Should We Stay or Should We Goūüé∂ūüé∂ūüé∂

Okay.¬† So, I know it’s been a day or two¬†since my last post ūüėČ and I wasn’t¬†actually planning a post today ‘cuz it’s¬†crazy busy for us right now, but…who the hell could resist?

Not I.

You all know how much I like a good ‘saga’¬† ūüėā ūüė≠ ūüėď

Especially about cars.  Or moving.  Or houses.  Or other Shit-N-Stuff.

Right?

So…after all the blood, sweat, and tears, we shed before, during, and after, moving into our current home, we are considering selling.

Yup…2 years, 6 months in, picking up and moving again is actually being considered.

Nutz! ūüėĶ¬†¬† Looney!¬† ūüėĪ¬†¬† Coocoo for Cocoa Puffs! ūüźí

Why?

Two reasons really.

The first,¬†to be closer to my recently transplanted Mom, who¬†is, apparently, one of those lucky people I’ve heard about when it comes to adventures in moving.¬† Her pack and move went smoothly.¬† Her house¬†behaved when she moved in and didn’t reach out and break her leg or rain down through her light fixtures from the floor above.

IMG_0004

Remember my crying lights?

She has¬†made¬†a beautiful home for herself…and is quite content to remain where she is.¬† But, we are finding that even a mere¬†20 minute/10 mile distance, is 15 minutes too far!

{Hmmm, note to self…A Drive Too Far…Book?¬† Movie?¬† Copyright infringement?¬† Carry on self…}

The second, as important as the first, is because our beautiful Ms. Sadie needs a place to safely run and play in her own backyard, and we cannot give that to her.

Why?

Because we cannot fence it in ūüė≤

Why?

Bureaucratic Bullshit ūüöß

We have a gorgeous back yard…

Northfield in the fall

What…don’t believe that’s mine?

What—everrrrrrrrrrrr¬† ūüĎÄ

Forget the mountains then.

Oh for Pete’s sake…take out the barn if it bothers ya!

Okay Okay (ya picky bitches), take out the fence, the trees, the other barn, and the rolling field in the background and you’ve got my yard.

Happy?

Anyhoo….because Virginia’s disclosure laws are a¬† j o k e, not one of the half dozen professionals involved in buying real estate, not to mention the previous owner, felt it necessary to inform us that this lot is one of the highest impacted lots in the neighborhood, rendering our little slice of Eden…all but USELESS.

Why?

There is a 60′ (yes, that is SIXTY) gas company easement from the back of the property towards the house and runs the entire width of the tad over a 1/3 acre lot.¬† From our way of thinking, that should have been mentioned by SOMEONE in the 2 month buying/closing process yeah?

Yeah……….No!

Add to that 60′ another¬†20′ for the build line which runs from the structure towards the back of the yard, making¬†the total depth/width of what we cannot add to, plant on, or change in a way that would impede….a whopping 80′.

EIGHTY #$#$%#$ FEET¬† ūüėĖ ūüė≠ ūüėē

Even¬†though the gas company¬†could work with us¬†on a fee based waiver,¬†they won’t.

But Wait!¬† There’s More¬† (oh goody)

There are also easements from the county that cannot be waivered.

One is a¬†16′ drainage easement, running back to front, the entire length of the property, but it’s on the side property line, so we didn’t give that one much thought.¬† At the time.¬† Not until¬†we had to.¬† And we had to when we wanted to put a storage shed out there.¬† On the side.¬† Away from the gas easement.¬† Ya know, close to the garage and stuff.

Ummmm….Not gonna happen¬† ūüöę

Then {and I chuckle here}¬†there is that all too common, everybody else must have one…FLOOD DAM FAULT LINE!¬† OR FAULT DAM FLOOD LINE!¬† OR DAM FLOOD FAULT LINE!¬† OR SOME DAMNED LINE GOING DIAGONALLY THROUGH THE ENTIRE BACK YARD!!

You got one, right?¬† And you?¬† And you, and you?¬† And you over there?¬† Everybody?¬† ‘Cause I’m thinking it’s so damned prolific as to be down right common-place.¬† Like we all got grass so why point out the grass?¬† Ain’t that¬†why I’ve never heard of this effin’ thing?¬† Ain’t it?

What the hell is happening?????????????¬† ūüėĪ

The only friggin floods that I have ever heard of around here….were¬†inside my damned house and that fault line didn’t help one daggone¬†bit!!¬† (el squat-o)

Did I say this made me chuckle?

I lied¬† ūüėę

Of course, we wouldn’t do it if we didn’t think we’d get a decent enough return to buy another.¬† The market is good right now, the rates are still low, people may be looking to get into a place before the next school year….all good things right?

So I ask you…

ūüé∂ Should we stay or should we go ūüé∂

(sorry,¬†I can’t help singing it…lol)

Oh geez…after all that, I forgot to mention why I even began this post.¬†¬†While we muse over the possibility of listing (we’re about 98% there to be honest), we figured we’d do what we always do in this situation…invest more blood, sweat, and tears, not to mention ūüíį, into getting our¬†imperfect ūüŹ†¬†perfect so the next¬†ūüĎł of the¬†newly perfected ūüŹį won’t have to lift a friggin’ finger or spend an effn’ dime!

‘Cause that’s¬†how we role…we Hernandezeseses (Hernadezi?)

We buy, we fix, we do……..and we move.¬† So we can then…buy old¬†and broken,¬†fix to new and pretty, sell to others who don’t have to do a damned thing…just so we can buy old and broken, fix to new and pretty….blah de blah de blah!

In that vein…
We have had the¬†fireplace that hasn’t worked since the day after we moved in, fixed.
We had the Jacuzzi tub’s leaky-ass faucets that we haven’t touched since the first time we went to use it and didn’t because it leaked, repaired.
We’re giving our wood floors a facelift so they don’t offend the next matriarch with their little Sadie scratches.
We’re resurfacing our pinkish, post-form, laminate countertops that somehow were good enough for me, but certainly will put off today’s savvy buyers looking for the trendier granite because ‘It’s so shiiiiny’.

And I’ve saved the¬†best for last…

and the hardest for me…

the die-hard DIY’er:

Hiring someone to do what I do, and do well is tough. But time, old shoulders, bad, up close & personal, eyesight, added to my increased lack o’ patience, has dictated that this time around…we must bite the proverbial and hire a pro.

You all know me and my history with hiring professionals.

Though you know I pride myself in doing my due diligence, you also know it has gotten my leg broken, my house flooded, my toothbrush packed with the toilet brush, and my car dying at 70 MPH on Interstate 91 in New Haven.

Shall we agree that you know this Wonder Woman of Wacky Workmen?

Okay then…we’re off.

We hired a ‘Pro” to paint the interior of our 4BR, 3BA home, top to bottom, head to toe, and everything in between.¬† The references were stellar. The estimate reasonable. The time frame – 7 days. Perfect.

That should have been my first clue!

When. Will. I. Learn?

Nothing is perfect, nor apparently, what it seems!

I’m getting ahead of myself…let’s see.¬† To be pro-active, we removed all wall d√©cor, switch plates, outlet covers,¬†electronics, all items in/on/around furniture, packed everything in boxes, moved all furniture to middle of rooms to be covered, placed all non-necessary furnishings, boxes, small items, etc., in the garage, took up all rugs, and basically had the house ‘paint-ready’ for the start date.¬† Oh, and we moved into my mother’s to give them free reign to only have to cover stuff once and not worry about finishing one room at a time.¬† The house was theirs.¬† They had to do nothing but cover, patch, sand, and paint.

Two painters began on Monday the 6th.¬† The owner’s son who is¬†taking over the business, and his¬†side kick with 25 years under his belt,¬†cut-in and first coat, guy.

Come Saturday, the 11th, one was left and the other one gone.  I fired the side-kick for lack of production and sloppy work.  His smoke breaks alone used half his hours and all of his work needed to be re-done.

He blamed the paint.  I blamed the painter.  I win.

Boom!¬† You’re outta here!¬†

I was told he would be replaced with a more professional side kick, but as of today, the 17th, there is still but one.

Mr Painter Man

Who I call IMA

IMA fix it РIMA gonna do it РIMA be here late tomorra РIMA sorry РIMA IMA IMA

By end of business today, there will have been a total of 11 painting days.

Know what’s done?¬† Hah…stop that laughing.¬† Wanna know?

Upstairs.

This is still my downstairs…11 days later

Know what else?

There are 3 walls upstairs that need to be redone.¬† But I told¬†IMA to save that for dessert cause I needed his ass downstairs in the kitchen!¬† I’ve got a counter top being redone on MONDAY!!

I even returned the remaining 6 gallons of my accent color, a beautiful Crushed Oregano green, for¬†IMA because he keeps blaming the paint…I changed my design for him!

IMG_20160616_101407_640[1]

Does this color scare you?¬† It’s on my front door, which I painted, without trouble

 What the hell is wrong with me???  IMA STUPID!

Know what I’m doing right now?

ūüė≠ ūüė≠ ūüė≠ ūüė≠ ūüė≠ ūüė≠ ūüė≠ etc etc etc

Why bother going through all of this some might ask.  Especially when my house always looks good whether trendy or not.  Always up to date, clean, and comfy.  Homey!

Because Lord knows, today’s modern and discerning buyer would no doubt, walk into a home with red in the kitchen and yellow in the living room; green in the bathroom and a cloud painted blue sky ceiling in the bonus room, would run screaming into the street for the horror!

None of which I put on the walls but was perfectly fine with it until the day I decided to change it.

Boy oh Boy…we can’t expect someone else to think that way now can we?

Or so the real estate professionals tell me. After all, this is only the 6th house we will have sold, so how would I know anything about what sells and what doesn’t?

So…next week, it’ll be Mr. Painter-man who best have my kitchen done by tomorrow (or else )¬†and the counter-top crew.¬† That, should be an interesting day¬† ūüėā

ūüé∂ ūüé∂ We Should’a Stayed and Let Him Go ūüé∂ ūüé∂

 

From One Boomer to Another…yikes!

1966 – 2016

1966 : Long hair
2016:  Longing for hair

1966 : KEG
2016:  EKG

1966 : Acid rock
2016:  Acid reflux

1966 : Moving to¬† California¬† because it’s cool
2016: ¬†Moving to¬† Arizona¬† because it’s warm

1966 : Trying to look like Marlon Brando or Liz Taylor
2016:  Trying NOT to look like Marlon Brando or Liz Taylor

1966 : Seeds and stems
2016:  Roughage

1966 : Hoping for a BMW
2016:  Hoping for a BM

1966 : Going to a new, hip joint
2016:  Receiving a new hip joint

1966 : Rolling Stones
2016:  Kidney Stones

1966 : Screw the system
2016:  Upgrade the system

1966 : Disco
2016:  Costco

1966 : Parents begging you to get your hair cut
2016:  Children begging you to get their heads shaved

1966 : Passing the drivers’ test
2016:  Passing the vision test

1966 : Whatever
2016 : Depends

And…just in case you weren’t feeling old enough, this will certainly change things.

Each year the staff at Beloit College in Wisconsin puts together a list to try to give the faculty a sense of the mindset of this year’s incoming freshmen.

Here’s this year’s list:

  • The people who are starting college this fall across the nation were born in 1998.
  • They are too young to remember the space shuttle blowing up.
  • Their lifetime has always included AIDS.
  • Bottle caps have always been screw off and plastic.
  • The CD was introduced 7 years before they were born.
  • They have always had an answering machine.
  • They have always had cable.
  • They cannot fathom not having a remote control.
  • Popcorn has always been cooked in the microwave.
  • They never took a swim and thought about Jaws.
  • They can’t imagine what hard contact lenses are.
  • They don’t know who Mork was or where he was from.
  • They never heard: “Where’s the Beef?”, “I’d walk a mile for a Camel”, or “de plane, Boss, de plane.”
  • They do not care who shot J. R. and have no idea who J. R. even is. Mc Donald’s never came in Styrofoam containers.
  • They don’t have a clue how to use a typewriter.

Do you feel old yet?

Home is where you learn to walk

Walking.

Like riding a bike…once you learn how…you don’t forget.

Choose not to, sure. ¬†But you don’t forget.

When I was a girl I used to walk everywhere.  I would stomp with purpose in my Wonder Bread bag covered shoes to school in the winters, hoping to get the bags off and stowed before the LL Bean boot-wearing kids could see them.

I’d march, like a good little soldier, the kiddie version of a 50 yard mile to church on Sunday, fiddling with the all too popular, bang-holding, enormous, white, clip-on bow my mother insisted I wear. ¬†One that made my¬†hair sit pregnant and waiting to pop its clip from atop my head, and in doing so, birthing my bangs back onto my forehead where they belonged! ¬†The post clip-on years saw my¬†9 to 14 year old self, stomp the yard the longest¬†1/4 mile known to adolescents…especially on Catechism Saturdays, where God’s own wicked witch of the north ruled with an iron fist!

The better walking days were when I was old enough to sashay and glide; take my time meandering and strolling, to the place where all good things happen. ¬†Overstreet. ¬†Which, for those who don’t know, is our far north yank-speak for Downtown. ¬†I could spend my fifty cent allowance buying nickle candy at the Economy Store, making¬†sure to save the quarter I needed for the Sat’dy matinee a couple doors down at the Savoy. ¬†And often times, I’d even have enough to stop at The Candy Kitchen for a creamie on the way home, if that’s what the gang wanted to do.

In the pre-bicycle summers, walking to the pool was the equivalent my now-self walking 5 miles on the huff and puff scale. ¬†I’ve actually checked since then and know now it was just a hair shy of a¬†mile…but it was the last half that was a killer. ¬†Or so it seemed at the time. And looking back…having a bike didn’t improve that hill any…not one lick! ¬†I don’t think I managed to stay ON the bike the whole way up but once, and only then because I rode that hill like it was a Donkey Kong trail, without the ladders! ¬†Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. ¬†It was easier to push it (or leave it home). ¬†Besides, kids pushing bicycles up that hill was just the way of it…until the 10-speed arrived. ¬†YeeHaw…what an invention. ¬†Not that I ever had one, but boy could those kids ride that hill like it was nothing!

Our’s was a small town; a good, walking town for a kid when you come right down to it. Nestled in a little valley surrounded by the Green Mountains; a college town without acting like a college town because we didn’t really sport the kinds of places college kids like to hang. ¬†And those we did have, the cadets managed to get thrown out of more often than not, so it was really just us¬†town folk most of the time.

I loved walking that town, and I know it’s from walking that town that I feel so drawn to the beauty in everyday things that I often take pictures of. ¬†Imagine walking down the street where you live, and everywhere you look, there’s a mountain, or a brook, or a river. Walk to the end of that street and you can chose to go straight over the footbridge, crossing the river towards downtown and what adventures lie there. ¬†Or left over the tracks towards one of your schools or a shortcut to your friend’s house, the side street tree lined and leaf covered. ¬†Or better yet, turn right and walk to where the pavement ends and the dirt begins. ¬†Fields full of wild flowers and cows; promises of swimming holes and tire swings, and mountains as far as the eye¬†can see.

All the time looking up. ¬†All the time thinking…I want to live in those mountains. ¬†I want to hear the brooks run and the smell the spring mud; feel the snow tickle as it falls on my face, and crunch under my feet for as long as I live.

I no longer live in that town.

But that town lives in me.  I take it with me everywhere, as I take all those things I fell in love with there too.

It’s the peace I reach for¬†when I can find none where I am.

No matter where I hang my hat, my ¬†heart remains there…in my little town. ¬†Where walking the streets is not a profession…it’s a path to connection. ¬†To God, to community, to nature, but most importantly, to¬†oneself.

When I need it, I put on my boots and hit the road and remember. ¬†I remember to keep my ears open, my eyes wide, and my mind quiet. ¬†I remember to be thankful for some of the absolute best memories of¬†my life…and more so, to be thankful for giving me the mountains my mind ran¬†away to; where I’d sit under a glorious burnt orange tree while it bathed in the red-gold light of a late fall sun…for the¬†absolute worst of my life.

The little town where I learned to walk; to never take for granted the¬†beauty in the¬†simple things; to accept with gratitude,¬†the gifts it gave me every day; and learned too, the true understanding of what it is…the power…to have¬†a place to call home.

Northfield in the fall

My town, where I learned to walk

 

(photo by Carol of Carol’s View of New England on blogspot)

Mommy Dearest

I’ll go out on a limb here and say for most of us, being a parent is, quite literally, the hardest job we’ve ever had or ever will. And, at the same time, it’s the richest, most fulfilling, most rewarding contribution to our own lives and always will be. ¬†alex

One of the most surprising¬†aspects of parenthood’s lifelong journey is finding out that one split second is all it takes for you to come to know the best and worst of being a parent…the span of that second is the distance between loving another being¬†so much it hurts, to wishing¬†you’d gotten a dog instead! ¬†True dat ¬†ūüôā

angry_baby11

But in looking at this¬†most difficult¬†/¬†most rewarding dichotomy, it’s not so hard to understand when you consider first, our tendency¬†to place the highest value on that which was hardest won, and second, our amazing capacity for forgiveness (as parents at least).

But what is it that takes parents to the depths of the difficult to the heights of reward when it comes to loving our children? How do we survive the splintering of our brains in a thousand directions trying to figure them out, yet tarnishes the love in our hearts never?

I don’t question the reward; I think it’s obvious. I do, however, ponder the difficult. Is it because we love too much? ¬†Is it that even possible?

I don’t believe so…

However, could it be that we love too much for too long?  Is that it?  Does parental love need to be doled out in stages or degrees?  Or fit into categories in order to not overload these little overlords once they come into their own?

So what (you ask) are these stages/degrees/categories you ask?

I’m a little cuss who can’t (and don’t want to) function without you so love me, love me more, love me most!

I’m a teenager so love me lots, and with patience, but for God’s sake, don’t let my friends see it!

I’m a young adult now so love me from a distance, but not too far ’cause I may need the car!

I’ve met someone and we’re going to get married. ¬†Can ya help, can ya pay, can we have it there? (ps Mom and Dad…you’re gonna love him/her!)

I’m going to have a baby so love me, love me most, and love me now ’cause we’re going to need babysitters!¬†(ps Mom and Dad…you’re gonna love it!)

Mom? Dad? I’ve never felt this way before…I love this kid so much my heart hurts!
(ps honey…we know!)

And so on…..

The short answer to the too much / too long question is…yes, okay, maybe, a little bit. But we parents come to this conclusion naturally I think. We instinctively know (or learn soon enough if our instincts are not as honed as they will be), which stage or category we’re dealing with or which degree of parental love to douse them with, simply by living it. Organic knowledge. ¬†We just have to choose¬†to go with it.

Does that stop us from loving the same soul-deep way we did when they were newborn?

No.  Perhaps it does in theirs though.  For a time.

I know¬†that they love us the same way we do them…in the beginning. ¬†Outside of themselves, we are their world. Their universe. Their moon and their stars, and they are ours.

Parents and kids grow up together. ¬†That’s a given. ¬†No matter if you’re 18 or 45 when you have your children, you¬†have¬†to grow up with them to be able to give and receive all that these little selves need, and later, need to share.

We may grow up more with our first.  Then again, it may just be that we grow up differently with the next one or two or three.

But…if we’ve played our hands well, we are love. ¬†All of it. ¬†Every stage, every degree, every category is of the love, by¬†the love, for the love. ¬†And they are right there with us.

Completely (in the beginning)

Mostly (in the middle)

Until (still in the middle but getting further towards the…the…well shit…not the end, but you know what I mean right?)

Until…they find out there are more people to love and to be loved by; more stars to shine the light of love on their heads and in their hearts; more room in their world for other loves.

As it has always been.  As it was with our own parents to be sure.  Just another way of experiencing the circle of life.

Consider…

Our children are loved as only a child can be loved and they in turn, love as only a child can love. The universe is secure.

As time goes on, they thrive and grow in that forever, universe-spanning, parental love and love them right back. But as they continue to grow, they s l o w l y  recognize that their world is expanding to include the many, many different kinds of love; each addition a glimmering star to their universe thus far.

But their recognition is as single-minded as their love for us was in the beginning. When they venture out from underneath the love-cloaked expanse of their parental universe, they don’t at once realize that their hearts¬†are big enough to add new loves without setting aside old ones.

Our time will come again (usually around the time the grand-kids show up!), but as parents, it’s only natural that we do feel the initial loss of that connection when our love is no longer the moon and the stars in our child’s heart.

BUT…

Facing this fact head-on is hard, but absolutely necessary.

For our own well-being as well as theirs.

If we don’t, we run the risk of pushing them further out into the expanse by clinging too close, depending too much on their always being there, pining away for their childhood days when they aren’t there, regretting what we didn’t do, or forgetting what we did. Even romanticizing the harder times and not counting our blessings.

We all can probably think of a parent in our experience who has done, or does, this. Think back to the last time you witnessed a parent who cannot let go and re-live what you felt. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling.

I’m certainly not completely innocent of it still. ¬†I sometimes catch myself feeling guilty for not being ‘that mother’. The one who always can, always will, never says no, never says can’t. Who wouldn’t want to be considered ‘the perfect mom’? ¬†But that’s not perfection. It’s limiting to both your life and those of your children.

However, even knowing I am not (and never could be) that mother…(nor is their Dad ‘that guy’) it nevertheless hurts (and in the dark of night, makes me wonder if they’ll still love me enough to ask again- I know, just silly ) to know that we are the ones disappointing our¬†children.

But we get over it because we know we are good parents¬†who have raised good people. ¬†We all¬†deal with disappointments in our relationships. ¬†We have difficult conversations followed by deafening silences. ¬†But we’ve loved each other long enough and well enough to know what’s really important.

So there is hope. Once we’ve matured enough in our parenthood to realize this fact of life, we can recapture¬†that sense of oneness, specialness, absolute love not felt anywhere but in your parents’ heart of hearts. ¬†It is, after all,¬†our hearts that need to make preparations for the day when our children learn there is a love flow-chart. ¬†This will fluctuate during their life spans, but it will always show a solid heart-red line for us. ¬†Mom and Dad. ¬†Steady as she goes. ¬†What more could we hope for?

And an added benefit to this stage of parental maturity is…we can (and hopefully do) look back at our own parents with a new appreciation for all they’ve done, all they’ve been through, and all we’ve¬†learned from them without even knowing it. ¬†Score!

Cheers and happy parenting (and I mean that!)

Dearest Mommy

Dedicated to my Mother and Father and to my Sons
I’m proud to be one of your stars

The Post Politic

As I await the dawn of my¬†20,075th day on this earth, I feel the need for reflection. ¬†Time enough alive, I should think, to have learned a thing or two. Sorry to say, it hasn’t been all good.

However, owing to the fact that tomorrow is an election day here, and the boob-tube shows nothing but boobs…I couldn’t help but get stuck in the quagmire that is our government

Having learned that cliches are cliches, and euphemisms are euphemisms for good reason, and never more evident than when a pattern of behavior BEGS to be seen for exactly what it is, I do think it’s time for me to call it what it is and like I see it…
B U L L S H I T

And by bullshit, I mean Politics

If you’ll allow, I give you:

The top 20 cliches and euphemisms of this 20,074¬†¬Ĺ day old¬†female, who believes are alive and well in today’s bloody, rotten, stinkin’, crappy, silly, non-productive, infuriating, ridiculous, embarrassing; yet ours…world of politics

The more things change, the more they stay the same – POLITICS

A house divided against itself, cannot stand – POLITICS

Actions speak louder than words – POLITICS

Those who do not learn from history, are doomed to repeat it – POLITICS

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em – POLITICS

Money talks – POLITICS

Stupid is as stupid does – POLITICS

Birds of a feather flock together – POLITICS

Talk is cheap – POLITICS

The ends justify the means – POLITICS

There’s one born every minute – POLITICS

The truth is stranger than fiction – POLITICS

Two wrongs don’t make a right – POLITICS

Cut off your nose to spite your face – POLITICS

Feeding frenzy – POLITICS

Out of sight, out of mind – POLITICS

The blind leading the blind – POLITICS

The status quo – POLITICS

It takes one to know one – POLITICS

A good man/woman  is hard to find РPOLITICS

…and trust me, I could go on


But another pattern of behavior ‘frosts my ass’ too. ¬† And you’ll likely notice that many of the above can be applied to what is below

I think I’ll call it the Tolerance/Intolerance Side Show to the circus that is Political Correctness:

Protesting to rename highways, parks, etc., and trying to remove monuments that celebrate confederate Generals because they fought a fight you don’t agree with

Yet…organizing campaigns to rename those same said highways, parks, etc. for people that answered the call for civil rights decades after the fact. The same protesters, I might add, who themselves never cried out for¬†the removal from written history, all who made their lives hell

Removing the Confederate flag from all state and federal facilities because some see it as a symbol of hatred, when in fact, it was a battle flag designed to differentiate it from the Union flag and therefore has historical value; nothing more

Yet, not protesting when a world renowned symbol of the United States, The Empire State Building, is used to herald the achievements or celebrate holidays of the very countries that would like nothing more than to see the United States cease to exist

Removing something as iconic as The Duke’s of Hazard from TV Land because the car had a Confederate flag on it, even though not a single word of a single episode, ever suggested bigotry or racism or intolerance

Yet, if you’re a fan of TV Land programs, have you noticed George Jefferson says¬†the word Honky in just about every episode?


And there are some behaviors that are not so easily categorized, yet the influence of today’s PC madness is evident in the overwhelming number of those who ascribe to these beliefs relating to color:

Listening as people of color tell me that I’ll never understand, could never relate, to what it’s like to be a person of color

True.  Yet at the same time, those said same people of color, tell me they know exactly what it is to be white, because being white means only one thing; privilege

[I get it, in theory. ¬†But I can just as easily say that I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be a bird. It’s irrelevant. ¬†And, another truth is that, unless you’ve¬†walked the back roads of my life…your right to this claim¬†is false. ¬†So let’s stick to the truth¬†that none of us can know what it’s like to be in another man’s shoes, unless we’ve walked in them, and call it a day.]

Sanitizing our history books to shield our kids from the worst in our country’s history, including the path of our growth (that we are still on by the way)

Yet making sure we do include a focus of study¬†that tries to maximize a culture of them vs us, with little regard for how far we’ve come, nor teachings on the strides made in the last 200 years…as though nothing has changed


The worst of it comes out in the various ways we bite each other’s ankles…and to what end?

For instance:

Demonizing the rich for having too much

Denigrating the poor for having too little and needing more

Expecting the government to give more and more

Blaming the government for sticking it’s nose in our business

Tolerance for groups that separate and segregate

Intolerance for groups that point it out

Fighting for women’s equality

Crying that chivalry is dead

Calling for change through peaceful protest for the injustices seen in all facets of the human struggle, especially those affecting minorities

Yet some especially touched by these injustices hide behind a guise of protest for change, take it as the opportunity to loot for personal gain and destroy entire neighborhoods, then scream racism when motives are questioned


Are we so intolerant or jealous of each other’s success that we have to denigrate and belittle?
Are we so comfortable in our misery, we feel we must maintain it at all costs?
Have we forgotten what it’s like to celebrate each other to the point that every gain should be looked at as a loss because it didn’t happen 200 years ago? ¬†100 years ago? ¬†50? ¬†Yesterday?

When all we have to show for the 3 centuries we’ve been a country are broken teeth and bloody socks…why the hell do we even try?


Is this to be our legacy…?

Welcome to the United States

The land of equal opportunity damning

Damned if we do

And by God

Damned if we don’t


Is the only way to prove I’m not a racist to agree with everything a person of color says and thinks?

Why?  Why can I not just agree and disagree with anyone and everyone based on what I believe and be done with it!

Conversely, is the only way to be true to your heritage as a person of color to pretend success doesn’t matter lest your peers think you an Uncle Tom or some other stupid shit?

That’s ridiculous on its face and damned insulting to every person who’s ever made more of themselves than those around them! ¬†REGARDLESS of your heritage.

Is the only way I can prove I’m a strong woman to think and act like a man?

Shit, I’d rather¬†be a cat (I almost said dog, but cats get away with more!)


We are better than this!

We…men, women, black, white, red, yellow, brown, HUMAN…are better than this!

This began as a reflection in the wading pool that is this political swamp, but resulted in getting caught in the current of political correctness, and nearly drowning in the tidal wave of whatthefuckarewethinking!

Enough already!

Just

Enough


I end it here…I am 55 tomorrow.
I am seeing the country I love implode because of an agenda I have no interest in adopting as my own.

I am proud to be an American.
I am proud to be a Christian.
I am proud to hold the values I hold and don’t feel the need to label them one way or the other.
I am proud to be a woman.
I hold no pride in being white…I have ZERO say in that.
Nor do I maintain guilt because of it.
I am proud to champion anyone who leaves the world a better place.
I don’t see the race or religion.
I could care two-shits for the land that you hailed from as long as you take good care of the one you are living in.
I will celebrate your achievements, but none so much as your paying forward that which you can to those that cannot.

I am a member of one race – the human one – and unless you expect me to give that up – I’ll always welcome you at my table

THIS…IS WHAT I WILL ALWAYS BE

The Ear Infection

My posts have been rather heavy of late (my Mother said I had a toilet mouth!) so I think it’s time to lighten things up. ¬†Let’s see…one sec while I rummage through my email funny file. ¬†Ah Ha! ¬†Got one I think you might like and though I have to resort to using my toilet mouth a time or two…it’s gotta be real. ¬†Ya know?


Okay…here we go:

The Ear Infection

They always ask at the doctor’s office why you are¬†there, and you have to answer in front of others what is wrong and¬†sometimes it is embarrassing. There is nothing worse than a Doctor’s Receptionist who insists you tell¬†her what is wrong with you in a room full of other patients. ¬†I know most of us have experienced this, and I love the way this old guy¬†handled it…
A 65-year-old man walked into a crowded waiting room and approached the desk.
The Receptionist said, ‘Yes sir, what are you seeing the Doctor for¬†today?’
‘There’s something wrong with my **penis**’, he replied.
The receptionist became irritated and said, ‘You shouldn’t come into a¬†crowded waiting room and say things like that. ‘
‘Why not, you asked me what was wrong and I told you,’ he said.
The Receptionist replied; ‘Now you’ve caused some embarrassment in this¬†room full of people. You should have said there is something wrong with¬†your ear or something and discussed the problem further with the Doctor in¬†private.’
The man replied, ‘You shouldn’t ask people questions in a roomful of¬†strangers, if the answer could embarrass anyone.’
The man walked out, waited several minutes, and then re-entered.
The Receptionist smiled smugly and asked, ‘Yes??’
‘There’s something wrong with my ear,’ he stated.
The Receptionist nodded approvingly and smiled, knowing he had taken her¬†advice…
‘And what is wrong with your ear, Sir?’
‘I can’t piss out of it,’ he replied.
ūüė≥
The waiting room erupted in laughter…
¬†Mess with seniors, and you’re going to lose.

Any Other Questions??

 

An Age-Old Question…

For An Old-Age Mind…

What is it about later in life birthdays?

They often find one
sitting alone in a room
4 hours past the witching hour
with naught but
the eerily compelling
softly alluring glow
of artificial light
and mechanical heat
for company?

Whether alone by choice
or by insomnia
is beside the point
it’s the kind of alone
that’s not lonely.

It’s that kind of…

Alone in the dark
snugged in a corner of the couch
covered chin to toes but for the exposed
elbow that bends
the hand that holds
the wine that fuels
the brain to ask

So…

She gives in to the pull
sets down the glass
throws off the throw
unfurls the limbs
settles in front
and kisses the lips
of her secret keeping
story telling
question asking but
answer withholding
companion

Hoping that somewhere
out there

She’s met or
has yet to meet
at least one or
even better
a good number of you
older and wiser
new friends

And may it please you and to
whomever
whatever
wherever
you pray…

Can one of you?
Any of you?
By all that you hold dear?

Please?

Tell me?

Which came first?

The Chicken OR The Fucking EGG?

This, my friends, is what it
looks like
sounds like
feels like
to get old

Sitting alone in the dark, blahddy fucking blah, at what is now 3am, trying to celebrate another year, ONE HELL OF A YEAR AT THAT, of getting fatter, wrinklier, forgettier, and grayer.

I’m up to 54 shades and I haven’t found the answer yet!

Maybe that’s the point…

To keep on looking?

Still…

I Want to know!
I Have to know!
I Need to know!

Boggles the mind….