Random Friday #15

Wonderblog
The other day, I found out that Mr. Whipple, of Charmin fame, died. Well, he died in November, and I found out here. The name of the blog is Wonderful Wonderblog, and when I looked at some of the entries – a lot of them have to do with people who have died recently. He has four February entries, two of which are about people who have died (Steve Gerber and Shell Kepler). Okay, I don't have a clue who these two people are, but I find it strange that someone with wonderful in his blog name has three RIPs that I noticed.

On Children
Every two or three months, I go to the Caring Bridge site and look at people's personal sites. My last link to them was Ethan Hoffman, and I have not been on the sits in a while. Ethan died in October 2007. I did not know the parents, but I followed some of their struggles. They have a slideshow on another site. Don't visit if you don't want to sob. One of the sites I used to visit was for someone who lost her dad. She wrote encouraging things to the parent's families, so I tripped over her URL a lot. Well, she has a lot of haters, because I think, most believe she turned her site into a personal blog. These sites are supposed to be about families going through life-threatening illnesses (mostly cancers). And most of the sites are for children.

I find it interesting that there are haters on a site dedicated to offering comfort. One of the first children I saw on Caring Bridge was Olivia, and I wrote about it a long time ago.

James Blunt
James Blunt has a song called "Your Beautiful", and every time I hear it, I bawl. A couple of years ago, several Caring Bridge sites (including Olivia's) had some video to the song or the song playing in the background.

The other day, someone was bashing James Blunt, and I piped up, saying, "Oh, I like him."

The guy's retort: "All that proves is that you have a uterus."

I felt insulted. I tried to think of a comeback, but I couldn't.

Mad Dog Mengden
Someone sent me a YouTube video, and it is pretty funny. Molly Ivins is a journalist (or humorist), and although the video is professionally edited, it is hard to believe this subject.

I am not from Texas, but I learned two things about Texas law:

1. Owning six dildos is makes one a felon, but owning five dildos makes one a hobbyist.
2. The State of Texas made sodomy a crime. Originally the senators just wanted to make homosexual sodomy a crime, but because it would probably be considered unconstitutional because it was discriminatory, so they made all sodomy illegal.

Oh, and after I watched the video, it suggested this video that is more audio than video (a gag phone call). Funny as heck.



Time Off Together
Grant and ~Deb have been taking time away from blogging at the same time. It is sort of like watching two co-workers leave for lunch at about the same time. First thought is that they are sleeping together. By "first thought" I meant my first thought, not yours.

TV with the Sound Down
The other day I was watching television, and my hubbie called (he was still at work). I turned the television to mute and then answered it. I was watching NCIS, and when talking on the phone to my hubbie, I realized that you could watch NCIS and still get the full impact. Mark Harmon is a hottie. I am not sure what the show is about, but Mark Harmon is a hottie. I have heard from reliable sources (reading the headlines from rags while waiting in line at the grocery store) that Mark Harmon is sort of a difficult guy in real life. Well, guess I should consider the source, because he is a hottie. Did I mention that?

Medical Questions
I posted a long time ago about something related to colon cleansing, and I thought about it the other day. I googled it at work, and I got a lot of hits. I mean, a lot of hits. And it seems like everybody is cleaning out their colons. Makes me wonder if I am alone in not cleaning myself out. Guess I need to work on this.

Word Verification
For Asian Porn, click here.

Okay, now that Grant is gone, I have an idea. I heard Grant say recently that he doesn't get spam and his word verification is turned off. Please, everyone, including lurkers, go to Grant's blog and place some spam. Say something very spammy. Oh, and if you can't think of something spammy, go here.

I wanted to do somethign for this very special day, "Leap Year Day," but I could not think of anything fun to do.

The Holy Land

I saw the following commercial on YouTube a while back (March 19, 2007, to be exact).



For those of you who don't click on videos (or those who have videos blocked at work), the video is an ad for Israel and they are using sex to sell the idea of going to Israel. Now, I am not posting this just so that the guys and girls can see sexy women in video format. No, that's not the point.

Hey, there is a replay button on the player. Neat.

Wait a minute, what was I attempting to write? Oh, yeah, someone made a commercial using sex to sell the Holy Land. Can you imagine the pitch? I mean, I don't know what the Israel Chamber of Commerce looks like, but I imagine a bunch of Hassidic Jews, Muslim Shaman and friendly Catholic Nuns sitting around a conference table, listening to advertising firms pitching ideas.

Ad Man: "We all know that Israel is the cradle of religion."

Hassidic Jew: "Actually, Egypt is known as the cradle of religion."

Ad Man: "Yeah, I knew that. I mean Israel has a crapload of religious stuff."

Catholic Nun: "I am not sure we would categorize this as crapload."

Ad Man: "The point is that when people think of Israel, they either think of people praying or people blowing other people up."

Muslim Shaman: "And you want us to market that vacationers can get blown up when they visit?"

Ad Man: "No, actually, people know about religion. And they know about the danger involved."

Pause while everyone looks at the ad man.

Ad Man: "I just think having a commercial with a little tits and ass would attract people to the Holy Land. Gets their minds off of the danger, and supplement the religion."

At least that's what I imagine when I view the commercial. That and thinking I did not know you could show your boobs off in the beaches in Israel. Makes one want to go. Damn ad man.

Disjointed Views of Marriage

A long time ago, Prata made the following comment:

Marriage...the lemming race. *chuckles*

Seriously though, I've never viewed marriage as a necessity. Not that I wouldn't get married if I found someone that I wanted to be with that felt it was a necessary part of their ideal relationship outcome; however, I think I'd have to question why it was a necessity to them in the first place.

I believe you're mostly correct there Leesa. People get married to share things that are possibly very personal (good or bad) with someone that can identify and has a stake in these things. But, does marriage make you any more likely to have a stake in what happens to the significant other than say, a serious boyfriend/girlfriend? If someone commits to you, is marriage necessary to say that they have a stake in something?

I know you're not trying to make that point, I'm just asking your view I suppose. Does marriage outweigh a committed individual's actual stake in or commitment to a relationship?

Prata made the comments in March of 2006 and I wanted to answer them. I saved his comment, probably because it touched on something I wanted to write about at the time. I remember I was thinking a lot about my marriage.

In the same area I saved this message, I saved a fragment of a note I wrote a fellow blogger. Some of you may remember Muse. She started and blew up three or four blogs in a few years. Her penname, Muse, is quite common in the blogging world, and I don't think it has anything to do with the English rock band. It probably has more to do with the nine muses in Greek mythology¹:

• Calliope (the 'beautiful of speech'): chief of the muses and muse of epic or heroic poetry
  Clio (the 'glorious one'): muse of history
  
• Erato (the 'amorous one'): muse of love or erotic poetry, lyrics, and marriage songs
  
• Euterpe (the 'well-pleasing'): muse of music] and lyric poetry
  
• Melpomene (the 'chanting one'): muse of tragedy
  
• Polyhymnia or Polymnia (the '[singer] of many hymns'): muse of sacred song, oratory, lyric, singing and rhetoric
  
• Terpsichore (the '[one who] delights in dance'): muse of choral song and dance
  
• Thalia (the 'blossoming one'): muse of comedy and bucolic poetry
  
• Urania (the 'celestial one'): muse of astronomy

Anyway, here is part of the letter I wrote Musey:

When you wrote, "Nothing is worse then a woman who stops talking, because it means she's given up. Feigned complacency is all I have left. My fight is gone, I've let it go. My peace is restored without the aid of you. My life, my rules. Volunteer, not victim. My life is what I make it......Muse" I was truly touched.

And then when Melanie wrote the next few paragraphs, that is what I felt when reading what you wrote, though I would not have expressed it so eloquently.

I am fighting the same fight you are; trying to save my marriage. I am Catholic, and for better or worse, I really want things to work out with me and hubbie. And I have expressed on more than one occasion how I want things to work out between you and yours. Sometimes I feel like hubbie is not trying – but because of hormones or circumstances or whatever, things tend to change. So most of the time, hubbie is working with me on our marriage.

Muse, I don't know if this is the case for you and your love. Maybe he is more blasé with the whole thing. That's what it seems like to me. I have known women who settle – because of kids or things or reputation or whatever. If that were the case with me, I would not settle, and I actually don't believe my Church would want me to settle as well. If each partner is not "mutually supportive," then a Catholic marriage does not exist. I know, this part doesn't matter for you – just thinking out loud.

Recently I have had really depressing thoughts. But hubbie always picks me up, sometimes a little late, but always picks me up. I am not sure you have that. And when I want more than hubbie can give, he tries to give. He tries.

Musey, only you know what is best for you. It seems, however, that you are spent. Not sure you would make a good decision right now. You need rejuvenation to make sure your outlook is clear, so you can see what choices there are, let alone choosing the right one for you and your children. For me, it involved therapy and medication. For you, it might involve something else. While similar in ways, we are all different.

I have no answers – just want to give you some support, Musey!

Again, this was written in early 2006. Hubbie and I struggled through 2006, and things eventually got better. I lost touch with my friend Muse. Writing was cathartic for Muse, and I hope that she has peace in her life; that's why she drifted out of my life. I really hope that is the case.

I sometimes imagine her playing with her dog. Can't remember exactly what it looks like, but it doesn't matter. To run with a dog, throwing objects and letting the dog retrieve them. Dogs live to please people; that's part of their joy.

Whether you wear loose fitting clothing and dance with Apollo or run barefoot in the sand with a pet, sometimes getting away from the daily grind is what is called for. I don't know where this post is going.

Sometimes marriage is a lot like a post with no real point. You are just doing things that come natural, spending time with one another, trying to figure out why the heck you are living with the guy who snores and clips his toenails in bed. And part of you loves the fact that when you wake up in the morning and automatically make two eggs, you have someone to share breakfast with. When I was first married, I thought marriage was easy. I am not that naïve anymore. It just sometimes pisses me off when people look like marriage is easy.

Oh, and Prata chucked because I made a connection with people getting married and lemmings following each other off a cliff. Maybe this whole post could have been summed up in that piece of imagery.

---

¹Taken from Wikipedia. It may not be right, but it is fairly immaterial to the posting.

Thoughtful Giving

Almost one year to the day, I wrote a post about princess sheets – about a compassionate story of how a nurse helped a dying child. This blog entry is about something similar.

I purposefully embedded an ad from St. Jude's. The tag line is "Madelyn is fighting cancer. Please help St. Jude save her life." I find this ad to be extremely manipulative. It is akin to someone saying, write me a check or the child dies. Now I have no problem with a non-profit organization asking for money. In Savannah, we have a children's hospital imbedded in Memorial Medical Center. Sick kids go there. And if they are really sick, they go to Atlanta. Atlanta's tag line, "Children need Children's."

I have heard many actors speak about the good work St. Jude is doing. My guess is that they give them cue cards, tell them what to say. Some of the actors may have even visited St. Jude's. I mean, one could visit St. Jude's and Graceland in the same day. Okay a little bit calloused.

Going back to St. Jude's. I really don't know much about the hospital itself. I have never been a patient there, nor have I known any patients who received care there. They are a research hospital, focusing their efforts on pediatric cancer research. Danny Thomas, I believe, started St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital, and his daughter Marlo Thomas continues to be its main spokesperson (and major contributor). I remember her for her "Free to Be . . . You and Me", a television special that I would listen to (on a record) when I was growing up. I don't remember the program, but I do remember listening to records instead of television.

I don't have a problem with St. Jude's as a hospital. My problem with them is with their ads. Some of the television ads (and movie theater ads) basically imply that if you don't give money to St. Jude's, some little girl (or boy) will die. And that is really not the case.

Timing
The ad shows a child with cancer, and with cancer, time is of the essence. If I give money to St. Jude's, the money does not get deposited to the research organization immediately and then a cure is found. Can you imagine a physician saying, "Well, I am 98% towards the cure to this cancer, but I am just going to kick back until I get that last $50 from Leesa." The implication is that the current child will die without support, and the child is already undergoing treatment – experimental treatment – at St. Jude's.

Government Grants
Like it or not, the Federal Government spends a lot of money on healthcare research. Part of me thinks we should personally supplement this, because of the idea that we would be getting at the root of the problem. Thousands are slashing at the leaves, when one attacks the root. But part of me thinks to myself, let the government handle this, and hope the healthcare research is not on enlarging the urethra on men who want to pee faster.

Compassion
St. Jude's is a cancer hospital, and for my money, I believe that more needs to be spent for compassion. I give money to our local children's hospital, and I know the money goes to local children. I am with Mother Theresa on giving locally. Or if I wanted to give to Atlanta, for instance, where they have children who receive bone marrow transplants, I know Atlanta's Children Hospital (technically called Children's Healthcare of Atlanta) sees Savannah's children as well. Yeah, I know that giving money to the children's hospital probably does not go into research, but it supports children who are on research protocols.

When I hear drives for local charities, the approach is more normally "Look at all of the good work we have done. Give us money to help us continue these efforts."

When I was growing up, I went around the block to gather money for the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon. Someone from the neighborhood would go down to the local TV station to deliver the money; we never went ourselves. I would watch the telethon for hours, as Jerry Lewis would beg the audience for one more dollar. Now, I gave money to the Muscular Dystrophy Association for a bunch of years, and I don't think the Federal Government was really putting much money into research at the time.

I am not saying that giving to MDA is good or bad. Part of me wants to give to a bunch of organizations. But you know what would be better, and something I have adopted? Concentrated giving makes more economic sense. If you give to one or two organizations, it makes the giving more efficient. If you give to 20 organizations, all twenty spend money on trying to get you to give more. If you give to two, the other eighteen can concentrate their efforts on others, and you will be able to concentrate giving to the two organizations.

Oh, and I give anonymously. I would like to say that I do so because of Bible scripture ("But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.", Mat 6:3). It isn't. Most organizations put out an annual report, and if you give more than a certain amount, your name is put in the report (unless you tell them that you want your donation to be anonymous). Some development people scan annual reports to get leads. If one gives to one organization, you know the person is a giver. So you ask. And, since I am concentrating efforts, I don't want to know. I might change my mind.

And you may have guessed, I am not giving to St. Jude's. Madelyn is a cutie pie and all, but I do give locally.

Walnuts and Split Rail

I saw this photo the other day, and it truly took my breath away. I know the image is small – click on the image to see it larger and on the Flickr site. I was toying with the idea of placing another image on this blog entry, but the cobblestone farmhouse has a more modern addition in the background which both ruins and makes the picture for me. Let me explain.

I love the look of stone. The farmhouse is magnificent, and the stonework is beautiful. There is an addition to the back that probably makes living in the house much more comfortable, but it detracts from the aesthetic beauty. The rambling creek in the front also adds to the beauty of the picture – a picture I really enjoy. But I wonder about the people who made the addition. Were they thinking of radiant heat, spacious interiors and a Jacuzzi in the master bath suite?

Back to the image I chose to borrow for this post. First, the only reason I know the trees are walnuts is because of the title of the photo. I would have guessed pecans. And I am saying pecan as a southern lady would say the word (pə kɑn instead of pi kæn). Walnuts always seemed like a more northern nut to me, though I would hazard to guess that we can grow walnuts in Georgia. Perhaps many of us just don't choose to grow walnuts.

Walnuts, Pecan trees and Oak trees have wonderful bark, and this picture beautifully shows the trees. I could get lost in the bark, wondering what insects call this their home. I like insects, though viewing them at a safe distance. Insects seem to have weird facts associated with them – that a cockroach can live for ten days after being decapitated, or that the Monarch butterfly can travel up to 17 miles per hour. I sometimes wonder if a man was sucked into a tornado and they clocked him at 80 miles per hour, does that mean that he is faster than a cheetah?

Oh, back to the photo.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live on a farm. Would I still be as fascinated with trees and stone buildings? I mean, if I lived on a farm, would I be writing of fascination with Kinko's and Starbucks? Split rail fences seem very romantic, but I wonder how practical they are – I mean, I would think that the wood would begin to rot fairly quickly, rain pooling along the rail during the rainy season.

Barns have a similar romantic notion. I mean, ever since I saw "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", I wanted someone to construct a barn in my backyard. Well, not just anybody, but a bunch of handsome men that could dance and fight over me.

Interesting that when one sees a picture, many thoughts can enter one's mind. Perhaps that's why it is called art.

Blogthings

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convincing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

Random Friday #14

Strange Thought of the Dead
I always thought, well, when I was a little girl, at least, that when you die, you can sort of float around on the earth and observe others. Not an original thought, but a thought I have. Well, it just occurred to me that I have not masturbated since my grandparents have died. These events are not causally related. So, if you can view the living after you have died, my grandparents have never seen me masturbate. Of course, now, they have read about it on my frickin' blog. Crap.

Writer's Strike
The Writer's Strike ended on February 13, and I did not find out until the eighteenth. My guess is that this will not affect me too much. Plus I need to listen to the news more often. There are some news stories I just don't want to miss - like when Fidel Castro is going to step down. I have been paying attention since the 80s, and it would be a darned shame if I missed that story. I mean, I remember when he got sick . . . .

A History of Evil
I saw a YouTube video called "A History of Evil", partly because I thought there may have been a cameo by Grant. Not that Grant is really evil. I like the narrator's voice. The credits say the narrator is Brenna Callinan. Not that Brenna Callinan is evil. Not sure what the point of this is.

The Real News
There is a "news" program on YouTube: The Real News. Pretty soon we will all be writing news for others to read. Blogs, I guess, are sort of like this. "Oh, look, Janie got a new nose ring." And she posted a video, showing the experience. Neat. Sure glad Aunt Gladys can view this.

Cursing
Some people think that when people refrain from cursing, it shows weakness. I think those people are just sad. I know what you were thinking – that I would say that it fucking pisses me off. Sorry to disappoint.

Peeing
My hubbie has started a new habit with peeing. He starts to flush the toilet before he finishes peeing. At first, I thought, "What the hey, he pees standing up. Why does he need to save another five seconds with the flushing thing?" Well, sometimes he mis-judges, and has to flush the toilet twice. For pee. I just tell him he is killing fish. It doesn't seem to shame him into giving up this new habit.

Drawing
I have a niece and nephew and both can draw better than me. I can drive a car and they can't, so it is not like they have eclipsed me yet, but it is only a matter of time.

What is Real
There is so much we don't know. For instance, some people say vaccines are harmless. Some people disagree. Some people think cigarette smoking is harmless (okay, that cigarette smoke does not cause cancer), some do not. We get all kinds of information and I can't figure any of it out. I think it is better to just give up. Instead of looking for what is real, I guess we are starting to look for what is reasonable.

A Mortgage By Any Other Name
I hear all these stories about banks tightening up lending, and I don't believe it. I got an offer to refinance my home up to a certain amount. I think the bank bought my information from my mortgage company (yeah, I really think they sell this information), but instead of saying I could borrow up to a certain amount (the junk mail almost always uses the original loan amount), they have a typo, inserting a "1" before the amount. Er, that extra digit represents a million dollars. Darned fineprint probably says something about not borrowing more than the house is worth. I am tempted to contact the company. My husband just wants to frame the junk mail. How pathetic are we?

Strange Places

Okay guys, I was cleaning out my "blog drafts" - I sometimes save half-of-a-thought in drafts and finish it later. Okay, over the past 18 months, I had about 20 partially written posts. The following entry is half-written, and I composed it in June 2007.x

I think I wanted to capture the feeling of waking up in a strange place, then hazily recount the events that led to being in a strange bed. It probably would have been light erotica, but I really don't recall the direction in which I was going.

I was not happy enough with the beginning to finish it, but the words were not complete crap either. This blog has been a strange place for the last six months for me; I apologize for that. I half-understand why people blow up their blogs, perhaps wanting to start from scratch or destroy the evidence.

Me, I am not going to do that. Blow things up. Seems too violent, and some people still access my older posts in Google and other search engines. Some of the advice is good (what not to say to someone who has lost a friend), and some of it is not so useful (which superhero I want to have sex with). Okay, I just read the what to say when someone died blog just now, and I think people are going to think that Google sucks now, because when they type in "what to say when someone dies", they get sort of a smart-ass response. Personally, I hope that karma is a lot of crap, or I am in big trouble.

For a bit of a more humorous story, check out yesterday's post. It is a childhood memory, somewhat humorous. Oh, and I can't help but notice that this introduction is longer than the blog entry.

When she awoke, the surroundings seemed strange. She was not in her dorm room; she was not at her parent's home; she was in someone else's dorm room.

At first, this shocked her. Not that she had forgotten exactly what had led to this moment, but that she half-expected to be in her own room.

Her clothes were strewn on the floor of the dorm room, and she was laying in bed alone, completely naked. Or was that completely nude? Naked seemed more appropriate, as this seemed to describe a bit of harshness in her waking up in strange surroundings.

Her first-time lover was across the room, in his bed no doubt.

The next sense was the smell of unclean sheets. Yes, the bed she occupied had sheets that were in desperate need of attention. Great, the dirty sheets were touching her all over, and now she definitely would call herself naked, not nude.

As she focused her eyes on the paint spackled ceiling, the events of the evening came into focus as well. She was dancing with a group of friends, and she remembers being asked to dance by a couple of guys. Not really her type, but they were buying her drinks. That sort of made them half-way acceptable. But "half-way acceptable" was a far cry from what one of them had become, her lover.

Coconuts and Pineapples

When I was growing up, there were relatively few fruits and vegetables in the supermarket. The lettuce was iceberg, the oranges were one or two varieties, and there were only a few kinds of apples as well. No jokes about me being there at the Garden of Eden. By the way, I promised myself I would never say, "in my day," and the longer I walk this Earth, the more I found myself drawn to that phrase.

Every once in a while, my father would bring home a fruit or vegetable foreign to me. The two I most remember are the coconut and pineapple.

Coconuts
My dad just tossed me a coconut, and said, "Can you open this for the family?"

Meekly, I asked, "How?"

"Not a clue," was my only hint.

I banged the coconut on the sink, and nothing happened. I banged it again, hoping for a different outcome, and nothing happened. Then I placed the coconut on the kitchen floor and banged it on the floor. Same outcome. I took a can of pees from the kitchen cupboard, not sure if I thought it would be the best hammer for the fruit, and I beat the coconut. Still nothing.

I ended up taking a screwdriver from the garage, and pounding the screwdriver into the coconut with a hammer. Oh, for those of you who may not know, this may not be the best way to open the coconut.

I was able to rescue most of the milk into a glass, and I mopped up the rest of the milk from the floor. Yes, I could tell that there was liquid inside, but between the can of peas and going back and forth for pounding tools, I forgot about the liquid inside.

I eventually opened the darned fruit, served the pieces that touched screwdriver to my brother (he did not care, though I don't think he was properly informed about the preparation techniques used), served some to me, and let my Mom serve the rest to the family.

My dad bought another one a few months later, and asked me to open it. I suggested that my brother open this one, and Dad concurred.

Brother asked Dad how to open the fruit, and he said, "Ask your sister."

My response, when asked: "Not a clue." And I handed him a can of baked beans.

Pineapples
Pineapples were another fruit that was a treat. I never used a screwdriver or can of peas to open this fruit. Instead, this then thirteen-year-old used a very large and sharp knife.

I remember placing my small hands around the handle, ensuring that no fingers were anywhere near the blade. Then I thought, interestingly enough, why the heck are my parents letting me use such a dangerous kitchen utensil at a tender age. I was pretty sure there was no life insurance involved, and if there was, my dad would have suggested using the knife on the coconut.

I cut the top of the pineapple off first, later planting it – the plant lasted several years and never made a tree. It looked like a big airplane plant with better leaves.

Then after 237 cuts to the rest of the pineapple and half-of-a-roll of paper towels, I extracted the fruit and the core. I told my brother the core of a pineapple was a hallucinogen, and he ate it that night. He ate so much of it that his throat started itching – a side effect of the hallucinogen, I suggested. For years, he thought he had a pineapple trip. Until he learned he just had a mean sister.

I wonder if people would eat more fruit if they had better experiences with them – instead of their mothers and fathers saying, "Eat your darned fruit and veggies." I just wish I had a good star fruit story.

The Grass Is Greener

Last week, I was exiting my local quickie stop as a woman was entering it. I noticed her not because I generally leer at women (~deb is an exception), but because she was wearing a shirt and no bra. White shirt, dark aureoles, no bra. Now, this woman was not big-chested. She reminded me of a friend who was a runner. I have a theory about runners. Women who like to run are generally flat-chested.

How the heck can you not know that people can see your nipples?

When I was younger, I wanted to be flatter. I developed young, so I guess I thought the "grass was always greener...." I always thought I could do more with less up there. I thought I could run faster, that I could be taken more seriously, that more men would stare at my eyes. I also thought I could increase my wardrobe options. Of course, dating a woman who wears the same dress size would increase my wardrobe as well. Well, just saying.

Then, the other day, The Peanut Queen tells us about a new bra that enables a woman to store wine in her own bra. Now, if you had small ta-tas, you could theoretically store more wine in your bra. Of course, at $29.95, the bras are probably less than supportive. Carrying an addition two pounds of boobage, though, might really look strange. I can imagine sloshing while walking. For me, if I am going to wear a wine bra, I am going to have enough wine to do some damage.

I have found popcorn in my bra before. If I was more flat chested, I don't think this would have ever been the case. Hey, I was in college, drunk, and watching art films with a bunch of friends. There are many reasons for having said popcorn in my bra. Don't judge me, man.

So basically, I have wanted to be flat-chested because:

1. I could run faster;
2. Men would look at my eyes;
3. I want to wear some wine bra that turns me from a woman into an alcoholic camel; and
4. I want to keep popcorn away from my boobs.

Maybe the grass looks greener, but it's only because of the horse poop used to fertilize it.

President's Day

Today is President's Day. When I was growing up, we seemed to look up to our president. Even when he was tripping down the tarmac. Yeah, Gerald Ford. I don't know much about him, but I know there was no blue dress in his presidency. He did pardon Tricky Dick, and he was the only president never elected¹ (four points on the history quiz for that one).

But if someone was invited to a Gerald Ford dinner, they would feel honored. With GW and Clinton, there are people who would spit on their face, and I don't think it is just because people are angrier and bolder than in the seventies and eighties. I remember, years later and before his death, when someone talked about Ronald Reagan. They said that he would never take his coat off in the Oval Office, out of respect to the office. In this “results always” world we now live in, lots of us could care less if the President wore flip flops and a tank top in the Oval Office, but part of me likes the fact that Ronald Reagan felt reverence for the office. Now, at the time, Reagan was not my favorite person – he ousted a Georgian from the White House, you know – but in time and when I grew older (I was but a teenager when he was in office), I grew to like him for what I learned about him. My parents were not real Reagan fans, and you know, many young people just parrot what their parents think.

When I was in elementary school, most of the boys and some of the girls wanted to be President. Not sure that is the case now-a-days. Personally, I would rather be Queen of North America – well, I would start out as Queen of the United States, and then in my bold first few years, invade Canada and Mexico. Well, it was my fantasy, not based in reality at all. Plus I figure most of these presidents are bought and paid for by big business, so I could not do much worse.

I guess that brings me back to my lament. I used to look up to presidents – Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Kennedy, and many others. Perhaps, though, it is what you learn and when you learn it. In forth grade, we did not know that Jefferson owned slaves. But in high school, we not only knew that Jefferson owned slaves, but he probably fathered a child by one. And I would not really want to look up to a man who abandoned a child of his just because it is not presidential.

I don’t know who will win the next presidential race, but the primaries are interesting. I have seen Hillary go from grand sorceress, expert in all things political, to someone who made many mistakes since South Carolina. She has gone from “woman with experience” to outsider and change-agent. Funny thing is that the Hillary supporters point to her experience in the White House. I guess Monica Lewinsky also has experience in the White House, but I am not sure Monica would make a good President. I guess I don’t like Hillary either, something that doesn’t seem particularly important, but you know, I think this lack of likability may keep her from the White House. Obama is extremely likable – so is Huckabee. I feel compelled to vote for Obama but I really don’t know too much of what he stands for. He is attractive, well-spoken and probably would keep his jacket on while in the Oval Office. With Hillary Clinton, I can just picture Huma Abedin’s bra hanging from a knob in the Lincoln bedroom. Perhaps we get the politicians we deserve because of the reasons we have for choosing them. Me, I want to just climb back in bed this morning. The next Super Tuesday (and the only one before this year) is tomorrow, huh? Looks like Hillary will be in the lead after Tuesday. If she did not have such a high bitch factor, I am sure many would not mind seeing her win with Huma Abedin by her side.

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¹Spiro Agnew ran as Richard Nixon's Vice President, and resigned for tax evasion. The IRS got Capone and Spiro Agnew. And Willie Nelson. They scare the crap out of me.

The Return of "Random Friday"

Haters
I have heard two people write or say, "I hate people who are not open-minded." I wonder if that is a close-minded notion, and thus the hater hates themselves and need some time with a shrink.

Strippers
When I was in college, I met someone who was a prostitute. I was drunk, the rest of my friends were drunk, and we found her on the street. No, we did not employ her. She sort of wanted to scoot us away because she was "on the clock". That was random – I wanted to tell you that I have started watching a blog by someone named Justine Sane. She is not a whore. She is a stripper – and my story would have been better if I met a stripper when in college. But I didn't. I find the real lives of strippers fascinating. Sad, but fascinating. Anyway, Justine was saying that strippers without weird piercings make more money because older men (men with money) don't like them. The words Justine used seemed like she is mentoring her young friend.

Can you imagine someone being a "Stripper Life Coach"?

Super Tuesday
I have heard a lot about Super Tuesday. Some say it was last Tuesday, some the Tuesday before, and some say it is next Tuesday. I am so confused. It was so much easier when voters in the Northeast told us who to vote for.

Arguments
Earlier in the week, I made a comment about a blog review. The review was short and crappy, and I just said that. There were three sites reviewed and each got a sentence. One site may have gotten two sentences. My comment was that people drop by and land on the last thing posted. Had I arrived on this site, I would not visit again because of the review that was barely a review. And then they attacked me personally, not my observation. I have known some pretty dumb people in my day, and you know, even not-so-smart people are right every once in a while. Imagine someone telling you, "Hey, your shirt is on fire." Instead of heeding the warning, you attack the person. "Hey, you are not a firefighter, you don't have the necessary skills to discern the difference between someone enveloped in flames, and someone with falling leaves on their body."

They attacked me, and then I said something else. Then some more attacks, and I decided I was bored with this already. I put these folks in the same boat as perpetual haters. Hanging around with them will cost you some karma, as well as contribute to non-fun drinking. I don't need it.

Smart Sex
When I was in college, everyone considered Harvard students the smartest. So when someone suggested I look at the blog "Sex and the Ivy", I figure I could learn a thing or two. What I learned was that even Harvard co-eds have sex, and some even write about it. Lena Chen, the author of the blog, self-describes her as "a blogger and freelance writer". I wonder what Drew Gilpin Faust, Harvard president, thinks of this. The link is to her public Harvard email address.

Wana-Be Reviewer
I half-want to join with a bunch of people and review blogs. Give positive as well as negative feedback. Then I settle back into reality and remember that I am actually pretty darned busy.

Bitchin' about V-Day
I tell my hubbie he doesn't need to buy me flowers (he did) on Valentine's Day. But I never mean it. Lucky for me, he knows I am a bit of a liar concerning flowers.

Have a wonderful weekend!

21st Century Love

I have seen a lot of blog entries about love lately, and one of the most beautiful passages about love I have ever heard is in the Bible. It also happens to be one of the most popular passages (1 Corinthians 13: Lines 4 through 7):

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

But it occurs to me that each generation has its backdrop to love. In the fifties, you had puddle skirts and letterman's jackets, in the sixties, there was mind-altering experiences, in the seventies, there was disco. You get the idea.

But this day in age, well, I am not sure I would be god date material. I don't know how to text at all, and I am not sure how sexy I would look typing my phone number into someone else's cell phone. I just don't have the finger skills.

Then there is the whole iPod thing. Not that I don't know how to use an iPod – I do. But my taste in music was never edgy. And let's face it, hot girls like edgy music. Plus I would not like someone looking at my selection of iPod stories. That is way too personal. I don't know. Something tells me that I wouldn't get into this 21^st Century Love.

When I was growing up, Valentine's Day was stressful. I mean, we had to give everyone in the class a Valentine's Card, and I never wanted guys to get the wrong idea. Now, I understand that sense it was required, only a moron would get the wrong impression of a card where Pepe Le Pew is grasping a cat, trying to plant a kiss. Or of the Necco candy hearts, with sayings like "Be Mine", "Hug Ya" and "Look Good." But when you are twelve, the world, though quite simple and innocent, seems a lot more complicated.

One Valentine's Day I remember vividly was when one of my friends did not get a card from every person. Someone skipped him. He had a cleft pallet, and some mean girl omitted him from her list. How cruel can we be?

Valentine's Day as I got older in school was even more stressful – when no one did not have to give you anything, and the darned student council upped the ante with carnations. Yeah, I know quite a few girls who counted the number of flowers she received. I always got a couple – which relieved me more than excited me. Sex and politics even in middle school. Well, not real sex, but you get the idea.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Refreshed

I was watching Kicesies Vlog the other day – okay, it was months ago – but she had this expression that I wore in the past several months. She talks about blue skies and green grass. And a reprieve.

That's sort of what I have been doing with this blog. Over the past few months, I have looked at relatively few blogs (have been too busy or perhaps not in the mood), but I have continued to write. Not for myself or for you, dear readers, but just writing because I did not want to finish my blog. I did not want to close the door.

I have not really been a good blogger, and for that, I am sorry. I have not kept up with my blog roll – two more have bitten the dust, so to speak. Cinderella – well, I knew about that one for a while – and someone else. I also want to tweak my blog, to make it easier for me to keep in contact with some bloggers. Not that I always comment, but my life is richer when I read.

I will also try to label my blog entries. Not that it matters to you, but it helps me to tend to my blog. Like I take the time to categorize the blog entry instead of just typing it out for twenty minutes.

Not much of a blog entry today. I just wanted to say that I feel refreshed, reenergized. Like when one stretches out (the reason for the picture). And I feel good today.

Erotica

I saw the ~Deb got reviewed the other day. I am not going to tell you the site, because I don't want to drive traffic their way. I don't think their reviews are helpful. They are sort of mean-spirited and juvenile.

Anyway, I was reviewed by them a long time ago. Twice actually. And reviewed by another site. Oh, the point is not that my site has been reviewed in the past. Focus, Leesa, focus. Where was I? The other site actually mentioned that the erotica on my site was disturbing. Erotica sometimes is supposed to be disturbing, I guess.

And it gives me a moment to pause. Is erotic all that bad? Madonna thinks it is okay, and I sort of use Madonna as my guidepost. Okay, that is a bit of a joke.



I don't write erotica all that often. It seems to be an outlet of sorts. I have been a very good girl for several years. Yeah for me. But I still have impure thoughts, impure urges. And my erotica is like gum to an ex-smoker. A crutch – perhaps, but it helps me not stray.

Now I am not someone else's guidepost. I hope I am not. I just want to write a little bit, and every once in a while, a post or two might help someone. That's probably why I still write even when I don't feel like it.

Some things are sinful, but I don't believe erotica has to be sinful. I mean, read the following:

I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.

The words may or may not be familiar with you. They are beautiful, they are erotic, and they can be found in the Bible.

I know my words are not worthy of the Bible. I am not saying that at all. What I am saying is that even the most holy texts contain erotica in them. Why can't some do nothing blog?

Random Friday on Monday

A long time ago, I said something like, I am going to start this random Friday post. And then I half-ass did it. Or is it, "I did it half-assed." Half-ass? You know, since I don't curse all that much, my sayings are sort of half-assed. Anyway, since I screwed the saying and the random Friday thing up, I think I will do a random Monday. A word processor and a Diet Dr. Pepper, and I am off.

Assumptions, Linearly
You know, I don't like a lot of what I write. When I write it. But if I look at what I write two years later, I think, "Holy crap. That doesn't suck all that much." And you know, in ten years, I am sure it is going to be some really great work. My writing is like wine. Unless it will turn to vinegar. That would really suck.

Because you know, you can't assume linear growth, because if you could, I would be forty-seven feet tall by now.

Writer's Strike
I know why the writer's strike is lasting so long. I am sure they are scanning blogs looking for material. Now they won't find any here, but I am sure they are piecing together material from blogs. They don't have to pay anyone, and you know, there material is sort of crappy anyway.

Life Lock
I saw this the other day from Life Lock (okay, I saw it on a blog, but looking it up on a site seems like work, and I loath work):

If your wallet is ever lost or stolen: We’re here to help! Just give us a call and a WalletLock Specialist will help you contact each affected credit card, bank or document issuing company, cancel those accounts and complete the paperwork and steps necessary to replace your lost documents*, including your credit/debit cards, driver’s license, social security card, insurance cards, checkbook – even travelers checks – at no additional cost.

What a wonderful service. Pretty soon con artists are going to enter the fray. Imagine having patsies send you their credit card numbers, insurance cards, checkbook info and the like. How easy would it be to steal an identity then? Yeah, I think like a crook.

Vampires
Someone said that they have a fear of vampires the other day, and I chuckled. I can be such a bitch (I edit my bitchiness out of my blog-writing). MS Word is great for that. Anyway, I told her if I had one fear, I would love to have a fear of vampires because vampires are not real.

PC
I sort of wish the Mac would have invented the PC. Control Alt Delete is so intuitive. Not. I get the Control-C for copy, and Control-V for paste (because the keys are next to one another). But so much more is confusing.

Lawyers verses Doctors
We have all heard funny things about doctors knowing more about sex than normal people. But we have not heard anything (I haven't, at least) about lawyers. I mean, that profession screws people over all of the time. Don't you think practice makes perfect. Also, if doctors are so good with the sex thing, why aren't there papers about the G-spot in the journals?

Happy Monday.

'Til Death Do Us Part (Maybe)

Part of me does not want to post today. I wrote a pretty decent¹ post yesterday, and knowing about blogging like I do, I know most people don't read more than one post deep. Well, unless the previous post is illustrated with full frontal nudity.

Plus, I have the crud. The crud that everyone seems to have now. I don't want to write.

I had a dream last night. I dreamt of my grandmother. I had a close relationship with my grandmother – she really was a special person. She lived a good, full life, dying in her mid-nineties. She was ready to die. All of my grandparents lived long lives, one of which even told me, nay, shocked me, when telling me once, "I am ready to die." I was young and idealistic, and did not really contemplate death until that day.

Well, my grandmother, after her death, started visiting me in my dreams.

The brain is a funny thing – made up of neurons soaking in organic liquid that gives us our thoughts – the "brain power" I am using to write this now is merely neurotransmitters – that's all science can prove. So I can't prove that my grandmother is visiting me from the grave. In fact, science can't help and my religion² can't either. Both are silent on the topic.

I chose to believe my grandmother visits me. She does so when I need answers. She talks in her own way, and sometimes she doesn't give me the answer I want to hear. Even if it is not really her, it gives me comfort. Perhaps the neurotransmitters in my brain are a little sweeter now that she has passed. And I don't even want to know what the Freudians would think of such a revelation.

Before a relative died, I was scared that all of this religion was wrong. That once you are laying in that pine box, you have made your last curtain call. You are no longer anything but food for whatever can penetrate that pine box. Personally, I hope they go after my neurotransmitters last.

I have a few more things to tell my grandmother.

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¹By pretty decent, I mean I made one decent point, referenced a couple of interesting YouTube people, and it only take twenty minutes to write.

²The Catholic Church used to believe in "speaking in tongues." You can see it in the second book of Acts (Acts 2:4-8). It can also be found in Mark, James and several other places in the Bible. The Catholic Church no longer acknowledges that people in this day in age can speak in tongues.

Discussing Religion

Prata brings up an interesting comment today, so instead of just responding in the comments section, I will devote a post to it. Okay, actually I have got nothing to write about again today, so this sort of acts as the filler.

I have discussed religion with lots of people, and you know, sometimes assumptions are made that are so full of crap. For instance, I assume that the person I am talking with knows about their own religion. And you know, that is not necessarily true.

I have heard others say, "Well, a neighbor of mine was Catholic, and he said . . . ." And it ends with a statement that is totally ridiculous. Like we don't really worship Jesus. I used to get mad at this, and then, after a while, I am just glad they did not torch the Catholic neighbors house.

But I do the same thing. There are a lot of Baptists in the area, and if I am talking to a Primitive Baptist, and they make a statement, I just take it on faith that they know what the hell they are talking about.¹ I don't go to their document of salvation and find out for myself. Partly because I am lazy, and it is easy for me just to poke holes in what they say, precisely because they sort of screwed something up. Generally, when you look at the doctrine up close, things seem a whole lot more plausible.

Catholics get razzed because priests can't marry and are supposed to be celibate. Did you know that Pope Silverius was the son of Pope Hormisdas? We are talking sixth century AD, so this was a long time ago. Well, I did not remember their names, but looked it up on Wikipedia. Still may not be right, but I have read and heard of a father-and-son pope. The Catholic Church did not always have this celibacy rule in effect.

Okay, there are some kooky rules for picking Pope, and I also sort of wonder why there have been so many Italian Popes. Pope Adrian VI, elected in 1522, was the only Dutch Pope, and last non-Italian to be elected pope until John Paul II in 1978. Now, it is hard for me to believe that the selection of a non-Italian Pope should only happen every 400 or so years.

The history of the Catholic Church – of many churches, really – can be really interesting.

I guess, my spastic point is to remember that just because someone belongs to a church, does not mean you should believe they know what that church really espouses. Oh, and you probably should not torch their house, even if they are wearing suits and giving out free Mormon Bibles.²

All of this religion got me to thinking about a recent – or not so recent – "Dictionary of Jack" video (song). JackDanyells, a really cute YouTuber, wrote and sang the original song, part of which is shown below:

The Ism Song
When it comes to religion
You can't go wrong
There's a million-billion isms
To help you find god
There's Taoism
Buddhism, Hinduism too,
And of course there's Judaism
For all the Jews.

omnism says religions are swell.
Atheism says there's no heaven or hell
Even Catholicism has its cross to bare
And there's always agnosticism
If you just don't care

Oh, and I have to imbed the video because he is so hot. I mean, because he is so insightful and clever.



Considering most of my audience is male, I guess I should imbed Hot for Words as well. If I was from another country and had implants and blond hair, I guess I would be her.



So much for me not having anything to say today.

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¹Yes, I purposefully placed the words "faith" and "hell" close to one another. Just because.

²I knew a friend who assumed the Mormon Bible was just another version of the King James Bible. Er, yeah, I have some really dumb friends.

Ash Wednesday

Okay, I was not going to post today. Today is Ash Wednesday, and it is a busy day for Catholics. We go to work, and at lunchtime, we go to Church, attending Mass and getting an ashen cross on our foreheads. Then back to work, and home. It sort of cuts the day short, and I don't really post on days when I have so much to do.

But I had an interesting experience today, and the experience just presented itself. When opportunity knocks . . . .

So after getting my ashes, I was motoring back towards my work. On the way, I passed a store that I had been meaning to visit in a few weeks. Being the good multi-tasker, I turned into their parking lot and entered the store quickly. Still on my lunch hour and late as all get out.

The store is, how shall I put it, a lingerie boutique. I start shopping, looking for something special. Not lingerie. Let's just call it, "cherry flavored." I grab the product – because I had run out nearly a month ago – and head to the cash register.

As I was getting out my credit card, the woman at the counter sort of snickers.

"Er," she starts, "I did not expect to see your type in the store today."

"My type," I respond, handing her my credit card, "whatever do you mean?"

"Religious," was the only response.

I was not offended – I saw this as a teaching moment. I tell her that religious does not mean sexless, and that I was buying it in preparation of Valentine's Day, for my husband. I further explained that St. Valentine was a Catholic saint. And I said something about him not being responsible for what happened in Chicago. When she did not get the reference, I thought perhaps I got the city wrong.

At least I was not buying a dildo.

Fat Tuesday

Mardi Gras is a wonderful day, a day I think should be celebrated throughout the United States and the world.

This is the time of year I wish I lived in New Orleans. I have visited New Orleans before, and I really love the culture, the decadence, the history. What I wouldn't miss the crime, the hurricanes, or many of the visitors.

Mardi gras comes from the Latin, meaning "flash a boob." Well, actually it comes from the French, meaning "fat Tuesday," but my Latin interpretation seems closer to the truth. Mardi gras was not always as brash, as full of boobs and booze, as it was in the past. Actually the booze was always part of mardi gras, but the booze has flowed freely in New Orleans since Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop first opened its doors.

We are moving into forty days of fasting and prayer, forty days of prayer, penitence, almsgiving and self-denial, and mardi gras is sort of a buster shot of sin to tide one over the next 40 days.

The English call this day "Shrove Tuesday" or "Pancake Day". The English have a reputation of not being sexy. Let's examine this. Rio de Janeiro and New Orleans have really sexy mardi gras (or Carnival) celebrations, where they expose breasts. The English have "Pancake Day" where they eat pancakes. Breasts verses pancakes. You make the call.

Un-insightful Moment

I was walking from the restroom yesterday, and something occurred to me.

First, I have insightful thoughts at the weirdest moments. When I am brushing my teeth or hair, when I am in the shower, five minutes before I fall asleep. And all of these times are not good times to have insightful thoughts. I don't have a pen and paper handy. Oh, by the way, the thought on the way to the restroom was not one of these thoughts, but this other thought just occurred to me. You know, I would be totally screwed if I had multiple personalities vying for synapse function.

Upon exiting the restroom, I noticed the couch inside of the restroom. It reminded me that for men, going to the bathroom is just something to check off their lists of things to do – for women, it is more of an experience.

A few jobs ago, I had a desk where I could see the restroom, both men's and woman's. Men would walk in and out quickly, voiding their bladders, I would guess, and leaving. Occasionally a man would enter the restroom with something tucked under his arm for a more leisurely bathroom experience. Nothing says fine reading experience than experiencing a BM at the same time. <-- I really don't get pooping and reading at the same time. I love to read, and I have to poop. Not sure why men think these two events dovetail so nicely.

When I enter a bathroom that doesn't reek – and most women's restrooms are kept clean (probably because we don't pee on the floor) – I might start by doing my business in the stall. Sans reading material. One I wipe and flush (oh, and I don't know why men don't wipe after peeing), I make my way to the mirror.

I wash my hand thoroughly with warm water. This is my highlight in the restroom. I love warm water on my hands. I may soap my hands two or three times, probably more because of the OCD than anything, but I do enjoy warming my hands up while cleaning all of the germs off of them.

Then I check out my hair – and may make a few adjustments. When I was younger, I applied make-up most of the time. Now, I am not so vain. If there is someone else in the restroom, we may start a conversation. The whole experience may take ten minutes.

Some people have smoking breaks. I have a bathroom break. Where was I going with this - I haven't the slightest clue. Oh, well, got to scoot to the ladies' room. Ta.