Dear Lord

Please let the Giants beat the snot out of New England today.
Amen

Candidate or Moron?

Imagine that you are Pervez Musharraf, the president of Pakistan: Former Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto has just been assassinated, you've got your hands full with your nation in chaos.
Your secretary tells you that John Edwards is on the phone.
John Edwards? Isn't he that guy on the WE network who claims he can contact and converse with the dead?
Sure Musharraf is gonna take the call; only to discover its that other John Edwards calling from the Iowan war front. The perennial presidential candidate's vast experience must have been very helpful.

I'm just saying. . .

Enlarge?

I keep getting these emails offering to "increase the size of my organ".

First off: I don't have an organ. I don't even have a piano! Also my living room is rather small.
Silly Spammer!

MERRY CHRISTMAS

May Christmas and every day have a Michael Buble soundtrack

Quote of the Day

"If there were drugs that actually made you smarter, good Lord, I have no doubt that their use would become epidemic. Just think what it would do to anybody's career in about any area. There are not too many occupations where it's really good to be dumb."
~ Charles E. Yesalis, doping researcher and emeritus professor at Pennsylvania State University.

A Plague?

Those damn ants have returned. Should I expect locusts and frogs by noon?

Cash for Christmas?

I am the apparent winner of the South African Lottery! I didn't even have to buy a ticket. This sounds much more promising then the letter I received from Nigeria.

(Sorry Sis- that's all I've got for you today! ;>)

Why Am I Here?

At least once a day I ask myself this question-although not in the Purpose Driven manner of Rick Warren or in the naval-gazing custom of the highly evolved. No, I ask myself this with the hope that it will remind me of why I suddenly find myself in different rooms of my house.

When I discover myself in the kitchen, I always search the refrigerator first, hoping that a clue can be found in the pudding section. Failing that, I return to the last room I was in, confident that I left the reason or perhaps a clue there.

I’ve devised some techniques that may help others who have these senior moments or what I call Brain Farts.

1) In route, chant your quest as a mantra: I’m here for the phone, phone, phone. It's a good idea to include the name of the person you wish to call. Otherwise you'll spend the rest of the day trying to figure out why you're carrying a phone.

2) Create a song by including at least two other items with the same first initial but with completely different purposes: Basket, Bible, Ball. (Get it? Bibles and baskets don’t bounce well.)

3) Repeat the reason you need an item: Cut, cut, cut.
(This one can be tricky as I have gone in search of cuticle scissors and returned with a chainsaw.)

4) Write it down. (At the end of each day I frequently find my pockets crammed with little slips of paper with the number "8" scrawled on them.)

5) If none of these are helpful in jogging your memory: Return to the kitchen. Eat the pudding. Eight of them.

Captured!

Like a trapped animal, I sit in a corner. The walls shield me, allowing me to see approaching danger. I am watchful for any sudden noise or movements.

The Hunter’s eyes narrow in examination of my every breath, always vigilant, searching for a sign of surrender.

My nerves and muscles are rigid. I’m prepared to escape should the opportunity present itself. An hour, then two pass by with no relief in sight.

My head pounds with my brain’s commands of Run Now! Run! Thoroughly aware of the Hunter’s domination, my body refuses the order. I force my spirit deeper into the corner, a futile attempt at invisibility.

The Hunter’s voice echoes across the room with a command. I cannot flee and must, at last, succumb to the Hunter’s will.

I lift my head and respond, "Yes, Mother."

Pretense With All Offense

I survived another "visit" with my mother. No fresh wounds but a shit-load of scabs were picked at quite ferociously.
Don't ask, Don't tell was not created by Bill Clinton. It's been a standard in dysfunctional families since time began.

8 Freakin' Hours!

Rather than give up a Saturday to sit in a windowless room for 8 hrs with 20 strangers, I chose Online Traffic School. I thought that would be faster and easier. I was very, very wrong.

The lure of the internet was the ability to log in and out of the site, allowing me to complete the requirement an hour here, an hour there, in the comfort of my own home. As a rather fast reader I figured I could get through the course in half the time. Apparently the state of California takes that into consideration. It takes 8hrs. No matter how I break it up it's still 8 freakin' hours.

I swear, I will never break another traffic law for as long as I . . . can remember this torture. Or until I'm in a really big hurry. Whichever comes first.

American Veterans

For all those who have served and those who continue in service, you've proved these words are true:

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

Cartoon, My Foot!

We all know our borders are more porous than water. I do not encourage illegal immigration so imagine my horror at discovering a secret portal into our land via my 6-yr old granddaughter’s bedroom! Even more shocking is the identity of the "Coyote" who assists them in their unlawful entry: Nickelodeon's cartoon character, Dora the Explorer.

America has been lulled into a false sense of security by Dora’s charm and alleged educational value to our children. It is propaganda, pure and simple! The program began with Dora teaching our children some basic Spanish words and phrases. It has now blossomed into signage in Spanish at that great symbol of all things holy: Sears, Roebuck & Co.

As a result of Dora’s indoctrination, my grandchild knows the correct pronunciation of the card game UNO. Worse yet, Brittney can identify Ecuador on a world map! This child has been schooled in the United States- she shouldn't know where Nebraska is located!

Are you aware that Dora became the first Hispanic character in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in 2005? Did you know that the majority of illegal immigrants are from Spanish-speaking nations? Coincidence? I think not! It is my theory that all Spanish-speaking illegal immigrants are somehow related to this 7 yr old Latina girl and her friends.

There has been an attempt to steer us away from Dora’s true plan (bringing all Latinos to the U.S.A) by pointing out that Mattel manufactures Dora and her compadres in China. A red herring, my friends. Or should I say a pescado de rojas?: the lead paint is just a ruse to keep us from looking at our neighbors to the south.

I am in no way a "Chicken Little-the-sky-is-falling" fear-monger, but the U.S.A. is in grave danger: Dora is reaching cult-hero status in the manner of Che Guevera. According to her website, Dora is claiming to have saved the mermaids! Children already wear clothing bearing her image. Soon, Hollywood Liberals will sport Dora’s face on their $1000 handbags, T-shirts and man-purses.

My immediate plan is simple: Brittney’s birthday will soon be here. I will provide a piñata of Dora and allow the children to bash it with a stick until the little interloper spills her guts. I'll let you know how it all comes out. So to speak.

That’s another thing: this tradition of blindfolding children and encouraging them to wildly swing a stick at a beloved image so they can get candy. That didn’t come from the hills of West Virginia my friends!

Officer John Q Citizen

I recently saw/heard/read that in some community the Police Department is giving citizens radar guns with cameras to record speeders.
Pick me! Pick me!

CuriousKat

If one is not Ruthless does that make one a "Ruth"?

Film At Eleven

What’s gonna kill us today? Lettuce or spinach? Polly Pocket dolls or G I Joe? Will it be our love of trans fats or our distain for exercise?
One thing is certain: we're all gonna die. (At least that's what they said on the news)

Government Help?

The Government is sending FEMA to help out with the So. Cal wildfires.
Now we're really screwed.

Community Service?

I realize it's been nearly a month since my speeding ticket- but I find that I'm still bitter. Not at law enforcement, I'm ticked off at the hundreds of other drivers I've witnessed flagrantly breaking the law.

I've become hyper-vigilant of these wanton criminal acts. In fact, were I a cop on the 14Fwy I could have written no fewer than 20 tickets on my way to Agua Dulce this morning. At each infraction I loudly shouted "HA- Scofflaw!" to no one in particular and mentally tallied the possible fine each deserved. As a result I figure that if I were deputized I could single-handedly collect enough money to pay off the national debt, build the border fence and arrange for Al Gore to be spirited away to live at the North Pole.

Of course, I'd need a different car: one that can reach passing speeds without turning off the radio and leaning forward. Yes, it's true: I drive a 12 yr old gutless wonder. It goes 5 mph uphill and 106 down. As you may have guessed I was going downhill on that fateful day.

The only thing standing in my way is that ugly brown uniform. That, and the backgroud check.

Thoughts?

I am unable to share Stuff I'm Thinkin' today- not because the thoughts need editing but because there is nothing going on in my head or my life. Zip, Zero, Nada.

Anthology Book Launch & Party:

GRANFALLOON, the 4th Annual Antelope Valley Anthology has been published. Copies will be available on Oct 9, 2007. I am privileged to have my article, Free Radicals, included in the book.

The release party will be held at 6:00 pm on October 9th at the Chimbole Cultural Center in Palmdale. Join us upstairs in the Ballroom for food and drink to celebrate this literary accomplishment.

The "Author's Price" of $6.00 will be available to anyone at the party. While I can't get you a free book (unless you are my only child or my mother) I can offer you a Free Autograph!

I got a speeding ticket the other day, with my 9 year old granddaughter in the back seat. Not on the freeway where normal people would get cited, I was speeding down the main drag of Agua Dulce, a sleepy little town with very little crime and very little Police presence. In a hurry, I drove 45 in a 35 zone. I saw the CHP car and my heart sank faster than I could find the brake pedal.
"I'm an idiot." I revealed to Katie, just in case she'd missed the obvious. I pulled over and waited for the inevitable ticket.
"Mimi?" Katie asked softly. "Will he take you to jail?"
"Why don't you ask him?" I said, hopefully. The pleas of an innocent child might be my only shot at mercy!
"No way!" The child became mute. I was on my own.
After the ticket, as I drove away the kid gave me her take on the situation:
"I think that cop was a rookie, 'cause he was young. That was probably the first ticket he ever wrote- and he got to give it to an old lady!"
Now my humiliation is complete.

O.J, Redux

Is there some kind of magnet that draws every weirdo on the planet to news conferences? Are they compelled to wear stupid shirts, hold up signs and chant? O.J., of course, draws a special kind of weirdo- the kind that gives double murderers a pass.
It's probably not right for me to hope O.J. goes to prison for life . . .BUT I am praying that the prosecution makes NO mistakes.

Remember

Six years ago our nation stood together, sharing tears and heartbreak. We were united in our pain and steadfast in our love of country. Republicans and Democrats stood on the steps of Congress and sang 'God Bless America'. This nation stood shoulder to shoulder and prayed that God would help us even though we’d pushed Him away.

When I see the images of that day my grief is renewed but so is my determination. I love this country and I would give my life in her defense. Because someone else's son, brother or father went in my place that has not been required.

I pray that this nation will remember why we are at war. Let's stop the bickering and remember that terrorists attacked our country in three separate locations and remember that nearly 3000 innocent lives were lost that day. Their attack was no less an act of war than the bombing of Pearl Harbor was. Americans worked together then to insure that freedom could continue to ring. We must work together again or risk losing everything we hold dear.

Because of those who have volunteered then and now, I am free to write about 'Stuff I'm Thinkin' regardless of whether anyone cares. I can make jokes about our nation's politicians without fear (although my taxes may be audited after the 2008 election), I can gripe about the price of gas and about damn ants. I can worship God freely and loudly.

Outside of heaven it doesn't get much better than that!

White Coats

Those white-coated guys have held me captive! They tricked me into trying on a jacket (they said) had been made especially for me.

I don't know who their tailor is but the sleeves were way too long- they wrapped all the way around to my back! The designer must have had a thing for buckles too- those hideous sleeves and the back of the jacket had buckles everywhere. Weird.

I wouldn't recommend their Interior Designer either- the "green" room was a hideous gray. Worse, it was padded, wrapped in thick foam and covered with fabric-even the floor! There wasn't a stick of furniture either. Such an odd design, the place just screamed Crazy!

Anyway, they finally set me free once I convinced them that I was Al Gore's sister and that Ants create carbon emissions.

I hated to play the "Gore" card, but desperate times require desperate measures.

The Battle Continues . . .

We’re all sick of my ant stories but I am compelled to share them until my home is safe again. Or, until I'm taken away in a straitjacket.
The outside ant-crack houses had proved successful, so I bought a 4-pack to replace those now-sucked-dry units. As I've experienced, ants have sleeper-cells just waiting for me to let my guard down.
This same company (TERRO) makes indoor units using the same poison. I thought, Why not? I purchased a 6-pack for indoor use.(Ant-killer stuff, not booze! I'll hold out until heavy-duty medication is provided at that special hospital)
The indoor stuff is in 3 inch, clear plastic strips, containing the lethal poison. You simply clip the plastic and any ant passing by is enticed by the syrup. That should take care of any that were able to slip by the perimeter units.
I put ONE on the windowsill near my desk and left the room.
Out of curiosity I checked for progress at the outside units first. Nothing. Apparently the word was out: Crack Kills. Especially if it's at that crazy lady's house. I threw my head back and laughed like, well, a crazy lady.
The directions clearly state: Monitor regularly for activity but do not interfere with the ants or baits. Replace with additional baits when the first set is depleted.
I checked the windowsill again. It was like a horror film! The sill was black with ants speeding in and out of the unit. Several had been killed in the stampede and the trap was littered with their bodies. The million or more survivors were sucking up the ant-crack and scurrying back to the nest.
I set three more traps and closed the door. I woke up at least four times during the night to monitor the activity. (I wasn't sleeping well anyway- I kept dreaming about that sci-fi movie from the Fifties with the giant ants.)
By this morning it is obvious that I am now attracting outside ants indoors. At this point I am seriously considering offering my home on E-Bay as the World’s Largest Ant Farm!
First, I need to see why there are men in white coats outside my front door . . .

Name That Tune

As I sit here at my desk, I'm assaulted by what sounds like:
(1) a jet engine outside my window
or
(2) the occupants of Hell, screaming.
I look out of the window and discover it's #2. Hell has cleverly disguised itself as the car of a teenager!
The words to the "song" are drowned out by the pounding bass that is setting off car alarms, dogs and in my case, the beginnings of a migraine headache.
While I'm not sure of the song title, I'm fairly certain the band is called Projectile Vomit.
At least it should be.

They're Baack!

Just when I think it's safe to go back into the kitchen, the little terrorists return. They invaded the one thing I really cared about this morning: my cereal. A brand new box! Of course, they weren't happy with just that- No, they sent another battalion to breach everything except the canned food. They're wily little things. They're probably working on weapons that will penetrate cans.

I can be a bit cranky when I'm hungry, plus I hadn't even had my coffee! I can only describe my reaction this morning as totally berserk. The ants ran when they saw my index finger poised to smash their little black butts. You'd better run, you little #$!%&#*. I confess that my language was less than lady-like. I have repented. I'll probably have to repent a thousand times more before noon.

These are obviously an Al-qANT cell or perhaps TalibANTS. Whoever they are, they are the enemy! This is all-out war. No more Ms. Nice Guy. Somebody is gonna die and it ain't gonna be me!

Does anyone have the telephone number for the U.S. Marines?

An Invasion

I’ve been fighting ants all summer. My victories are few and temporary. I kill a million, two million more show up. Another million stands ready to give their lives for a cookie crumb. I’ve used poison in liquids and granules, Windex and hairspray. Ants are an insidious enemy.

Some days I acknowledge that I’ve been out-numbered and perhaps, out-smarted. I've considered moving and letting the ants just have the house! But I refuse to leave without a fight.

I discovered a syrupy liquid poison that the ants are attracted to. They cover their bodies with the syrup and return to their colonies as suicide bombers. This stuff must be some kind of "ant-crack" because they swarmed over it for a couple of days like they’d found Nirvana and disappeared for an entire week. I’d won!

They’re back. I’ve begun smashing them with my fingers and shouting, "Tell your friends!" I’m leaving their pathetic little corpses right where they’ve died so that new recruits might be frightened away. They’re not. They’re sending more battalions and using different points of entry. I swear that they’re mocking me.

How many ants are there in the world anyway? If I’ve got this many then they must be crossing borders to get here. Illegal immigrANTS? I’m certainly suspicious.

I’ll bet if ants were invading Congress or the White House this problem would cease! Then again, P.E.T.A.(People for the Ethical Treatment of Ants) would be marching in the streets defending the Ant's rights to receive government sugar subsidies.

While I admire these insects their tenacious work ethic, I’d admire it more if they worked somewhere else. Like maybe at your house.

When my granddaughter was three years old she met me at the door.
"Mimi," her voice grave, "We’ve got Damn Ants."

I know that species well. I’ve got all their illegitimate relatives.

It Begins . . .

I can't imagine that anyone is interested in the stuff I'm thinking, yet here you are!
It's probably not safe for the moron driver or the shopper ahead of me to know my thoughts. (I think they're related. Not to me. To each other. On my brother’s side.)
In a really dicey situation there may be a bit of cursing in my thinking chamber. And don't get me started on the voices!
So, I'll wander through the nether regions of my gray matter (What's the matter? Nothing, what's the matter with you?) If I trip over any bits of wisdom I'll let you know. It's quite likely that I'll let you know anyway, regardless of quality. You'll need to decide which ones you want.
I can't do everything. I'm not your maid.

I'm Thinkin'

. . .sorry. Brain fart.