personal. I have had many. In addition, I had some never identified condition for several years. I would awake in the middle of the night with violent, projectile vomiting that went on for hours. Nothing made it stop. This happened from about the age of 3 until I was 8 or so. Extensive testing never identified a cause, and it ended as mysteriously as it began.
  My poor dear children know my emetophobia is deep. (for more on emetophobia, go here:
  http://www.changethatsrightnow.com/emetophobia.asp
  I used to throw a receptacle at them and run as if they were carrying ebola. I would peek in once in a while to see they were still alright, but I was not my loving, nurturing self when they were chucking.
  I had real paralyzing anxiety over regurgitation. The last panic inducing regurgitation occurred about 9 years ago, three days before my first grandchild was born. I got this horrible virus, the worst one I ever EVER had. All the people that got the virus later said it was the worst they had ever contracted. My (now) ex-husband laid in the bed and cried, and my (now) ex-son-in-law begged hospital personnel to give him an epidural for the pain.
  So, in the midst of this horrid event, my darling, nine-month's pregnant daughter came to care for me, proving herself to be much braver than I. I'm still not sure she wasn't proving a point to me for, you see, I had abandoned her to a virus a couple of years before. I stood outside her door, and asked if she was alright, but never ventured into the room. I made other people take her water, whilst I stayed far away.
  My daughter, Athena, waited on me hand and foot. She took wonderful care of me. You know what her thanks were, for mothering me? The most horrible stomach virus on earth hit her in the middle of labor. She was the most stoic laboring mother I have ever seen, and remained so throughout the regurgitation and diarrhea.
  I will be sent to one of the circles of hell for this, I am certain. Not only did she lovingly take care of ME when I was sick, but her kindness was rewarded with misery.
  So, present day.... I learned my lesson. Stomach viruses are not likely to kill me. My granddaughter came down with one about 14 hours ago, here at my home. She brought it here from my nephew and his wife, who had it two days before.
  So here I sit. I know I will get the virus, because I ate a cracker my granddaughter had taken a bite of.
  And I am not afraid. Thanks Athena. You cured me.

I'm Ferally female

Wow! Went riding with my son this evening and I am hooked. I am a huge fan of wind, as some of you may know, and what better wind than on a motor scooter? The heat was bearable as long as we were moving, and the smells... If you've never ridden on a cycle, in a convertible, or in the back of a pickup truck, you have no idea the things you smell. 

There are the smells people make, and they are varied. Everything from gasoline, exhaust fumes, and lawn chemicals to burning wood, freshly mown grass, and food being grilled.


Then nature assails the nose. Bogs smell putrid. Places dense with trees smell woody. Patches of wildflowers would make the best perfume on earth, if the scent could be drawn from the air.


The temperature changes as the landscape changes. Areas without trees feel hot and dry. Where trees arched over the road like a canopy, the air was cooler and damp. Temperature varies even in stretches of the same vegetation, but I think hills and valleys sweep currents of air around me.


Lots of odors gave me a snippet of a childhood memory. The best one was something that smelled like freshly picked green beans. It reminded me of a summer when I was about 7 years of age or so, but the scent was very quickly replaced with another.


The extra nice thing about this evening's ride is the friends I got to see. There's something entirely informal (in my mind) with pulling up in front of of the house, wallerin up off my scooter, and moseying up to the porch. The first stop was at my positively delish friend Larry's house. We caught up on the latest gossip and just had a good time. My poor son bore it all with patience!

We cruised by Rhonda's house, another bestie, and she even fed me a slab of watermelon while my dear old son watched some cooking show on television. Bless his heart.


Now, I have the grace of a ballerina. Well the grace of a 2-year-old ballerina, but grace nonetheless! For some reason, my takeoff is a wee bit shaky, and my stops abrupt. I guess that's why they permit you to ride solo with a permit for a while before you take your test. What fool would want to get on the bike with me? 


I'm proud to be the geekiest grandma on a scooter. I know at least one grandchild is embarrassed, and I can only assume the others have the potential to be humiliated by me. I know if they come to understand how much I enjoy it, they might forgive me the embarrassment. As we wound up the homestretch, I giggled aloud. I really, sincerely enjoyed the ride, and hope I can find time to do this often!

Pollyanna? Who'd have thunk?

As hard-nosed as I come across sometimes, I'm secretly a Pollyanna. When I engage in political debate, all I want to do is bring people to a place of love when dealing with each other. I believe, with all my heart, if we focused on helping our fellow occupants of this place we call earth, politics would be so easy. 


Those who are unable to work should be taken care of. That's what a compassionate society does. No, this does not mean we should let people cheat the system. There should be big punishment for those who abuse it. 


Those who are forced to live that way are not making a killing, I promise you. Please, have some compassion! If you know someone who is on welfare, take a moment to hear them. Perhaps you can encourage them to find a better way of life. I know I've done it for more than one person. 


We should help with healing the sick. Again, that is what a compassionate society does. Can you turn your back on a person who needs a doctor? I sometimes feel there are way too many in our society who agree with Ebenezer Scrooge, "Let them die, and decrease the surplus population!"


Do not turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to the suffering of those around you. If you have not a penny, give a word of comfort, if you have extra, support a loving charity, and give a word of comfort too. 


Pollyanna, signing off for now. I love you!

We will never pass this way again...

Death is part of life. Our society turns focus to the start of life, the births, birthdays and activities of the young. First words, steps and tumbles are anticipated like a blockbuster movie. 


Childhood is simple and pleasant for most children. Their lives have some difficulties, sure, but they learn to deal with things little by little.


So spins the earth, and the years tick by. Puberty, adolescence, adulthood. We make it to the goal, adulthood! Then graduation, marriage, children... that's a common path for people. There's divorce a lot of times. We use all these experiences to grow and become wiser. 


By the time we go to the 30th reunion from our high school graduation, we've lost some classmates. Some we were aware had passed, and some we discover while we are there. Rather a bittersweet time, that reunion. We know we are not immortal now.


Many of us have another realization around the half-century mark. Our parents are not immortal, either. For me, I realized my own mortality before I realized that of my parents. Yes, indeed some of us came to know that before getting near the half-century mark, There's been a recent escalation in my friends losing their parents, and most are 50 years of age, give or take a couple years.


I lost my father May of 2008. It hurt a lot, but I muddled through. I reflect on him now and again.


However, my Dad is sick now. The Dad who saved me from myself. 


I smoked, drank, and toked a little weed. Yes, at the age of 12. Everything I lived with and through, made me doubt I had anything worth protecting in me, so I didn't even try. My father, though I loved him, was sometimes cruel. My Mom, who adored me was so busy trying to protect us, she couldn't take time to get close to me. She ended up protecting us by divorcing him.


I was 12 when my Mom met Dad. His children distanced themselves from him when their mom divorced him. My dad distanced himself from me when Mom divorced him. So, we both had a vacuum where we once had family. We knew the hurt of being thrown away.


We became family to each other, even before Mom and Dad got married. He scolded me when I was out of line, and showered me with protection and love. I mattered to him, and that's what I needed.


He thought highly of me, and I strove to be as good as he thought I was. I rarely drank or smoked pot, though cigarettes had me in their grip. I did not ever want to disappoint him.


I brook no disrespect of my Dad. Not from anyone. He has a reputation of being bull-headed and stubborn, and he is. I get through that wall, the wall he's put up to protect himself, by being open, too. My sister, our children and grandchildren do the same thing. When he's rough, we remind  him we love him, no matter what. 


As is usual, I don't know the number of days my Dad has remaining on this earth. I want to spend as many of those days as I can with him. When he passes, I'll become stronger and wiser. 


Then I will spend the rest of my life still trying not to disappoint him.

Ob-gyn visit

This is for my girls. You know who you are. 


I get ready to go for the annual exam and I pay more attention to my  hygiene at that time than I do the rest of the year put together.


I bathe, use body wash, bubble bath, exfoliate, shampoo  and condition my hair, shave, shave again, lotion, body spray, perfume, powder and anything else I can think of.  I cleanse so thoroughly, there is no odor of human being left on my body


THEN, I do my hair, spray a ton of hairspray on to further mask  natural odors. I dress with my newest, prettiest panties and bra, put a ton of perfume on, and head to the appointment. The aim is to be at the Dr. one second before I get called back. If, by an awful stroke of fate, I am require to go to the potty before I am seen, I use the wipes I have stashed in my handbag, and clean until I've nearly sanded all the skin off.


Once in the exam room, the nurse gives me a tissue paper gown and tissue paper sheet and tells me to remove everything.  The gown is secured by a belt made of the same plastic as the cheapest trash bag. The clothes fly off, and I fold my blouse and pants neater than I ever do at home. In spite of wearing my best unmentionables, they are hidden in the folds of the outer garments. If I allow the unmentionables to be viewed by an ob-gyn, the garments will spontaneously combust. 


So, I climb up on the doggone table, and wait. And wait. Then we wait. Nurse comes in and says the Dr. will be there soon, because they are stuck delivering a baby. I get to sit there nekkid as a jaybird except for socks. If I keep my socks on, I'm not truly nekkid. Sometimes the wait is minutes, sometimes hours. Can't move because the gown will disintegrate. Once the Dr. comes in, I discover I am sitting in a small puddle of anxiety-induced perspiration.


A good gyno's eyes never break eye contact. (only applies if the gyno is a guy.  a gal is less awkward.) Each gyno has their own style. Some of `em check your mammaries first. They ask all kinds of questions about the girls while they prod about looking for anomalies. 


When it's time to get to the business end of business, the tools come out of the deep freeze while I try to get in position. My ample bottom half hangs off the table while the feet are in frigid metal stirrups. The Dr shines a beam of light akin to fire onto my bottom and tells me to relax. Tools are used to pry open things best left closed, while the Dr takes another tool, perhaps a wrecking bar, and scrapes cells outta the vajayjay. This process is not fun. 


Then comes palpation of the whole lower guts from more directions than I approve of. I don't know what the Dr. can tell from the whole palpation gig, but it's incredibly awkward. 


It's all over. The Doc leaves the room, and I throw my clothes on in 1.6 seconds flat. It's a great fear the Doc will walk back in and catch me with my dignity compromised. Oh wait, that's what was happening all along!

Fits and starts

Began this blog over a year ago. I seem unable to stay at anything consistently. That might be my biggest gripe with myself, an utter lack of self-motivation. I envy those who have a routine, and the ability to set out to do a task and follow through! I lose track of my goal in the middle of getting up to do it. 

I wonder if there's a way to change that aspect of myself? If you're instinct is to tell me to "Just do it", or something asinine like that, I'd rather not hear it! If you've got something insightful to say, do tell!

Glorious and Grim: Lesser of evils

Glorious and Grim: Lesser of evils

Babies

What grandmother does not paint herself as the luckiest woman alive, possessing the smartest, prettiest and most gifted grandchild(ren) to ever exist?

I was gifted with another grand child this past Tuesday. She was 3 hours and 7 minutes too late to be born on my birthday, but she made my birthday exciting anyway.

The Fam (tm) were all gathered at my parent's house to celebrate the wonder of my very own birth, which occurred 48 years before. I had opened some cool presents, and had just come to black amethyst hand cream when Tiffany stood up and exclaimed, "oh, OH, Holy crap, my water just broke!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I've had many a birthday (see above) and a lot of parties. The party when I was five: My cake was dusty lavender and my cousin Vicki got me a lovely mirror, comb and brush. Yet another was a scavenger hunt all over town for my gifts. My 30th began with a room full of people waking me up with the shout of "Happy Birthday".

Nothing can compare to a pregnant woman whose water breaks at your birthday party, especially when she is carrying your granddaughter!

I rushed through opening my presents and cake consumption, then my granddaughter Alexis and I sped to the hospital. Her new baby sister was on the way.

Tiffany didn't get started with the labor in a serious way until they gave her pitocin about 11 PM. Shortly after that I don't know if it was the stress or what, but my son, Ryan (the baby daddy) ended up in the emergency room because he thought he was going to faint. I sat right with Tiffany, and we texted the progress back and forth. About midnight, they said she had progressed well, and I predicted a birth about 3:00 am. When they came it @ 2:00, progress had slowed a little, and I wasn't so sure about 3:00 anymore.

Not a half hour after, Tiffany said she was feeling big pressure, and thought she had to push. I got the nurse, and she was ready. I texted Ryan, "COME NOW NOW NOW", and woke Alexis. It was not long after that everything was ready. With Ryan on one side and me on the other, Tiffany pushed one huge push. There was Madison. Beautiful. Perfect. Her older sister sat on the couch across the room, eyes wide with wonder.

I am the luckiest woman alive. All these grandchildren, each so special. This is what the face of hope is.