Yet Another Hashtag Me Too

My memory is pretty good.  The story is 42 years old.  It could possibly be only 41 years old.  The reason I believe it is 42 is that I remember the hallway I ran to.  It was empty . . .

. . . My junior high school had gone under renovation when I was 14 and in 9th grade, and that hallway was busy that year.  So, I'm 99 percent sure that I was 13.  And in 8th grade.

I'm just going to mention the name Judge Brett Kavanaugh once.  Only to say this has nothing to do with him.  His name won't be mentioned again.  No one's name will be mentioned. 

Our school started co-ed gym that year.  Boys on one side of the gym with their coaches, girls on the other with their coaches.  And us girls wore those sexy blue gym suits.  Ha.  Parts of me looked 13, I think.  My face, my gangly legs.  Some parts between the face and legs did not.  They were frequently commented on by school boys, construction workers, and the junior high school boy's gym teacher and football coach.

Women and girls of that time often say that they are used to sexual and sexist comments.  In truth, we're not.  So when he asked me to help move some balls back into the equipment room, I expected a comment or two.  What I didn't expect was to have him come in behind me when I was in the back of the room, close the door and turn off the lights.  I didn't expect him to come within inches of me, laugh the laugh I heard after every sexual comment in the past, and ask me what I would do if he kissed me.  He could have asked what I would have done if he touched me.  See, my testimony would have been dismissed in court because I cannot remember if he said 'kissed' or touched.'  Both seem very inappropriate to me.

The question shocked me.  Being in the dark with him and smelling his sweat just inches from my nose shocked me.  I could hear my blood pounding in my ears.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to disappear.  I wondered if I let him touch me would he leave me alone after that.  Could I just walk out?  I could see though the crack in the door that I was trapped--wedged in between gym equipment.  As every part of my body quivered, I told him I would scream as loudly as I could.  I might have told him I would kick him, too.  He laughed that nasty laugh again, muttered something about not mentioning what happened to anyone -- perhaps saying that he was joking.  Then he opened the door and said goodbye. 

I went out into the side hallway.  I walked one way for a few steps then turned and walked the other way.  Part of me wanted to walk back in and confront him in front of the next class.  Part of me wanted to go to the head of the school.  Part of me wanted to cry.  Part of me wanted to tell all of my friends (and strangers).  The part of me that won out was the part that wanted me to be quiet and forget it.  I had another class to go to.

How could I ever face this man again?

I had to face him daily for the next year and a half.

I was 13.  I was terrified of a teacher.  I was terrified I was a bad person for not telling.  I was ashamed.

This man died several years ago.  In the newspaper and on Facebook he was eulogized in the most glowing ways.  By men and women.  By boys and girls.  Was there anyone out there like me that was feeling sick and disgusted when reading about his life?  Did he only do that to me?

Would I ever tell anyone? 

What if he had run for public office?

What if he were ever nominated for the Supreme Court?

Let's Look at this Trump Presidency in a Different Way

I understand that this whole Trump as President thing seems huge.  Really, really yuuuuuuge.  Perhaps to get some folks to understand why there is so much opposition to Donald Trump, we need to reframe this whole picture.  We need a smaller frame.

Let’s make it a local school district and Trump is the Superintendent.  What is a school superintendent?  Here’s what I found on the blog of Anne Martens, the former Marketing & Communications Director for Stand for Children Washington:

The superintendent is the top executive ("CEO") in the school district.

The superintendent implements the school board’s vision by making day-to-day decisions about educational programs, spending, staff, and facilities. The superintendent hires, supervises, and manages the central staff and principals. 

Superintendents must work with school leaders -- principals -- to serve the needs of students and meet the district goals.

The superintendent must also respond to the demands of all the other constituencies and interest groups in the district: teachers, students, parents, staff, advocates, and the community at large. She or he must consider how to use the financial and human resources of the district in order to achieve the best results. While being mindful of competing demands, a great superintendent will be guided by what is best for all students.

That’s pretty much what we expect from the President of the United States, right?

So, say we have some disgruntled constituents of a particular school district.  They think their taxes are too high and being used for quiche and arugula in the school cafeteria, art classes, drama clubs, and other non-necessities.  They don’t think they should pay for school nurses and gym equipment.  They’ve had enough.  They’re putting their feet down.  They are going to vote out the school board and get a new school district superintendent.

Most folks are sure that a certain female superintendent will be elected, so many don’t vote.  Also, the school district has been gerrymandered to represent only certain views on education.  A new, and surprising, leader is coming to the fore.  While campaigning, the disgruntled residents of the school district learn that this man does not want “undesirables’ to move into his district and attend his schools. He incites violence against them during campaign meetings.  He promises to build a wall around the school and have another school district pay for it.  His followers chant, “build the wall.”  He also has been overheard talking about grabbing the genitals of female students.  Once he stated he could shoot a kid in the middle of the school cafeteria and he would still be elected.  He makes fun of the special-ed teacher and her students.  He comments on the size of his genitals while speaking during a school assembly.

Sure enough, this man becomes school superintendent.   He vows to remove mulch and rubber padding on the playgrounds and pave all play areas with asphalt.  The schools’  boilers are all old and belch out toxic fumes.  None of the schools’ windows open so the rooms get hotter and hotter.  Crayons melt.  All of the school pets die.  He doesn’t feel there is a problem, even though the equipment can be fixed.  Bullying has been encouraged, and the school counselors have been fired so the children have no one to help them.  He appoints school principals that are racists.  Female students are rated on a scale of 1-10 and are ignored if they report they are groped.  The new superintendent might even sue these girls over their complaints.  Subsidized tampon dispensers are removed from all girls’ restrooms.  The school nurse has been fired.  He praises the leader of Russian schools even though he is known for horrible human rights abuses.

Would you want this man as leader of your child’s school?

Then why would you want him as leader of your country?

Nine Little Words

Build A Wall

Lock Her Up

Drain the Swamp

Nine little words brayed repeatedly by the President-Elect while campaigning.  Nine little words chanted by the Trump disciples.  Over and over and over.  What do these nine little words have in common?  Other than they are monosyllabic (short, easy) words?  Any guesses?  They are meaningless.  All meaningless. 

I’m pretty much glad that six of those words have no meaning.  Build a wall – useless and expensive.  Lock her up – imagine the resources that would take.  Also useless and expensive.  Drain the swamp – Trump is busy filling the swamp.  Perhaps he meant to drain the brackish water from the swamp so we could clearly see the mass of writhing reptiles.

These nine little words swarmed around the heads of the Trump disciples like torpid mosquitoes.  Somewhat bothersome, but not worth the effort to swat away.  Actually energizing to many.  Often invigorating.  Easy to say.  Fun to chant.  “I’ll vote for that,” many said.  “Trump rallies are fun,” they stated.  “We’ll put Trump in the White House with these fine ideas,” they swore.

Nine little words.  Three massive wishes.  These three wishes will never be granted by the Trump genie.  What now, Trump supporters?  With the tarnishing brass lamp lying at your feet, useless, what will you do?  Gloat?  Seems to still be happening by the viral videos I see of shouting Trump voters?  Sneer?  Sneering at Liberals is all-consuming fun.  Hate?  Ongoing.   Those are three more little words.  Gloat, sneer, hate.  Actually, not so little.

What is left for us all now?  Watching the rapid dismantling of our country.  Removal of health care for those who could lose everything with one major illness.   Gutting of free education.  Removal of any regulations that could keep your water safe and your air clean.  Why would any of these things be beneficial to our country?  Did any Trump voters actually stop to think about this?  Do any research?  Think about the future of their children and grandchildren? 

No thinking involved.  Just chanting.  The repetition of those nine little words.

Annual Christmas Card Bitching Post

The first Christmas Card arrived over the weekend from a former student of my husband.  Three photos on a card.  Children.  Lovely girls.  No personal greeting.  No signature.  

Why the hell bother.  


so . . .

Again.  Word for word, is last years post.

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it.   Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

Rides of the Republican Candidates Revisited

Once again, I did some Republican debate watching.  Wine involved of, course.  I felt I had to do just a bit of tweaking to my original Rides of the Republican candidates post.   What mode of transporation would your favorite candidate use:

Once again:

Chris Christie – Tony Soprano’s last trade-in.   Unpleasant air freshener.  Trunkful of unmatched DNA.

Marco Rubio – Luxurious, somewhat understated.  Seatbelt, rear view mirror and sideview mirrors well-used.  Bluetooth enabled.  Small posse in backseat Googling statistics to be distorted for future use.  Pleasing air freshener.   Oral hygiene kits from flying first class in glove compartment.

Dr. Ben Carson – Also luxurious and understated.  Amazing shock absorbers but restrictive speedometer.  Lacking GPS, yet pointed in the direction of home for a good brandy.

Walter Scott, uh, Tim Scott, um, Scott Walker (can never remember his name) – Non-union-built golf cart with steering disabled, heading for a water trap.  Cart decorated with photographs of aborted fetuses.

Donald Trump – Atop a rocket launcher or loose cannon.  Backs of poor people or Mexicans.  Oh hell, he’ll ride anything to get to the top.  Except Carly Fiorina.

Jeb Bush – Same as George W. only a newer model.  Small Mexican flag hidden in glove compartent.

Mike Huckabee – Empty refrigerator box in back yard, decorated as a time machine.  Four drawn-on control buttons inside box dated 29c, 1450s, 1633,  last Sunday 9:00 am.  (I wasn’t going to mention those from the ‘other’ debate, but Rick Santorum and Huckabee are having a little-girl hair pulling fight to see who’s turn it is in the box.)

Ted Cruz – giant lizard Dewback thing from Star Wars.  Saddle bags full of rocks, a couple of ninja throwing stars,  and a leather pouch containing a guide to correct middle eastern pronunciations, an asshole license and Canadian registration.

Rand Paul – Black horse in full jousting gear.  Worried that horse is more interested in grazing.

John Kasich – Late model Oldsmobile.  Those stick-figure family thingies on rear window.  Glove compartment containing tattered maps, ill-fitting driving gloves, partially used bottle of Old Spice.  Remnants of ‘coexist’ and rainbow flag bumper stickers.

Carly Fiorina.  Something sleek and blue.  Burns a great deal of fossil fuels.  Has fins.

And I just have to add one other.  Can’t help it.  Even though he’s moved on to better things.  He will be sorely missed.

Rick Perry – Clampet family truck.  Every time it hits a pothole, shit falls off – pots, pans, granny, luggage, lamps, rakes, and now Rick Perry himself.  Glove compartment filled with dark-rimmed glasses and upside down maps.

I have to admit I only watched 40 minutes.  Next time, I will persevere.

Rides of the Republican Candidates

Yes, there was enough wine in the house to take me to the 10:30 mark of the (main) debate last night.  Bed was calling and I knew what the answers would be and I just couldn’t yell anymore.  But once in bed, when I tried to imagine the country with one of them as a leader, I found it helped to imagine what kind of vehicle they would drive.  Sometimes I don’t sleep well.

Chris Christie – Tony Soprano’s last trade-in.  Trunkful of unmatched DNA.

Marco Rubio – Luxurious, somewhat understated.  Seatbelt, rear view mirror and side view mirrors well-used.  Bluetooth enabled.  Small posse in backseat Googling statistics to be distorted for future use.  Pleasing air freshener.

Dr. Ben Carson – Also luxurious and understated.  Pointed in the direction of home for a good brandy.

Walter Scott, uh, Tim Scott, um, Scott Walker (can never remember his name) – golf cart with steering disabled, heading for a water trap.  Cart decorated with photographs of aborted fetuses.

Donald Trump – Atop a rocket launcher or loose cannon.  Backs of poor people or Mexicans.  Oh hell, he’ll ride anything to get to the top.

Jeb Bush – Same as George W. only a newer model.  Small Mexican flag hidden in glove compartment.  

Mike Huckabee – Empty refrigerator box in back yard, decorated as a time machine.  Four drawn-on control buttons inside box dated 29c, 1450s, 1633,  last Sunday 9:00 am.  (I wasn’t going to mention those from the ‘other’ debate, but Rick Santorum and Huckabee are having a little-girl hair pulling fight to see who’s turn it is in the box.)

Ted Cruz – giant lizard Dewback thing from Star Wars.  Saddle bags full of rocks, a couple of ninja throwing stars and an asshole license and Canadian registration.

Rand Paul – Black horse in full jousting gear.

John Kasich – Late model Oldsmobile.  Those stick-figure family thingies on rear window.  Glove compartment containing tattered maps, ill-fitting driving gloves, partially used bottle of Old Spice.  Remnants of ‘coexist’ and rainbow flag bumper stickers.

Rides of the Moderators should be included:

Megyn Kelly – something small, red, fitted.  Car prepared to eat slower cars in front.

Chris Wallace – Suburu Outback.

Bret Baier – Oh. My. God.  I can’t see past the reflection off of the grill!

And I just have to add one other.  Can’t help it.

Rick Perry – Clampet family truck.  Every time it hits a pothole, shit falls off – pots, pans, granny, luggage, lamps, women voters, rakes, etc.  Glove compartment filled with dark-rimmed glasses and upside down maps.

Now I have to catch up on the debate of those that didn't make the top ten.  After I open the next bottle of wine.

Annual Christmas Card Bitching Post

Yes.   I have posted this before.  Many times.  I shall not give up.  As long as I have a glimmer of hope, there is a chance of my mailbox once again being filled with gorgeous, stunning, glittery, Christmas cards.

My Christmas cards received list shortens each year through attrition.  It will probably grow shorter if my best, dearest, and oldest friend reads this post.  Because, yes, she has sent the unadorned, unsigned and unloved photo postcard.

so . . .

Again.  Word for word, is last years post.

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it.   Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

Separation of Church and Halloween

The church is killing the community. Sounds wrong, doesn’t it?  We’ve been told that the church is all about community.  Somehow, though, it has replaced the real community with a faux community conjured up from a homogeneous group brought together in a vast cinderblock bunker with a steeple on top and a 20-acre parking lot.

My daughter is going trick-or-treating tonight with a friend.  Sounds easy.  Took a lot of work to get to that point.  We live in an area with poor public schools.  Most everyone goes to private school.  My daughter knows almost no children in her neighborhood.  I guess you can say that private schools are killing the community, but that is for another post.  So back in early September, I set up a trick-or-treating date with my daughter’s best friend who lives 40 minutes away.  I communicated back and forth with the mom about Halloween plans and the sleepover.  All seemed well.  Until Monday, when I was informed that the girl couldn’t come because she had to volunteer at the “Fall Festival” at her church.

Yep.  Fall Festival.  Not Halloween.  Not trick-or-treating.  Why would anyone want their kids roaming their neighborhoods in costumes?  Seeing their neighbors.  Carving scary jack o’lanterns. The church feels a need to put an end to that.  Perhaps Satan has been found residing in Smarties and mini Twix bars.

And if the “Fall Festival” replacement is annoying, could it be worse than Trunk-or-Treat?  Skittish parents drive into their church parking lot and back their cars into a circular formation.   They fill their trunks with candy, pop the door open and the kids, unaware there is a real world out there, circulate among the trunks and fill their bags with candy.  Trunks are not for kids and candy.  They are for luggage.  Bald tires.  Low-level mobsters bound for the East River.  Sigh.

In a few hours, my daughter and another friend will roam the streets.  They will get to see neighbors they know and meet new ones.  My daughter will enlarge her community each time she rings a doorbell and says “trick or treat.”  I will go with them on the more unfamiliar streets and I, too, will enlarge my community.  And I get to look into other people’s houses.  I love that!

I’m so looking forward to seeing the little, happy kids.  And the bigger happy kids.  Hopefully not the really, really big kids, but I guess that’s ok as long as they are polite.  I’ve heard that we should expect around 150 kids.  Everyone will be out in this neighborhood – the children of the elite that live in $10,000,000 houses, college students, and the kids that live in public housing 3 blocks away.  My community will grow.  And it will only cost me 300 pieces of chocolate.  And I can leave my car parked in the drive.

Come on and ring my doorbell.  Ain’t nobody going to hell.

Back to the Future. With SCOTUS.

The amazing side effect about the SCOTUS Hobby Lobby ruling is that it has made every individual (hurry, while there are still individuals in this country) a constitutional lawyer.  At least for the next day or so.  The bandwagon is lurching down my street and, by golly, I’m jumping on.

But first, I had to check into the United States Consitution and its posse of amendments known as the Bill of Rights.  And right away, I can plainly see that the first amendment has been tinkered with until it pretty much says the opposite today.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. – First Amendment of the Bill of Rights  (1791)

The individuals that run a corporation of 13,00 employees (formerly individuals) is now prohibiting the free exercise of religion of these employees.  Individual religious practice has been incorporated by the Hobby Lobby CEO. A “victory” for the free exercise of religion now means the ability of an individual, group, or corporation to assimilate the rights of other individuals.  (2014)

I originally thought that the rights laid out in all of those old, dusty documents just applied to white, male citizens. But now I can see that, at least for Hobby Lobby, women of all color and position are included.  They believe what the CEO believes.  They are all one.  All for one and one for one. 

Perhaps every female Hobby Lobby employee willingly hands over her ovaries at the Hobby Lobby door each morning.  If she desires, she can check them back out at night, but must relinquish them again the next morning.  If that’s what each individual agrees to, fine.  Somehow I doubt every female employee agrees wholeheartedly.  But what if the CEOs of Hobby Lobby change their mind?  Tomorrow they have another issue? Suppose they whip up an amendment to the Hobby Lobby Constitution?  Would all 13,000 employees be required to adhere to the new rules?  Yes, according to SCOTUS. 

On our way back to the dark ages, why don’t we just stop at 1791?

Dead Man's Daughter Talking

What??!

Are we really going to take 15-year-old Bindi Irwin to the gallows because she has an opinion on how her peers are dressing?

Did Miss Irwin suggest that women wear a burqa?  Has she written a slut-shaming blog?  Has she been quoted that women and girls should keep their opinions to themselves and only speak when spoken to?  No.

However, people seem to be telling Bindi Irwin that she should shut up.  She’s being told that her young opinion does not matter, or is even bad.  Imagine in this day and age, a 15-year-old girl is told to keep her opinions to herself.

In my (much older) opinion, I think this might just be a little worse than a girl suggesting that other girls her age cover their asses.

When I was Bindi’s age, I spent far too much time in my room reading beauty and style magazines aimed at teenage girls.  These periodicals were filled with articles about how to make my eyes up to look dangerously sexy.  How to wear a bra to everyone else’s pleasure.   How to walk in high heels.  How to appear confident and coy at the same time.  How to say things to please my boyfriend.

I’m thinking these magazines still exist today.  I’m sure the editors are still at work getting young girls to dress and act in a way that Bindi Irwin might not like.  Bindi and Bindi-like girls don’t have to take that advice nor do non-Bindi-like girls need to take Bindi’s advice.

I do think that women and girls should dress how they want.  It might not always work for them, however.  Job interview?  Dress how you want.  You might not get that job, though.  A young man showing eight inches of underwear probably won’t get that job either.

I also think that young women should be able to express themselves through actions and words and not just their clothing.  Bindi Irwin has done that.  She’s not throwing stones at homosexuals or women whose ankles are exposed.  She’s not donning a white sheet and burning crosses.  She’s not advocating revoking women’s right to vote.  She had an opinion.  She voiced it.  If you disagree, fine.  Wear what you want and don’t have Bindi for a friend.  I’m sure she would give this advice to a friend and would listen to a friend who had fashion advice for her.  She doesn’t have to act on it and neither do you.

It is far more important to help a young girl express her opinions in this world than to shut her down because once a girl has been silenced, it is unlikely she will share her opinion again.  This future silenced opinion could be far more vital than fashion advice.

What Color is Your Easter Bunny?

Aww, how cute!  And she's gray!

My Easter Bunny is brown.  I’m thinking perhaps a light brown hare.  Strong and wirey.  Able to truck lots of chocolate eggs about.

I’m not sure what color Megyn Kelly’s is.  Quite possibly white.  Angora.  Because isn’t that really what all bunnies look like.  All bunnies are just white.  And super fluffy.

I think Easter Bunnies come in all colors and it has little to do with the color of the Peep and Jelly Bean recipient.  There are gray bunnies, tan bunnies, black and white spotted bunnies.  Bunnies whose ears go up and bunnies whose ears go down.

I’m so glad that Easter Bunnies come in different colors.  Aren’t you?  How bland would this world be if all bunnies were the same color?

Now, what about the Tooth Fairy?  Mine is Caucasian, I think.  Her hair is dark brown with a bit of gray.  She is not Disney Princess young and gorgeous.  She is not wizened and old.  Actually, I think she looks a lot like me.

What color is your Tooth Fairy?

Five Pound Box of Bullets

Ho Ho Ho from the Lowcountry.

Here's what hangs on trees in Nikki Haley's state:

Yes, if a real gun isn't enough, we can hang an armed glass duck made in China.


And if you require more festive shooting accessories, just string these lights all about the house.

Ah, get the eggnog.  Get out the stockings.  Get your guns.  It's Christmastime in Charleston.  And that crackling sound you hear as you sit by the toasty yule log --- it might just be gunfire.

Merry Christmas.

Traditional Christmas Card Post

Once again, my Christmas Card complaint (formerly a request)

I love gifts.  A surprise in the mail makes my holiday.  In lieu of that, a festive card is almost as good.  I do love to know that I'm not alone in the world.  

If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted.  Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter.  I love a card.  I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.

I also will read your newsletter.  If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care.  And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home.   Especially the kid.   If I like you, then I probably like your kid.  I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.

Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card.  And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it.   Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it.  I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger.  At least that's personal.

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Chanukah
and so on

Desperate for a new television show

I feel somewhat sad this morning.

I finished watching the final episode of Desperate Housewives on Netflix last night.

First of all, I am slow.  That's ok.  I don't need to be on trend or ahead of the curve.

The housewives have kept me company for more than two years now.  Once the hubby's travel picked up, his leaving town was not quite as bad when I had the housewives to keep me company after the young one went to bed at night.  We all had wine together and I could yell at them when they were being ridiculous and happy when life worked out well for them.  When things went south we could commiserate with another glass of wine and when there was joy and a celebration, we could celebrate with another glass of wine.  And when Bree was on the wagon, I actually felt guilty for drinking in front of her.

It took me a bit of time to find the right photo for this post.  Most of the photos were way sexy glamour shots.  While this was not uncommon on the show, most of the character were far more down to earth than "normal' folks on other television shows.  Often, they appeared on screen in sweat pants.  Sometimes they rocked them, other times not.

Sure, each character was a bit bigger than life.  Yet, I could relate to many of the situations on the show.  Why?  These characters were my age (or close).  These women weren't just being shown as some awesome cool teenager's bitchy, clueless mom.  Or some Wall Street executive's two-dimensional bitchy, clueless wife.  Or a running menopause joke.  Or a running PMS joke.  From kids to kidneys, I could relate.

Each trip for my husband was a poker game and a hit-and-run accident for me and my women buddies.  If I ever wanted to say or do something hurtful and completely regrettable, I knew they would do it for me.  When I wanted to move and hopefully improve my life, they moved with me.  And now they're gone.  Moved from Wisteria lane.  I went through the deaths of their family members and I could turn to this show when I was hurting from the deaths of my parents.

I didn't even know the end was coming.  I never bothered to find out how many seasons there were.  Those last 10 minutes of the final episode caught me by surprised. I found myself doing that backseat driver putting on the brakes movement.  My right foot could find no traction, no brake.  The screen went black and that was that.  I couldn't stop it.  Couldn't create a new season with my own desperation.

So, I've been through season one of Ugly Betty.  Good show, but it can't replace the housewives.  I am on the lookout for a new show.  It can't be a great show, because then my husband will want to watch, also.  So I have to find something good, not much man appeal, not full of phony Kardashians, and loads of episodes.  Any ideas?

What were once Perverts are now Addicts

Used to be, men that wanted to show their private parts to ladies donned a trench coat and roamed the evening streets looking for victims.  A bit of pre-planning was done, no doubt, to pinpoint the optimal location for privacy and largest pool of victims. The only thing separating Anthony Weiner from the stereotypical trench coat wearing perv is the inability to plan ahead.  There’s no skulking in the shadows for him.  Drop pants.  Take photo.  Press send.

Self-called “sexperts” are calling Weiner’s proclivity for snap and send a sexting addiction.  I’m assuming most people who think there is such a thing as a sexting addiction feel this term is a handful of notches above the term “mental illness.”  Is flashing women an addiction?  I don’t think so.  Hopefully some experts will weigh in on this labeling.  Regardless of what you call it, this man needs help from a doctor.  The compulsion to repeatedly expose one’s gentials to others is a mental illness.  Weiner says he has sought help for his condition.  He claims he has received help from his wife.

Enter stage right the schlumping Huma.  Supporting.  Smiling.  Speaking out on her husband’s behalf.  She’s sticking with it all so she can keep her family together.  She’s certainly free to do such a thing.  Perhaps she’s sticking until she feels better about a decision to no longer stick.  She seems as if she’s a deep thinker rather than a rash decision maker.  However, how sad would it be to see down the road, Huma explaining to her adult son how she felt it was best to be an enabler (she may use the term “supportive”)?  How it was better to let her husband do as he pleased and repeatedly humiliate her in public and private.  She may say in 16 years, “And now, Jordan, you have learned so much from your dad, go out in the world and show everyone what you have learned.  Don’t forget to charge your cell phone.  There are lots of young ladies waiting to hear from you.”

Recently, I’ve read several articles on Huma.  What we seem to admire most about this woman we have labeled “strength.”  Had this situation be reversed, Huma sexting and Anthony supporting, we would not be saying Weiner was strong.  No sireeee.  What seems to pass for strength for political wives these days is to withstand shit storms without an umbrella.  Strength seems to mean getting sucker punched in public and keeping your head up.

Had Weiner been able to keep it in his pants, unphotographed, he would have gone far.  For all I know, he still might.  But first, dude, back it up a little.  Drop out of the mayoral race.  Don’t force people to vote for a liar.  Get help.  Real help from someone with a certificate on the wall with seals, and signatures and all that stuff.  Stop talking about you for one damn minute.  Apologize to your wife.  In public.  Turn in your cell phone and check yourself in somewhere.  Give us a call (without photo) when you are well, in control of yourself, and ready to act like a man, a husband and a father.

Mad

Rick Perry will never end abortions in Texas.

Never.

He may end legal and safe abortions.

He will most definitely increase the death rate of women who will attempt "back alley" abortions.

He will most definitely increase the suicide rate among women, especially young women and girls.

He will not safeguard women's health in any way.

He has completely mislead himself and those that believe in him by calling himself pro-life.  Pro-life does not include women butchered by illegal abortions and babies found in dumpsters.

Rick Perry will NEVER end abortions in Texas.

No one will end abortions anywhere.

From Somewhere Else

but, Good Heavens, I've GOT to share this:


Margaret and Helen Awesomeness . 

Enough said? 

 Probably not.

This is my daughter's whiteboard.  Sometimes I wonder just who the hell she is.

If I were to write my schedule on a whiteboard, what would it say.

Get up
Seek inspiration
Eat
Shower
Seek inspiration
Laundry
Snack
Seek inspiration
Lunch
Seek inspiration
Laundry
Do something else
Snack
Seek inspiration
Walk dog
Snack
Laundry
Seek inspiration
Do something
Eat
Mess with stuff, things and crap (noun, not verb)
Snack
Drink
Television
Bed

It's quite depressing to see my day all written out.

Think I'll erase my whiteboard.


Get up
Seek
Eat
Sh
S

Domestic Bliss

Domestic Bliss has been achieved.


Side porch has been cleared of two tons of pollen and mopped.

A couple more boxes have been emptied and contents have been displayed.

The house smells of fresh laundry and that room spray that I got suckered into buying.

Some dusting done (that damn pollen).

Iced coffee run.

Going to doctor up some frozen ravioli for dinner.

Wine will be opened after kiddo goes to bed.

A date with Ugly Betty and Desperate Housewives (yes, I am slow to catch on to shows).

OH YEAH!  A GREAT DAY FOR HOUSEWIFERY!

(and, yes, bonbons were consumed)

Still Here (somewhere)

So, I hope these photos are proof enough that I exist somewhere.  Or at least proof that my cat does.

I haven't posted much lately.  I'm not sure for what reasons.  I'll list some possibilities.

1.  Lazy
2.  Busy exploring Charleston
3.  Taste testing iced coffee
4.  Lazy again
5.  In too good of a mood to bitch, and this blog has been mostly about bitching.
6.  Kind of lost and not sure what is going on.

My Dad died in early December, right when we were packing up for our move.  Christmas really didn't seem to happen for me.  Yes, there were presents and visiting my sister and her family.  But there were no Christmas trees and lights and other happy stuff.  Then we land in Charleston and start setting up house.  My daughter started her new school and I started getting to work in my new studio.  Yet nothing felt right.  Nothing felt valid unless I had a parent to tell.  Things are FINALLY starting to gel, yet I do not feel right with myself.  I do not feel the same.  I'm not sure yet how to feel.

This place is good.  The house, the city, the weather.  And I'm really at my best when I'm bitching about things.  I feel I have it too good when so many people are struggling (or worse).  Good God, am I going to bitch about having it too good!?!?!?!

I've completed one new piece and am almost done with another.  I was terrified of not being able to create, but so far, so good.  If an old photo of Charles Darwin can set me to work then my creative switch must be turned to "high."

I know there's plenty out there to bitch about, but since I don't subscribe to the local paper and don't get on Facebook as much as I used to, I'm just rolling along blissful and ignorant.

If anyone has any suggestions for something for the housewife to crab about, please let me know.