The Pickle Thingie

It is with a modicum of certainty that I say everyone has a commercial that makes their skin crawl. Right now mine is a Big Mac radio spot that is literally called the Pickle Thief.

Every time I hear the guy start his little tirade about her being a pickle thief and maybe he should rethink their whole relationship I begin screaming, “Run girlfriend, run.” I know you’re thinking, “Cele, change the channel.” But you have to remember I’m a DJ I can’t change the channel, I can’t turn off the radio, and worse, I can’t open the Mic and scream, “Run, girlfriend, run” (in all truth that is what I am dying to do – but, like my job. A lot.)

I write commercials, I know that comedy sells, but who at their ad agency thought, “Oh, let’s do a commercial where a young man berates his date for STEALING the “Big Mac” altering pickle,” who? Not only did they think this would sell burgers, but they then sold the concept to someone who said, “Great, run with it.” (Well okay that is kind of an assumption, but when I write a commercial, I have to get customer approval before it runs.) Honestly, if they start selling their Angus Bacon Cheeseburgers that way the whole face and make up of my Fast Food Fridays will change.

Having been in an abusive relationship or three, attempting to sell me products with a self important brat heaving around his caveman tactics is friggin stupid. If you’re already married to a person who throws fits you learn how to deal, but if you find out about the abusive tantrums or worse before the I Do's (because really you shouldn't have)… run run run – do not pass go, don’t stop for cash – hie thee to safety. And you certainly don’t buy his hamburgers.

Sith,
Cele

Odds and Ends Revisited & Ringo Starr and His All Starr Band

Oh so many things, so little time to blog, but what the heck, chores be damned.

Ducky is gone Tuesdays and Thursday nights, I honestly believe that is part of the reason our relationship has lasted so long. It’s not like I have the best track records, but this guy is totally a keeper. His night’s gone are two of the reasons I will always have a dog, it holds any potential loneliness at bay. It also gives me the opportunity to have Thursday – girls night out, and the chance to misstate a fact or three on Tuesday nights, when I say, “I got three laps done on the cross-trainer, I think tomorrow night I’ll go for four. The lo-fat salad was almost too much for dinner.”

Instead of saying, “I munched on a grilled cheese sandwich and peanuts, while I was blogging, followed by a three truffle chaser.” I know, I know may lightning strike. Okay, crap, it was five. Leave me alone it was not six.

Saturday night the radio station sponsored Joe Diffie at Three Rivers Casino. We had a great time, the concert was very enjoyable, the crowd could have been a wee bit bigger. But then again the Bellamy Brothers had played the night before and the three-day Oregon Jamboree was well underway in Sweethome, drawing crowds with the likes of Keith Urban, Blake Shelton, the Oakridge Boys, Travis Tritt, and Miranda Lambert. My favorite lyric?

If the Devil danced in empty pockets,
he’d have a ball in mine.
With a nine foot grand, a six piece band,
and a twelve girl chorus line.
I’d raise some loot in my three piece suit,
selling one dance for a dime.
If the Devil danced in empty pockets,
he’d have a ball in mine.

Or maybe you’d prefer…

Cause and effects, chain of events
All of the chaos makes perfect sense
When you’re spinning round things come undone
Welcome to the Earth, third rock from the sun.

Great lyrics. Fabulous energy.

Sunday night we went to see Ringo Starr and his All-Starr band at the Cuthbert Amphitheatre in Eugene. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it many times again, this is my favorite venue. The band included Walter Palmer of the Romantics, Rick Derringer of the McCoys, Edgar Winters but no White Trash (Frankenstein was it amazing), Gary Wright, Richard Page of Mr. Mister, and Gregg Bissonette. We met Pinecone, the Crown and Bridge guy, the Landlady (not theirs, my nephew Arnie’s Landlady,) and several others at the top of the grassy berm just as the sun was hovering above the horizon. You know that moment, right when it hits golden peak. Ringo called it’s “God’s Light” which I thought pretty kewl – and I guess he would know it was shining right in his eyes. We rocked out and watched the loonies and free spirits in the crowd dance to the music. What a night. I would show you the pictures Pinecone took (because I didn’t take my camera) but she’s notorious for taking these fabulous shots and keeping them among her pixel count for eons.

So you get a shot of my nose instead. I’m sporting this “come from nowhere” bruise on my nose. Truly, I’m not sure how it happened. And it hurts enough I should. It wasn’t there Saturday night. I didn’t see it Sunday. Yesterday I really didn’t look in the mirror, until Ducky offered an exhausted me dinner at a local Mexican Restaurant. I went in to brush my hair, check and make sure the old makeup was gone and noticed the bruise on my nose. Where the heck did that come from? And darn don’t touch it, ouch, I said don’t touch it. I, for the life of me, don’t know how I got it. It straddles the bridge of my nose, about the location of my sunglasses, but I never put them on this weekend. Today it rides a bit less down the sides of my nose towards my cheeks than it did Monday. Today it’s also a bit brown rather than the fuzzy gray and pink of last night. No idea.

Despite hours of watering my lawn is dead. I don’t know why. It’s not like I don’t water it for hours on end, three to five days a week. I had it aerated, I give it Scott’s Lawn plus, or Turf builder with water saver… a big sarcastic oooohhhhhhh. But, nada. Sad sad sad. The good part, it will be green again by mid October without any effort from me. See why I love the rain?

And finally here is a shot of the glorious bouquet that Ducky got me for our anniversary last week. The roses are slowly being removed as I wrap and dry them. The double lilies are browning, the Speedwell remains amazing. And the carnations are still spicy smelling. I love flowers…and chocolate too. Have I mentioned truffles lately?

Sith,
Cele

PS if Pinecone ever sends me those pix, I'll addenum. Tata

Well Steve, now that you mention it...

I had never watched ice carving. The finished product has long enchanted me. And then Sunday morning as we waited for the auction to begin on the final day of the 2009 Oregon Divisional Chainsaw Sculping Championships they announced they were having an ice carving demonstrations.

First he explained the three day long process of freezing the 300 pound block of ice. Most ice has cloudy deposits locked inside. This he explained was because the water was still as it froze.

Instead of allowing the water to remain seditary in the process, the water is continually slow circulated leaving a clear block of ice. Except for one small pocket of cloud which they remove and fill will water for the final freeze

I tried to use my video function, okay I used my video function but it was a fuzzy video and I won't make you suffer.

I'll just let you see his steps. But it was really cool watching the chainsaw throw ice all over in a spray as he divided the wings. His sweeping arcs as he carved the neck. Amazing.

And then he poured water all over it and was done.

Sith,

Cele

Life is Leap of Faith

Of late my family has been a bit bemused or curious at the description or definition of my faith. My faith and belief in God is firm. But, I assure you, not necessarily in the way a “church” or maybe even my upbringing taught me. Although in all fairness to my mom, she didn't really instill a specific belief in me, she let me discover my beliefs myself.

The Bible, to me is a history – not a verbatim, because it told me so. I believe it was inspired by the love of God, not by his mandate. I do believe the words in red are worth their weight in gold. The Golden Rule wasn't taught by Jesus alone, I will not go to hell/purgatory/the Outer Darkness (which I don't believe in) because I have a tattoo, get shots with needles, a blood transfusion, believe in a woman's right to chose, have friends who are sexually active with their own sex, or eat meat on Fridays (Fast Food Friday's requires beef or chicken prepared in an unhealthy way.)

I can not believe in a God who hates and condemns based on birth, sanctions hate, or rewards people who loudly go to church Sunday after a night (week) of living other than rightly. I do not, absolutely refuse to, believe that God “does things to us.” To me that is a belief that is just wrong on so many levels, I am sure it works well for a multitude of churches who want their parishioners whipped into line. How can people believe they are good when they treat others unfairly, cruelly, in hatred, and believe they are above others? I cannot believe that way.
Yes, this post is all about me. It is not about you, although maybe discussions with you have made me rethink my position (which is a very good thing.) Maybe this post (and I) will anger you. Maybe it will make you think about your own personal norms, mores, and foundations. If so, excellent.

When I was in my 'tweens my little brother died. It was a surprise, because no one saw it coming. I remember the morning my father gathered us in the darkened living room to say my mother was in the hospital, and that David was not born healthy. Pinecone and I both remember him saying David was born “too blue” and with holes in his heart. My mother does not remember this. What I do know is that David's death brought us together as a family. God did not take David to make us a stronger family, God had nothing to do with his passing. But I do believe that how we reacted to his death makes all the difference in the world. There were lessons, lessons to be taken to heart, embraced, and made into my own beliefs. I honor my brother's passing with this tradition, that I should find the silver lining in all things.

To hold the sorrows and why- me's to my bosom (although a mighty bosom it be) is not me, does not make sense. I don't blithely write people off when they are done on this plane, I keep them with me daily, then are never far. But I know that passing is a part of life, it is the inevitable conclusion to birth. I know in my heart that I will see them again, they can see me now, and finally they are without pain and horror. I do not leave them any day without telling them I love them and appreciate them. For I know I may not see them again in this life.
Sith,
Cele

The Circle Game

It was early December, and suddenly at the age of twelve I wanted to start volunteering at the local nursing facility. Looking back I have no understanding of why I decided this, how the thought even came to me, I mean crap I was twelve. But it did and one afternoon I dressed nicely and walked my butt the two or three blocks to Mirada Hills Convalescent and Rehabilitation Hospital and applied for Candy Striper. Except, they didn’t have Candy Stripers.

So instead I became a Nightingale. Being only twelve they weren’t going to let me in except two things: first I turned thirteen (the acceptable age) in just two months, and secondly they didn’t have any Nightingales at the time – program yes, volunteers no. They let me in -now looking back, I wonder if they let me in thinking that I’d drop out after the first day. If so, they didn’t know me at all.

I remember the first requirement, after having the want, was to perform one hundred hours of Nightingale service. That was just to get my nametag. Two hundred hours to get my patch. No sweat, I did one hundred hours in two weeks time. I know pretty shocking right? I breathed, ate, and drank being a Nightingale. I had more than two hundred hours by the end of December. I think they were pretty shocked when I showed up on Christmas Eve, by Christmas day I doubt they were fazed by me.

All this despite the fact my very first patient died on me. Really, she died; I fainted the rest is history.

Mrs. Taylor must have been well into her nineties (but then I was twelve, what did I know?) my first duty was to feed her a late breakfast. That Saturday morning I’d dressed in a brown jumper and a pink plaid shirt, with a beige sweater (I know, one specific event all the way back in 1967, I remember exactly what I was wearing.) I wasn’t going to wear the sweater, (the jumper was made out of this incredibly heavy material) but my mom made me.

Major digression, poor Mrs. Taylor is starving by now. I slowly ladled runny eggs, pasty oatmeal, and this putrid puree stuff into her mouth, between dainty sips of her morning tea. Mrs. Taylor seemed like a really nice little old lady, she smiled and was patient with me when I went to fast. But suddenly she wasn’t feeling at all well, and damn, I was getting really hot. I excused myself to remove the sweater, picked up the spoon and tried to feed her another bit of egg. But she wasn’t having any of that. No, Mrs. Taylor wanted the nurse… just about the time the room started swimming for me. Picking up the call button, I rang for the nurse, excused myself again, walked to the doorway (I’m sure pretty much like a drunken sailor,) and passed out.

When I came to, Mrs. Taylor had expired and I had possibly the worst first day to start a career as a Nightingale. The urged me to go home, called my mom to come get me, but after less than an hour and one dead patient in my wake I was having none of going home. Two or three months later I earned my green striped jumper that signified I was a Nightingale. And by summer I’d earned my nursing cap.

Whether it was just filling room pitchers water with fresh water and ice or delivering and picking up meal trays I was eager to do it. I loved the patients, I loved the work, I loved being needed. These wonderful people with their cute stories and cherished pictures wanted me. But it was those same pictures that made my blood boil. I saw pictures of kids I went to school with, kids who never visited their grandparents, great grandparents. These people who lived just blocks or a few short miles away couldn’t come visit? These people, seemingly, looked forward to my smile, the flowers I sometimes brought with me, to my cookie cart, for just a hello. Before long I was recruiting more volunteers from my friends, and the program flourished. And that is not to say I take credit for that, I don’t, the job and the people just totally rocked. I worked there until just before I moved to Oregon, and never regretted a day.

Now you’re saying to yourself, “Nice story Cele, but get to the point.” Life is a circle, as I always say, where we’ve been is who we are. But it is also interesting at the points of our earlier life that lay a foundation for the points of our future life, hence the title of this blog “The Circle Game.” This afternoon while chatting with a woman I know at work, she mentioned she wanted to start a Candy Striper program at the hospital (she’s a busy person at the hospital, whom I adore.) I began rhapsodizing about how much I’d adored, loved, cherished my memories as a Nightingale.

After several questions, Di smiled at me and said, “You’re the one.”

She has wanted to start a Candy Striper program at Peace Harbor Hospital, but needed a volunteer mentor to work with these teenagers. She wasn’t about to start such a program until she had the right person, someone who’d been there and had a passion for it.

In truth I was blown away, almost started crying. Wow, I am incredibly honored, scared, and wow. I need to discuss this with Ducky, but wow, what an opportunity to give back to my community, even in a small way, and it’s something I loved so dearly.

Sith,
Cele

A Difference Of Lives

Has your upbringing ever come up and smacked you in the face? Come on face it, we’re all different. We all have little twist to our values. Little things that mean something to us, and other things that we just don’t get. I’m not an in time person. I am late on a lot of things, like birthdays, even Christmas presents. I will send an email that says Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas very much on time. Well, except for the physical Christmas cards, they turn into Happy New Years cards. And those ever important thank you’s notes, well the phone calls came on time, but the mailed cards and notes...way late.

These little differences of mine over, say your’s, my husband’s, my friend’s, or a total stranger’s has come into focus over the past few years and caused me both pause and consideration. My birthday doesn’t mean a lot to me, it’s usually another day. But your birthday, wow, it means a lot to me, and if you’re with me –physically--I will lavish you on that day and do my best to make you feel as special as you are. But my poor brother and his family still haven’t gotten the gifts for their 2007 birthdays. It’s not that I don’t love them, it’s that I’m a failure at getting things figured out, bought, and the most important part…shipped in a timely fashion. Their email birthday cards… arrived on time. My sister and I always laugh about how late we are getting our gifts to each other, it is a prime source of our amusement, and you know what it doesn’t bother me, but others, oy!

My family doesn’t do funerals. When my father died in December, no funeral, no memorial, no wake, but I light a candle for him and tell him hello, goodnight when I blow it out, and will ask him questions out of the blue, then close my eyes and listen for the answer with my heart. On the other hand like most people, my husband’s family does the whole big thing, then at Christmas time they take it a whole giant leap further with a tree at the cemetery, decorated, little lights, and play Christmas carols. See what I mean by big difference? I find it a bit over the top, but it is their belief and I honor that, who am I to say who’s right or … different? And Ducky has come to appreciate the no funeral thing a little bit, too.

I’m not a phone person, really I find myself at odds when I know I have to make a call. I can put it off for weeks. You can’t do anything else when you’re on the phone, so you sit there and listen, talk, listen and accomplish nothing, but touching bases. I know that sounds cold of me doesn’t it? But then you have to understand I’m extremely bad at small talk. When we meet, if I ask you about your job or work it is for two reasons 1) I have no clue as to what I should ask you 2) it’s because I’m really interested in you and your job. I mean it’s you. When we get to the weather then you know I’m running out of topics of dialogue. But my husband and his sisters, my brothers and my sister too… all phone people. I am away for more than 20 minutes and Ducky already has three phone calls under his belt. He constantly harps on me to call my mother, has my daughter called and if not (which usually she hasn’t) why not?…er because she’s not a phone person like me. The other day I answer the phone at work and their is a guy on the other line, and excuse me, but I am pretty damn sure he was in the bathroom.

I guess for the most part what bothers me is when we judge another and find them lacking based on our own oddities. I once had a friend, Twinkie, who came out to me, all his life he felt he’d been trapped in a man’s body and was going to begin living his life as a woman. I felt terrible for him and could offer him nothing more than my support and understanding, and to keep his confidence. Two months later he cornered my friend's wife and told her all his problems, which is his right. Later when I admitted I’d know about Twinkie’s decision and had not told, my bo...er friend was furious with me. I honored my friend’s wishes; it was not my secret to tell and what good would telling anyone have done? None, it would have done no good. Where he is today I have no clue, he walked away from Florence after his family walked away from him. But the point was that for one person keeping their secret is good, but telling another’s is good too. Huh?

My mother raised us in a very even Steven manner (do you capitalize Steven when you write even steven?) even down to our Christmas list. If she spent $35 (remember this was back in the ’60) on one child (and she had four) she spent $35 on each child. She is that way to this day. I myself am the same way; it just seems fair. No favoritism, even Stephen (maybe you spell with a capitol but Stephen instead of Steven, or steven) and all is well. But I have one child who USE to count everything in volume. So weird.

I have more than one extended family member who is atheist or what they call atheist. I get extremely tired of being told my beliefs are rubbish? They are my beliefs, I don’t tell them their beliefs are rubbish, they would be highly offended if I did, but they have the right to shove their belief repeatedly down my throat. Huh? And what they base their belief that my thoughts are rubbish is on misinformation, but if you try to show them that, then you are trying to start an argument. Whatever. Personally to me it is ignorant, arrogant bullying.

And this one last rant. What about people who claim they are vegetarians because eating meat is cruelty to animals? But they wear leather boots, have leather couches (yes plural), and suede coats? And I’m the sick one.

Oh, I have a headache.
Love
Cele

Blog Rating, schmating, I'm flumoxed

Earlier this week Tewkes found a kewl little blog tool for rating her blog. So you know me, had to copy. I tried, I tried, I tried to copy the code for my blog yesterday. Drats, it was smarter than I was. So I tried again this morning. Voilà! It finally copied.

So if you are curious I ranked at Junior High Level. Wow, that simple? I was kind of amazed. I note that Phoenix rated Junior High, too.

I tried this several times, just to make sure it didn’t cycle through the rankings, but it consistently came up Junior High over two days. So out of curiosity I tried it on my Wednesday Links Blog.

Now I really wonder what their criteria is?

Fear and Loathing Snakes in Florence

Sister Mary Lisa started this, and I was capitvated by the posts I read. Daunted by the task at hand. It took me a few days to write this, in fact I wrote it twice. But it was with my usual flippant attitude and didn’t do the post or emotion justice. In fact maybe I was just running from myself. Scared to lay open my fears. Others did and I was proud of them, touched by them, and ultimately inspired by them.

So I’m going to jump in with both feet, because I realized this afternoon where I stand.

If I wasn’t afraid I would walk up to Mark Holt and ask him why he raped me? Why he took the freedom of choice from me? The joy of sex from me? And my ability to feel sexy? I don’t fear any reason he might have for his violent actions, I fear his distain, and worse the fact that he might not even remember, and therefore I am less, I am used, I am discarded, I am not even a bad memory.

Being free of fear I would have the courage to tell him that while I haven’t forgotten, I have forgiven him. But I fear him, oh to be free of that fear. I saw him once, I thought I was over it, those twenty years later. I thought I was okay with my past, but he walked in the hotel, fifty feet away from me, and I shook in fear. If I could be free of that fear, I could soar.

I wish I could walk into a room confident of my welcome and place. Free of fear I would host a party inviting all of my friends, my family, and my coworkers. I would throw a party where people would mingle and laugh, not wanting to leave because the food and company is fabulous. Free of fear I would chat with everyone, charming with my dialogue and laughter, lighting up every heart and face in the room.

Free of fear I would compile my photos and poems into a portfolio and shop them to agents and publishers alike. If I weren’t afraid of rejection, that is. If I were more sure of my ability, talent, and worth as a poet I would, if I could.

If I were free of fear, I probably still wouldn’t like snakes.

While there are fears I would love to be free of, there are fears I will gladly hold on to. The fear of wounding others with my actions and words, I will keep. The fear of not having a chance to say good-bye to those I adore, admire, and cherish I will hold close. And heed the warning of that fear so I remember always to validate those who mean so much to me.

Sith,
Cele

The Scientific Lemming

Okay, what is it about internet testie thingies? I am so lemming. CV Rick had this interesting graft on his blog today, so of course I had to jump off the cliff and have one too.

I ended up

Your Aspie score: 73 of 200
Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 150 of 200
You are very likely neurotypical

Which is all fine and well, but is this good or bad?

A confusing blog born of fire

Every Tuesday night, I’m up late. Last night was no difference. Tuesday is the night I put together my Wednesday Links. It’s Dancing With The Stars Results night so I’m blogging for Jenny T’s Dancing Off The Edge. But I stayed up even later last night mesmerized, horrified, and saddened by the California fires, drinking in every reported word.

My entire childhood was spent in southern California. I’m third generation Angeleno, and am proud of my beginnings. Now a lot of the happier places in my memory are burning and my heart aches. Anza Boraga, Los Padres National Forest, Skyland Ranch and the San Jacintos, Lake Arrowhead and a camp I can’t remember the name of but probably had to do something with Arrowhead or pines, and then Big Bear. Which are burning or have already burnt, I’m not sure. But the earth is reclaiming it’s own, cleansing the scars, and continuing it’s cycle of life, destruction, death, rebirth.

These memories were up near the surface before the fires broke out. My brother was visiting this past week and that always makes me think of our happy childhood. My parents tried their darnedest to give us a varied beginning. Not bad for a woman who had a nanny growing up and a silver spoon, and a man who at times only had one pair of socks. We were raised on motorcycles, horses, boats, long family hikes, and a full respect of nature.

Those beginnings influenced my brother’s present, much more than it did mine. He has three thriving businesses in Sioux Falls, is well known on the mid west racing circuit, and lives life to its fullest. My brother lives to race. At forty nine he still lives, eats, and breathes racing. He has nine racing teams. All three businesses are racing related: a performance auto parts business, auto shop, and vinyl printing business. He is challenged, he grows, he is content.

Sometimes I stop in my tracks and wonder at my growth/shake my head in self-contempt. Am I stale, walking circles in the same ruts that I traced decades ago? I think not, but as a human self doubt is just another facet of my personality. Am I making the most of what I can be? Probably not but I am happy and content. Do I need more? Well of course. I need peace. I need to be needed. I need to contribute. I need to help build up others to be worthy of myself, and my place here on earth; to fulfill the legacy that my parents taught me.

I watched those images flickering on the telly last night. The terror of the lives lost, fear for the animals trying to flee the firestorms, the heartbreak people left in the wake of this tragedy race through my thoughts. I have been extremely blessed in my life, suffered no tragedies that I couldn’t over come and survive. And these people will survive too. I marveled at the strength and tenacity of those gathered in Qualcomm awaiting the first opportunity to go ?home? and start again. At the hands and hearts that gathered to help those in their time of need. I listened later to the comments of Northwest firefighters who knew their time to finally give a helping hand back to their Southern California counterparts had come.

They will survive; the trees will grow again, because well that is what trees do. Animals will repopulate their habitats, because, well that is what animals do. And mankind will rebuild their towns, their roads, their cities because that is what we do. The lives might be gone, but the memories are there. Memories that sustain us, strengthen us, and make us rebuild again.

As I sat there last night and this morning I remember how blessed I am. I thank God, my parents, my siblings, and my friends for the support systems I have always had. To those left in the wake of this firestorm my heart goes out to you, my thoughts are for you, and my prayers remember you. As cliché as it sounds, tomorrow is a brand new day.

Sith
Cele

Bunnicide To Save Our Children from China With Love!

I know I’ve be MIA and with few good excuses. Everyday or so I’ll sit down with the intent of writing a blog and become sidetracked by everything you have written. You guys rock. I’ve even started a few blogs, hmmm, that somehow are saved for later, whenever that might be.

But this morning their was an obscure form of bunnicide in blazing colour at the bottom of the front page of section B in the Eugene Register Guard. The, obvious, hands of a woman firmly wrapped around the head of a fuzzy, stuffed bunny whose sole eye was attached to a chain device of torture. She was pulling on said bunny’s head with firm grasp. Poor bunny. Apparently when a bunny screams on paper it doesn’t make a sound.

I was surprisingly shocked, stupid I know. I just wish more companies paid as extravagant and detailed attention as the bunny tester of Specialized Technology Resources, a company that test children’s toys. Sixteen hundred employs, working forty hours each week to destroy toys with the aim of protecting our children. The latest lead tainted toys made in China for American kids are lunch pales, dispensed by a well intended California organization to promote healthy lunches for school kids. And the basic cost for STR to test a toy line? Just $35.

$35 or better yet, what if we all demanded American made? What a concept. But wait, while America has outlawed lead based paints, there is no law that requires toys to be tested. None, Nada, Nix.

Mattel toys, whom we trust so well, suffered a 1.5 million item recall earlier this year for lead paint on toys. That was only their first recall. This year Mattel has placed recalls for 20 million toys. It boggles the mind – and tells me not enough books and puzzles are sold anymore. The Toy Industry Association is pushing for federally mandated testing. Finally!

And remember that stuffed bunny being sacrificed to make sure babies and toddlers won’t choke on tiny gnawed off parts? STR says a check of stuffing inside those plush toys uncovers filth. Whoa, Nellie! You Betcha! Dead bugs, sawdust, even metal shavings according to the Guard’s report. I was appalled, even at the age of fifty one, I love giving and getting plush toys. And for now on I’m going to be searching for the American Made label – at least they’ll be our bugs.

It gives a whole new meaning to the rabbit died – btw a quick check of five stuffed animals in my collection unveiled that three were from China, two from Vietnam, and one from Korea. I’ve not even checked Ducky’s Duck Collection. Bummer.

Today’s To Stupid To Live! Award shoud go to the MIT student who wore a fake bomb strapped to her person when she went to Logan International Airport to greet her boyfriend this morning. I thought the prerequisites for getting into MIT was brains? And an art project? Get fucking real.

Today in history 1937 - JRR Tolkien’s the Hobbit was first published.

Sith,
Cele

It’s Not Global Warming. It’s 12 Million (with an M) Self-Heating Baby Boomers

Years ago I was diagnosed with PMS. I put myself on a diet, read up symptoms and causes, and took my syndrome in hand.

PMS fast facts:
♀ There are women who get physical symptoms
♂ There are families who suffer the mental symptoms
♀♂ And there are those of US who get both

♀ 95 percent of the women in the world suffer PMS
♀ 10 percent of those women are either homicidal or suicidal

I was lucky, I only went crazy – I mean screaming insane – once a year – around hunting season (which began in May and ended in late December.) My daughter forgave me; my marriage didn’t survive.

That was 20 years ago, I’m beyond PMS. But now I suffer with an affliction that hits ALL women, to some degree, who live to middle age. MENOPAUSE. I quit smoking at age 42 – I gained 25 pounds the first month. “I can’t find anything to wear” depression set in – I gained a few more pounds, then some more. I tried working out, Nada. I tried dieting (shit, just thinking the word diet added girth to my blossoming butt.)

And then..THE.HOT.FLASHES.BEGAN.

To battle the ravages of menopause I began an herbal regiment of remedies so many and varied I can’t remember most of their names. Oh, shit is that a sign of senility? Nothing worked.

Note:
To all who’ve yet to get here…
To those who are partnered with some one who is/has been/will get here

WE TURN IN TO BITCHES! It is called LACK OF SLEEP.

Nothing worked. My Nurse Practitioner suggested a glass of wine nightly. So I tired a glass of wine, but two nights later (because it didn’t’ work the second night) I tried two glasses. After two nights of frustration I switched to Kalhua and Crème. Then margaritas.

Problem. I get paged in the middle of the night. Often. I can’t be inebriated. So two margaritas a night, as tempting as they are, causes not only an urge for loud, screaming nightly sex (if I can stay awake) but drinking-sleeping-driving syndrome. I’m pretty certain menopause is not a green light to drink and drive to deserted mountain tops in rural Oregon at 3am dressed in my jammies. Although I’m certain I could tempt the judge with loud, screaming sex (if I can stay awake.)

So I became addicted to over the counter sleep aides instead. A much better choice don’t cha think?

Now I had my first night sweat at age 30 (interesting year – night sweats – PMS – and first gray hair in one year.) Weight gain began at 42. Hot flashes started at 43. I read that hot flashes usually last from two to four years. So I figured I’d be affected for six years. But my math (and yes, I am a product of the new math debacle of the early 70s) must be faulty, because that was eight years ago.

The hot flashes kick about five minutes after getting in to bed and don’t stop until 4:15am (15 minutes after Ducky gets out of bed to go to work.) Where as I use to sleep in sexy gray sweats and bulky sweat socks every night snuggled up to Ducky under a down comforter, I am sleeping in cool, slinky silk with one sheet and two fans to cool me off. If I could stay awake (those pills work damn well) Ducky might get lucky. But no, before I can get into the bed and luxuriate in cool sheets for a minute, he has rolled over to sleep on my side of the bed snuggling to his chest my pillow, which are all now as hot as I am.

So much for the urge – maybe I should go back to the margaritas with Tylenol PM chaser so I could forget the heat and enjoy some panting.