I'm feeling kind of lazy today, so I thought I'd bring back one of my most favorite posts. This one goes back to before the 2008 election and it is a good one! Enjoy!!

Darn, I Wish I'd Written This
Today, I am submitting, for your reading pleasure, a brilliant piece of writing that is, apparently, circulating the Internet. I am choosing to include this on my blog today, not because I'm lazy as I know you're thinking, but because I sincerely wish that I were the writer rather than the anonymous person who isn't taking credit. (If anyone out there is the true author, please let me know as I'd love to, firstly, meet you; then secondarily, give you credit for your genius.) So sit back and enjoy!

"Dear Red States:

We've decided we're leaving. We intend to form our own country, and we're taking all of the Blue States with us. In case you aren't aware, that includes California, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, and all of the Northeast. It may even include Florida and Ohio as they are currently giving it consideration. We've given them until November 4th to decide. We believe the split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country. Since we're dropping the middle states, we're calling it United America, or simply the U.A.

To sum up, briefly: You get Texas, Oklahoma, and all of the slave states. We get stem cell research and the best beaches. We get the Statue of Liberty. You get Dollywood. You can take Ted Nugent. We're keeping Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel. You get WorldCom. We get Intel and Microsoft. You get Ole' Miss. We get Harvard and 85 percent of America's venture capital and entrepreneurs. You get Alabama. We get two-thirds of the tax revenue. You get to make your Red States pay their fair share.

Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than that of the Christian Coalition, we get a bunch of happy families. You get a bunch of single moms, and the highest concentration of pregnant, unwed teenagers. Please be aware that the U.A. will be Pro-Choice and Anti-War, and we're going to want all of our citizens back from Iraq, at once. If you need people to fight, ask your Evangelicals; they have kids they're apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don't care if you show pictures of their childrens' caskets coming home. We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up; really we do, but we're not willing to spend our resources in Bush's Quagmire. We'd rather spend it on taking care of sick people and educating our children.

With the Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country's fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of the nation's fresh fruit, 95 percent of America's quality wines, 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the UlS. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all of the Ivy and Seven Sister schools plus Stanford, Cal Tech, and MIT. With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitos, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson, and the University of Chicago. We get Hollywood and Yosemite.

Additionally 38 percent of those in the Red States believe that Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we're discussing the war, the death penalty or gun laws. 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11 and 61 percent of you crazy Redies believe that you are people with higher morals than we Blueies.

Finally, we're taking the good Pot, too. You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.

Peace out,

Blue States"

If someone asked you to make a list of things that makes you happy, could you do it? What would you list? How many items would there be on your list? I was recently tasked with making such a list and I am at a loss. I truly do not know how to begin!

Of course, my family makes me happy as do my friends. They, however, are not "things"; therefore, they don't make the list. My dogs make me happy most of the time, when they aren't yapping, that is. But they, too, are not "things" so, nope, they aren't on the list either. See my problem? "Things", apparently, are what I can do to entertain myself so that I can bring joy into my life. "Things" are like reading, knitting, coloring, exercising, writing this damn blog; you know, "things"! Shopping....I like to shop....shopping brings me joy....buying things brings me joy; but it also brings my husband down on my back like a tornado, so that can't go on the list, either. So now I'm thinking that I'm 56 years old and I might be too old for "things" to make me happy. Exercising hurts, reading puts me to sleep, and coloring won't work because I can't see well enough to stay inside the lines anymore. Writing this blog gives me agita; it's fun, but joyful? Not so much! The sun makes me happy but that's not something to do. Warm weather makes me happy but I live in Pennsylvania so that's out for most of the year. A little, one story pink house in Florida, surrounded by flowers all year makes me happy but here comes that damn tornado of a husband, again. That's not gonna' happen!

So, basically, I've learned that depending on "things" to make me happy isn't a reality. How about you? What makes you happy?

Peace Out!

This week I will take my first final exam in 38 years! That's right, 38 years. What the heck was I thinking when I decided to go back to college part-time? Who was I kidding? Granted, it's an online program and the tests are all open book; but 38 years is a very long time since the last final exam. I don't even know where to start. Suppose I fail? Or worse yet, suppose I pass? Then what do I do? I'm supposed to be working toward a degree, but in what? And what exactly will I do with that degree when I receive it at 98 years of age? The job market is tough enough for 22 year olds; can you imagine how hard it will be for a 98 year old to find a job? Then, of course, there's the Resume'. What do I write for previous work experience? Wife, mother, bed maker, toilet cleaner, accountant, scheduler, interior designer, cook, floor mopper, personal shopper, door mat.....not much I haven't done since the last time I took an exam; the problem is, none of it translates into a Curriculum Vitae for a 98 year old, or even a 22 year old for that matter. What have I done to myself? Why have I undertaken this stressful experience when at an age where a stressful life is well deserved? I will tell you why! ME! For once, I am going to do something just for ME! ME ME ME!!! Don't get me wrong, please. There is nothing that I would rather have done with my life than to have been a mother to my two amazing children. It has been my lifeblood; the thing that has given me purpose and joy. It is the reason I was put on this earth. My children are my everything! However, they are adults now and I am worried that my usefulness has come to an end. Sure, I could just sleep away the rest of my years but that is so not fun! I could do as others have done and drink away the rest of my years, but that can get rather boring unless sitting at a bar surrounded by palm trees and white sand. So, instead, I have opted to go back to school and now must face my first final exam! Or I could pour a drink and go back to bed! What to do, what to do, what to do.....

Peace Out!

A Bloody Confession

My darling daughter, Nina, is an 18 year old graduating senior at a local Catholic high school. I mention her age in order to point out that she is, by all rights, a fully functioning adult under the law of the land. As her older brother says, however, she lives in her own land (which I like to call LaLaLand) where, apparently, the words "fully functioning" and "adult" are never spoken in the same sentence. She is a wonderful young woman, full of spunk and humor. What she is sometimes not full of, however, are the magnificent brains that God gave her! As a matter of fact, what occured today leads me to believe that she suffers from some sort of weird brain spasm that only occurs when you mention one word - "Confession"! So here's the latest Nina story, but please sit down when you read this because I am afraid of what will happen to you if you don't!

Nina was born into the Catholic church, received the Sacraments of Baptism and First Communion and for whatever reason, that's where her sacramental journey ended. I freely admit that it is probably because I am lacking in the Catholic mother gene; but in actuality, it probably had something to do with the fact that Nina is very stubborn and absolutely refused to do anything else that involved preparatory classes or lovely dresses. So we quit just prior to the next step - the Sacrament of Reconciliation (or Confession as it is referred to on the Catholic street). That was eight years ago when she was 10. She is now 18 and, because I am getting older and thinking about "cramming for the final exam", I thought that it was time to evoke Catholic mother's guilt and get her back on the road to sacramental health.

A couple of month's ago I contacted her religion teacher, a lovely priest with whom she is much taken. I explained to him the situation and he agreed to prepare her to receive her first Confession. I had finally convinced Nina that this was something that she should really do, and we were on our way. Until the first time Father wanted to meet with her to discuss "it". She didn't post that time, or the next time, or the next time. Of course, she had appropriate excuses each time but I, the ever suffering mother, knew better.

Which brings us to today; the day that Nina and her fellow students were to prepare for Easter by participating in a Lenten Reconciliation. It was also the day that Nina was finally going to be one step closer to Heaven. To say that I was happy would be an understatement; I was thrilled. She had met with Father for a few minutes on Monday, after school, and he had declared her ready. All Aboard the sacramental train! Until, of course, the train derailed in a pool of...blood?

Picture this, a girl in a Catholic school uniform, wandering the hallways in a trancelike state caused solely by fear...the fear of confessing her horrible, horrible sins! That, in and of itself wouldn't be so unusual, but the fact that rather than going to Confession she managed to enter a Bloodmobile outside of school and spend the entire period designated for Confession with an IV in her arm is beyond belief. And, no it wasn't an enormous hankering for juice and cookies. It could only have been one thing; she was so very afraid of Confession that her brain spasmed, sending her into a trance. The biggest question, however, is what the heck the Bloodmobile was doing at just the time that Nina decided to wig out?

So here I am, sitting at home, believing that my only daughter had finally encountered a spritual awakening. That was until I got a text message from her, informing me that she had decided to skip Confession and donate blood. Donate blood, I asked? Where the heck did you donate blood? In the chapel? No, she answered, outside in the Bloodmobile! That is the moment when my head fell into my hands and I began rocking and keening, rocking and keening. How is this possible, I asked, you were supposed to make a confession. We had this all worked out, I said. I don't know, she answered, it was just there so I went in!

So here we are, a few hours later. Nina continues to be one step further from heaven, not to mention one pint short of blood. I am still rocking and keening, rocking and keening, not to mention wondering why the hell the Bloodmobile was outside of the school in the first place.

Peace Out!

A New Day

So, I woke up this morning feeling kind of ornery (sounds like a Ke$ha song), and decided that it was time to resurrect the old blog; a.k.a., "how an old lady speaks her mind when her family no longer listens". I have no plan other than to relate the truth about whatever topic pops into my head and, considering that I have no filter, this should be quite an interesting ride. I guarantee that there will be days when you love what I say, and days when you want to grab a spoon and gouge out my eyes. As always, your comments are very welcomed; just go easy because the old ticker ain't what it once was and I cry an awful lot these days, too.

On to today's topic - "unfinished wine and why on earth would I want to drink it!" I have chosen this topic because this past weekend I had the pleasure (said with tongue firmly planted in cheek) to particpate in a sort of moveable wine tasting thingy. The purpose, I thought, was to go from vineyard to vineyard getting increasingly "happy" with each stop along a preplanned route. Holy moly, was I wrong! Happy was anything other than what I got with each stop. Actually, the correct word for my descending mood was probably "isitoveryet".

Having never been to a wine tasting anywhere other than the "rich, fertile wine producing region" of southern York County, Pennsylvania, I am certainly no expert on the subject; however, if what I experienced this weekend is anything like what occurs in the Napa Valley, or Bordeaux, France, I'll be a monkey's uncle (actually his aunt but the humor would be lost). Around here, a wine-tasting thingy goes like this: long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 drops of unfinished, very bitter wine; another long, boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of an equally disgusting unfinished wine; yet another long boring speech by vintner or other employee, 2 more drops of something quite medicinal tasting; move along to sales area for several doll-sized tastes of finished wine that continues to taste like medicine because my palate has been poisoned by the previous unfinished wine samplings; get out the credit card to purchase a bottle of wine that I really don't want or need but feel obligated to buy because the poor vintner is starving to death as evidenced by the shot-glass sized portions of food that are served to the incredibly stupid wine-tasters (Me!). Ok, you can breathe now...it's over! At least until 40 minutes later when we pull into the next vineyard after having practically tossed our wine laden "cookies" on the way.

That, my friends, is wine tasting in Pennsylvania; about as quaint as a horse-drawn Amish buggy holding up traffic on Route 30 during the Columbus weekend sales event at the outlets in Lancaster. Next spring, the only wine tasting event that I will be attending is my nightly drink(s) of a hearty and robust, fine Italian table wine served from a very large glass jug!

Peace Out!

My Diamond Tiara

I caught a headline today, somewhere in the myriad of newspapers that I read, that said something about the fact that Michael Phelps wasn't sure that he would swim in the 2012 Olympics because he doesn't particularly care for the media scrutiny that comes with winning. Is he kidding? This is some sort of joke, right? Either that. or his years of swimming in chlorine has done immeasurable damage to his sense of reasoning. Basically, what he said is "If the press and public doesn't leave me alone, I'm not going to give the U.S. anymore gold medals. Nanenanebooboo!!" Listen to me, Michael, that doesn't work and believe me, I know.

In the olden days, when I was a mere child, beauty pageants were HUGE! There was a beauty pageant for everything and everyone. Every neighborhood, town, fire department, county fair, shopping mall, etc. had a beauty queen that was selected at a beauty pageant. (You with me, so far?). My father, being a bit of a local big shot, was often asked to judge these local pageants. Why, I will never know, except that he had quite the eye for a pretty girl. Anyway, many times my sisters and I would tag along with Daddy to these pageants and I can remember sitting all googly eyed at the spectacle of these girls in their glittery gowns and jeweled tiaras!! (To this day I remain mesmerized by glitter, but that's a whole other story)

One day I was shopping with my mother in a local department store and happened past the fashion jewelry department and there, to my wondering eyes, was a brilliant rhinestone tiara! I was blown away - it was the crown of crowns and I wanted it - NOW!! I didn't want to wait to grow up and enter a pageant; I wanted it NOW! And guess what, after screaming at the top of my lungs for however long it took my mother to cave, I got the tiara. You can't even begin to imagine how excited I was.

So, I took the tiara home and later that day I convened all of the kids on my block to announce that we would be having our own beauty pageant. There were looks of disbelief until I removed the tiara from it's velvet lined box. The girls began to cry and the boys, well let's just say the boys weren't sure what to do; however, at this stage in our lives (ages 10-12) they would have done about anything the girls asked them to do. So a beauty pageant it was! We worked for days, building a runway, robbing our mothers' closets of their glittery gowns, practicing our talent. It was an amazing time, that summer of 1965.

The day finally dawned and we were jazzed! The excitement was building and at the appointed time, the pageant began. Now, remember, I had initiated the event, I owned the crown, and my boyfriend (oh, please!) was the only judge. Now, take a guess - who do you think was going to win this thing? I can tell you one thing, it wasn't anyone but me!! That I would win was a given; except that I forgot to mention it in the planning. So when all was said and done and the winner was announced, you can imagine my shock when I heard a name other than mine. There I stood, in utter disbelief and horror. How could he? He was MY boyfriend and it was MY crown?

To attempt to retell the hullabaloo that followed would be almost impossible. Suffice it to say, that it was pretty ugly. The final straw came when I took my crown and announced, "If I didn't win, then nobody wins because I'm taking my crown and going home". I thought for sure that the entire cast and crew of this debacle would run after me begging me to reconsider my decision. But they didn't!! They just stayed and watched me walk away. And then, to make matters worse, the next day they had another pageant with a crown made out of aluminum foil. I wasn't invited, and I didn't go!

Eventually, all was forgotten and life got back to normal on our block, but no one ever again talked about that fateful day. The moral of this story is: Michael Phelps, be careful what you threaten - you might be surprised to discover that no one really cares!!

Peace Out!!

I am a Facebook Creeper

I don't know who coined the phrase, "Facebook creeper"; it may have been my daughter, for all I know, because that is how she currently refers to me. "Good Morning, Facebook creeper", or, "What's for dinner, Facebook creeper?". Thus begins just about every conversation Nina and I have these days. The most unfortunate part is that she is probably correct in that I spend inordinate amounts of time on this thing they call "Facebook". For those of you who are Facebook virgins, please allow me to be the first to initiate you into this new world that I have discovered (much later than many others, I might add!).

When I was a kid, there was a lady on our street who spent most of her time standing at her window watching anything and everything that was happening. She was our neighborhood busybody. And I would bet you a year's paycheck that your neighborhood had one, too. Am I right? We have one on our street, now; my kids call her "Window Woman". So, let's assume that this Facebook thing is your street, or neighborhood. Everyone has a house, most have families, and everyone has friends; lots of friends, actually. And on this street, friends visit friends, mates visit mates, kids visit parents, and they all have chats and discussions that are posted on their houses, also known as their "walls". Are you with me so far?

So throughout the day, messages are being posted on everyone's Facebook pages and I, dear friends, read them ALL!! That's right, I am the neighborhood BUSYBODY!! I know where you are, what you're doing, who you hang out with, whether or not your husband is a pain in the neck...Iknow it all!! And I am in my glory. I don't think I've ever been happier. I am never bored nor do I ever lack fodder for conversation. If you want to know what your kid did last night, ask me. Chances are that I know! In the old days, busybody was the term of choice, but today the term is...creeper. Therefore, I am a Facebook creeper.

Last week my son, Pat, called me to tell me that he had "friended" someone that I also knew. ("Friended" is the term that we groovy people use when we've asked someone to visit us at our Facebook house) Sadly, though, he ended the conversation with a warning that this person had better not show up on my list of friends, too. Sure, I was hurt. No self-respecting creeper wants anyone to place limits on her ability to creep. But I agreed, because I love my son, and because he said something about "total embarrassment". In fact, both of my kids have said tons about my new hobby and they're not happy. I wonder if "Window Woman's" kids are unhappy with her, too? Anyway, to make a long story short, I am trying very hard to limit the amount of time I spend creeping which leaves me with lots of free time to blog again!

The moral of this story is: if my blog is silent for a day, or two, you can bet your gluteous maximus that I know what you're doing.

Peace out!!