The Word Of The Day - Borborygmi

You would not believe the sounds that can come out of that tummy

Yep.  It's 4:00 am here, and I'm up out of bed.  So you know it's Moose related.

He's a good boy, but part of being an aging studmuffin is tummy issues.  Specifically, tummy rumblings that can be heard from the next zip code.  (That would be the borborygmi.  I just love that word - it's so onomatopoetic.) And when your stomach sounds like a garbage grinder, it's hard to sleep - and if you're Moose, if you're not sleeping, ain't nobody sleeping. 

He'll start with a low, soft whine, then if that doesn't get a response, he moves to more offensive weapons (for example, the vulturing - climbing up on top of my head, so that I can *feel* the rumbles, not just hear them.)

So, in an attempt to give Roger a break and let him get his last hour of sleep, I've moved out to the living room with the boy and a bag of treats - generally, if I can get a few treats into him, the stomach settles down, and we all can go back to bed.  We'll see... 

Taking One-Upmanship Too Far

So... I mentioned yesterday that Carrie Fisher's book, Postcards from the Edge, kind of helped me find my way to a good relationship with my mother.  She and I got past my teen years, learned to live with each other as adults (and then she ran away from home to Denver just when she was getting interesting... but that's a different story.)  And then we learned to be good friends - well, best friends, really.  Very few people can say that about their mother, I think... I'm extremely lucky

But there's something... For some reason, whenever something happens to one of us, fate tries to one up it with the other one.  If I catch a cold, she's bound to get pneumonia.  If she falls and breaks her leg, I'll get in a car crash.  Heck, she even followed up my uterine cancer diagnosis by getting diagnosed with both uterine cancer *and* potential breast cancer. (I won that one, though - mine wasn't operable, her version was a couple of surgeries and she's fine.) 

So when I read today about Debbie Reynolds' hospitalization, I knew exactly what was going on - her body realized Carrie was getting all the attention, and had to react.  But damnit, this is taking things way too far.  Mom, you're on notice...   don't even think about it. 

Carrie Fisher, the Role Model I Desperately Needed

I loved her - mostly because she wasn't perfect.  She may have been a princess, but she was a princess who showed her seams.  She wasn't polite, she wasn't elegant, and she was never shut away in a tower - even when she was cast as needing rescue, she pretty much rescued herself.

She was honest - sometimes brutally so.  And she showed me that naming your issues, claiming them, can release you from them much more than hiding and denying them.  She guided me in dealing with some of my own issues, and she helped me realize that you are not responsible for the cards fate dealt you - you're just responsible for how you deal with those cards.  Never be ashamed of your mental state - although sometimes you should be shamed by your reaction to that state. 

But mostly, I was grateful for her insight into dealing with an unusual mother/daughter relationship.  When you are as close to your mother as I am, sometimes it's hard to realize that you don't have to be her (or to blame her).  That there is daylight between you.  The quote from Postcards From The Edge that really struck me was "I don't know your mother, but I'll tell you something. She did it to you and her mother did it to her and back and back and back all the way to Eve and at some point you just say, "Fuck it, I start with me."" The freedom to let resentment go gave me the freedom to come back, and to look at my mother honestly and realize how wonderful she truly is.  That's one hell of a gift - worthy of any princess.  Thank you, Carrie!
 

Goodbye, Tiny Dancer

Daisy and Dancer beating up Hank

Dancer was a good dog.  Always and forever, a good dog.  She was sheer joy on the hoof - always moving, always dancing, always up for a party.  She came into Mom's life like all the other dogs before her - rescued from an unfortunate situation, falling into the good life, loved for as long as we could before she danced on to a better world. 

She and her sister Daisy were hard to tell apart from each other... both small, dainty blondes.  But while Daisy was beautiful, Dancer was cute - almost the definition of cute.  She had her share of bad hair days (sometimes incredibly bad hair days) but she had her own inimitable style.  She was not necessarily a lap dog - she liked her independence, but if she favored you with her attentions, you had better be prepared to pet her extensively and exclusively.  No reading, no playing on the computer - she let you know she was ready for petting now.  And one of her other nicknames was "the Klingon" - so named for the fact that you could get almost a 180 degree vertical before she would let go of your lap (or lack thereof.) 

She also took her cues from her older sister - she was there for the party.  If there was something going on, she wanted to be there, in the middle of it, and there was no one that she considered a stranger.  Whenever she stayed at my house (and there for a while, it was about half the year), Daisy would go off to bed when Mom did, but Dancer stayed up until Roger and I went to bed, followed Moose into  the bedroom, jumped on the bed (and then onto me) and demanded cuddles until she determined that the party was over, and then jumped down and headed in to snug with Mom. 

She was also the chief instigator of Psycho Puppy Hour every night.  Regardless of how low energy the rest of the day may be, right around 8:00 at night (or whenever Mom got out her purse and car keys), she took it as her sworn duty to attack her sister and begin the tussles.  I'm not sure what it was about a little trip that brought out the Viking in her, but she definitely let it loose. 

She had been slowing down lately (really, ever since her partner in crime, Daisy, passed a couple months ago), and she had stopped being interested in food last Friday.  Then today, on the way home, she went for one last walk (well, carry, really), with our Mother- and then she was gone along on her way. 

A Fine Whine

Look, 2016 - I get it.  The world is going to hell in a handbasket, good people are dying left and right, hatred is winning, there is terror all around us.  But dammit - you're taking away my lifeline here.

I've been doing my best to maintain.  Incurable cancer - fuck it, I'll just survive with that sucker in me.  Massive depression - I'll find the right dose of meds to help me through it.  Debilitating disability?   I'll take on the Social Security Administration, who never approves *anyone* on the first pass,  and get approved so fast that I'll have to wait 3 months to be eligible, even.  I'll take on adversity and beat it like a rented mule. 

But there's always been one thing in my life that is absolute.  It didn't matter where we were individually, or what was going on with our lives.  Mother and I are always together on Christmas.  (Well, there was that one year - worst year of my life - but we don't talk about that.)  I would travel to her, or lately, she would travel to me, but always, always we were together then, regardless of the rest of the year.  We spent it in one bedroom attic rooms (Cedar City), we spent it in Washington, DC (the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in a light dusting of snow), Ogden, Portland...  always together.  Until this year.

So far, Fate has thrown screwed up airline tickets, breathing issues, a potential heart attack, and now just shutting down half of Oregon at us.  Ok, we probably should have listened when the heart attack popped up, but we're a stubborn family.  Anyway, Mom and Sherri made it as far as Ontario, which is essentially the state line, and then this morning (which was supposed to be a clear day), there's a snow storm, and the road is not just dangerous, but closed.   So, they're turning back around and heading home. 

I absolutely support the decision (it's the only one that makes sense), but...  I want my Mom.  Yes, I know, I'm 51 years old, I don't care.  This has been one bitch kitty of a year, and talking with Mom is one of the ways I make sense of the world. Yes, there's telephone (and god knows, we talk more on the phone than I do with anyone else), but it's not the same.  You don't get long, involved, rambling philosophical discussions over a wire. 

Oh, well.  Moose will be relieved, I suspect - Mom was bringing Lili, his new sister, with her, and now he can continue his reign as an only child.  To quote Monty Python, "Always look on the bright side of life..."

More Phone Ranting

New variation on Rachel from Credit Card Services and her boyfriend...  I'm now getting calls weekly from companies trying to get me to buy an extended warranty for the Moose Mobile. But there's a new and annoying twist.

Well, frankly, it's not all that new, but boy is it annoying.  They always call, acknowledge me as Mrs Reynolds, and then ask to speak to Roger. Now, both times that we've had time to do it properly, I've been the one who did the research, made the decisions, arranged the financing for the car... it's been in my court because I'm the professional - it's my family's division of labor, and it works well for us.  The car is in both of our names, even though I don't drive anymore due to physical limitations (and boy do I miss it sometimes... but that's another post.)  Admittedly, Daniel is the car guy in the family - if you ever need a new car, I seriously recommend him as your concierge.  The guy actually enjoys car shopping, and he's really, really good at it, but when it came to the legal parts, it was me setting it up.

This last time, in fact, when the dealer kept trying to get us to pay a higher amount for a car we didn't want (we didn't want 4wd, we really didn't want black, etc...)  I was the one who made an end run around him with my credit union and got the exact car that I wanted from the factory for $2K less than the dealer was offering.  And of course, the dealer came back to me when I told him this with "Have you discussed this with your husband?"  There are few phrases in the English language that are closer to a declaration of war with me - well, I suppose "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it" would do a bit more damage, but not a hell of a lot.

At any rate... my point is that why on earth would they automatically assume that I wouldn't be the one to talk to about this?  My name is on the title.  The loan was actually made by and paid off to *my* bank account.  What do they possibly gain by asking to speak to my husband rather than just giving the pitch to me in the first place?  Of course, these are people who are already ignoring us being on the "Do Not Call" registry, so I don't know why I'm expecting rationality from them. Just another mystery..

Civil War In My House

Throw pillows.  There's a looming dust-up about throw pillows. 

See, Roger likes to have a throw pillow up against the arm of the couch when he's resting.  Moose, on the other hand, takes this throw pillow as an obstacle not to be born when he's trying to get across the couch to Mama's lap on the chair (his stairway is on the other end of the couch.) 

Now, mind - this is the boy who frequently does a balance beam move across the back of the couch (he goes from one arm of the couch, up to the top, traverses a three inch wide back for 6 feet, leaps down to the other arm of the couch and then across to the safe zone of Mama's lap.)  And yet, the soft, comfy surface of the throw pillow, which is a fine ramp up to the arm, confounds him.  He'll sit there, whining softly until someone removes the horrible obstacle.

Unless Mama has food.  In that case, he's up and over like Evil Knievel. 

My Boy

Moose in his normal mode - note the gray cheeks

It's his birthday tomorrow - well, technically, we're not sure exactly when, but since he was a Thanksgiving present, and he was about a year old when he emerged shivering from Mom's car and promptly ran and hid on me, we call Thanksgiving his birthday. 

He's 13 now, and starting to show his age.  The tail-patterned baldness is spreading, there are a few more fatty lumps on the belly, the gray is starting to be more of a cover than a highlight on his face... but he's always going to be my boy.  My constant companion, my emotional backstop... my heart dog.  I'm starting to worry that I might outlast him, and it frightens me, but that's the way it is with our canine companions. 

Dixie just showed up on my "this day two years ago" app - it was two years ago that we had to say goodbye to that grouchy little loved one.  Between her and Shadow and Daisy, we're building up quite a welcome contingent across the rainbow bridge, and while I wish we didn't have to say goodbye, I wouldn't have missed knowing them for the world.  I just wish it wasn't such a brief time together. 

But for right now... Moose is sleeping on my lap, occasionally waking up just long enough to make sure that I'm doing ok (and not sneaking any snackage past him), his warm body in a comma around me, making sure to maintain maximum body contact.  He's not really fond of my typing - means that no hands are free to pet him - but he puts up with it, for now.  When he's tired of waiting, he'll stretch out full body in front of the keyboard, belly up, demanding tribute in the form of belly rubs.  It's a rough life... but he makes due.  Happy birthday, my love...  and may you have many, many more.

Things to be grateful for

We spent our Saturday night the way we usually do - family dinner with Kevin and Robyn.  We've been doing this for years - almost every Saturday we get together, have dinner together, discuss the news of the week, watch some bad TV together. 

There's minor variations - sometimes Mom's here, Daniel and Davey have shown up a few times, but it's generally about the same.  Sometimes we cook dinner, sometimes we order out - but the food is really back-seat to just being together.  (Although we tried something new last night that really worked well - we were cooking up a big old pork butt roast and funeral potatoes, and since we already had the potatoes covered, we added some brussel sprouts into the pan with the carrots and onions.  Big hit with Robyn and I - the guys are not sprouts fans, but I think that if they had just tried them, they would have been converts.  Lovely roasted sprouts, all soft and buttery, covered with the porky goodness from the roast...  heaven.  But I digress.)

We talk about politics, commiserate with each other on the stupidity of politics - occasionally argue politics.  We empathize with each other on various physical maladies. Kevin generally falls asleep at some point during the evening while Robyn and I natter on.  But mostly, it's just so good to have family that you can choose for yourself.  Something to feel blessed about...

It's Who I Am, It's What I Do

The Procuress by Gerrit Van Honthorst

I know I've mentioned this to y'all before (many times), but until I saw the light and retired, one of my main job elements was being a purchasing agent.  A buyer.  A procuress, if you will.  Like Liam Neeson, it's left me with a certain peculiar set of skills.  Unlike Liam Neeson, chances are good that I'm not going to be able to exact a devastating revenge against you and your entire village (although I *was* a buyer for the DoD.  I do know the NAICS code and MilStrip number for an astounding number of obscure armaments... and where to procure them.  But I digress.) 

At any rate... it means that I'm basically dial-a-buy for the majority of my family.  Need to hire an emergency Santa for the family party, and it's December 22nd?  Call Deci.  Some little jerks tagged the Post Office you're running, and you need to know how to get graffiti off brickwork?  Call Deci.  (BTW... on that one - Elephant Snot.  I know, it sounds disgusting, but it's a quality product that will remove a swastika faster than you can make some juvenile delinquent *really* regret his decision making skills.  I figured that this would be a good time to let people know.) 

But mostly, I'm the travel agent for the family.  I'm almost always home, I'm almost *always* in front of my computer - you call me from the road, and I find you a place that's reasonably priced, takes puppies, and has a complimentary breakfast.  It's what I do.

So, when Mom and Aunt Sherri called from the road today, I figured they needed a hotel and was firing up the computer, but no... they just called to say hi.  They were meeting Cassidy, she was getting the hotel, nothing was needed...  I almost felt replaced.  Until 20 minutes later, when Cassidy called in a panic because she didn't have internet access and needed the hotel info... and all was right in the universe again. 

"Choose Your Own Truth" Election

I've spent a lot of time this week watching post mortem segments on cable news about the election Tuesday, and I think they're missing the biggest point.  It's not just that we're a divided nation (although, god knows, we are.)  It's that we no longer can agree on basic facts.  I mean, two plus two is four, but that's about it (and I've got friends that are probably willing to argue about that.)

For example - I had a family member post a video from YouTube stating that the reason that James Comey sent the letter to Congress about possible new evidence on the Email server-gate issue was because there was proof that Hillary was running a pedophile ring in New York, and that she was worried about her getting into the White House.  I posted back info that her source had been wrong in the past, along with info that this was just Weiner's computer, most of the emails were probably duplicates that had been seen before, etc, and I was asked by her to stay off her articles about politics since I was obviously in the tank for Hillary.  It's pretty obvious that she and I are not just in disagreement about who to vote for, but we can't even agree on what set of "facts" to use in figuring it out.

On a different thread (I think this one was on whether or not Voter ID laws were racially biased), I provided info on the court case where the judges said that clearly, yes - this was racially biased, via a Washington Post article.  The person I was arguing with then provided info from  Breitbart.com to say that no, the laws were necessary due to rampant in person voter fraud.  I dissed his choice of research material (I rarely trust alt-right sites for factual reporting), he told me that I was a tool of the liberal elites because the Washington Post and NY Times were in the tank for the democrats, and we went on our merry way. 

This is the most important decision we make as a country, and yet we're being guided by partisan hacks, shills, and some teenagers in Veles, Macedonia.  (And yes, I know - there are fake articles on Trump from Democratic leaning sites as well - I always triple check anything I see from Politicus.)

But seriously - how are we supposed to figure out who the right person is to lead our country (and it is *our* country), when we're not even getting the same information?  Almost every major newspaper in the country agreed that Trump was not fit to be President - how did almost half of us completely ignore that, and vote for him anyway?  Every single living person who has ever had the job said "Do not vote for him", and yet...  half of us didn't believe them.  I just can't understand it, and I don't know how to fix it... 

I'm Still LaRae's Daughter, and I'm Pissed

I wrote a few weeks back about understanding Hillary because I have a mother who is very competent, organized, hard-working, and sometimes misunderstood because of it. You know, the old saying where a hard-driving man is referred to as an efficient son of a bitch, while the equivalent woman is just a bitch? Yeah.  That one always hit a little too close to home to be funny.

At any rate... Mom always raised me to believe that I could do whatever I put my mind to.  And for the most part, she was right - if I wanted it badly enough, I'd figure out a way to get it. She was a first-wave feminist, and she raised me the same way - girls could do whatever guys could do, my gender didn't define my world, etc... 

Which is why it was such a shock when I became an admin at one of my local BBSs and got a look behind the scenes at the "men-only forum".  See, up until then, I didn't know that there were guys out there that hated me just because I was female.  Worse, I didn't know that there were guys that didn't think of me as a person just because I was female - I was something to be conquered, or owned, or ignored if I wasn't at least a 6 - a second class citizen.  It rocked my world a little - kind of like the first time I found out that there are people out there who deliberately kick puppies.

Then there was the time at work that I competed for a promotion.  I was up against a guy who had been there less time than I had, who had less experience than I did, less commendations than I did - hell, he still came to me for advice when he couldn't figure things out... guess who got the promotion?  And guess who was fired for looking at porn on his work computer not 6 month later. 

But that was last century (ok, it was 1999 - but still, last century).  I thought for sure things were getting better.  Until this election season...  Every single former President warned us that they could not see Trump in office.  Almost every newspaper warned us.  Her former opponents Bernie and President Obama both were actively begging people to vote for her.  He told us with his own lips that he was a sexual assaulter (on top of all the other reasons not to vote for him, like unrealistic action plans and a hair trigger temper).  He was endorsed by the fricking KKK... and Putin and Kim Jong Un!  And yet...  despite winning the popular vote, enough Americans voted to keep the woman out. 

I know - there's going to be people saying "But she's corrupt!  She's a criminal!"  If you voted for the man who *actually* has two upcoming court dates, one for conspiracy to defraud and one for rape of a child, no, I don't believe that you were voting out of shock at her "criminal" email behavior (and don't even start with the "she's a killer" routine - if she really were killing off her political enemies, there's no way that Anthony Weiner would still be alive.)  So yeah... it's the Bitch factor.  And I'm back there crying at the knowledge that in this land that I love, that I worked my heart out for... I'm still a second-class citizen

Mental Soundtracks And Following Where They Lead

I've always had a mental soundtrack running - something will remind me of a song lyric, and that song will pop into my head and stay there until something else comes along and pops it back out.  Given my eclectic music tastes, the songs have ran the gamut - Oingo Boingo to EmmyLou Harris to Gwar to Jane Oliver.  Although usually, it's lyric-driven, so not a lot of classical or jazz...

I've started posting each morning on Facebook whichever song happens to be running through my mind at the moment.  This morning it was Tea and Sympathy from Janis Ian - I do love the way she writes.  Looking around, I also found a terrific version of her singing "At Seventeen" recently, and it
hit home much more coming from a woman looking back, than from a young girl.

At Seventeen

But it reminded me of a moment back in the office - one of those first times when I realized that I was getting old.  We were sitting around talking, and someone brought up high school, and how much they had enjoyed it - cheerleader, homecoming queen, yada yada.  I muttered something about how the song "At Seventeen" was the only thing that got me through high school and looked at a sea of blank faces. 

Seriously - an entire table of people who had never heard the immortal lines "For those of us who knew the pain of valentines that never came, and those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball... It was long ago and far away, the world was younger than today and dreams were all they gave for free to ugly duckling girls like me."  How on earth could that happen? 

At Seventeen gave me hope that there was more to life than which cafeteria clique you were in, and that life could get better when you had more life choices (ok, and that those who bloomed early like the homecoming queen would fade away - what can I say?  I was a vengeful little geek.) 

And it turns out that yes... if you continue to grow (and if you don't settle), your life is a lot more than it was back then.  You find your feet, and your voice, and (if you're lucky) your particular Valentine - the one who makes sense of it all for you and keeps you sane (thank you, Roger).  The ugly duckling can grow into a neon-purple swan, given the chance and the room.  She just needs to get out of her cage. 

Sunday, waxing religious

I've always had a weirdly schizophrenic relationship with religion.  For one thing, I was born in Utah to an old-family Mormon family, with all the baggage that entails (for those non-Mormons in the crowd, think Judaism-light - all the quirks and guilt (and insularity), shoved into just 200 years of tradition.  I tend to think of myself as genetically Mormon - my ancestors go back to the old "making your way across the country with a hand-cart to the new promised land" of the early church, but I drifted.

Part of it may have been my mother...  she went through a crisis of faith and left the Church  (something about Dad not being able to remember her real name half the time - there was no way he was going to remember her temple name to call her up to the afterlife) when I was two or three.  She's grown back into the Church now, but while I've tried, there are some aspects of the Church I just can't seem to get around. 

Don't get me wrong - if I were going to be religious, I would definitely be Mormon.  (That comes from my grandparents - Lova and Dewane were always incredibly active, and kept trying to bring me back into the fold.)  Through them, I saw the good side of the church - the sense of community, helping one another through the rough spots, the "callings" where everyone in the church had a role to play, whether it was being a member of the bishopric, leader of the Relief Society, primary school teacher, librarian... the Mormon church is very much an active rather than passive activity.  Even the sermons are a community thing - each week a different member gives the talk, based loosely on guidance from the church, but very much your own testimony. 

But... There's those aspects I can't get around.  I'm frustrated by the fact that any man can attain the priesthood, but no woman can.  I mean - the church is great if you're a traditionalist, but they teach that the height of womanhood is to be the mother of the family, to teach and inspire your children, to make a good home.  For a barren career girl like me... there's not a lot of room there. 

Then, there's the guidance on sexuality.  Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that they've been evolving - but hating the sin while loving the sinner still implies that you can be born a sin - that being LBGT is an aberration.  I can't believe that a loving God would do that to one of his creations. 

So, I remain a woman without a country here - as I said, genetically Mormon, inclined in that direction, but not quite able to get there.  Maybe the church will evolve - God knows, they've changed for the better in a lot of ways in the past 200 years.  Or maybe I'll learn to work around my differences like Mom has - coming to terms with the Church has done her a lot of good the past few years.  Or maybe I'll continue on building my own relationship with God - who must love me, after all, I've been given time to work this out.

Thoughts on the World Series

I really enjoyed watching my friend's feed the past couple of days.  I don't know how, but I've ended up with about an equal amount of Chicago Cubs and Cleveland fans, and watching them gently duke it out over the World Series has been a balm to my soul.

No one accused the other team of cheating.  No one whined about the umpires.  No one even really insulted the other team - it was just a lot of excitement and spirit on both sides.  I guess when you've had long enough to wait, you get good at being gracious, winner or loser.  But it was fun to watch, and exciting, and spirited, and... I can't imagine a better last game than one that came down to the very last out.  I just want to honor that... it felt heart-healing to know that we can still come together after a contest and be friends.

Never, EVER, Read The Comments

Yahoo had a cute little nothing headline today - White House trick-or-treating, with the President and First Lady passing out candy to various cute trick or treaters.  One little boy showed up in an excellent Prince costume - he had the purple suit down, the guitar was fierce, just absolutely adorable, and there was a 12-second video of the President crooning Purple Rain at him (surprisingly on key, btw...)  It was absolutely adorkable, in all the best ways... and then I made the mistake of looking at the comments below the article.

I know we're a polarized nation.  I know that anonymous commenting brings out the worst in people.  But for heaven's sake...  what possible good could it be doing your soul to actively seek out, read, and bother to comment on a cute little nothing video like this with hateful rhetoric?  And it wasn't just hating on the President (although there was some of that.)  People were insulting the little kid!  There was a comment on cultural appropriation (the kid was African-American, by the way - I'm pretty sure the comment maker doesn't understand cultural appropriation.)  There was a comment about not dressing up like Prince because he was a drug-fiend (no... pretty sure he was just in a hell of a lot of pain, there at the end, but I don't see how that makes him an anti-hero.)  There was even someone accusing Yahoo of publishing this to distract from the Hillary email scandal. 

I find myself really hoping that things calm down after the election, but I'm afraid this boil is just going to keep growing until we find a way to lance it.  And I don't know if the country could survive the surgery. 

A Pup's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp

Poor Moose - Roger and I had big beef for dinner.  Very large steaks - we both have about half of ours left over, sitting on a plate over on a TV tray table by Roger.  Moose has climbed up onto Roger's lap, and has obviously treed the steak.  I've tried before to explain to him that he's not a pointer, but he insists on trying. 

At any rate...  He treed the steak.  He pointed out the steak.  He gazed longingly at the steak.  There was a subtle whine about the steak.  Heck, he even let out a very polite bark, just to alert us to the fact that there is steak, damn it!  Steak! 

Sorry, small boy... you had all you're going to get for the night.  Heck, the meat there is approximately the same size as your head... it's really not going to happen.  But hope springs eternal in a doxie breast. 

Memory Well: Dating Rules

I haven't had to think about this for close to 20 years now (Thank whatever deities you choose), but back when I was single, I had a list of basic dating "nevers".  A friend reminded me of them, and I figured I might as well write it down for the edification of whoever comes along after me (no kids to pass this down to, and my goddaughter has managed to find a good man without my advice.  Not, you understand, that I am admitting that she's allowed to date yet.)

I don't know that I can remember them all, but... here goes.

1.  Don't date anyone older than your mother.  I know, seems basic, but remember, mom had me at 17, so it did limit my scope some - but trust me, I never had a daddy fixation, so it worked out ok.

2.  Never date anyone who has to ask his mom for permission.  Or who has a curfew...

3.  Never date anyone who carries an ax in his panel van.  (I did say these were basic, right?)

4.  Never date anyone named Steve.  (Ok, this one is specific to me - but I've dated 3 Steves in my life, and all three were unmitigated disasters.  I've had plenty of friends named Steve, no issue, but dating them apparently turns them into monsters, kind of like feeding a mogwai after midnight.)

5.  Never date anyone who owns more hair products than you do. 

6.  Never date a Republican.  Ok, I broke down on this one, and I'm incredibly glad that I did...  Roger was the best thing to ever happen to me.  But I'm sticking with the other 5 rules. 

Missing Lova and Dewane

I was a lucky girl, growing up. With mom and dad splitting up before I was 3 (I know, I know... we're getting to the lucky part), I ended up spending a lot of time with my maternal grandparents.  I've written some about it, but this meme just brought it home to me how much time and attention that they gave me. 

Grandma taught me a few basics - how to make Parker House rolls, canning, quilting.  But she also gave me a good solid basis in working for a living, serving the community, being a solid partner in everything with Grandpa.  And Grandpa...  he took me with him.  Everywhere.  We went fishing, we went out getting logs, down to the field to take care of the cows, out boating on the reservoir.  He just took me along - no questions, no comment.  I knew that I belonged on this earth and that I was loved for who I was, because these two made sure I knew about it - without ever really telling me so.  There's a powerful amount of confidence you can get from family that accept you - especially when you don't really feel like you fit in other places.  We moved a lot when I was young, but there was always a home to come back to - even if the fit was a bit tight and I knew I'd need to leave again. 

So... it's not so much the physical act of snapping green beans we need to get back to.  But there is a lot of time and attention spent while snapping... that, I miss like crazy.

What's The Difference?

Every post that I've seen on Facebook regarding the potential Groper-In-Chief has had an immediate follow-up - "But what about Bill Clinton?  And Hillary helped! Why aren't you angry at them?"

There are a lot of reasons- Bill's not the one who is running for office, the adultery was consensual, there's no definite proof either way, maybe I'm a flaming hypocrit - but mostly, for me, it's because I'm angry that Trump and his minions just don't get it.  The apology that he gave for the tape was so oblivious as to why it was wrong.  It wasn't the "pussy".  It was the GRAB.  It was the lack of realization that women are human beings, not things.  And he and his supporters have continued on - attack, deny, ridicule (seriously, he's using "look at her, she's an uggo" as a defense?) 

I attempted to talk it out with a niece of mine who is a Trump supporter and posted something about "Women claim sexual abuse to get new furniture".  Tried telling her that I was hurt by that characterization, mentioned my issues... she responded with inaccurate memes about the Clintons and that some women like to be touched. 

Roger has asked me not to engage these people, and I'm trying, but it's hard.  I don't want to know that there are people out there that are using #repealthenineteenth.  I want to be able to respect my friends who are voting for Trump, despite their vote.  But it's getting harder and harder.

When A Man Shows You His True Self - Believe Him

My Facebook feed blew up today with the latest Trump scandal - this one catching him in a "hot mic" moment back in 2005, talking about being able to grab women... well, you can read the news about it.  God knows, it's everywhere.  I found myself thinking "well, we knew that he was like that.  He's done and said a lot of terrible things about women... this isn't going to make a difference." and trying to move past it... and I hit a brick wall.  Well, several brick walls.  From my past.


This isn't going to be a fun post.  You might want to skip it (god knows, I do).  But...  when I was a young girl, my great-grandmother got remarried (well, she eloped - frankly, no one in the family approved) to Grandpa John. Grandpa John was a groper - the kind of guy who would kiss a 7 year old on the lips and use tongue.  He slipped his hand down the back of my pants once, before I learned to always, always keep a piece of furniture between us (so did the rest of the women in my family.  We didn't talk about it, we just learned, and watched out for each other.  That's the way you handled it back in the 70s)  Grandpa John was eventually hospitalized and out of our lives... but he left an invisible mark - the knowledge that my body wasn't mine.  Some guy could just grab and take and there wasn't a lot I could do about it.

There were a few other instances over the years that I'm not willing to go into publicly, but that's the way it was, growing up female back then. There were different coping mechanisms - mine was completely divorcing myself from my body.  I built a brick wall around those memories and refused to look at them  Not the healthiest method, but it worked for me - for long enough to make it through and find friends who could wake me back up, and eventually a man who loved me for myself.

But that damage... that damage affected my growth the way an ax cut can affect a tree.  My life changed because of those men, and I don't think it was for the better.  But I hoped that we were moving away from that sort of thing being acceptable - that girls of today wouldn't have to guard themselves the way I did.  Until now.  Now, we're at the point where 40% of America seems to think that this is an appropriate leader.  Not just that he's not reprehensible, but that he could be our *President*.  How on earth can any woman vote for him?  Hell, how could any man who loves a woman vote for him?  I just don't understand - other than if they are as good at ignoring as I am - but I'm having problems ignoring this now that I've seen it.  I'm going to have to build another wall, I'm afraid.  And if I'm building walls... he wins.

I'm LaRae's Daughter, and I Approve This Message.

I saw possibly the hundredth iteration (today) of "Why isn't Hillary more likable?" on my Facebook feed today, and it made me want to scream.  It also made me think about why it is that I've always liked Hillary - felt like she was a kindred spirit, etc..

You see, I grew up with Hillary.  Or rather, a woman who I suspect is a lot like Hillary - my mom.  And when I say "grew up with", I'm being almost literal - Mom was just barely 17 when she had me, so we sort of raised each other at times.  I could write a book about how freaking incredible my mother is - at some point, I'm sure I will - but back to the Hillary similarities.

Mom was a project manager - still is.  You want stuff done, you go to my mom.  She knows how to listen, to bring people together, to use the right person with the right skills and to keep them on track.  Sound like Hillary?  But you can't be a candy-ass if you're a project manager... you have to keep things going, and you have to be smart - and let people know that you're smart.  You have to stand out - and for a woman, that means you're going to have to get in people's faces at times.  It's not something that's necessarily going to make people like you - people don't like being prodded - but it's going to make people respect you (and want to be on your team again.)  There's a reason why most people who worked with Hillary have endorsed her - same with Mom, people who worked with her wanted to work with her again because she got shit done and she made them look good. 

Mom cares, too... almost too much at times, so she won't let it show if she doesn't know you.  She's had to be strong for a long time - being a single mother in the 60s and 70s wasn't easy (especially when you've got a daughter who is also a strong, smart little wench.)  But if there are hard decisions to be made...  that strength comes through.  If you're on a ventilator, you want my mother making the decision as to whether or not to pull the plug - and I personally want someone like her to be the one making the decision on whether or not to push the button.  Someone who cares, who knows the implications and has thought through all the possibilities...  and who will cry later, because for now, stuff has to get done.

Mom was never June Cleaver - well, she might have tried, briefly, back in Salmon, but it was always bad drag.  Kind of like how Hillary tried briefly with the cookie recipe, but we all knew she had better things to do with her time.  And I'm not saying that June isn't wonderful - I've got a couple of aunts that I love that could give June a run for her money - but June isn't what our country needs right now.  We need someone who can get us back on the right direction, someone who can bring people together and make them do the right thing - we need a project manager.  And since Mom is busy with the goat ranch, we need Hillary. 

Arlington Photos

Lately, a meme has been showing up in my newsfeed, with a picture of Arlington superimposed with "This is why you stand for the National Anthem." 

No.  No, this is why you properly fund the VA.  This is why you make sure that veterans are not left homeless in the streets.  This is why you work your damnedest to elect people who will both fulfill our promises to those left, and who will work their hardest to make sure that we don't have useless wars in the future.  This is why you honor their service, by working to make sure that we have a country that lives up to the promise that they sacrificed for. 

And sometimes, that means that you point out flaws you might see - to ensure a more perfect union.  That freedom that they sacrified for?  It means we have rights, and responsibilities.  You do what you can - you vote, you discuss, you protest.  Peaceful protest to try to better our country?  That's one of the more patriotic things you can do, in my opinion, especially when it's accompanied by good works (for example, donating the first million of your paycheck to help out your community).  And you listen.  When someone else is protesting, trying to tell you that there's a problem here that needs solving, you listen to what they say and process it before shouting them down. 

Political: How His Mind Works

Look, I think that it was a pretty pre-school move for the Clinton camp to invite Mark Cuban to sit in the front row of the first debate. Admittedly, it was a wily move - bring in someone who has been needling Mr Trump in the press, saying that he's not a true billionaire, claiming he's a bad businessman, hope that the sight of him rattles Mr Trump enough to throw him off guard.  But still, petty.  For anyone else I can think of on that level, it wouldn't work - the distraction would be planned for and ignored.  But...

Mr. Trump's reaction?  Retaliation, of course... but not to bring in someone who has confronted Secretary Clinton on her job, or her own personal flaws.  No, he immediately went to Gennifer Flowers - someone that President Clinton had sex with back in the early 90s.  His estimation of what will rattle Secretary Clinton, what will throw her off her game the most, is a reminder of a flaw in her husband?  He honestly thinks that a woman who has survived everything that's been thrown at her for the past 30 years is going to be thrown off her stride by some meaningless bimbo? 

I'm getting really tired of our society (or at least certain segments of it) assuming that every woman's self-image revolves around her man, and nothing but her man.  Stop underestimating us...

Bonus post for the day: Roger and Moose

Subtle.  My boy is always subtle. 

I finished off my dinner pretty quickly, so Moose immediately moved over to the couch to try to mooch off his daddy.  He was sitting there with his pleading eyes focused firmly on his dad's fork until:  

I just asked Roger if I could have a bite of his gnocchi.  He had just forked up a bite, so he just handed me the fork so that I could have a taste.  As I was handing the fork back to him, Moose gave me a *look* - somewhere between disbelief, anger, and sheer betrayal... 

It's a good thing that Roger already set him a little bit aside on the plate, or I don't think I could sleep easily tonight.  As it is, I may need to make sure that my shoes are moved above the high tide mark.

In A Lyrical Mood

My mind works in mysterious ways.  For example, I remember almost nothing of my personal past - it just isn't there (or maybe it's blocked), unless someone else reminds me or I've written it down somewhere. (Yet another reason for my memory well posts - if I do get reminded of something, it's good to write it down and freeze it in my memory.)  However, if you're talking sheer trivia, I'm your girl.  There's a reason why no one will play Trivial Pursuit with me - last time I played, my friends insisted we play the drunken version (take a drink every time you answer a question right, down a shot each time you get a wedge).  They thought it would give them an advantage, since I am not a heavy drinker.  Wiped the board with them...  see, some people are mad drunks, some people are happy drunks... I'm an exact drunk.  The drunker I get, the more precise I get.  Like I said, my mind works in mysterious ways.

Anyway - the point of today's digression...  my mind is also lyrical flypaper.  Any song that I've ever heard more than a couple of times is stuck up there - not necessarily correctly, depends on how I heard it, but it's stuck there.  (For the longest time, I swore that the words were "High up on the mountaintop, a badger chased a squirrel", but anyway...)  And at odd moments, my brain will just throw up a song to the top of the list, and it WON'T GO AWAY!!!  It's like having my own personal soundtrack.  Sometimes, it's not so bad - yesterday's was "You Give Love A Bad Name", and Bon Jovi has always been one of my guilty pleasures - but today.  Today, my brain keeps repeating this obscure waltz tune from 1895 (yes, that's right - 1895) - And The Band Played On.  "Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde and the band played on.  He'd glide cross the floor with the girl he adored and the band played on.  But his brain was so loaded he nearly exploded, the poor girl would shake with alarm.  He'd never leave the girl with the strawberry curl and the band played on."  No idea where I heard it originally, no clue why it popped up today, and no idea what the hell that third sentence could possibly refer to...  but with any luck, it's going to turn out to be viral transmission, and I will be able to pass it off to one of you guys and get back to "Shot to the heart, and you're to blame!"

Describing Yourself In Three Fictional Characters

The Original Mouthy Broad

Penelope from Criminal Minds - my last boss said that she thought of me as Penelope because I was always the helpful voice on the other end of the phone line

And of course, Victoria - feminine, but willing to do what needs to be done

Ok, so it's an idealized version of me - but they did say fictional.

Blood Sugar (no) Sex Magick

Blood Sugar Monitor - Mine is named Twoey, after Audrey II

My body has become a finicky little wench - I checked my blood sugar last night before dinner, and it was way too high (like 398 too high).  So, I compensated by upping my regular insulin, because I'm really trying to get my A1C down.

Then... spent about an hour last night in bed, dealing with cramps up and down my legs, and when I finally got up and checked my blood sugar, it was at 56.  (Normally is 80 to 120, but personally, I start feeling woozy if I drop below 100).   So I had a quarter of a piece of naan to bring me back up quickly (quick carb) and 6 chocolate covered hazelnuts (fat for long-acting glucose because I didn't want to crash again - because if I was going to feel bad, I was going to compensate with something I like, damn it.) At any rate... we are talking somewhere in the region of 30 carbs, total... wake up this morning, and I'm at 256.

I have absolutely  no idea what the hell to do at this point, other than scream at Twoey and call her a liar...

God, I Hate Rachel From Credit Card Service's Boyfriend Chuck

First off, the jerk is persistent.  He's been calling me two or three times a week for the past 6  months or so, even though every time he calls, I tell him that I know this is a scam, and that I'm on the National Do Not Call list.

Second - why the hell would I ever listen to someone who starts off our "relationship" with a lie (spoofed phone numbers?)  They keep changing the phone number, so I can't block them, and it's always something "official" looking on the caller ID, but you know if you try to call the number back, it doesn't exist.

Third - you have an Indian accent so thick that I would suspect you were an extra in Slumdog Millionaire (except, let's face it, you're no actor.)  Don't try to tell me your name is really Chuck, or Ed, or Bob, or whatever stereotypically American name you've chosen to use today - while I really don't want to establish a relationship with you, again, I hate being lied to.  And could you change up the script a little?

Fourth - ok, we've established that I hate you, I will never listen to the lies you are spewing, you're not getting any money from me, etc... Why the hell do you keep calling me?  And, more importantly, how the hell do you know to call 15 minutes into my vital, life-sustaining, sanity-maintaining nap?  I'm tempted to become a Wiccan just so that I can turn to the dark side and curse not only you, but your entire bloodline.

Ok... good to get that off my chest. 

Our Patch of Wilderness

I love our backyard - it's not what you would expect to find in the middle of the city, but it suits us well.  No lawn - just wild and free.  The birds in our neighborhood also love it, though.  Mostly because of the service - Roger makes sure to keep the bird feeders topped up with seed, thistle, juice for the hummingbirds...  it's a full service bird bar.

They get stroppy when he's working overtime and he doesn't have time to keep up the catering, though - like this morning, he was sitting out on the porch, grabbing a smoke, and one of them popped up on the fence and stared him down - essentially saying "Well?  Seed?"  Still better than when they send kamikazes to strafe the sliding glass doors, though - every once in a while, we hear a thud just to remind us (and send Moose into a tizzy...)

Slip Sliding Away

Skip's the one on the left

Well, I am definitely awake this morning.  I went to let the Moose Monster out for his morning constitutional, accidentally stepped on his wet pee-pad, and came perilously close to going ass over teakettle when it slipped on me. 

The thing is - if I go down, it's going to take the five hunky firefighters featured in my previous blog post to get me back up.  My knees are arthritic enough that I can't even put pressure on them (no, it's not just an excuse to get out of kneeling down to pray or scrubbing the floor - I firmly believe God hears me from any position, and as for scrubbing floors - there's a reason why I chose to be a career girl.).  I didn't have my phone with me when it happened, but even if I did - the front door is locked.  How are Rocky, Ricky, Reggie, Reynard and Skip supposed to get in to help me?  I need to have a better plan, and I think I need to invest in one of those stupid "alert" buttons.  Or we just need to give in to Mom's urging and move on out to the Basin. 

Frankly, the Basin is looking better and better.  For one thing, I should have been there yesterday for Daisy's passing.  I hate the fact that Mom had to take her home alone...  But for another, less sentimental reason - traffic in Portland sucks.  Hell, Saturday morning heading down to Champoeg, the Banfield was down to 15 MPH if that...  I'm a city girl, but Portland has gotten too big for me.  I'll miss my friends and family here, but it would be nice to know that I'm not going to be spending the best part of every day alone.

RIP, Daisy May Adams Reynolds Adams...

Wind in her hair... 

Giving Roger a good talking to

Going after Hank for me...

 

Just got off the phone with Mom - We knew this was coming, Daisy has been losing her sight and getting confused for a while now, but when Mom took her to the vet today, the vet gave her the news that Daisy is completely blind and that the pressure from the glaucoma was hurting her.  She'd lost two pounds (which, I know, doesn't sound like much, but when you're only 6 or 7 pounds to begin with...)  I wish I could have been there - it's such a hard thing to have to do alone, but Mom has always been there to do the hard thing when her children needed it.  Daisy Mae came into our lives as a rescue - another family member had adopted her, but it didn't work out, and so we ended up with one of the most loving little girls ever - and one of the most opinionated.  

At one point, while Mom was packing up at my place to head back to Utah, Daisy decided that she really wasn't up for a car trip, and she would rather be a city girl for a bit, and hid out in the back yard until she had made her decision known to everyone - she was staying with her sister and Moose for a bit.  She did bring unpredictability into our lives as well - she took any open door as an invitation to explore, but she did always come back home (eventually) - more quickly if you opened the car door and invited her for a little ride. She really loved her little rides.  Rest in peace, my little girl - I'll write more later, when I can see through these tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Realization

I realized today that I've been putting up with way too much from my body.  Between the cancer and the diabetes and the depression and the arthritis... my reaction to Hillary Clinton being diagnosed with pneumonia is not the typical "Oh, my god, will she be able to continue on..." that seems to be clogging the airways. 

Nope.  My reaction was "Oh.  Just pneumonia?  She'll be fine - give her a Gatorade and a nap and send her after Putin."  Yes, I know... pneumonia was the thing that took out Jim Henson, but... Hillary's a woman.  We deal with mystery blood on a regular basis - it's going to take more than an over-educated cough to bring her down. 

(Yes, I know, I'm sounding flippant here - I'm secretly terrified because I fear for my country, not to mention my retirement, if Trump somehow wins, but nevertheless...  Get well soon, Hillary.  Please!)

Obligatory Medical Update (Feel Free to Skip)

Met with Dr Wang yesterday - discussed my ongoing depression and pain issues.  She suggested perhaps trying a different anti-depressant that might also help with some of the nerve pain problems (Cymbalta?), so we're going to give that a try, and I'm going to be working on getting my A1C back under control - I know, I've got to start checking my blood sugar 4 times a day and trying to figure out what's causing these weird swings and highs (my current A1C was 10.4 - way not good...)  So... that's the goal for the next three months.  That, and trying to work on the agoraphobia - I need to get out at least once a week. 

Getting Gas

(Just a side note -  the minute I started writing this, Moose immediately splayed himself in front of the keyboard like Miss March, demanding my undivided attention.  I don't know how he knows when it's time to be a pain, but he nails the mark, every single time.)

We had to go face my doctor today (somedays, it feels like I've been called over to the principal's office), and driving along the route, I noticed something really odd.  At the NW corner of 101st and Sandy, there's a Shell gas station that had unleaded for $2.65 a gallon.  At the NE corner of that same intersection, there's a Leather's (local gas company) that's $2.21 a gallon.  Ok, I know you're willing to pay a little for the name, but seriously... .44 cents a gallon?  Even odder, there's another Shell station not half a block down the road that's $2.69 a gallon - and they had people waiting in line. 

It's not just the Leather's either - there was an Arco along the way that was just across the street from a 76 station - again, we're talking $2.23 vs 2.55.  Admittedly, Arco is kind of the Pabst Blue Ribbon of gas stations (don't even get me started on Astro - that's the Hamms of gas stations), but still, if we're talking over $4 per fill-up, I might be willing to go ahead and lower my car's intestinal expectations (except that we always fill up at CostCo, where it's generally around $2.20 anyway).  But I just don't get the thinking here.  Why on earth would you pay that extra $4 a fill-up?  Oh, well...

September Ain't September Anymore

The Old Me Accepting An Award From Lt. General Flowers

Since I worked in Contracting for the Federal Government, for the past quarter century, I've been driven by the Fiscal Year calendar - my year has gone from October to September, rather than the usual New Year's Eve party to Christmas hangover that most people go by.  And September was always the harshest month. 

You see, budgets being what they are (tight), and Federal rules being what they are (strict), September is the last chance to get money spent.  Well, really the whole last quarter is kind of frantic, but September is when it really kicks into high gear.  If you're in Contracting, you live on No-Doz chased down with Red Bull (or in my case, Diet Rock Star), desperately trying to make sure you get everything out the door by midnight on September 30th.

I'm finding myself a little at a loss this September - it's the first since I've retired, and it just doesn't feel right to not be counting down (73 requisitions to go!)  For 20 years or so (before I went to the dark side of Systems Administration), I was pretty much the guru of "Simplified Acquisitions" - that's Army-speak for anything under $150K, or in September, that's "oh, thank the gods of Budgeting, we managed to save enough money to finally replace these steam-powered PCs - what do you mean, you don't have time to put together a solicitation?  There's still 2 hours left!"  Every year, we'd put out a memo telling everyone to get their requirements in to us by July 15th, and every year, we'd have people saying "Oh, we didn't think you meant us!". 

I used to have a recommended "bribe" sign outside my cubicle as a way to break the tension - "In order to get a requisition through at this date, we recommend XXX"  I'd start with "Tell us we're pretty" on September 1st, working my way through the Diet Coke and a box of Twinkies phase on September 12th or so, and ending up with "A time-machine and the blood of a male unicorn" on September 29th.  Let's face it, mid-September, a good laugh is hard to find, and you'd take what you can get.

But this year... the only thing I have to count down is days until my next Dr visit.  No stress, no begging, no hair pulling out... but no sense of accomplishment, either.  I miss being able to help people out (while cursing them under my breath).  Heck, I miss the numbers - I miss reports, I miss spreadsheets, I even (and I never thought I'd say this), I even miss the hourly calls from Division saying "Are you guys ready to close yet?"  I'm not saying I'd want to go back, even if I could (my body definitely doesn't miss it), but... I feel proud of what I accomplished, back in the day.  I guess I miss that me... the one that could take a last minute request and find a way to make it happen. 

Car Thoughts

I was reading through a thread on Facebook where a friend had asked at what age do you let your kid sit in the front seat.  I don't know that they ever reached a consensus, but it looked like somewhere around 11 or 12?

I was born in 1965, and from the time I was 3, it was just Mom and I in the car (and it seemed like we were always going somewhere in the car.)  I wasn't necessarily pre-seat belt, but I was definitely pre- car seat. My first car wreck was sometime between 2 or 3 - Mom would know the exact year, I don't remember it much - but she had ran in to do an errand somewhere, and I knocked her Nash Rambler out of neutral, and managed to roll it down the hill. Then, of course, there was the time when I was 7 or 8, and Dad decided that I needed to learn to drive.  He took me off to the fields in his Ford truck, where there wasn't anything to run into or hit or... well, except for the drainage canal.  Guess who ended up in the drainage canal.

My air bag was always Mom's arm - she was faster than lightning with the Mom arm.  But she didn't have to deploy it often - she was a great driver, and she tended to drive basic tanks that could get you through anything.  My favorite was the Ford Mustang she had - I think it might have been a little older than me, but not by much, and it was just pretty.  Straight black, sturdy and fast.  Plus, it had a great radio... and that was the most important accessory to me.  We got through some pretty rough times together just by singing our way down the highway.

At any rate...  my point, if I had one, was just that I was struck by the change in how kids ride in cars just in my lifetime.  I was always in the front seat - that's where Mom was, that's where I felt safe.  I'm sure that the back seat thing is infinitely safer...  I just am feeling nostalgia for the feeling of belonging that I always felt when it was just Mom and I, rolling down the highway together in the front seat.

OK, Back To The Politics

I was struck this morning by a thread I was a part of on Facebook...


The Republican Convention had (on the first day) a speech from Patricia Smith, whose son was killed in Benghazi.  She has been fairly adamant that Mrs Clinton was directly responsible for her son's death and has said so in multiple forums, despite her daughter-in-law's disagreement with her on basic facts.  I didn't see Mrs. Clinton attacking her character.  I have, however, seen Mr. Trump spend 4 days now attacking the Khan family for their speech at the Democratic Convention - he attacked them directly (including implying that Mrs Khan didn't speak because she wasn't allowed to, even after Mrs Khan's explanation later that she was too emotionally affected by her son's picture behind her to speak), and has unleashed his surrogates to imply everything from "they're moles for the Muslim brotherhood" to "they're shills for Hillary because they have ties through his law firm".  It's been an ugly, ugly spectacle because Mr Trump was too thin-skinned to accept criticism for his proposed Muslim ban.  I don't want that sort of personality anywhere near the White House. 

Non-political Post

I can't be the only person who blesses the invention of the DVR.  Sure, the ability to time-shift programs is lovely, and I appreciate being able to binge-watch series, but most importantly I can avoid Flo from Progressive.  Well, any obnoxious commercial, really, but especially Flo.

Which is odd - I enjoy good commercials, heck I even watch the "Funniest Commercials Of The Year" shows every time they come up (although I watch them with one hand on the remote, so that I don't have to watch the commercials.  Yes, I know that doesn't make sense.)  The one Subaru commercial with Willie Nelson back-up music, where they're going through and checking off the dog's bucket list?  That one gets me every single time.  I had a long-time crush on the World's Most Interesting Man.  But there are so many ads that are misogynistic, or misandrist, or just plain stupid - seriously, Red's Apple Ale - what is it about a concussion that's supposed to make me want your swill?

Also, as a society, can't we make a rule that you can't do commercials for any physical issue below the neck?  (Used to be waist, but I'm upping my standards.)  No commercials with cartoon plumbing, no medicare supply scams involving adult diapers, nothing that requires a 15 second list of potential side effects - and no ambulance chasing for clients who took the pills that required the side effects list.  

But the worst, the ones that have me grabbing for my remote like a lifeline?  The ASPCA and Humane Society ads - usually with Sara McLachlan as a background.  I love dogs in general and my boy in specific, but these ads aren't celebrating dogs and/or cats.  They're torture porn.  Seriously, puppies in cages, their big eyes looking up at you?  For three freaking minutes?  Just no.  It doesn't make me want to write you a check, it makes me want to call the cops on your photographer.  Same for the ones for human puppies, with the freaking flies - photographers, you're right there.  Give the kid a sandwich! 

Thoughts from watching the RNC and the DNC

For my sins, I ended up watching a lot of both conventions this year - what can I say?  I'm a glutton for punishment. Obviously, I saw lots of differences between the two, but...

The most effective speech I saw from the RNC was Ivanka Trump introducing her father.  She made him human, and she obviously loved him.  I was almost at the point of being willing to consider looking at him.  (Unfortunately, then he came on and started spewing obvious lies and fear.  The crime stats he used were misleading at best and flat wrong in some places.  He didn't offer any concrete facts or plans for what he would do to make sure that crime came to a stop January 20th, 2017 - although he used the line several times.  It just didn't work at all for me.)

I saw several great speeches from the DNC - loved Michelle Obama's speech the first night, and I fell for her obvious affection and pride for her friend, Hillary.  (Considering the fairly vicious fight for the nomination in 2008, the fact that they are now friends makes me impressed with both of their characters.)  Bill's speech on Tuesday was a total love letter, but an effective one - while telling the story of their lives together, he also managed to bring out her relentless activism for the disadvantaged and downtrodden, and brought up things I didn't know about her - and as I might have mentioned, I'm a bit of a politics nerd.  And of course, the passing of the torch by Barack Obama on Wednesday just made my heart lift...

But the bit that really showed me that the democratic party is where I belong, and that I can feel safe with my vote going to Hillary even though I voted for Bernie in the primary, was Khizr Khan's speech, with Ghazala standing with him.  They're the gold star parents of Humayan Khan, and if you didn't see the speech, or the introduction to it, it's so worth going back for.  But while the speech was incredibly effecting (it made me cry, and I think I may have seen a tear or two in Roger's eyes as well), it also pointed out the stark difference between the two conventions.  The reason that the Khans (who were not necessarily Democrats, by the way) were at the convention is because Hillary Clinton had found out about them during one of her listening tours during the primary race, and recognized their sacrifice and their unwavering loyalty to this country, even after they lost their son.  This is the sort of thing that we should be celebrating as a country, in my opinion, and I'm so glad both that she was listening and that they were given a national outlet. 

Recovering from the Weekend

It was a great weekend, but...  I was reminded fairly vividly that I'm not able-bodied.  While the guys were loading up the car with leftovers, I decided that it would be a good idea to go try to get the scooter back out to the road - and I ran out of battery power.  About 10 yards from the road.  Just stuck.  Plus, I had been sitting in the scooter long enough that my knees had locked up, so once Roger did manage to find me, I had a scary couple of minutes where I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get up into the car.  And of course, even though I sat under the trees for most of the time, and I was pretty much fully covered, I still managed to sunburn my face and arms...  Those Twilight twits don't know from sun aversion. 

Anyway...  I'm trying to decide whether I'm becoming agoraphobic, or just realistic.  The world outside truly does seem to be out for me. 

I'm Feeling More Hopeful

I got to spend Saturday at a lovely Portland park (Peninsula Park) watching these two get married, catching up with old friends I haven't seen in way too long, meeting new friends, and enjoying my version of America - people in tuxes, people in running shorts, a utilikilt, a couple of people in BDUs, a guy in a really incredible purple suit with an orange vest, rocking wing tips, all coming together to celebrate life and love. 

There was a pot-luck lunch, little kids running around blowing bubbles, conversations about dogs and dresses and (oddly enough for my crowd) almost no politics... it was a lovely day.  And then, in the gazebo where Daniel and Davey just pledged their vows, there was a lovely young woman, celebrating her quinceanera in a beautiful purple dress that extended into the next zip code, accompanied by a troupe of mariachi... It just doesn't get any more American than that. 

Post-Midnight Meanderings

This... this is his "What are you doing up?  I put you to bed!" look

Scene:  1:45 am body call...

*Clickclickclickclick*
Oh, rats - did I remember to latch the door...
*nudge*  *creak*
No.  No I didn't.
*clickclickclick*
Judgmental stare from the Moose.
"Look, I get to go to the bathroom.  What's more, I'm entitled to be alone when I do so."
Stare.
"Ok, ok... I'm coming..."
*clickclickclick* stand in the bathroom doorway staring until he's sure I'm actually standing up*
*flush*
*clickclickclick* down the hallway, turning his head every fourth step, just to make sure I'm coming.
Sliding into bed carefully, even though I know Roger can sleep through anything, including having a cat land on him from the window ledge.
"Well?  Are you coming?"
Slightly plastic *clickclickclick* up the ramp, followed by a doxie walking up the entire length of my body, waiting for me to lift up the blanket slightly so that he can slip under it, and then stretching out along my back, followed shortly by dueling snores from my two guys.