Greetings

There are few Latin terms or Latin sounding acronyms that don’t sound nasty.

Caucus. Sounds phallic, right?

POTUS and FLOTUS are two ords that sound as though they’d surrounded by an anus or two scribbled on some wall found in Ancient Rome. You know, graffiti.

Or grafitum.

We all know about the word caucus. The recent brouhaha in Iowa taught us caucus is Latin for “apparently not still not Huckabee’s year”.

POTUS and FLOTUS are acronyms, short for President of the U.S. And First Lady of the U.S., respectively.

When I was a reporter, the Associated Press was gospel—they were then official arbiters of journalistic style. I don’t know if the AP allows SCOTUS and FLOTUS after first reference. I’m too lazy to look it us, but I know this: President Barak Obama must be called that…what I just typed on first reference. In subsequent lines he can be called Mr. Obama or even Obama if the story is long enough and mentions him enough times.

But SCOTUS??? Would it even work in print?? I think it would. Imagine listening to Megan Kelly utter SCOTUS five times in one report?

Oooof. I thank the greater Cosmos that Iowa is over. I’d keel if I had to hear ANY newsperson mention the word caucus again. I’m relieved that the next big political term shoved down our throats will be primary. I can’t think think of any body part or bodily function that even remotely sounds like it.

But the worst…THE WORST sounding acronym in the world is right here in my own back yard.

“SCOTEX”

Yep, the shortened term for the “Supreme Court of Texas” sounds like a maxi-pad.

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A Friday Montage

Wow. What’s up with this Zica virus? Scary stuff, right?

It’s been around since the 1950’s and believed to be related to Malaria, the West Nile virus and anyone in the Cyrus family (I am decidedly NOT a fan).

It’s also thought to be a principle cause of microcephaly (what’s also known as Pinhead Syndrome). Tiny head, normal body. Sometimes, there are intellectual and developmental issues, sometimes, not at all, but in Zica’s case, it basically turns the contents of the head into nothing more than mulch (my word, not a quote from anyone in a white coat) and the mortality rate is high.

It’s passed from daytime active mosquitoes, because, well, those skeeters with nightlives have things to do and pregnant women are susceptible. I can’t seem to find how it would affect those who are penised or crones or pre-pubescents.

I found this photo of the virus (see above) on the Zica Wikipedia article. It’s been magnified many times on an electron microscope and to be honest, I think it’s constructs form a piece of art. I’m thinking of a marriage of styles between Pollock snd Kandinsky.

*

I’m annoyed by politics. Ted Cruz is irritating. Ben Carson is a non-event. Carly Fiorina is too robotic. Trump is Trunp. Santorum has a Latin last name and that’s all I know about him. On Young Rubio lapel, you can still see Boy Scout merit badges.

Bernie Sanders is every bubbe on the planet and if elected, conversations with his Cabinent on defense spending will inevitably turn into 72 minute arguments over which Washington area deli serves the best pastrami.

Hillary? Why isn’t she in a orange jumpsuit?

*

I don’t know the source of the following, but it was sent to me via e-mail.

YIDDISH CURSES FOR REPUBLICAN JEWS:

May you be reunited in the world to come with your ancestors, who were all socialist garment workers.

May you grow so rich that your widow’s second husband is thrilled they repealed the estate tax.

May you feast every day on chopped liver with onions, chicken soup with dumplings, baked carp with horseradish, braised meat with vegetable stew, latkes, and may every bite of it be contaminated with E. Coli, because the feds gutted the EPA.

May you sell everything and retire to Florida just as global warming makes it uninhabitable.

May you have a rare disease and need an operation that only one surgeon in the world, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Medicine, is able to perform. And may he be unable to perform it because he doesn’t take your insurance. And may that Nobel Laureate be your son.

May you live to a ripe old age, and may the only people who come visit you be Mormon missionaries.

May your son be elected President, and may you have no idea what you did with his goddamn birth certificate.

May you live to a hundred and twenty without Social Security or Medicare.

May you grow like an onion with your head in the ground, and then may the ground be fracked and millions of gallons of oil be found and you own no mineral rights.

May your child give his Bar Mitzvah speech on the genius of Ayn Rand.

May your insurance company decide constipation is a pre-existing condition.

May God give you a daughter-in-law who is as kind as she is beautiful, as patient as she is rich, as wise as she is devoted, a virtuous woman in every way. And then may a ballot initiative invalidate her marriage to your only daughter, Rebecca.

May the secretary your husband is schtupping depend on Planned Parenthood for her birth control.

Thoughts On Thoughts

It’s cold in the hills. Oh, not like the rest of country which is ensconced in a big premium insulated Yeti cooler. This is Texas. Coat in the morning….short sleeve shirt by 1:30 pm…..an Inuit approved parka by sundown. There’s such a sameness within the changes. So many changes within th sameness.

By 2:30 this afternoon, I needed to replace my standard issue Hanes sweats and into something that would allow ventilation. Ther was light creeping through plantation shutters, the scourge of drapers everywhere, but such a classic style. It illuminated my thigh snd the ant farm I call my vericors veins. How oddly interconnected it all is. One turns right then to the left then carries on a straight course for an inch or so, only to reverse back and fade into spidery oblivion. Arbitrary.

“Hhhhmmmmm”, I think. “How different would my thigh look had I been thinner at this period in my life, had I not worm so much Spandex in the ’80’s…..the process of sitting cross-legged for hours at this new tangled contraption called a Persomal Computer.

I reach down and touch the scar, courtesy of a neurotic Shelti named Edmund who went a little crazy when awakes too rapidly. While traversing a dark hall way I. Which he liked to sleep, I placed my foot near his mouth, he placed a canine in the flesh above my knee.

There streak like Cuts on the shin from a broken glass as my body had the good sense to go feet first out of the front windshield during car crassh 30 yeqrs who. Scars from operations that make me look like I’m part zipper. There’a mole that lives above my ankle. It hasn’t grown, its never gotten smaller.

But I did…..the reasons why I changed don’t make good backstories.

I don’t want to compare a middle-aged woman’s arterial vexation to life, so I’ll stop trying. But the amazing thing about every mark, nick, stitch, mole, scare, eerie reddish birthmark that looks like Vishnu, they all have a backstory. Well, the birthmark might be pushing it a bit, but the other things all have histories.

The problem is I havent created any new old backstories lately. That bothers me. In my Life, I haven’t been as passionate purpose-wise as I have before. Goals have fallen short or never fully formed. There are no old comfy shoes in my closet, 17 fashion weeks behind the times, but still caked in mud and memories of an afternoon when love began. This past December, No ancient Christmas ornaments pop up in the just opened storage box and shouted, “Hey, remember me”? No well worn dinnerware which insisted I tell my guests sbout that time at the beach when these ugly ass plates made better Frisbees but dammit, there SHOULD be more stories. New stories of old experiences….old stories with newer twists.

It’s as though my life has a big gaping hole it in. There are miles between Point A and Point B. Now, make no mistake– My life hasn’t stopped, I just haven’t been living it well. So yeah, those old varicose ants have been working on their subdermal farm, as they have been, but I can’t explain anything about their workload; why they chose to burrow in the left direction as opposed to the right.

So, once again I sit here in the now cold, relative darkness of a Hill Country evening with just enough light shining through the window to let me know I need to find more meaningful backstories…..soon.

I also need to do a much better job at dusting those but lovely pain in the ass plantation shutters.

Huh?

I think my parents must think I’m a heretic. They’re divorced, but people of great religious faith. Both are Christians, able to quote the Bible at the drop of a yarmulke. I think I had doubts en utero.

I was raised Catholic by a Methodist mother. My parents married in 1952, pre-Vatican II, so my mater had to make an almost Faustian deal with the Church, that any and all children born from her Protestsnt womb, would be baptized Catholic and raised as such.

My father was hardly the zealot he is now and Mother never converted, but during our formative years, she kept her vow to Rome. We were baptized, made our first Communions and Comfirmed, but Pope Paul would’ve publicly pooped in his papal potty had he known that while I went to catechism every week, I also attended Vacation Bible School during the summer. The differences made me self conscious. I would instinctively cross myself after every prayer and at the time, my Catholic version of the Lord’s Prayer ended seconds earlier than everyone else. Back then, we didn’t include the “for thine is the kingdom and the power…..etcetera, etcetera. Beyond that, the Protestants had a far less complicated belief system. It was more about God (read: Jesus) and less in the process itself. By that I mean, as a Catholic, I was beholding to a three-in-one deity structure AND the Church. Often, dogma over scrupture.

As a kid, I was fascinated by magic. I would grow up to call it “special effects” and imagination. I used to love the TV shows, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. I liked the idea of affecting reality with a nose twitch or folding one’s arms and extending them outward while nodding one’s head.

Twitch, Tabitha gets an orange unicorn in her kitchen.

One head bob from the blond broad who the FCC and most of the adults I knew, thought dressed like a tart and BOOM! Dr. Bellows questions his sanity after finding himself in his underwear, standing in Red Square in mid-January. Silly, but to a kid who wants to be anywhere but in small town South Texas in the mid-1960’s, these shows were a haven; a brief respite from the monotony of sameness.

As a kid, I saw a lot of magic in all the Almighty tale. It was like a Catholic version of Darren Stevens’ life without the soundtrack, but with a lot more smiting. Then again, there was Endora.

So, I while I believed in a power greater than me, I had my doubts as a kid about Jeses’ role in the whole thing. I tried to understand God, then the son of ahhod and they threw in the Holy Ghost?? From a non-secular standpoint, going to college only elevated the diminished beliefs I had.

As the years progressed, I’d have dalliances with Catholicism–been there, done that. I even looked into Judaism but I didn’t have the cultural discipline. I read a lot of books and articles, I even talked to people who believed strongly and those who didn’t believe with as much conviction. But I always prayed, at least, in my own way. God was never an issue. Mono the sim in its strictest sense, made sense. I’d have conversations with God. There was no hard core reverence. I omitted the thees and thous and spoke very candidly. These conversations always ended up being conversations with myself. I’m not God, but isn’t God me? I mean, why not? It can’t be like that old axiom–talk to God and you’re praying, but if God answers, you’re mental. Would/ could religion Roth established sciences be that controlling? Would science even give God a flashing glance?

If you can pray at any time and any place and if God is omnipresent, then church is everywhere, right? Are there more psychological things at play with being a member of a congregation? As in, power in numbers combined with a sense of belonging? Huh? If that’s case, then individuality and non-conformity must frighten organized religion. Intellectualism, too or are these things really one in the same??

Again, I ask, huh?

Look, these questions can’t contribute anything new to those fully entrenched in Christianity, Semitism, Islam, Wiccans, to those with their agnostic leanings or the atheists in the world. I know what I know, doubt what I doubt and question everything in between. I’m not smarter, better educated…I’m not more sophisticated. If you don’t share the same quest as I do, that’s fine. I won’t burn you at the stake, confine you in an iron maiden, throw you into a death camp or hijack planes and fly them into tall buildings.

I’ll continue to question everything and apply the logic that seems the most logical to me. I’ll continue to believe in God on my terms and have my “conversations” with and I encourage you to do the same, in any form or fashion. And if you ask questions, dare to seek the answers. Stay at home if you must, but imagine boldly. Travel mentally. Read. Connect. Engage.
Be fearless in your pursute to believe what feels right to you.

And above all, don’t read Spinoza on a night when you’re really, really focused.

Bold But Red-Faced

Or soon will be.

I willfully give Mizzou’s Concerned Student 1950 for 2015’s truly most embarrassing moment. Not for what she did necessarily, just the way she did it

Child, I don’t know you, your pedigree, your hometown, if you loathe Lima beans.   I don’t know If you have the  gift of gastric onomatopoeia (within a burp, you can taste the way lunch smelled). But I know this much—that televised account of your anti-media rant during the racial protests on campus will come back to haunt you.   Not necessarily professionally.   I’m talking personally.  Don’t get me wrong–taking a stand is always good. Just be careful that the foot your standing on doesn’t end up in your mouth.  

You’re young and impressionable.    Everything takes on a different  hue when you’re out from under your old man’s roof and wrapping your head around all these new concepts like religion and waging war against what was instilled versus the expansiveness found in of the parentheses freedom of young adultery.

I know, I know.   It’s adulthood.   Hat tip to the late Kermit Schaffer

But my little miss blonde Idealist, this is a stage in life, and your right on target, It usually occurring in your collegiate years.    If you’re 28, 30 and out marginalizing the marginalized du jour just for a photo op, then you’re just  as dazed and confused as Woodersoon, alright, alright, alright.    

Twenty-25 years from now, you’ll be dropping off little  Pottsdamn or Shagella at soccer practice and/or for a probation hearing and you’ll think of the ass-hattery you participated in on that college campus that you once thought was so hip, proud and socially astute.  Years later it becomes cringeworthy.  You shudder as an expletive tumbles audibly from your lips.     You shake your head.   And guess what?  You’ll only realize you have dandruff.

My, My, my. I know you’ll one day look back on this and almost be grateful in a skewed way that the horrible terror attacks in Paris took away all media attention.

You see, I’m entering the very early stages of the autumn of my life. I can see age 60 on the horizon. I’m learning that you make this trek towards maturity, while shaking off a lot of things you once thought were were so principled.   A protest here, saving a whale there. But there’s also the seedy underbelly of young adulthood, that comes after all the social consciousness. Your social unconsciousness. Like getting shift faced drunk at Tracy’s wedding and incoherently insisting on explaining to her 83-year-old Jewish grandmother what a choad penis is……on video; like talking to that creepy older guy with the weird pants with three–count’em—three front pockets. One might have been an odd pouch of some sort. It was with this man with four cornered hair that you shared a pina colada on that cold, rainy Tuesday at Trader Vic’s…..his hair was perfect.  Running out of the house half clothed after creating a fart infused shit splatter art stain on a “friend’s” bed linens minutes after having biblical knowledge of each other….THEN seeing him at a job interview two days later; how you’ll forever rue the first day you tried to be so cool at B’s lake house in 1979 when everyone laughed when you snorted your first line—-of artificial sweetener.

These are, you understand, just oddly specific incidents made up for entertainment purposes. Not memories or experiences culled from real life, least of all mine.

Emboldened & Red Faced

I willfully give Mizzou’s Concerned Student 1950 for 2015’s truly most embarrassing moment. Not for what she did necessarily, just the way she did it

Child, I don’t know you, your pedigree, your hometown, if you loathe Lima beans.   I don’t know If you have the  gift of gastric onomatopoeia (within a burp, you can taste the way lunch smelled). But I know this much—that televised account of your anti-media rant during the racial protests on campus will come back to haunt you.   Not necessarily professionally.   I’m talking personally.  Don’t get me wrong–taking a stand is always good. Just be careful that the foot your standing on doesn’t end up in your mouth.  

You’re young and impressionable.    Everything takes on a different  hue when you’re out from under your old man’s roof and wrapping your head around all these new concepts like religion and waging war against what was instilled versus the expansiveness found in of the parentheses freedom of young adultery.

I know, I know.   It’s adulthood.   Hat tip to the late Kermit Schaffer

But my little miss blonde Idealist, this is a stage in life, and your right on target, It usually occurring in your collegiate years.    If you’re 28, 30 and out marginalizing the marginalized du jour just for a photo op, then you’re just  as dazed and confused as Woodersoon, alright, alright, alright.    

Twenty-25 years from now, you’ll be dropping off little  Pottsdamn or Shagella at soccer practice and/or for a probation hearing and you’ll think of the ass-hattery you participated in on that college campus that you once thought was so hip, proud and socially astute.  Years later it becomes cringeworthy.  You shudder as an expletive tumbles audibly from your lips.     You shake your head.   And guess what?  You’ll only realize you have dandruff.

My, My, my. I know you’ll one day look back on this and almost be grateful in a skewed way that the horrible terror attacks in Paris took away all media attention.

You see, I’m entering the very early stages of the autumn of my life. I can see age 60 on the horizon. I’m learning that you make this trek towards maturity, while shaking off a lot of things you once thought were were so principled.   A protest here, saving a whale there. But there’s also the seedy underbelly of young adulthood, that comes after all the social consciousness. Your social unconsciousness. Like getting shift faced drunk at Tracy’s wedding and incoherently insisting on explaining to her 83-year-old Jewish grandmother what a choad penis is……on video; like talking to that creepy older guy with the weird pants with three–count’em—three front pockets. One might have been an odd pouch of some sort. It was with this man with four cornered hair that you shared a pina colada on that cold, rainy Tuesday at Trader Vic’s…..his hair was perfect.  Running out of the house half clothed after creating a fart infused shit splatter art stain on a “friend’s” bed linens minutes after having biblical knowledge of each other….THEN seeing him at a job interview two days later; how you’ll forever rue the first day you tried to be so cool at B’s lake house in 1979 when everyone laughed when you snorted your first line—-of artificial sweetener.

These are, you understand, just oddly specific incidents made up for entertainment purposes. Not memories or experiences culled from real life, least of all mine.

New Year Doldrums

The unrest in the Middle East can keep a news cycle hopping. Genocide and atrocities can too, but if those things don’t happen in countries with which we ate allies? Forget about it. Not sure why, where things happen lack a certain news ‘wow’ factor. So from now until March, with a slight increase around Valentine’s Day, as long as the Middle East continues to implode, there will be a few headlines, but other than that…..yawn.

So to entertain myself, I’ll go after the things that irk me. The ones I call the periphery people who saw a celebrity at the same restaurant and insists they had dinner with this away with person. Under the same roof, doesn’t equal being at the same table.

I’d love to be able to say that as I type, I have opera on the old stereo as I sip a humble chai tea while thumbing through the most recent reports on NATO troop movement.

But I can’t. Mainly, because that would be a lie. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I even want to be. I wonder if that could even describe a handful of people and if that’s who they are, surely they’re confident, or at least too self possessed to tell anyone about it.

I dropped out of Facebook because of all the puckered red lip selfies. Celebrating a good hair day or finally locating the right concoction that would almost cover the four facial moles, with eight hairs protruding from them. I dropped out because of all the bullshit lies piled up on FB like a virtualstockyard. I was smellin’ through their spellin’.

You’ve seen the pitiful offerings:

“I’m so in love. These very carefully selected photos of us together and happily posed ought to irk that bitch ex wife of his”

“Aww, he went to Jared’s”

“Look, we’re better than you. WE’RE traveling abroad this winter”

“See How gorgeous my children are. Or DNA co mongked so much better than yours”

“Look what a great mom I am……what a great dad he is”

“I re-post nifty sayings and memes from authors and noted thinkers to make it seem I’m so smart and so together”

“Trump”

“Hillary”

Narcissism has been given a green light to run amuck. Thanks Zuckerberg and that Napster guy.

Instagram? Some kind of cracker, right? Twitter? The sound a bird makes for $20, Alex.

Tumblr. Used to be a shatterproof cup for the clumsiest of families. It also described ‘one who tumbled’.

I’m a middle aged, chubby woman currently with a bad hair cut. If I have good days, I keep them to myself because they’re private and frankly, rare in occurrence. So, why share?

I think we share too much this days, we give away our souls. I used to do that…..give away everything….right here on this blog as well as professionally. I was clueless as to what boundaries really meant. They exist as s protective coating. Not impenetrable, we have to fortify them for that. And then again, being impervious isn’t all that fun either.

So forgive me if I don’t care if you feel like quoting Camus today. I don’t believe you can make up for the lack of a formal education by wishing Saliere a belated birthday. If Ptolemy is your fave ancient know-it-all, I’m not sure anyone cares but you.

If you quote Heidegger one minute, then start cooing like a seventh grader over the latest Taylor Swift or Frankie Avalon song, it’s all for naught, honey. That falls flat, lacks ooomph. Be consistent.

Impress us with some throat singing from the Mayanmar Three or a little Wagner beyond KILL D’ WABBITT!!!!!

Next up: FOX News, Donald Trump and consultants…of any kind.