Activism will live on.

Yesterday I read that Cindy Sheehan ( see related news story here )is giving up being a peace activist. I feel so sad for this lady. If I were in her position, I would probably do the same thing that she has been doing. When I was a young lady of twenty, I was locked in full-fledged animal rights activist mode. Back then nobody did anything like bomb labs, or at least nobody I knew. Our shtick was to stand outside events like rodeos and circuses, handing out leaflets.

Of course we were never met with the expected response. Of course we hoped that everyone would take one look at our carefully written diatribes, tear up their tickets and join our cause. Of course that never happened. Not one person, out of the thousands of people we handed papers to, EVER joined in. I have always wondered if we managed to make an impact on one person. I noticed that our leaflets were used mostly as chewed-up gum receptacles. One time, a police officer who was trying to get rid of us pointed out the sea of blue papers littering the blacktop at the state fair grounds. "You kids care s'damn much about the world, and lookit all that garbage you've produced. A bunch a hypocrites if you ask me. Why don't you pick all that litter up, 'fore I decide to arrest you for littering." We dutifully picked up the hundreds of our lovingly folded leaflets, honestly feeling sorry that we in fact had wasted paper and had in fact contributed to the total mass of litter in the world.

Another time, the very last time I ever protested anything, we made the mistake of protesting one too many rodeos in a particular county. They were ready for us to move on, I guess. As I held out a leaflet to a guy who appeared to be friendly enough and around my age, I remember him grabbing my arm instead of the leaflet. He threw me on the dirt and started kicking me with those ridiculous pointy, high-heeled "cowboy" boots. Two broken ribs and a fat lip. Damn near got my veneers knocked out! Now it was getting serious. You don't want to mess with your veneers.

So in honor of Cindy's white flag, I would like to offer support and encouragement to anyone who may be considering protesting anything. Do it until you can't do it any longer. People do not know how much the world depends on those who work to change it, but that's OK. We can't all be activists our whole lives. But there is no harm in doing as much as you can. For inspiration, here is a poem. It could have been written today, but it was not. It was written by a young man who was a decorated soldier (British) in WWI.

Does it Matter?

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

-Siegfried Sassoon

Daily musings

It is a beautiful and unusually cool morning here. I went for a nice little run. I keep track of my runs using favoriterun. It's a great tool, except I sometimes wish I didn't track how far I run. I never seem to get very far. People say, "I ran 10 miles today." Huh?? I must be a wimp because 10 miles is just way too far for me. I go for timing anyway. Plus I'm slow, more of a jogger I guess.

But ah, was it nice. My favorite thing about an early morning run is noticing things in my neighborhood that aren't noticed while driving. I live in a historic district, which is unique around here. The homes are all different, which is absolutely unheard of around here. They actually have yards and trees! Shade! Love it. The only cactus is in planters. I love how this neighborhood is relatively safe compared to the rest of the valley. I wouldn't be able to afford to live in a nice neighborhood like this if I weren't renting. I can't stand renting, but I'm content with where I am right now. I don't need to own a house I guess. If I were married I'd probably insist on owning, but these responsibilities are easier to meet when you have a partner. So I'll stick with my nice little apartment in my nice neighborhood for now.

But if I did have my own place, it would need the following: Two bedrooms; two bathrooms; a decently sized kitchen (I refuse to have a galley kitchen); assigned covered parking or even better, a garage; a private "yard" area, even if it's just a patio; walls thick enough that the neighbor's bass won't knock my pictures down and can't be penetrated by a bullet

...does that sound paranoid? Read here. The reporter Scott McGee, is a total riot. He always tries to get right in people's faces to ask very uncomfortable questions. One of the few.


Sigh. Sadly, it's all in a normal day here in the desert. As the weather heats up, we tend to get more violent. Someone ought to do a study because anyone you ask will tell you that people go a bit crazy the hotter it gets. Just yesterday I think, we had a shoot-out at a stop light. Could have been just the same old gang crap but still.

In unrelated news, my brother thinks he's going to win the lotto this week. Well, that's not really news. We had breakfast this morning. We discussed our plans for when he wins. This is serious stuff to my bro, and it requires regular analysis and new strategies based on how much he will be winning. He told me about how he was having a similar conversation with his girlfriend yesterday, and how he corrected her when she said how much would be set aside for family members. "Oh, MH is going to need at least twice that much. She's going on a trip around the world and then she's going to have to get a house, plus a condo by us in PVR." Girlfriend was stunned, according to my bro, but didn't make any arguments, probably because she doesn't really believe he'll win the lotto anyway.

It is probably weird that we are best friends. I think it's a good thing though. I don't interfere with his relationships and he was nothing but supportive of my marriage. We are just supportive of each other all the time.

I love potato chips. Especially free potato chips.

Lovely Memorial Day weekend. Three BBQs in three days, and I have not really found many healthy foods to eat at any of them. I did bring a pineapple along today, sliced it up and threw it on, begging my host to keep it clear of the hot dogs and meat patties. I guess I'm not much of a vegan lately because I know the pasta salad probably wasn't vegan. I've been cheating a lot lately as a matter of fact. I ate lots of potato chips.

As I lean back in my chair tonight, I look at my protruding belly, full of chips and pasta. I feel like I can see some love handles starting to form or something. Kind of makes me sick. This has got to stop somewhere. Do chips really make a person's belly look pregnant? I'm no doctor, that's for sure. But I wonder. After just three days of pigging out on them?

See, that's what I love so much about the simple vegan diet. For me, it's taken all anxiety out of my relationship to food because I needn't worry about how much I eat or whether or not I want to go for a run when it's over 100 out there. But when I get lazy and just eat whatever vegetarian thing is around, I do find myself getting annoyed at my size. It's financial. I don't have many clothes, and I can't stand wearing anything tight. So if I gain weight, I would need more clothes. But I don't have the money for new clothes. Or even used clothes. So I just cannot gain weight!

But it's the times when I've been filling myself up with all this crap that I crave MORE. I want some potato chips right now! And some pasta salad too! I'd like to finish it all off with some chocolate too.

I think that would be the best part about being Muslim, if I were. I wouldn't have to bother with how I looked in the least. Our culture places such emphasis on women's attractiveness, I wouldn't mind it if men were forced to be a bit more thoughtful when deciding how attracted he is to a woman.

I saw a news story this morning about women getting vaginal or labial "reconstructive" plastic surgery. It made me feel so sad for us women. Why do we torture ourselves so? Much of the time, people are getting this procedure done because they have had children. So much for being able to expect your man to love your body before and after you give him a child. I have an idea. Since our natural bodies are so fucking disgusting after childbirth, why don't we all decide not to have any babies?
Men can just find some other way furnish themselves with heirs, we won't have to go through an uncomfortable pregnancy, we won't have to hate ourselves for having ugly natural bodies, and we won't have to pay for a ridiculous, maybe even dangerous surgery.

I know that would never happen, but it's fun to dream. But again. We women give these unrealistic expectations credibility when we participate in the "competition" by undergoing these procedures. We wonder why we all have low self esteem?

France Paying Immigrants to leave

From Spiegel Online:

...Under the scheme, Paris will provide each family with a nest egg of €6,000 ($8,000) for when they go back to their country of origin. A similar scheme, which was introduced in 2005 and 2006, was taken up by around 3,000 families.

"To be integrated, you need language skills and a professional activity," he told RFI, and said he is considering introducing a language test to prospective immigrants....

I dare say that some of the reasoning by the French in this article would be labeled as racist here in the states. Sadly, our penchant for name calling muddies any hope of a reasonable and fair outcome. Le sigh.

valedictorain schmaledictorian. they're selling bottled water for $4?!

Graduation 2007 rah rah rah. It came and went in a flash. The ceremony was rife with the most boring numbers which of course made it a special day for *everyone* - During the Community Service award skit, I found myself getting lost in thought about Niece, who was nothing but a blur amongst a sea of purplish frocks. We could tell it was her because she was the only one who stood shyly hunched, clutching her hands together at her heart, pretending that she didn't see us all jumping up and down, screaming and waving as if we were at a U2 show. I think U2 and Billy Idol are the only two shows that turned me into an absolute animal. Anyway, we were all acting like animals. We were like kittens at the pound, fighting for attention of the one person looking for a cat that day. She, a tall and almost willowy girl, seemed slight in stature compared to everyone around her. I assumed that Niece may not be entirely ready for this, and if someone were to instruct her to run back home, she'd gladly do it. Like her own Aunt MH was, so looooong ago.

But I was deluding myself again. No, turns out this is not a girl like me, terrified of the secrets held within the overwhelming adult world. Now I suspectd that this ceremony was nothing but a blink of her eye. It was the street-side gate of the white picket fence, and it was but a short jaunt to the threshold of the one ceremony which she believes will propel her into the bliss for which she has been born.

Back in reality, I waved, gave up, sat down, got annoyed by someone blowing one of those damn horn-in-a-can things, stood up, waved, gave up; and at times recalled obscure memories of Niece as a child or as a baby doing something cute or mischievous or brilliant. I would dissolve to tears as this person, this non-child began to take shape in my mind. It's over, I realized. She has that punkass boyfriend who is really a good kid ( I mean guy? ) I guess, so don't get me wrong. She has familiar hopes and dreams. She is, and has been, living her life without me recognizing at ALL that she is growing up. The days of this happy "wise Aunt MH teaching moments" were over.

In fact they have been over since PunkAssBoyfriend came into the picture, but of course I just think he's a great guy since her parents consider him part of the family at this point. Damn, it sounds like any teen's DREAM from fifty years ago. Hell, parents too. Wouldn't it be great to have a daughter married right out of high school? What a deal! And why have I been fighting it? They all get along much better than I ever did with X and anyone in his family. They'll all be very happy, I'm sure.

My disappointment did not only stem from losing the admiration and attention of one niece. It's also that I had such dreams for her. I thought for sure she'd be the next President. I have been buying savings bonds for almost 20 years so she can go to PARIS or LONDON, I don't care how it sounds. Yeah I know.

They are my dreams, not hers. As The Duchess pointed out I'd have been a whole lot better off thinking about ways to get myself anywhere but here. Maybe I wouldn't want to control everyone else's lives.

If I would have acted like I cared what Niece wanted, I might be another one of her little familial zombies, docile and trudging behind her instead of giving her some direction. Who is surprised that she found a guy to care for and dream about? What the hell else is there for a girl to do when I'm the only one telling her that she's going to be president someday?? Everybody knows nobody listens to MH and her outrageous ideas.

Ok, enough disappointment. The point has been made. Anyway, no time to think. We had to listen to a chronically out of key version of "Wind Beneath My Wings," the singing students' treat. I would have cried, had I been Bette Midler.

Finally, they began to call the names. As it grew closer to Niece's name and her row was released to march up to the stage set up in front of the brand new score board, I hopped to my feet. How was I going to get a picture from clear back in BFEEEEEE, I asked The Duchess, who was busy doing her best to prove that a Grandmother will endure the PAIN and discomfort of aluminum bleachers if it means she'll be able to see the blur of one of her descendants accept a decorative piece of paper. She looked at Niece's mother, who called to me, "She wants us all to sit in one area and scream as loudly as we can for her. That's what she wants." I sat back down, unwilling to mask my pout. I had come here for this crap? No way. I was going to get a picture.

I ignored everyone calling me as I flew down the bleachers to what resembled a cattle loading ramp, except it was packed with other people. I elbowed my way to the front, saying Niece's name politely so everyone knew that MY family was on her way UP.

Niece-blur was next. Make room, people! She waved. I think she waved at ME, but probably not. I snapped ever so many times- I'd be sure to come out with ONE good one! Right?

I ran back up to the bleachers where the brood had just settled back on their tired buns. Not a dry eye in the crowd. Except me. I had been way too busy trying to get a picture of (as it turns out) nothing, to carpe diem.

I told myself that it didn't matter because I had already used up three Kleen-exes while everyone else sat around gossiping. But as the principal got to the Ws, the Ys and the Zs, I couldn't help but notice that I'd missed something that I can never get back. I mentioned to the Duchess that I regretted what I'd just done. She said, "Oh MH, you missed us cry, we miss you cry, who cares. Really, why do you have to think about everything?" I wish I knew. Lack of medication?

When it was all over, Niece's mother tactfully suggested that The Duchess and I head home and catch up with Niece tomorrow at her Graduation Party. Nothing doing. No way was I leaving that bug-filled terrain without seeing her. The family heaved a huge sigh as we all searched for Niece at the 50 yard line, finally spotting her talking to some other kids I mean young adults, not even looking for us at all. She was the picture of young energy, hope, laughter and happiness. I snapped away with my worthless POS old fuji digi-thing, and emotionally kicked myself for not just bringing my old faithful dinosaur friend 35mm Pentax... I kick myself now, as I peruse the equally worthless fuji-blur-pics.

We were all given brief hugs by the grad, who only had eyes for PAB of course, who was staring back, impatiently waiting to whisk the princess off to whatever parties were already getting started.

Tomorrow we will be given the opportunity to shower the young lady with gifts and praise and then it will all be over.

The Duchess was so eloquent in her dry-eyed summary of the evening: "One down, six to go"

Graduation gift ideas : AAA membership and the QT experience

It's been an agonizing process, but I have finally decided what to give my dear niece, who is graduating high school this week. Plus she just celebrated a birthday, causing my refrigerator to remain mostly bare for the past couple of weeks. I'm glad that I'll be able to combine her gifts, plus The Duchess (my mother) wants to contribute some, just so she can get her name on the card. She already got Niece a birthday gift: a Paula Abdul bracelet from QVC. So I assured her that she would not have any input on what I decide to get Niece.

First gift is a AAA Premier membership. She drives many miles every day, and soon she will be moving out. I am HOPING she'll go on a road trip or two before she gets herself married and...... sigh.

Second, a $100 gift card to QT ( Quick Trip ), which is only the very highest quality of convenience store with the BEST selection of coffee and other fine beverages and unhealthy food. It's always clean and the staff is friendly. How's THAT for a convenience store? Oh yeah, they sell gas too. Check out their Fountain Drink recipes. I don't drink soda but I know lots of people do.

Third: money. Cold hard cash. I remember VERY well my high school graduation. I still remember how much everyone gave me, and if they didn't give me any money I judged them to be cheapskates. I know better now, but I dare say Niece's personality is too similar to mine for me to delude myself that she'd rather have a gift than money. However much I have left after first heading to the grocery store this Friday is what she'll get.

Representatives live on $21 in foodstamps and more fun with poverty

I don't understand why every article I've read yowls that $21 is just not enough for one person to eat on. They can, as long as they don't buy a bunch of crap. The people Jim McGovern was talking to *had* to have exaggerated their stories. I've pretty much always lived on less than $21 per week for food. I think it's a very decent amount, considering a person isn't working for the food stamps. All you have to do is shop smartly. You don't buy a bunch of over-processed food. Stick with fresh vegetables. I love listening to cashiers' stories about food stamp recipients who buy filet mignon. I'm sure it's a gross generalization, but it just goes to show that sometimes people don't really need everything they get from the government, but since they CAN get it, they're going to take it. The concept of reps trying to put themselves in some of their constituents' shoes is nice though. Hopefully they learned that being poor is pretty crappy when most of the time.

Speaking of food, I made a tasty poverty-like dish last night. I didn't want to whip up more poverty, so I took some rice and the veggies left in the fridge and then some veggie-protein "chicken," over which I had poured a Greek style marinade. After letting the "chicken" sit in its marinade for a couple hours I dusted a very small amount of flour on it and baked on a cookie sheet for awhile. It turned out fabulous.

I'd say the whole meal cost me no more than $6, and I have at least a few meals' worth of leftovers! Gotta love that rice. It really stretches a meal. Anybody who is having a tough time living on food stamps, just come ask me how you do it.

Now I have a craving for cookies since I used the word.

Loves me, loves me not...

The other day I was subjected to the dreaded employee review. To my shock, I was criticized for things which I was sure would garner praise, congratulated for things which I regretted doing, and what I thought had been my REAL screw-ups were not even mentioned. I was befuddled when I was given the written version. On the outside of the envelope, my supervisor had written a note to the effect of, "I will meet with you at XXX on XXX to discuss your performance and a project I have in mind for you." Just by that, I knew she was trying to soften the blow before I saw the clobbering she gave me on record.

Apparently I am a team player and have a great attitude, but people find me intimidating and I need to work on how I am perceived by "others." I have exhibited poor time management a few times over the past six months too. I know this is the handiwork of Hindley, my nemesis. But I couldn't very well walk in to my supervisor's office and say, "Hindley is out to get me!" So I bravely pulled myself together and rolled with it, all the while plotting my revenge. Which, as it turns out, will be sweet.

First, I assured my supervisor that I had re-committed myself to a higher level of productivity going forward. I showed her my day planner, in which I had conveniently jotted down several dozen goals and tasks. I asked for some clarification as to my intimidating demeanor and pointed out that while I would take a hard look at myself and would actively pursue ways to improve my communication style, there were a few factors that I felt had been overlooked. For sure: In my business, EVERYBODY has to be in control of situations, intimidation is many times necessary, and I am by far not as intimidating as pretty much anyone else in my office. I mentioned a few other things, but admitted privately that there is not much I can do now, since I failed to properly advocate for myself when I knew that someone was whispering untrue things in my boss's ear.

I swear. If I were a man, we would not have had this conversation. I would greatly prefer to not even have to work so I could be the sweet, unassuming, domesticated model of womanly grace that I was meant to be. But I have a job to do and I have been doing it. I had to force myself to adjust my personality to the job so I wouldn't lose the damn thing. Sigh. Supervisors never see the whole picture. They are only human, I guess.

Ah yes. To Hindley's horror, I will be starting a new project that will improve our organization and my emotional stability. I am being groomed to take over the job of one of my other bosses (who I absolutely love) when he retires in the next few years or so. He has already been giving me responsibilities and I have been ever too
enthusiastic to take them on, just because I enjoy working with him and admire what he does. But what an opportunity! A chance to really make a difference in my organization and produce some growth! Hindley will be terribly disappointed because it was assumed that the job would fall to her eventually. Apparently she just doesn't have what it takes.

Sunday.

Ah yes, the only day of the week that was created especially for catching up on celebrity gossip.

I know it's old news that Jessica Simpson was dumped by John Mayer. But I must say, she's better off. Even though they had so much in common and everything ( ...meet the male and female epitome of a media-created career, both specimens being devoid of any talent whatsoever...), Simpson needs to find herself someone who won't fight for camera time. Hm. Wonder when JFrancis gets out of the slammer... And Jess, I can't believe I'm saying this but you look better blond.

As for Mayer, he might as well not bother trying to make himself look better. He might get a little bit more respect from the over-25 crowd if he got rid of that silly I'm-an-introspective-artiste hair(un)cut. Come on, John. Nobody actually believes it anyway.

The other little tidbit, which I found featured on Perezhilton, is Brad Pitt's tattoo of Skeletor I mean AJ. Yuck.

There are no single, vegan or vegetarian, employed men left.

Apparently they have all died. Did they have heart failure like Jerry Falwell? What happened? It is a mystery. Oh, that's ok, I get PLENTY of action anyway. Read on.

Today a friend and I found ourselves in a coffee shop on its first day of business AND it was giving out free frozen drinks. Of course it was packed because it had to be over 100 out there.

I asked for a soy-based drink, but they didn't have any soy milk yet. I got an americano, iced. My friend scrunched up her face as if she had something in her eye and said, "MH why don't you just get the damned regular latte, it's a damned waste of time." I know it's a waste of time. I don't care. Plus, if they don't use Silk soy milk, the kind that you have to keep in the fridge, forgetaboutit. It's going to taste like crap, so is that not punishment enough?

Just as I was about to respond, I thought I heard the word "soy" in back of us. I turned around and there were two guys standing there, one shaking his head in an "Ooooooh no" sort of way. I just shook my head and turned back around. Who CARES whether they think I'm too whatever?? Idiots. They are too young for me anyway, they just don't know it.

My friend struck up a conversation with the other guy, being the desperate harlot that she is. As we walked away with our drinks, I said, "You are not going to try to get those pimply little freaks to sit with us. There's no sense in it." Well, she didn't have to do anything because two minutes later, up they showed. Apparently the head shaker had experienced some second thoughts regarding the high-maintenance tree hugger and sat down, looking confidently at us two bitches in heat. "Where do you go?" asked the other guy to my friend. She didn't quite understand the question. I piped up because all tree huggers have loud mouths. "We are finished with high school, don't tell me we look that young." I was trying to sound friendly but only barely amused.

No, he said, it was just that he thought he knew my friend from school - college. OOOOOH right. Yeah. Well, we're a little too old for college too. How old are you guys? (cutting right to the chase.) 22 and 23. Great. She's 31 I'm 33. Need we say more????? My friend asked Don Juan what his major was. It was some business crap. Come on, that's no fun, I thought. My friend agreed. She began digging through her bag for something that she just couldn't seem to find, said "Excuse me I'll be right back" and left. Left me with the stooges who actually had the nerve to judge ME.

A few fruitless attempts were made to extend the tired conversation, but thankfully they took off in their nissan whatever it was, lowered and obnoxiously loud.

Sigh. Thanks, Lord, for this "action." Next time.... oh nevermind.


I saw a guy in the store today. I totally thought he was following me around, so I didn't look at him at all until the frozen foods. I figured that was a safe aisle to look at someone's face in, since there's always so much going on. Just by looking at him, I felt that I could tell he drinks too much and may have a temper problem too. So on I walked. Guys are easy enough to ignore. Difficult to get their attention when you want it though, so it's usually better to just ignore them until you can't any longer. There was another guy who seemed rather nice, but he didn't seem to follow me around much so he missed out there. He might have been lucky enough to enjoy some poverty tonight, but oh well. His loss, right?

What does poverty look like?

I have done it again. Funny how one night on the town can make the difference between whether I eat or not. I was positive that I had enough money in the bank to allow a meal out. But I had conveniently forgotten about my tax bill AND one of my niece's birthday and graduation coming up. So I'm back to poverty. Here is what I mean by poverty:

You add black beans and rice to a mixture of slightly sauteed onion, pepper, garlic, chili pepper and two small tomatoes.

Even though I'm broke, I still have to get the organic stuff. That was a little bit more expensive than usual. I always add cumin and cilantro to my rice and also to my tomato mixture.

In this picture at right (yes, I took pictures because I was just so happy to have something to eat today), the beans are on the left, fresh stuff mixture sizzling in the middle and the rice waiting patiently on the right. Don't worry. The little frying pan has chili peppers on top. Perfectly beautiful, I think.


After everything is sufficiently heated, it all goes in a little casserole dish and then to the oven at 350 for 20 minutes, I don't know why I do that.



While we are waiting for the flavors to marry, Abner my favorite plant wants to say hello. Yes, Abner, you are a very handsome plant. But you are not the star of this episode. Poverty needs some attention today and I'll be *^)+ed if it's not going to get some!



And that's it!! Eat it with the cheapest tortilla chips you can find, and voila: poverty. My specialty.

Freshman year of college, I lived on this stuff. I could eat for $5 a week or less. I have, in the past, switched it up a bit. It's all based on how much money I have. Sometimes it's just plain old beans and rice. Sometimes it's beans and rice and roasted corn.

The key is to make this meal as simply as you can possibly stand it. There have been times in which I went to Wal-Mart and got their black bean and corn salsa, substituting it for the veggie mixture.. Back then it was less than two dollars for a big jar. Gotta love Wal-Mart when you are in POVERTY. As long as things aren't so bad you have to work there.

It's a very nutritious meal, I think. It's also yummy yummy yummy. Important thing here is that it's CHEAP.

Now I get it.

So my dream of finding a man who doesn't require nagging has been dashed. According to this study, getting annoyed is the only way to get them to learn.

Mother's Day. Enough said.

Yes, today is the day that all children everywhere are put to the test. Are we going to make the slightest effort to make mom believe that we are actually grateful for all of her sacrifices? Are we going to tell her that we know how awful it must have been with narcissistic little millstone to drag around everywhere for at least eighteen years?
My mom ( The Duchess ) already knows all that stuff because that's why I don't have any kids myself yet. Still, it will be a cold day in hell when she allows any of us to get through the day without presenting her with the most sugary syrupy sweet sentimental card we can find. It can't have ANY humor in it and it MUST be printed in CURSIVE. Here's my brother's unfailing routine, which also works nicely on her birthday:

He hits the nearest grocery store early, because it is much easier to sniff out the most appropriate piece of bamboozlement. In fact, it takes less than 15 seconds. He heads for the BIGGEST card WITH flowers AND the word "Mother" written outstandingly huge across the top.
These are the cards which when opened are absolutely filled on one side and maybe even some on the other with devoted tender loveliness. He throws his name on there and a phrase resembling, "This was the only card I could find that REALLY meant what I wanted it to say!"

Works every time. "OOOOOOOh daaaaaarling, what did I do to deserve such a wooooonderful son, bla bla bla bla bla..." The crying goes on for several minutes, Duchess reserving the opportunity to force him into several excruciatingly long embraces.

Me, I'm much more thoughtful.
I always find something that makes me chuckle and I think, oh, she'll know exactly what I mean by this. But it never works. The Duchess doesn't want to chuckle. The Duchess wants to CRY and she isn't happy unless she can get everybody else to cry as well. She has this air of entitlement about her the entire day. It's like the moment you are handed the receipt when you go to pay off a speeding ticket. You take it and carefully place it in a special place in your wallet, pointedly looking at the person behind the glass. See? I have it right here in my wallet, and this makes me legit. Don't anybody even think about accusing me of being a bad driver. Don't anyone act like I don't have a RIGHT to drive. In the Duchess's case she's thinking, "...they'll find all these hundreds of cards under my mattress after I die, that way they will always remember what a saint I am. I'll never be forgotten and I'll go down in history as the one woman who FINALLY got those damn kids to show proper homage."

She does want to get rid of us early though. Firstly, one of us will end up getting in an argument with her. She's impossible to be around, no matter what the day, but Mother's day turns her into an absolute nightmare of unfettered gushing. The gushing ranges from prayerful "I have such a perfectly lovely daughter" to:

"I just don't know why nobody wanted me to come with them to Peurto Vallarta that one time, I guess they are just embarrassed to be with their mom, I don't know why I even bother, all I have done for them and they try to keep their vacation a secret from me, and why? I wouldn't have wanted to go, and I certainly wouldn't have felt badly, but still nobody even told me and I had to spend that whole time wondering how my own children could be so cruel. MH, why are you stirring the Tang like that? It must be stirred in circular motions, one way and then the other way, not back and forth across. Haven't you learned anything, here let me do it, you peel these potatoes. I don't know why you had to make potato salad when you KNOW that mine is the best and I had been planning on making it. Yours would be just as good if you would use REAL Miracle Whip but noooo, you have to use that no-dairy stuff that tastes like cardboard."

That's why Mother's Day was such a blessing today. The Duchess is up north, taking care of La Grande Dame, my grandmother. She is in heart failure and refuses to move from her house to an assisted living place. Out of seven living children, The Duchess is the only one who can take care of her. La Grande Dame is probably why The Duchess is definitely going to be at assisted living when her time comes. She learned everything from her mother!

I called The Duchess at around noon, but she and three of her cackling sisters had taken La Grande Dame to brunch and drank a few too many mimosas. Score one for me. She forgot to wonder where my card was, so intent was she on invoking envy in two of her sisters, who never had children. "Oh, it's my baaaaaaby MH! How are you honey? Oh, you don't have to go on about Mother's Day, we can just celebrate it when I get back, I know you and your brother have something very special planned, I'm going over to your sister's house today and I'm bringing your grandmother, won't that be nice? Aunt Old and Aunt Maid are so glad to know you are on the phone, here, why don't you say hi?"

My night at the meat market which was not a gym or a bar or a book store.

The scene:
I sat at a Scottsdale restaurant (not a total bar, but not Denny's either) with a couple of friends from my old job. As is typical when I see these two, I wasted no time in getting myself caught up on who is pregnant, who is getting a divorce, who got fired; the normal stuff. The normal stuff I think. I guess, I should say. Well, not much else for me to talk about with girls my age who are living the American dream. That's right, they are blissfully insulated from the world outside their high-end luxury SUVs and gated communities. To be fair, one of them lives in a high-rise condo with her successful husband and spoiled rotten children but to me it's all the same. I'm just grateful that we can spend an evening together without EVERY topic of conversation being about the 5 y.o. who is so cute because mom and dad indulge her preference of only wearing ballerina costumes. Do you know how expensive tutus are for little girls these days? Check it out sometime, I guarantee you will be surprised. These aren't Toys'RUs costumes either...and they are undoubtedly relieved that I keep my opinions about their buying and eating habits to myself.

Yes, it was a delightful beginning. We sat on the patio of the restaurant, which was crowded with young, Mystic-tanned, surgically enhanced singles who infest Scottsdale on a nightly basis. I tended to ignore them, probably because I fear them- kind of like how Paris fears jail. Could I ever wind up like that?
Chances are no, because I have no intentions of sporting $300 jeans or a tube top of any kind. Plus I have accepted that I have no vixen alter-ego. It's always going to be plain old mousy MH, who my mother shakes her head at disapprovingly and chastises that I'm wasting my youth.
I was fortunate enough to be sitting with my back to most of the excitement. Fn1 (Friend number 1) kept her eyes steadily alert, scanning the faces and bodies as she distractedly added to FN2's account of the old boss asking for a demotion because he was not spending enough time on his Disney memorabilia collection- which led to heart problems. I giggled as I sipped my Tom Collins and made appropriately belittling wisecracks about his Princess Jasmine obsession.

Into our second round with our appetizers hardly touched (two Scottsdale ladies and me, that makes only one person eating), we were all a bit buzzed. Without warning, FN1, who has not been out of the condo in ages, deliberately scooted her heavy iron chair back as she laughed demonstratively at her own statement. A blaring clang erupted from the inevitable collision with the occupied chair behind her. Which, by the way was supporting one of several strippers with a few customers I mean dates I mean gentlemen friends at the next table.

FN1 and Stripper1, both twisted completely around, glared at each other for a split second, but FN1 was clearly in the wrong and what's more, she had obviously underestimated her opponent's scrappiness. Stripper1: Bitch, get your chair away from me and move that fat ass of yours over. (True, FN1 has gained a few, but she's still hot as hell and has an ego equal to the total mass of all saline-filled caverns within a 12 ft radius of her inflated blond head)

FN1- Oh please excuse me, I didn't mean for that to happen, oh my......

(staring directly at the stripper's barely if at all covered crotch with a look of sheer disgust.

FN2 and I were probably looking at both of them with sheer panic. I was baffled and distressed to observe that the whole table was actually looking at us with disgust too! WTF? Am I getting old or something? Stripper1's and FN1's faces were almost nose to nose and I noted that their hair was the exact same color bleached blond. Interesting! Come to think of it, they looked strangely similar, in a nightmarish Parent Trap sort of way.

Stripper1 - Why the fuck are you looking at my crotch, jealous? bla bla bla..... ( forgot the rest but along those lines)

FN1- (regaining her bearings) Well I was wondering what I'll have to ask for at the doctor's tomorrow to avoid getting whatever you must have since I made the mistake of touching you (came out more like, "yeeeeeeew)

That's when restaurant staff stepped in due to two "gentlemen friends" coming to Stripper1's rescue as she grabbed FN1's hair with both hands and shoved her astonished face into the back of her own heavy chair. The stupid asshole guys were really pussies compared Stripper1. All they did was surround us but didn't go so far as to connect our heads with blunt objects thank god.

Turns out they had been playing this chair-bumping game for the previous 45 minutes or so. FN1 and I were unaware, but Stripper1's whole table had been informed early on.

FN1 and FN2 were relieved that in the ensuing confusion, Stripper1's table was politely asked to leave. I was still mortified and wished more than anything that I could be one of the strippers so I could leave too. Plus it would be fun to see what it's like to walk around with fake boobs and lots of make-up and high heels (without falling) and slutty little outfits that barely cover what one believes to be her enviable crotch. How would it be to actually think that my crotch is enviable? I am not sure if these thoughts were going through my mind at the moment, but no doubt I had a sourly, disturbed demeanor.

As the table was cleared, I noticed a stripper version of myself, kind of how FN1 and her stripper foe did resemble one another ever so slightly. Stripper2's gazed was fixed on me as she got up. I knew she was up to something, but was preoccupied with the realization that of all the people at the table, the one who looks most like me wants to fuck with me! We were the only two brunettes in the whole mess of women, WTF I ask!

As Stripper2 raced across the bodies filing out, she screeched, "Wipe that fucking look off your face you fucking...." I think she was saying bitch as she slapped at my totally vulnerable face. I felt my forehead being clawed as my delayed sideways evasive maneuver barely saved my left eye. Actually what REALLY saved my left eye was the guy who had been sitting behind me. He stuck his arm out and thwarted Stripper2's assault. He and I both probably have the same herpes right now and we didn't even have relations! Now if THAT'S not a bonding experience, I don't know what is.

As quickly as she came, she fled, stomping out, still calling me names. She was the last of her tribe to file out, and what was left was a slightly stunned group of young people who slowly started to take sides, jeering us, jeering each other, and exchanging high-fives for whatever probably deserved insult really hit home.

Nothing like a stripper's wrath to ruin a good time.

The guy who slapped Stripper2's claws turned out to be not my type, however noble and heroic his deed. I don't know what my type is, but he definitely wasn't, what a pisser. Wouldn't that have made a great story for our grandkids? Another shining potential future moment, forever to remain unfulfilled. He made several blatant ogles towards my less-than-impressive and miracle-bra-clad chest, presumably trying to figure out if they were real or not. He offered to buy us a round, but FN1 decided that her husband wouldn't want her out much longer so we better had leave before she turned "into a pumpkin!" Sigh. I somehow managed to rid myself of thirty dollars.

I made it home before midnight, but Kitty was understandably upset that I'd forgotten what little pumpkin rules this castle.

Rocky Anderson Sean Hannity Smackdown video

Anderson started out his half hour outlining his stance on the issues, beginning with 9/11. Hannity spent half his own time avoiding the issues by trotting out the family of a deceased war hero and blaming our country's problems on liberals. Every two seconds it was, "I love how you liberals..."

Rocky did a good job sticking to what is important rather than resorting to cheap and tired old stereotypes.

Full two plus hours of video can be seen on Google video.

My DAY at the post office

People:
GWCP: Guy With Cleft Palate
CBCBA: Cross Between Carol Brady and Alice
GWNS: Guy Who Needed a Shower
CGFL: Cute Guy at the Front of the Line

The heat was miserable today. Rush hour was the chosen time for my trip to the post office because clearly I must subject myself the highest possible degree of anguish. This is what Maslow would call self actualization. Having been borne without the patience gene, I was haggard and parched from griping loudly at the other drivers. I sardined my also-grumpy car in the sunniest and also only parking space and reluctantly made my way towards what was an unlikely oasis. I walked past an old guy stepping out of his car, who turned out to be GWCP. I regarded him only long enough to say, "Excuse me," as I jogged around him, wondering why old people drive such big cars that they simply cannot park.

I vowed straightaway that I will NOT have kids until I am wildly rich. There is no way I'll be stuck here during the summer when I get old.

The post office is just like every other post office built in the seventies: bad ventilation, crowded with people and huge cardboard sales promotions bottlenecking the line. The unfortunate patrons turned to eyeball me savagely for opening the door and subjecting them to a fresh wave of perspiration. As I carved myself a place large enough to allow the door to close, I bravely tried to wipe the pout off my face.

Again the door opened, and the line moved just enough for it to close again. I pointedly ignored whoever was behind me as everyone else again turned to make him suffer. This time, though, the looks were longer and I suspected that some were lingering to give me another nasty look. I glared back acidly.

Like the shift-change scenes from Metropolis, we shuffled every couple minutes. No sounds could be heard except the opening and closing of the door and frustrated sighs of those who were at the front.

"Is this line long enough? heh heh heh," the guy behind me said. I turned around and politely responded, "Yes, it's quite long enough." I noticed that not only was he the old guy I passed on my way in, he had a cleft palate. Being in a much less acrimonious mood, I had given him one of my sweetest smiles. He smiled back, and I decided that I admired this gentleman indeed for having more confidence than any one of the fifty others in the room, to speak up in the name of pleasantry.

I mentioned that we had all chosen a fabulous time to do business, and added that it was even more crowded two hours ago when there weren't even parking spaces available. "Jimminy," he said.

GWCP: They must have run out of numbers.

A lady ahead faced us. She was dressed like Carol Brady except she had thick glasses, the Greatest American Hero's hair and Alice's body. "They stopped doing numbers. It's been PROVEN that it's faster without them." For this, she received nods of approval from myself and GWCP.

The guy in front of me piped up, saying, "Oh, it doesn't matter. The post office employees all sit in back and drink coffee, they don't care how long we have to wait." He was about the same age as GWCP and CBCBA. He badly needed a hair cut and a shower. He had a crabby look on his face. I realized that he had inched back towards me as he made his point, and I gave him one of my sour you-make-me-gag looks.

CBCBA: Yes it does matter. When everybody stands in line, it moves quickly but when they have to call numbers it takes time for people to hear their number and walk up to the counter.

I decided that I'd finally encountered in CBCA the embodiment of the Reader's Digest's paying customer. She fascinated me. She was sporting a green polyester collared shirt, a Three's Company (authentic, not retro-hip) denim wraparound skirt, and blue Keds. Her eyes looked unnaturally large behind her thick glasses. She also examined GWNS disapprovingly.

GWNS: Waaaaaill, all I'm sayin' is that they don't care and we'd still be waiting too long because all the workers here are lazy. And now they're even raising the price of postage.

The "workers" rewarded him with extra-loud and extra-syrupy "how are you doings" and "would you like some stamps todays" to their current charges.

I rolled my eyes and GWCP cleared his throat. Nobody spoke. I put my legal sized envelope to my nose, preferring the scent of yellow-orange paper and Sharpie to GWNS BO. I lost myself in thought for a few seconds, staring blankly at the dirty but shiny floor and picturing what GWCP's childhood and young adulthood must have been like. I wondered why he never got it fixed. Surely he could if he wanted. He drove what seemed to be a newer car, dressed no worse than GWNS or CBCBA. I felt guilty that I've always entertained myself with how wonderful life would be if I got a nose job or boob job.

Not only that, he was the only friendly person in the whole damn building- but I know for a fact that if I had to live with what he lives with, I'd be a fucking bitch to everybody all the time.

I blinked, snapping out of my trance, and my eyes locked with a guy about my age who was next in line for service. He was just my type, if I have one. Not very tall, normal build, dark hair, and a neighborly face.

"NEXT" yelled the worker.

We all shuffled forward and checked the clock.