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.

Manipulation vs. Carefully Crafted Incentives

I have not really felt like writing, so started looking back at some blog entries that I started and abandoned – ether because I was bored with the subject, or I forgot about the blog entry. This is one of those posts; guess I started it in November.

~Deb had an interesting Blog entry on Friday, dealing with manipulation.

Well, I am not going to expand on what she wrote – it is beautifully written, and I don't really think I can add to the discussion.

But when I was reading the blog entry, one question kept echoing in my brain: "Some of this manipulation stuff sounds a bit like carefully crafted incentives."

For instance.

I don't take crap anymore. Is this manipulative or incentivized? There are people who say mean things. And when people say mean things, I walk away. I don't argue or even make faces, I just leave. So if people want to interact with me, they better play nice. Some consider this manipulation – I think it is aligning incentives with outcomes I support.

Tax code. It is tax time again, and if you pull your hair out when filing your taxes, think for a second about government-determined incentives. If you are blind, you get more of a deduction – but if you lost a leg in Desert Storm, not so much. There have been incentives for specific car types (think lobbying did not occur there?), owning a home (mortgage interest), or being philanthropic (hint: look at Schedule A). Personally, I think taxes should be about generating income to run the government, and I would favor what they do in Europe: allow sixteen-year olds to drink alcohol and have consumption tax. I am sort of kidding about the sixteen-year olds drinking. Well, sort of. Consumption taxes make sure hookers and senators pay their fair share of taxes. Now, according to the tax code, sex for money and kickbacks are supposed to be reported on the income tax return, but they rarely are.

Play nice for sex. When I want sex from my hubbie, I don't bitch earlier in the evening. I don't tell him that he needs to take out the garbage or complain that he has not made the bed (his job). I play nice. Not that he needs incentives for sex.

Presidential Healthcare

I have been watching the presidential candidates for the last couple of months. Their view on this, or that, and one view that scares the crap out of me is most candidates view on healthcare.

For instance, Senator Hillary Clinton says she "wants universal health-care coverage by the end of her second term." Not even elected and she is already planning her second term.

Now I don't want to pick on Ms. Clinton – none of the Democratic candidates get it, and most of the Republican candidates get it, either. Ron Paul gets it, well, he will do the right thing for the wrong reasons (he just wants the Government out of most things, including healthcare).

Most of the candidates want "universal healthcare." Actually, most want everybody to have health insurance, and they think this will solve the healthcare problem. When I was young and was not offered healthcare at work, I went without for a while. I was young and healthy, and I didn't go to the doctor. Also, I did not have enough money to rub together for anyone to come after, so I did the irresponsible thing. Does this describe many of the 46 million without healthcare? Oh, I did get a cheap healthcare policy after a while – it was inexpensive because it paid nothing for the first several thousand dollars. Then it paid everything (or almost everything, as I probably did not read all of the small type). I had a friend who got in a car accident – similar circumstances as me, and although she did not have insurance (or much money), it took her a while to crawl out of the paperwork associated with bankruptcy. So my $30/month was more like hassle insurance.

Enough about me.

Health insurance acts as a buffer between the producer (doctors, hospitals) and the consumer (patients). The Clintons were pointing to a Kaiser Permanente system that worked well in the 80s but was starting to crumble in the early nineties. For instance, more people died waiting for a kidney transplant than received them in one eighteen month period. Health insurance was invented not for the consumers – it was created for the employers (to keep people at work). And it sort of does that – and in some instances, keeps them employed because of the health insurance. I have met several people who work at jobs they hate because they have a special needs kid and love the insurance.

One page can't really explain my thoughts. Think of it this way – when I was involved in one accident, I took my car to a body shop, and they billed the insurance one amount. If I were just taking the car into the shop for the same stuff without insurance, it would be actually cheaper because the body shop uses market forces to set the price sans insurance. With healthcare, it is actually the opposite – they charge way more for healthcare of non-insured (or self-insured) people because they don't expect to be paid and will hound, garnish or otherwise collect some of what they are due.

Anyway, if everyone has health insurance, overall costs for health insurance will actually increase. I have heard quotes from lots of people saying, "I want to vote for this candidate or that candidate because they will give me health insurance." If you get something from the government, it is coming from somewhere. Sure, the government prints a heck of a lot of money, but the US's budget is not a Ponzi scheme. Actually, it is sort of like a Ponzi scheme in that future people are paying for what we are using today.

Oi vey. I think I am going to be sick. Good thing I have health insurance. For a $10 co-pay, I can see a doctor for just about anything. And they have to listen to me.

Little Girls Grow Up

Most of my adult friends are not the same age I am. They are either younger or older than I am. I have a good friend who has two children, her daughter who is mid 20s, and her son who is in college – I have a feeling he is younger than most seniors (skipped at least one grade).

Well, I first met the daughter when she was in middle school. She was shy, sweet, and an all-around-good-kid. As she matured, I mostly heard from her mother, about how she was becoming a young woman who had ideals that was not consistent with her upbringing. In other words, she became a teenager. She was into Martha Stewart (pre-pinstripe), her makeup, and making herself beautiful.

She went off to college, and I heard less about her. I heard that she was doing good, that she was loving college, then that she met a boy, and after she graduated, she started working, still seeing the same boy. She is a newlywed, and she radiates.

Funny thing is that she is not the innocent girl I once knew. She has a Facebook page, she openly talks about porn with her mom, she is a young woman now. Now, her mom is not really excited about some of the choices she has made, but they are open with each other. That's got to count for something.

I never talked to my mom about sex. Well, except for lying about not having sex – that made both of us feel better. At times, I wonder if it is not better to engage in frank discussions with our elders. Not sure. But it suits their relationship, even though it probably gives my friend a few more grey hairs.

T-E-A-M

Being in an audience has always interested me. I love listening to people talk, partly because I engage those people in conversations in my mind. They don't know it, but I argue with them, agree with them, tell them related stories, and sometimes help them find just the right line they should say. I guess I interact with people's words.

The other day I was listening to someone, and they used a lot of trite management sayings. The one that disturbed me that day was, "There is no 'I' in 'Team.'" There is, however, 'me' in 'team.'

Me
It's all about me. When people say, "there is no 'I' in 'Team,'" what they mean, I think, is that it is not all about the person. It is about the team. But if you think about it, when people are more concerned with themselves, they may indicate that it is all about me. The height of selfishness.

Then I started thinking about other words you could make with team.

Met
I wonder if the Mets say, "there is a Met in team." Probably not, but those letters are also in team. Baseball, to me, doesn't really seam like a team sport. Everyone is concerned with stats on individual players. The hitters stand alone in the batter's box, and when someone new joins the team, it seems like they can just step in and play. No getting to know the teammates, learning the new plays, and insert other sports-related examples here. I am not much of a baseball fan.

Mat
Not sure mats have anything to do with teams. Teams can be doormats, I suppose. Just thinking about my yellow jackets, I suppose.

Eat
Football teams eat whole cows before games, I suppose, but I don't think there is anything prosaic about having the word "eat" in team.

Meat
Similarly, the word "meat" is in team. And "tea" is in team.

After thinking about all of this, I can't remember what that guy was talking about. I guess his phrase about "I" not being in "Team" sort of defeated the purpose that morning.

Television Idiot

I remember when I first heard about the writer's strike. I thought, "Okay, the writers and the studio owners (whoever management is) are going to fight over this for a week or two and that will be that.

The only thing I have really learned is that most series are only running part of a season ahead of their scripts. I didn't know that. I really don't know much about television.

When I was growing up, television was not complicated. There were two knobs, VHF and UHF¹, and you just turned them to one of four stations that the television received. Okay, sometimes you had to play with the rabbit ears, but it was a piece of cake to do. And there was no hunting for the remote, because there were no remotes. No tiny buttons, no fumbling in the dark, wondering if you are going to hit the volume up or the disable DVD button. Well, not sure what the button is, but it sure screws with watching a DVD.

Well, we just bought a new television. Actually, I am not sure we purchased a television, based on the several acronyms used on the box. We have no cable, no dish, just rabbit ears. Funny thing is that now, the over-the-air channels are crisper than before.

And I get more channels. Actually, one of the channels, 11.2 (WTOC Weather is like having a weather channel). I am a little confused that some of the channels are "split." For instance, CBS has three channels, sort of. And the weirdest thing is that broadcast television sometimes looks better than DVDs. It is all about resolution – broadcast television, for the digital stations, seem to be at 1080 DPI. DVDs are at 480 DPI.

I thought that Blue Ray or HD-DVD was a waste of money – who needs to see better than a normal DVD. Of course, with my logic, I would still be tuning into radio to listen to the president's fireside chats while pinning up my blouse on a clothesline. I hate that there is no clear leader of Blu-Ray verses HD DVD.² Before I got my new, er, television, I would not have wanted either technology. Now I don't like watching DVDs on my television. Son-of-a-bitch marketers.

We gave our television away – the old one – and that's why we had to buy a new one. The old television had a DVD/VCR player in it, and now that it is gone, we can't watch VCR videos. And I wonder if I will buy a new player. I mean, what is the point. We did have an old DVD player – was not used, actually. Sometimes I think me and hubbie are so weird – without cable/dish, giving away equipment before we replace it, etc. Completely weird.

Plus I learned in a year that normal televisions won't work without some type of converter – if you want to watch TV from an antenna. Our government is sort of pushing this – and they will be spending more than a billion dollars to help out people with converter boxes. Yeah. Not sure I understand this. Personally I am surprised that we are not giving out digital televisions to felons, people on welfare, and congress people.

Me, I am wondering if we can trade our new TV for the one we just gave away. Because the videos on the old TV seemed okay to me.

Television technology really confuses me. The best thing about books? I won't need a converter. I have books published hundreds of years ago, and you know what? I can still read them.

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¹They stand for very high frequency and ultra high frequency.
²Looks like Blu-Ray has a slight advantage right now. Blu-Ray is winning in Japan, Warner only makes Blu-Ray disks now, and several retailers are giving more shelf space to Blu-Ray.

I Love Google

I was looking for a rare DVD the other day, and found one at a site. Price seemed reasonable. And before I clicked on the "purchase now", I googled the name of the store and the word "complaint". I have started doing this as a precaution. Sort of another way to use Google. Well, I got lots of hits, and decided against purchasing the DVD set. That sort of got me thinking: Google has really changed how we view the information on the Web.

Rip-Offs
As stated above, I search for companies with the word "complaint", "rip-off" or similar names. And you know, a percentage of the time, I find hits on Google. And I avoid the companies like the plague. You know, I sometimes also look on the Better Business Bureau website (well, websites), and often, there is no mention of the company there.

Movie Information
Have you ever forgotten the exact quote of a movie? I have. And it drives me crazy. I get on Google, and I look for the quote. I normally know several of the words in the quote – and you know the quotes I am looking for are normally online somewhere. Same thing for who starred in what movie. All at your fingertips – and normally on IMDB has the answer, but it is easier to find it on Google.

Me Information
Every once in a while, I google my own name, my husband's name too, to see if my name is "out there" on the Internet. And like most people, I get a few hits. No, no porn queen web pages – silly stuff, surprising stuff. Sites that specialize in high school hookups, I mean high school memories, protests, whatever. And knowing what is out there about you is important. Just ask someone interviewing that has a MySpace account – and a picture of her, legs wrapped around the toilet. Flattering.

News
I sometimes read snippets, or hear about snippets in the news. Then I want to know more about the situation. And Google tells me – I type in a few key words in the news tab and bingo, I get the most current information about the news. Well, some of the news stories are from really weak news organizations, but you can weed those out.

Pictures
Every once in a while, I want to have a picture to illustrate my blog. Google to the rescue. I can type in a few words in the image feature, and boom, I get a bunch of photos. Get the URL and I am off to the races.

Google Maps
I don't use this often at all, but Google Maps is pretty cool. I can see a satellite map of my house, and it is my house. Part of this scares me – just glad there was not any activity surrounding the image on file.

Needless to say, I love Google. It saved me $70 today.

College Basketball

I went to a school which was pretty good in basketball. Problem is, I like football better. It is easier to carry on a conversation in an outdoor stadium than it is inside with all of the sounds bouncing off the hardwood, the ceiling, the walls. Even the ball dribbling and the whistles can interrupt a conversation. Oh, and you thought I would say that I liked the football players in their tight white pants, bending over? Yeah, right. Actually I think some women go along with a "high def" purchase because it makes those tight white pants really jump of the screen. Or so I have heard.

Oh, and my team is in the basement of the ACC. Best basketball conference - the only team in the conference without an overall winning record right now. And I looked at the RPI Rankings (most other rankings only go up to 25 or so) to see where GA Tech rates, and, well, they are not in the top 100. In fact, there is a real chance that most of the teams in the ACC will be invited to the tourney, with the exception of GA Tech and probably a team or two. I sort of feel like one of the fans of a team that is in the same conference (or whatever it is really called) with the NY Yankees and Boston Red Socks. I mean, really, why even field a decent team when the competition is going to outspend you 3 to 1. One year, New York's infield cost more than most major league teams. Really. Don't quote me on that, but doesn't it sound true?

You might ask yourself why I am writing about Georgia Tech basketball on MLK's birthday (celebrated day, not actual day). Well, I think a lot of people won't even read this so why waste a good post about invisible panty lines (how to have them) or Candida albicans (how not to get it).

Speaking of issues of little importance, I was looking at a webpage the other day, and I saw the following ad:

It is an ad to chat with a Mormon. Maybe because I have had sex on the brain recently, but it sort of looks like one of those sex chat ads. I mean, you know the ones on late night television – sexy woman who says, "You know, when I want to relax, I just chat with my friends on the phone." It sort of sounds like when she works on the sex line, it is relaxing to her. Guess she picked the right line of work – until her voice gets all gravelly from the two-pack a day habit. Unless that is some sort of fetish I am unaware of.

Personally, I can't wait until football season. College football. That is, if my team were better. I am glad I am not a rabid fan because more often than not, the season ends in disappointment. Sort of like calling those sex hotlines. I mean, date hotlines.

Too Much Information, Re: Circumcision

A few weeks ago, I was listening to a conversation between my mother-in-law (hubbie's mother) and my sister-in-law (married my husband's brother). Neither of these women are really related to me – other than by marriage. And although I would not pick either woman as a friend, I have to at least be cordial to both.

They were talking about . . . er, circumcision.

Okay. First thing is that I know little about the issue, other than all of my sexual experience has been with circumcised men. And I did not want to offer that up in the conversation.

Well, mother-in-law was trying to convince sister-in-law that her unborn child should not get circumcised. The only think I really know about the issue I heard from Dr. Dean's radio show years ago. Well, basically his position on the issue is that it is an unnecessary surgery and it reduces pleasure in the male. I found his site today, and it appears a recent study sort of says the opposite. Then there are studies saying circumcised penises are responsible for women not having enough orgasms. Okay, the study says it contributes to female arousal disorder, something I have never heard before.

When I used to listen to the Dr. Dean Edell show, a lot of the questions were about sex. I figured that was so because the call screeners realize that sex brings in more listeners. Plus people who did not want to discuss this with their physicians (it gets in the medical record) could approach a stranger with a million eavesdroppers. Okay, I don't quite get that. But anyway, the radio show explored a lot of sexual subjects. Okay for a radio show, not okay for a holiday discussion between family members.

So here I am, listening to a mother-in-law (who probably has limited information concerning penises) discussing this with sister-in-law (who probably has limited information, though more current information, concerning penises). You know, I thought about taping the conversation and having a transcript placed in the baby book, but you know, that might not be appreciated.

Sister-in-law finally said that they had not decided yet, but the decision would theirs to make. Probably better than telling your child, "Yeah, we wanted to have a surgeon whittle away at your foreskin, but grandma was adamant that you keep it." I broached the subject with hubbie later, leaving out the Dr. Dean stuff, and he paused and said, "I don't know. I guess the little snip-snip might help with locker discussions in gym class."

I had no idea that men compared their penises in gym class. And I am so glad I refrained from entering that weird discussion.

Thirty-nine: A Magic Number

Okay, I am 39 years old. And that sort of sucks. Not that 39 is a bad age, but when someone asks now, I will say I am 39 and almost no one will believe me.

When I was growing up, I had an aunt who was 39 for about 15 years. So if you asked her your age, you would assume she was older. I am 39, and if anyone asks (and I tell the truth), they may not believe me. I don't lie about my age – never really thought about it. Until now.

I have heard that age is just a number. I don't believe it, though. I mean, my bank account balance is just a number, but those rat bastards at the bank charge me $15 if I don't have sufficient funds and write a check. I can just imagine me saying, "You know, my bank account balance is just a number." And if I said that, I am sure the teller would laugh themselves into a tizzy.

Numbers can be important. At least that's what the drug companies tell you – with cholesterol, blood sugar, whatever. Or even bed companies. The Old Bionic Woman is sleep number 35. What's your sleep number? Numbers are important. Age does matter, but it is not everything. My 39-year-old aunt was a vivacious woman – a crazy woman, a woman who acted 21 even into her fifties. But when she was in her fifties, she no longer ran naked through sprinklers (she could twist and ankle). But she still shocked her kids.

Now, I don't really mind if people know I am 39. But when people ask, I think I will whip out my driver's license and prove that I am 39. Of course, the driver's license may not prove I am an American. But that is a discussion for another day.

Happy Birthday, Dr. King

I wrote this yesterday and thought I posed it. Second time in a week I did this.

Today, January 15, is Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. Contrary to popular opinion, he was not born on the third Monday in January. You know, these government holidays sort of suck. The rest of the world doesn't get the day off, but I don't get mail or access to money at the local bank. Also, having the holiday on a floating Monday sort of gives the impression, "Yeah, we want to honor you, but only to the extent that it conveniences us."

Similarly, when I was in school, we celebrated both George Washington's and Abraham Lincoln's birthdays. Now I don't know if there were Federal holidays at the time to honor those two presidents – after all, I was a kid and every other day was a holiday. Abe Lincoln's birthday was February 12 – we made stovepipe hats for several years to drill that into our impressionable heads. George Washington's birthday is February 22. I believe we used hatchets to cut down cherry trees for that birthday. Well, maybe not.

Now, I have heard from others that we have too many Federal holidays. I don't know about that, but I like MLK's Birthday. I don't get the day off, but whenever it dawns on me that the mailman didn't come, or my bank is closed, I remember what I read about race relations in the 1960s. MLK was an important figure – nearly as impressive as Gandhi, the person I think has affected change more than any one person in the 20th Century.

At this time of year, however, it appears that Hillary Clinton is using MLK as a political pawn. Her hero, her pawn. Funny thing is that I have heard people blaming black people for supporting Obama because, I guess, they assume it is because of his race. But you know, if the presidential candidate was a Georgia native, I would be much more likely to support the candidate, Republican or Democratic. I mean, I would have more in common from someone from this state – the Democrats are more conservative here. Both parties are a bit more similar to my views – that is, for people who get chauffeured around their whole lives, who have people pick up the tab for all meals, for people who don't grocery shop, for people who get lots of free stuff. You know, just like us but not so much.

I don't know who I will vote for when picking a president – I just have something against Ms. Clinton. Now I don't think it is the whole competitive bitch thing, but it could play into my feelings. Well, I just don't trust Ms. Clinton, and the more I learn, the more I think integrity is an important issue. I don't care who the smartest president is (Carter was a genius); I just want one that doesn't seem like a buffoon (current president) or a philandering power jockey (Clinton).

Happy Birthday, Dr. King. I hope your dream is closer to being realized.

Porn is for Men

Porn seems to be made for men. Not all porn, but the limited amount I have seen.

First off, all the leading men of "regular porn" seem to be sort of average. Portly. With a lot of hair. One third of the men I see in the supermarket are hotter than the "actors" in heterosexual porn. I remember someone once saying that they were a fan of gay porn – I have not seen any, but I imagine that the participants are hotter. Plus there are probably more penises in gay porn. And that seems like a bonus. Oh, and I guess the reason that the men are older and more regular is to connect with the viewers. And many of them are like the male actors.

Then there are the leading ladies. If the men are in their forties, the women are crack whore twenty-year-olds. And I don't identify with the women being portrayed. I mean, I am not a meth-induced toothpick, nor do I think so carelessly about good anal health. Since my primary drive is to view naked men, most of the women do very little for me.

Then the script. Or lack thereof. I mean, when I view a movie, I like to see a beginning, middle and end. Plot twists, creative banter. And the porn I see has little of it. I mean, except for the pizza guy scenes, where the pizza guy rings the bell (the beginning), then the sex (middle), and end (when the blonde gives him a wonderful tip). And the only plot twist would be where I put the anchovies. So plot is not essential to porn.

And the banter. "Yeah, that feels good," is not a good line. Or "harder." Or a moan. It seems like the camera guy just turns on the camera, and the actors make things up as they go.

Then the lighting is either poor, or two harsh or whatever. Not that I have a cinematographer's eye, but you have seen the movies. Or not.

I don't care enough about porn to do something about it, except to complain about it.

On Self Image

When I was in sixth grade, something happened to my body. I got breasts before any other the other girls. The flat-chested girls were jealous and I was mortified. I started cradling my books to my chest when walking from class to class, and I noticed boys were staring at me in class a lot more often. In short, I grew to hate my breasts.

My self-image was in the potty, so to speak.

I mean, at the time, I did not hate these boys. Still don't. I sort of hated that I began developing before most girls. Strange thing is that I did not feel more like a woman – just felt different than my friends. And I did not feel any prettier, though when I look at pictures me, I should have thought of myself as pretty.

Years later, I was talking some friends – and nearly universally, none of us considered ourselves pretty when in school. I am not talking "hot" because, lets face it, we were kids. But we were cute, all of us, and none of us knew.

In It's a Wonderful Life, there is a line: "Youth is wasted on the young." Now I don't believe the line because the young are foolish. And being foolish is more than it is cracked up to be. Foolish means carefree. Foolish can mean free-spirited. Foolish is great, really.

But foolish also doesn't know how pretty she is when she was thirteen years old. Or how wonderfully she was inside, how fully of hope, how full of dreams. All she remembers is how clumsy guys got, bumping into her breasts between classes.

Yeah, parents can tell you that you are pretty when you are young but you really never believe them.

Yesterday, I read a bit of self-flagellation on one of my favorite blogger's sites, and in a second, all of these thoughts came pouring out. The world is full of beautiful.¹ people, and it is sad to know that most of us never really consider ourselves beautiful.¹

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¹Beautiful can mean so many things, and while I primarily focused on physical beauty in my examples, I was thinking of everything that makes someone unique – gifts of intelligence, patience, kindness, and talent, as well as unique physical traits, like the wrinkling of a nose to an unpleasant odor.

Bed Sheets

Over the past week, I have been traveling. I enjoy parts of traveling, but I am not partial to hotels. Mostly because I like sleeping on clean sheets, and I don't trust hotels to thoroughly clean their sheets. Yeah, I know they have big washers and dryers that use scalding hot water to remove everything, but when I see hotel sheets, I imagine all of the germs still on them. And that does not count dust mites. Damn OCD.

What was more embarrassing is that hubbie and I had sex in the hotel one night – really drenched the sheets, if you know what I mean. The next day, I went back to the room for something in the early afternoon – just wanted to pop in and get something out of the suitcase and brush my hair.

The maid was in the room, replacing the sheets. And I was so embarrassed. There I was, entering the room, and she was changing sex-soaked sheets. She had to have known, and there I was, busted.

As I was walking down to the elevator, I remembered another experience with bed sheets. I was working at a camp one summer, and the last morning of camp, the camp residents were to carry their bed sheets to the office before "check out." So here I was, on the first shift, accepting sheets and placing them in these large tubs. One of my girlfriends was next shift, and she comes to relieve me.

We start chatting, and someone comes to give us her sheets. She instructs the person to place the sheets in the tub, and I ask her why. Her answer was that the sheets could be "dirty," meaning sex-dirty. I had never even thought of that, and there were probably 15 to 20 sheets I personally handled.

I took a shower after being relieved. Sex was not part of the scheduled programs, but I had never envisioned that any of these people would have had sex in the week or two weeks they were at camp. Sheltered me.

I have got to go. I sort of want to go home and do a load of laundry now. Can't do it, but I feel compelled nonetheless.

Of National Titles and Presidents

Last night there was a football game. Yawn. Ohio State and LSU played for the national championship, and well, not a lot of people cared.

I did not watch the game, but I did Google about the outcome this morning. I am guessing that the NCAA wants people to care enough to at least watch the game. Er, not sure that I am the typical football fan, but with such a big game, the people paying for the commercials probably want the occasional fan. They spend money, too.

Before the BCS fiasco of the last ten years, I actually watched some of the bowl games. I mean, Number 1 never played Number 2, but that did not seem to matter. It seemed like a number of the top teams played in the big bowls, and Number 3 could rise to the top spot if the top two spots faltered. And that happened more than once.

So before the BCS fixed things, there were more entertaining games.

And if you think about it, a bowl game is not a real good determiner of who is the better team. Each team is off for a month or more, preparing for the game. Before that, the games are spaced at weekly intervals. So perhaps the better prepared team normally wins the games. And you cannot look at which conferences win the most games, that does not necessarily mean that the conference is stronger. Sure, the SEC was something like 7-2, but a couple of the smaller conferences were 4-1 or 4-2. That does not mean the Mountain West is the second strongest conference of them all.

Name (Teams)/ Record
Atlantic Coast (8) 2-6
Big 12 (8) 5-3
Big East (5) 3-2
Big Ten (8) 3-5
Conference USA (6) 2-4
Independents (FBS) (1) 0-1
Mid-American (3) 0-3
Mountain West (5) 4-1
Pacific-10 (6) 4-2
Southeastern (9) 7-2
Sun Belt (1) 1-0
Western Athletic (4) 1-3

I just think that the bowl system is not the best system to crown a champion.

Similarly, we are currently looking at presidential primaries.

The primary system does not seem to be the best system to pick a democratic or republican presidential contender.

I mean, you have races, Iowa and New Hampshire, whose results affect the next contests. So people in Florida are affected by what blue-bloods in New Hampshire feel. And you know, both democrats and republicans seem to be different in different parts of the country.

For me, more of an independent, I get to choose from a real liberal (Dukakis) or an SOB conservative (Dole). Just seems the system doesn't really work to pick the best candidates, just the ones that take fewer chances (H. Clinton or Ohio State).

Happy New Year

Hello All.

Just a quick note to say that I will be taking time off during the Christmas break.

So, I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all. I am going to take a respite from work and blogging. Enjoy the New Year!

Merry Christmas from a Hospital Bed

Sorry, I have been distracted this week.

Have you ever visited a relative in a hospital around the holidays? To see a niece or nephew, lying in a sterile hospital bed, looking pitiful, is a bad feeling. At Christmas time, being in a hospital is double-bad, because there are charities who come into hospitals at Christmastime and sing to the children. The music is beautiful, but it reminds you that this child is laying in a hospital bed, not participating in Christmas-type activities.

This child, anyone's child, doesn't feel well. Not a life-threatening illness, but an illness bad enough for a hospitalization and a few nights sleeping in a foreign bed.

I know, some will say that Christmas should be like other times of the year. You should love your neighbor all through the year. Yeah, I get that. But you know, at different times of the year, you can be more passionate about redemption (Easter), more passionate about re-birth (Christmas), and more about giving thanks (harvest celebrations, Thanksgiving).

So in a week of re-births, in anticipation for Christmas, I don't feel like writing. Actually, I am going to take off from work a bit early and sneak into a hospital room, and read my nephew a story. Or two. Or twelve.

Merry Christmas!

Holiday Parties

I went to my first holiday party on Friday.

When I look at old Christmas movies, holiday parties seemed catered, the boss seems to have a secretary on his lap, and everyone is drinking some type of spirits. That's not really how my holiday parties are – oh, any my parties are in vibrant colors, not black-white-and-grays.

Oh, and I am not bashing black-white-and-grays. They are classic colors, and these colors can move one to tears (It’s A Wonderful Life), one to laughter (The Bishop's Wife), and one to confusion (The Horn Blows at Midnight). Okay, I have never seen The Horn Blows at Midnight, but since it is about big band trumpeter who falls asleep and dreams he is an archangel, sent to destroy earth, I figure it would confuse the heck out of me.

I wanted to say a few things about holiday parties.

Putluck
Most of the holiday parties I am involved in are potluck, which is German for "bring too much damn food." If you think about it, you should just bring as much as food as you can eat, because if everybody brings what they can eat, then there would be no wasted food. Okay, bad suggestion because some people bring unpopular foods. Those people should volunteer to pick up something at a bakery.

Most of the food at a potluck is (1) high fat, (2) contains cheese, and (3) contains mayonnaise. What bothers me is that, at least at my parties, there are no fresh veggies, no other healthy alternatives – not just to snack on, but to cut the fat on the other goodies.

Oh, I also want to just suggest that if something is loaded with calories, it needs to taste wonderful. That means, please leave the partially hydrogenated cookies at home, or at least mark them so I can avoid them. If I am going to have to spend an extra two hours on a Stairmaster®, I want it to be for some wholesome, mouth-watering fat.

Small Talk
You know, I am not really interested in my company's potluck. I mean, I see these people all year long, and I don't want to think of what to say, to engage in small talk.

I sort of enjoy small talk at other people's work. By other people, I mean my husband, but it would be cool to just crash a party. Can you imagine crashing a party with the following?

Leesa: Holy crap, where is my husband. He is gone.

Woman: Who would that be?

Leesa: You know him. He is the only man who is not here.

Woman: Oh, you mean Fred.

Leesa: (thinking to self, poor Fred, you missed the party) Has he screwed you yet? That SOB.

Woman: Fred is sixty-something years old. You can't be forty.

Leesa: And yet we are married.

Woman: Oh, I had no idea.

Leesa: I ask again, has he nailed you yet?

Woman: Pardon?

Leesa: Has he fucked you?

Woman: I think not. I am his boss.

Leesa: That has never stopped him before.

Then I walk off.

You see, I can't make a scene at work. It is frowned on.

Short Leesa Christmas Letter

Wednesday, I wrote about Christmas (or holiday) letters. The blog entry was a bit snide, but I think it is worth a read if you have the time.

Today I would like to post a letter that I would like to receive.

Dear Family,

It is another year. I am sending this out a little early to tell you that you need to send Jed's presents to the state penetention. They picked him up again. He is completely innocent; he is just a little bit too trusting. He was holding a package for a friend, and it turned out to be marijuana. He told them it was not his, but you know, they did a drug test and he turned out positive. To date, I no longer make my famous poppy seed muffins. It was Jed's undoing and all.

With Jed being taken care of on the government's dime, I have had a lot more time to pursue some of my interests.

My primary interest is in wine-tasting. I have actually been interested in box wines for some time, and although I have my personal favorites (Black Box Wine), I have tried so many of them. The top shelf of my 'fridge is only wine now.

Little Jimmy, poor Jimmy, I have had to displace his milk. At first, he missed his milk. But you know, wine is just old grape juice, right? Jimmy has been doing a bit poorer in school – with his times tables and reading and stuff, but you know, he has less behavioral issues. So I call that a win.

Without supporting Jed's gambling habit, I have been able to put away a few bucks. It has been actually a bit nice. And you know, putting a few dollars in the purse brings more responsibility. I got Jimmy a WII – for educational reasons. Next year we will see if his grades will improve.

Me, I have had several nice men with which to spend time. And on an unrelated issue, I have been buying lots of pretty underwear.

Oh, and remember the box wines. I have started writing a book on the subject. The working title, is "Wine Appreciation Guide: Box Wines and You."

Hugz,
Leesa

Christmas Letters

It’s that time of year again, and I received my first Christmas letter today.

Yeah, Ho Ho Ho.

I am not a big fan of Christmas letters. Okay, the idea is nice. People who love you enough to send out a card also send information also send a Christmas letter, and if it is a well-written letter, everything is wonderful. But not many letters are well-written. By well-written, I am not talking about grammar, spelling, subject-verb agreement. I speak to content.

The typical letter I get from those who love me is filled with their yearly accomplishments. "Hey, we had a good year – bought me and my wife matching Lexuses." The first thing that pisses me off is that people should not be rich enough to ever need to pluralize the word "Lexus." Class envy aside, I really need to know that it was a really good year financially for someone.

Only slightly less annoyingly, are the letters that tout the kids. I love, kids, I really do. And I think kids do great just learning how to read, write, and deal with irrational numbers. But either the authors of these Christmas letters are exaggerating their accomplishments, or my relatives and friends' children are going to cure Cancer, the Riemann hypothesis, and discover that there was a second gunman behind the grassy knoll. Oh, and I know these kids. Yeah, they consume oxygen like the rest of us and convert it to carbon dioxide. That does not make them a chemistry wiz.

Next are the letters that laud other accomplishments. I am not going to put an award won at work on my resume' and you probably should not include it on your Christmas letter. Well, if you have won a Nobel Prize, don't brag about the prize. Just mention that you took a trip to Stockholm this year, posed for some pictures for a local event, and went next door to the Netherlands to hook up with a bunch of prostitutes (window shopping) and visiting the pot bars. That would be both entertaining, and informative (and we already know you won the Nobel Prize anyway).

Oh, then there are the wonderful Baptists that send their Christmas letters. Sorry, I know lots of good Baptists outside of my family. There is one, in particular, who think that all Catholic priests are pedophiles, and that I cannot go to heaven because I am not following in Christ's path (simply because I am Catholic). Their letters talk about all of their charity work, reminding us to tithe to a local Baptist church. Funny thing is that the father is racist, and I cannot reconcile racism with Christianity. The Baptist Letter, as it is known in my household, is special each year. We circle the misspellings and comma faults. Anything over twelve and we celebrate. We have gone out because of the letter three years running.

Next is the letter that explains how to have a more "Christ-ful" Christmas. It is along the same lines as the previous letter, though these two families don't automatically condemn one to hell because of their particular brand of Christianity they practice. How Christian of them. I have tried quantifying the contents of these letters, seeing if they are less boastful, more meek, but I just can't figure out how to do it.

Perhaps one of their brilliant children can come up with an expression to do this. It would surely make my Christmas a merrier one.