Does God care?

Recently, one of my better chums put this question to me: "What does God think of people using His name for, or in, all sorts of crazy acronyms?" Maybe you're familiar with them:

WWJD: What Would Jesus Do

God: Good Orderly Direction

Frog: Fully Rely on God

Ego: Edging God Out

The list is endless.

Personally, I think God couldn't give a shit! See, if I were to believe in a specific deity, let's say . . . Jeeeeeesus, my deity would be more concerned with the journey than the road signs. If I had a Jesus, my Jesus would be more like the Buddy Christ, who wants to be my friend and understand my quirks. I don't think my Jesus would hunt down my ass and force feed me some crap doctrine. Which is why I love that 'Jesus Knocking' pic I posted a couple weeks ago, my Jesus is soooo not going to hunt me down and kill me. My Jesus is going to let me do whatever I want, love whomever I please, practice whatever doctrine I wish, and be loving enough to allow me the privilege of suffering the consequences of every thought I think, word I write, action I take.

While I may not always like what I do, I must understand that every mistake, every foible is not a "sin" in the traditional or mainstream sense of the word, but rather, an opportunity. If memory serves me, I believe the word "sin" comes from a Greek word that means "to miss the mark." That is so much more palatable than that hellfire, brimstone, damnation bullshit that I heard growing up. Hell, the catholic programmers even categorized sin into venial (minor goofs) and mortal (the major crap that say, hmmm, hundreds of priests committed).

For me, and this is only for me, I believe it's my humanness that is at the very core of my spiritual dilemma. I have no doubt that I was created imperfectly and yet I have this crazy drive, this insane idea, that perfection is attainable. That I can somehow have the perfect family, the perfect home, the perfect body, perfect peace, perfect understanding, perfect acceptance, perfect EVERYTHING! Wacky, huh?

So, at the very least, I'm perfectly imperfect. Despite my intentions to be loving and kind to all, I regularly, often throughout the day, fall short of this ideal, and that sucks because I hate making the same mistakes over and over and over again. But I do.

However, if I can look at my mistakes not for how I fucked up, again, but rather what I could do differently in the future, I know that I will progress closer to that perfect acceptance and perfect peace that I hope awaits me at the end of this physical journey.

So does it matter if I butcher God's name, toss it around, use it in vain or in prayer? Like any person I know, we usually prefer the positive stuff, but can muster some minimal tolerance for the not-so-positive. And if a God created this world of ours and everything in it, I'm sure He or She is more tolerant and loving than your average bear. So, my hunch is He or She's more concerned with what actions we choose rather than the words we use.

Peace Out, Homeys!

Just a short while ago . . .

Mindless chatter

Not sure how to feel, not sure if there's even anything to feel about. Apparently my dad has cancer. Just learned today. He's saying it's nothing, just a little spot in the esophagus requiring a simple same-day removal. After that, we'll see. Hmmm.

I say I pray all the time. Now I'm kind of wondering if my internal dialogues with Allah, Jehovah, Budda, whoever, is really prayer or just mindless chatter. But when I hung up the phone tonight, I thought about praying and then thought better of it. I don't know if I believe prayer will make a difference? It sucks to even admit my doubt, but there it is.

Fallible, eternally fallible. I can be nothing less than this.

I'm angry and I need me some Gabrielle

Ok, so I've been hermitting a bit. Just takin' some time off. I feel bad, like I may have mislead people into thinking I'm "all edge and angst, all the time." When really, I'm not. At least not all the time. I'm so not cool, I'm really just a sporadic bitcher. And I feel like doing a little of that today.

So as I cracked open the b..b...bible today to get back at my chapter-a-day read, I got really rankled by the 5th Chapter of Matthew. As I read, I kept repeating to myself "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears," "Goldilocks and the 3 Bears" because that's the approach I'm trying to maintain toward this hugely followed piece of . . . literature. Don't worry, not going into it, just setting the tone.

Anyway, I abandon my hovel a little icked, mildly ewed, a touch pissy over this Jesus Christ bullshit and head for coffee with friends. And the topic of conversation is "a power greater than yourself." Great. And then someone read about one person, having found said power, was stripped of everything of value: love, money, property, even his kids. Fuck, that stuff scares the shit outta me!

So I shared my beliefs/opinions about said fear and that I will probably always be somewhat of an agnostic because to be gnostic would be to have complete knowledge and I'm not ignorant enough to believe that's possible. Anyway, a few nervy people tossed at me a nugget or two of their "Yeah, Jesus!" Christian bullshit. As if I honestly give a shit whether they attend church and carry some fake fucking cross on Good Friday!

I need me some angel Gabrielle, because if Gabrielle wants to roller blade, Gabrielle roller blades!

Monkey Boy Wonder

I wish Alanis Morrisette would open her incredibly large, beautiful trap and blow up the head of George Bush.

That mutha is such a tool that his very FACE hard boils my brain. I lack the true mastery of the English language to allow me adequate verbage to express my angst. Yesterday, talking at some Wall Street luncheon, he compared our spiraling, thank-the-Republicans shitty economy to a "rough patch" of road. Explaining why he's not going to increase his bail-out measures, Bush said, "when you over-correct, you end up in the ditch." In print, this doesn't look so bad, it may even make sense to some. But if you watch the clip, he looks like a gorilla.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/03/14/AR2008031401537.html?hpid=topnews

Well, Mr. Monkey, you're no 'rough patch' driver, just as your pa wasn't back in '92. And it breaks my heart, but shows me I need to learn more about my state's history when Sen. Schumer throws out comparisons between Monkey Boy and Herbert Hoover, Iowa's homeboy and POTUS 31. I do know that he served only 1 term and that he may have been responsible for the Great Depression, but I'm pleading ignorance until further research.

But why am I so surprised and bothered? He's totalling doing what he does best, nothing. Yesterday I was bs'ing with a deliciously liberal co-worker and she'd asked if I saw Bush's bumblingly stunned response to the possibility/likelihood of $4 gas. He's a fuckin oil man, how the hell did that one slip by?!

Read the Bible? WTF?!

Last night, while perusing the People Reading blog, I happened upon the photo of some crazy "Knowing God" book (I can't remember the exact title). I nearly scrolled past it until I read the comments beneath said pic. Apparently some guy in San Fran is reading it so that he can know more about all faiths and religions. And he's not a christian! I can stomach that! Which is why I decided to let any would-be readers in on my latest endeavor. . . the bible. AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

I know, shocking and possibly disappointing, which is why I'm keeping it off this blog spot and started a new one just for that, An Agnostic's Bible Reed. So I will speak of it no more, here. Only to say that thus far, reading it like I would, say . . . hmmm . . . "Hansel & Gretel" or "Goldilocks & the Three Bears," there's some fucked up shit in there!

Boys, wonderful boys

Having been born top dog among a litter of females, the male species is a puzzler. I have a brother, about 14 years younger than me, who grew up with my dad and step-mom. But I really wasn't around to witness what people tell me is typical 'boy' behavior. To me, boy behavior was two buddies kickin' the shit outta each other before school and then planning their next kegger by day's end. What I have not been exposed to is the home life of the pre-pubescent male. Or, more specifically, the 5-year-old. Like my son.

Five minutes ago, I turned from this screen to see him standing in the doorway of the office wearing my sweatpants, pulled all the way up and around his neck. Cute. Then he flings the drapery off and reveals his nakedness. And what's he do? Start yelling, "Penis, penis, penis!" Like some Mexican hat dance!

Everything is poop, fart, butt crack and penis! I'm sure this is hilarious to some, and maybe if he wasn't mine, I'd giggle, too. But I'm really beginning to wonder if I'm going to get a call from the preschool telling me he's currently being booked in the county jail for saying "penis" in front of the wrong parents, like crazy preacher parents who microwave their tykes and get it on gangsta style in interrogation rooms. But I digress.

Is my son, my 5-year-old angel who at 3 months old, bit me while nursing and then smiled, the next neighborhood perv? I regularly check his scalp for a turkey of 6's. I really don't want to be a future baker of files in meat loafs, but at this rate he could be the youngest male on Iowa's crazy sex offender registry!

Oh God, I really do need to love Jesus! Whether or not he kills me, he could really fuck me up!

Trashing the Host

Otherwise known as, "The day I dumped Jesus in the garbage and wound up on the hit list."

I'd say I was about 14 or so. Young catholic that I was, I always hated going to communion. Not because I didn't believe in magic or enjoy the after paste of those little hosts, but because of my own neurosis. Self-centered ego maniac that I am, I tend to believe everything's about Jenny. And this is not something new, it's probably been this way since God had my father hug my mother in that oh-so-special way. But it's not like I was or am a Paris Hilton (though, admittedly, I can be somewhat, just a smidgen, of a white cunt). But I digress, my Hiltonism is more the other extreme. Often as a child, not so much as an adult, I thought everybody was looking at me, judging me, seeing the inner workings of my soul and thinking, "What a butt fuck!"

So at age 14, when most girls (I can't speak for the dudes) aren't all that self-assured to begin with, I would DREAD communion time. A time when, row by row, you'd stand and stumble you way toward the aisle, past the knees and over the feet of the 3 different groups of people left sitting: the hell-bound uncatholics, the catholics who ate 30 seconds before mass, and the "fallen" catholics stuck doing hard time in the pews, denied the Christ because of some unforgivable act like DIVORCE.

During this death march, (yes, death march, 'cause if we're believing in the body and blood than we might as well call a spade a spade since we're gonna eat us some good J.C.), most penitent catholics are probably praying, thanking the Lord for their bounty and Jesus for dying for their sins, etc., etc. Not me. Nope, I was sweatin' whether or not people could see my panty lines, or whether the back of my hair looked smushed, or if anyone could see the runner in my panty hose that some sinful wanker back in the pew just snagged.

So on this particular Sunday, I plowed up the aisle dressed in pink pumps, nude panty hose, pink skirt and white shirt with some pilgrim-like collar (only the Lord our God knows why these details have stuck with me 20+ years later). As my turn approached, louder roared my weekly internal dialogue of "Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand?" See, if I let the priest put the host in my mouth, I don't have to worry about the sidestep pause before the altar, I can just bust it back to my seat. But if I let the priest do this, I must open my mouth and, ever so slightly, stick out my tongue. And how scary to stick your tongue out in front of a judgemental congregation of righteous catholics?

Especially my tongue. I wouldn't say my tongue is repulsive or yucko like the tongue of that poor, ailing triceratops in the first "Jurassic Park," mine has no scales to peel off or gunk to scrape. But rather than having a long, skinny, rather elegant tongue, mine is kinda short and stubby. Just too tongue-like for me to feel comfortable in showing to a church full of would-be tongue judgers.

On this Sunday, dressed in my pink and white, I opted for the hand. So, up I went, the altar boy stuck the little gold plate under my cupped palms, and the nasty priest placed the host in my hands. Good. No problem. Now side step right, pause before the altar while taking the host with my right hand, raising it to my mouth, almost there and AAAAAAAAAHHHH! I missed my mouth and dropped it, down my shirt. And I turned to see a classmate's jaw drop. Fuck!

Flustered, red and fumbling, I made it back to my pew and knelt, thinking of the host now stuck somewhere between my teen bosoms and belly button. My brain reeled. "What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?" I command the host to remain in my shirt. I worry. I fret. I sweat. "What if I stand and it slides past my waist band and falls out, onto the floor, between my feet?" Would on-lookers think I'd drop-birthed a host? My internal curse monger starts bitching about church being so full, and why the fuck we had to come to a Sunday morning mass when we were traditionally part of the lazy jeans wearing Saturday night crew? "Why, Father, have you forsaken me?!"

So I stammered and mumbled through the rest of the mass. "Shit! A closing hymn?! For fuck's sake! When's this going to end?!" And then it did, allowing me to hit the restroom. Finding it empty, I reached down into my shirt and pulled out the offending piece of Christ. Now, this is the exact moment when the sinnin' takes place. I'm alone in this restroom, no one's around to watch me take it or trash it. I paused, still feeling embarrassed and scorned . . . and I tossed it. I threw GOD into the trash can! I even looked at it, the tiny, pathetic little host laying feebly among wadded up brown paper towels in the garbage can.

I've done some sorry ass things in my life, but this is certainly one act for which I will burn in hell. Man, I feel yucky just remembering it. Like I kicked a kitten. Oh shit, I think I just heard a gun cock. Yup, Jesus is knockin'.

Steve King is a Golgothan Shit Demon

Today, it's with deep shame to report Iowa Republican congressman Steve King has proved himself a ginormous WAD among the already hugely retarded GOP crew. I treated myself to a little "Dogma" today and can say with complete honesty that Steve King is a Golgothan Shit Demon. He's ugly, he's evil, he smells like poop, and his views are shitty.

While I won't go so far as to hint that Iowa's 5th congressional district, from which said Shit Demon heralds, is full of similar smelly monsters, his vile comments drive home the importance of the separation of church and state.

The western half of Iowa is like stepping south into our country's ultra-conservative Bible-belt. I'm tellin' ya' it's some scary shit over there (thankfully I'm born and bread in the 1st district). One of my beautiful bitches moved there so at least I know she's keeping them on their toes. Miraculously she has remained a good, soulful person despite still calling home the district from which King cums, I mean comes.

Wanna know what's got me so pissed? Here's my lift from abcnews.com:

Republican Congressman King:

Terrorists Will "Dance In the Streets" With Obama Victory
March 08, 2008 11:19 AM

Rep. Steve King, R-Iowa, speaking to a local Iowa radio station, said that terrorists would dance in the streets if Sen. Barack Obama, D-Illinois, is elected president -- precisely because of not only Obama's position on withdrawing US troops from Iraq, but because Obama's middle name is "Hussein," his father's Muslim roots, and his appearance -- or "optics," as King put it.

"I don't want to disparage anyone because of their, their race, their ethnicity, their name - whatever their religion their father, father might have been," King said just before doing just that.

"I'll just say this that when you think about the optics of a Barack Obama potentially getting elected President of the United States -- and I mean, what does this look like to the rest of the world? What does it look like to the world of Islam?

"And I will tell you that, if he is elected president, then the, the radical Islamists, the, the al-Qaida, and the radical Islamists and their supporters, will be dancing in the streets in greater numbers than they did on September 11….

"It does matter, his middle name does matter. It matters because they read a meaning into that in the rest of the world, it has a special meaning to them. They will be dancing in the streets because of his middle name. They will be dancing in the streets because of who his father was and because of his posture that says: Pull out of the Middle East and pull out of this conflict.

So there are implications that have to do with who he is and the position that he's taken. If he were strong on national defense and said 'I'm going to go over there and we're going to fight and we're going to win, we'll come home with a victory,' that's different. But that's not what he said. They will be dancing in the streets if he's elected president. That has a chilling aspect on how difficult it will be to ever win this Global War on Terror."

You think I just made this shit up? Watch him say it! http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/politics/2008/03/08/sot.king.obama.comments.cnn?iref=24hours

I'm reminded of that 2 minute cartoon in "Bowling for Columbine" in which Michael Moore so simply and eloquently shows how this country was not only founded on fear, but how our forefathers and elected officials perpetuates it with every attempt to move forward, dominate, and control not only the citizens of this country, but the global community. Sometimes our trusted leaders disappoint me beyond comprehension. I'm going to go stab my eyeballs out with little white (probably republican) Lego men, the fuckers.

. . . what can I say?

In one of Anne Lamott's more recent books Plan B, she shares her personal struggles with adopting a more kind, spiritual attitude toward those who oppose our belief systems or those we don't like or, to quote, those who are "acting butt-ugly." Her 'butt-ugly' reference is found in the chapter honoring her struggle with Bush, Jr., titled "loving your president: day 2." I'm not nearly so willing, yet. . .

My crack toys

Why is it that, knowing what's best for us, we gleefully do the exact opposite? Well, I cannot speak for you all, of course, only myself. That said, I am constantly at odds with this person.

I know what I should be doing: when I'm at work, I should be working. But what am I doing? Usually farting around on the Internet. When I'm at home, I should be taking care of the house. But what am I doing? Usually farting around on the Internet. When I'm talking with someone, I should be listening. But what am I doing? Usually thinking about farting around on the Internet. Shit! I'm an Internet junkie!

And it's not even stuff that really benefits me! Take Facebook, for instance. One of my lady friends got me on last fall and it's like crack! I want a Blackberry like a pothead wants a one-hitter: just so I can have it with me at all times! I will admit, Facebook has put me back in touch with some long lost friends and rekindled long-stagnant communications with close chums, but other than that? I can report I still suck at Scrabulous, scored a 90% on the Barack Obama quiz, and am a Level 87 Barbary Pirate with 19,834 buried coins. I know how impressed you are. Believe me, I'm equally so with my badself.

But all this technology is really starting to destroy my willingness to search for peace. Not only am I part of the Borg-like Facebook continuum, but my husband gave me an iPod Classic for Christmas only to be followed quickly by a new laptop so that I can use said iPod (iTunes no likey Windows ME). And now I'm blogging, which actually has been quite medicinal for me, so I'm not abandoning this ship. Sorry.

Does this mean, though, that I should abandon other interests? The thought of leaving Facebook rattles my rusty cage and I like the gadgets and gizmos. But they do come with a cost. And I don't know how much more I'm willing to pay. Maybe I can take baby steps, like 12 of 'em?

Step 1: I admitted that I'm powerless over the Internet and it's adjoining technologies, and that my life is unmanageable.

Step 2: Came to believe that a power greater than the Internet could restore me to sanity.

Step 3: Made a decision to turn my iPod, laptop, and DSL over to more responsible powers, as I determined them.

Step 4: Made a searching and fearless inventory of everything lost to this Internet insanity.

Step 5: Admitted to my husband, to myself, and our DSL carrier the exact nature of these wrongs.

Step 6: Became entirely ready to have our DSL carrier restrict my involvement with these defects of character.

Step 7: Humbly schedule the appointment to do so.

Step 8: Made a list of all people I ignored, work I didn't do, and time I wasted, and became entirely ready to make it up to them all.

Step 9: Arranged catch-up dates, worked overtime, and cleaned the house, unless to do so would irritate others.

Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and when I wasted time, promptly admitted it.

Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve my ability to use the Internet and it's adjoining gadgets in a responsible manner.

Step 12: Having had a technological awakening as the result of these steps, I tried to carry this message to other Internet-addicted peoples, and to practice balance and responsible surfing in all my affairs.

Well crap, that doesn't sound very fun!

7 years? No friggin' way!

I sit here in amazement. SEVEN YEARS!!! How the hell did that happen? One morning I wake up, bushy-tongued and shame-filled, dodging my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the next . . . well, shit! I may still awaken bushy-tongued, but the shame is gone and the only dodging in the bathroom I do these days is of the scale.

It was seven years ago today that I dragged my tail outta bed, trying so hard not to think about the shit I'd pulled the night before. I tried distracting myself with a bike ride, and only felt worse. "What the hell am I doing?!" I'd try to crank it out a little faster, trying to escape that fucking dog on my ass.

The night (and early morning) before, would mark the last time I boozed it up. No big deal to most, but to me? MONKEY MUFFINS!!! At the time, I didn't understand what was happening. My husband and I had been invited to a meet-and-greet at a local doctor's house for the new hospital administrator. Not the kinda place you show up to in jeans and a 'If we all had a bong, we could all get along' t-shirt.

Also, not the kind of event at which to get shit-faced. And I had no intention of doing so, but by the second or third drink, I was double-fisting to ensure adequate supply. And bellying up to the Baby Grand to entertain with my renditions of "Danny Boy" and Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely". (Why oh why, couldn't that have been part of the blackout?)

Unfortunately, the evening plummeted further as we--the hospital administrator and his wife, I and my husband--were the last to leave the meet-and-greet, only to exit straight to the bar. As was so much the case when I drank, I got very social and very personal and very inappropriate. It was at this point when I found myself gripped by some deep, primal urge to tell said administrator and spouse that one of the doctors on his staff gives wonderfully educational pelvic exams. I clearly remember reporting this with a straight face and much conviction, explaining that the doctor would note where one ovary was located and then the other, and so on. (Having never actually written about this, it's only now that I'm truly struck by how abso-fucking-insane I was to think another human being would want to hear EXACTLY where my ovaries are located!!!)

Oh! You think that's bad? Oh no. Ovary discussion wasn't getting me nearly the attention I craved, so I whipped out the party trick to beat all party tricks: Milk and Cookies! See, the saddest thing in this is that while I was whoopin' it up like a crazed wad, my 10-month-old daughter was with a sitter. And her little life had not been the easiest up to that point. And I was still lactating. Lactating. Producing milk . . . from my body. Providing me with the greatest little party trick east of Vegas. At least that's what I thought. Hell, I'd been perfecting this trick for nearly a year. So, out come the jugs and it's treats all around. Don't ask me how the night ended, the twins' bruises indicated 'not good.'

Most of my friends were a little disturbed when, a couple weeks later, I 'came out' to them and shared my decision to stop drinking. Given the distance that separated us, they were largely unaware of the mud I'd been spraying in the eyes of innocent bar flys. So it's no surprise that a few still ask if I'll ever drink again. But for me, when I think about that last night: intending to have a couple glasses of expensive Chardonnay while schlepping with a bunch of doctor-types, ending up hording the free beer and showing off my sick skills? Call me crazy, but this is one bee-ahch who does NOT need a drink. No nevah! But I'll take just for today. . .

Not another holy roller

As I sit and skip out on yet another Sunday gathering and my husband leaves with the 2 kids in tow to praise the Lord, I must admit there is a smidgen of yearning to connect with some kind of spirituality. I have many reservations about organized religion, developed and still festering from the years of cathecism I endured as the child of a catholic mother. My husband, on the other hand, lacks such indoctrination and simply goes to church to be a part of that fellowship.

Me? I just don't likey. Maybe it's that arrogance that all catholic kids are taught: only catholics go to heaven, all other faiths/religions are fucked. I don't believe this to be true, just as I don't believe Jesus was a celibate, single dude who died for our sins. But that's for another time. What I do believe is that behind our gruff, cool, kickin' exteriors lies within all of us some concept of a God. Maybe it's the essence of Mother Earth, the Buddha, Yahweh, Allah. I don't know, it's just a hunch I have. And with this hunch, I have a very strong belief that just as I don't have the right to preach to someone about the condition of their soul, NO ONE has the right to preach to me about the condition of mine.

So maybe that's why I shy away from church. Fear of hearing all that black and white, hell and heaven bullshit programming I received as a child.

My husband, on the other hand, comes from good, hell-bound, protestant stock. As his family relocated a few times, with each new town they'd move to came the church shopping spree. CHURCH SHOPPING?! That's crazy! Choosing for yourself rather than follow the herd to the closest catholic mass? That's spiritual anarchy! But one I really liked . . . especially having parted with the catholics sometime during the 3-hour freedom drive from my parent's home to college and my pseudo-freshman year (I'll leave that for another post).

So when my husband and I started our own church shopping, I felt deliciously rebellious because we'd decided to plant our roots in the area of my youth. This meant I knew a bunch of people, and they knew me. And the fact we weren't darkening the door of the local St. Joe's was noticeable and . . . awesome. I'd taken a public stand that shouted "I'm not catholic anymore!" But who am I kidding? You can take the girl outta the church, but you can't take the church outta the girl. And not everything was bad, just most of it. There are lovely prayers that I remember. The pageantry of the mass, though long, was pretty cool. And much of my family remains catholic and I love them and believe that their religion works for them and I bless them! And from time to time, I enjoy going to church with them and taking communion (not because I believe in the body and blood, but because the local priest knows I'm not a practicing catholic and it pisses him off - HA!).

I think, and this is just for me, that my catholic upbringing really kinda ruined the idea of cherishing and honoring any kind of church. My husband and I decided upon a very cool, quite liberal denomination. We've had good preachers and our current minister is a very hip, funny, bald guy from Wisconsin (and you can never go wrong with a Cheddar Head). But it's a real effort for me to go. So I generally don't. Especially since I tend to fellowship with some buddies a few times a week, trying to find my way along the path of sobriety.

Again, I don't want to turn off anyone with this 'God Talk,' but it's part of who I am. For me, I must recognize that this world is not just about Jenny, which is why I love the following verses from Psalm 51:

"Create in me a clean heart, O God,

and put a new and right spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from your presence,

and do not take your holy spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

and sustain in me a willing spirit."

I wish you all peace and blessings. Try a little meditation, a little journaling, a little prayer. I haven't been doing much of these, but if I keep asking for the willingness, I have no doubt it will come.

Why this? Why now? Why not?!

As I jump into the land of Blog, I must warn any poor reader who crosses this path that they mustn't expect literary brilliance. No, I'm merely a wannabe. What do I intend to do here? I haven't a friggin' clue. While my user name may incite visions of some edgy little vamp scratching out prose in her Soho flat with a Carlsburg in one hand and a Marlboro in the other, let me be clear: I'm none of that. I'm a boring old wife, mother of 2 young ins, surviving a harsh winter in rural Iowa.

I owe my presence here (and you can lay blame on) the Liberal Redneck at Harbors Views Road here on Blogger. Upon googling some needed information, I was lead to his blog and couldn't leave it. Way too fun and yummy. In trying to leave a comment for the new love of my life (shhh, don't tell my husband), I somehow got directed and lead and coerced by the all-powerful prompts into creating my own space. Hmmm, wasn't so tough after all.

So, what can I leave you with today? The funny 'Buddy Christ' from "Dogma" and a couple lines from a current favorite song by the inspiring Rusty McHugh, who left this world for another about a year ago:

"Well folks around here got it pretty bad, but I'm one lucky man.

I've got some Old Milwaukee, and an ugly woman, and a shitty bag a pot."

Visit http://www.rustymchugh.com/ where you can listen to this song "Old Milwaukee" and other goodies like "Daddy's Drunk and Naked Up on the Waterslide."