St. Paul red carpet

Jon Stewart's already got the welcome met out for the Republicans...

And for some really intriguing reading, visit Pulp Friction's investigation into who is possibly the real 'baby mama' of Palin's infant son.

Signpost on the road to death

Em, HELLO!!!!!! Seventy-two candles?

Ba-rackin' the Vote

Am I the only one even mildly offended by McSame's choice of a VP? Palin? Are you kidding me? This goes to the core of what is so wrong about him! Rather than picking a person who's qualified for the role as vice president, this wad picks a person based solely on their gender! Not only does he offend an entire sex with this pick because he assumes that he'll gain a slew of Hillary die hards, but Palin also drives home the point that his running mate needs no real qualifications--that he's already got everything needed to lead this country into Bush's 3rd term.

And here's my question of the day: since when do Mavericks take Geritol? When I consider the word 'maverick' I think of "Top Gun," I think of RayBans, I think of cocky volleyball players sweatin' it up in some sand. John McSame? 72-year-old John McSame? No fuckin way!

This overly-seasoned veteran is starting to remind me of the Viagra-taken Dole who sniveled through the '96 race. Maybe McSame will fall off the stage this week and break a hip!!! Then he can pimp the Oscal voters as well.

A day like any other

My heart still weighs a ton. Guess it probably will for awhile. But in the real world, I must put on the brave face. My husband and I are currently in a hospital waiting room as our 8-year-old gets another surgery done on her cleft palate. She's a trooper, that Moira, and she takes all these surgeries in such stride that I forget there is pain and risk involved. I forget to be scared!

But maybe that's what I'm always supposed to be doing, facing this day like every other, and not defining it as The Day of Surgery and setting the ol' ego in even greater control. Today is not a bad day, a scary day, a painful day, or even a good day. It's just another day, good or bad, peaceful or chaotic, and as a spiritual being, my responsibility is to be of use to those around me.

I don't know about anyone else, but sometimes that can be a reallllyyyyy tall order.

Dinos & Death

A couple days ago, fellow blogger Choral Reef posted about dinosaur bones being absorbed into the earth and later mined as fossil fuels and manufactured into plastic. Plastic that was littering her floor. . .

And then Liberal Redneck, in response to Friday's God post, shared about the age of all humans being 13.73 billion years old because we pulsate with the same energy that started this planet, we are embodied with the same energy that made those dinos roar. . .

But then this weekend, the 17-year-old energy of a boy was launched back out into the universe. I knew this young fella, knew he loved to be outside, knew he was psyched to be a Senior, knew he felt embarrassed about some of the things he'd done, knew he could be pretty impulsive, knew some of his pain and fear, but I really didn't realize how deep his pain and fear ran.

Unconfirmed reports state he got himself into some legal trouble over the weekend and feared being sent away. So he got out a gun.

I'm angry and sad and pissed off and a little Maiasaura-esque. Dude! What the fuck?!

I don't believe such an act was "stupid." To call it "stupid" a) reeks of judgement and b) suggests he was of sound mind, able to make an informed, balanced choice. No. I believe he was so scared, so lost, so without hope, that the only solution for him was to make the ultimate flight. And that makes me sad. But I also must believe that he was not alone during those final moments. That something was with him, something holding him in that dark time, that something was with him no matter what he did.

Whether his 'essence,' his 'spirit' is contained in a human vessel or rocketing through our universe, I must understand that life does not stop, it simply changes form. And my hope is that whatever form this dear one has now taken, he is finally without the pain that drove him from our human world.

The very atoms that we are composed of have always existed as waves of potential and always will exist whether they comprise a human, a dinosaur or a black hole. ~Liberal Redneck

A yummy O Henry

Thanks, Bridget!

Ch, ch, changes

It's work, I tell ya! Trying to get back in the saddle, 'er blog. With a crap vacation the first week of August, so went my blogging steam. One would think such a blowage would fuel my muse, but I'm just sick of feeling negative. I guess the mommism: "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" is what's kept me quiet (for once).

But then the Olympics hit and I got all hissy over the women's beach volleyball uniforms. WTF?! I do not understand how, in our Earthling culture, we tolerate such blatant sexism? I know, I'm beating a dead horse, but it pisses me off! It pisses me off that softballers play in shorts! It pisses me off that lady golfers also hit the tour in shorts! It pisses me off that for decades, women have fought for equality and are prancing around in this shit. And some women wonder why they're not taken seriously...

So Turbo's been pissy. There has been a couple of bright spots: last week, my young ones started back to school! And I don't care if people frown at me for jumping for joy, it's lovely to have some Turbo Time back! Time to go all Turbo on the laundry, but that's about all that's been accomplished. I've also been getting all Turbo on my bed, snoozing.

But guess what other change has occurred? It happened on vacation. I walked outside and saw my 5-year-old son loitering around a tree, tipping back an empty bottle. I called out to my baby, "what are you doing?" And his answer broke my heart. "Pretending to drink beer." I couldn't believe it. My worst fear. While I no longer drink, my groom does. It drove home some huge issues: a) if I'm going to sneak around doing something I don't want the kids to see, maybe I shouldn't be doing it, and b) my groom and I needed to talk.

The second thing first: my husband and I agreed that we're seeing more opportunities for family talks. So far, talks have occurred on the difference between smoking and smoking fish . . . hey, it's a start. As for the first, I've quit smoking. Not that I was a pack-a-day (or even a cig-a-day) hitter, but I'm no longer willing to sneak around to suck on a something that does me no good and, in fact, will shorten my life. So I guess I won't find myself looking like these groovy chicks . . . sniff, sniff.

Cure for the lost muse?

I've gone and lost my muse... Feelings of spiritual bankruptcy sure do suck...

Meeting Regan

So I’m sitting here on vacation and thinking of hell. No, not because I’m in hell (more like the outer rim, really) but because of the warning from George W. about not messing with J.C. or I could get hurt? I don’t have to worry about that. As I said, “God” and I are on pretty good terms. Now satan? Ummmm, that’s some shit I don’t mess with. Ouji boards? Nope. Chanting ‘666’? Not a chance. Reciting incantations in a mirror in the dark, inviting that fallenest of fallen angels? No fuckin’ way, man. I grew up catholic.

It was about 25 years ago, right around this time of year. My sisters and I had just returned home from a day on the river. It was dusk, with a storm having just rolled through. After a day on the river, one’s tired, especially if you’ve been water skiing, which my mother had been. And this is the only explanation I offer for my mother’s lack of judgment. Perched on the corner of our living room coffee table was weird enough, but Mother sat locked in on a scene: a woman rolls over in bed to find her daughter who claimed her bed was shaking. Aaaannnnnndddd commercial. I felt oddly uncomfortable.

Mom switched the channel to “HeeHaw,” but with the next commercial, she switched it back. Scene: a woman answers the door and in hushed tones, invites the knocker in and talks of the girl. She ushers the knocker up a stairway into a room where she shines a flashlight onto the girl’s belly. With my fraidy-cat radar totally firing, I whined/begged for some Mini Pearl. Staring at the TV, Mom answered, “Oh, just wait. This is a good part. It’s not that bad.” Not that bad?! With the flashlight beaming on the girl’s stomach, letters rise and spell out, “Help me.” AAAAHHHHH!!!!

Since when is “The Exorcist” acceptable viewing for anyone under 18? Okay, 16? Ten?! I was already an easily freaked out kid (maybe it comes with Catholicism). Tales of the devil? Oh ho, I remember the ads for the original “Omen” back in the ‘70s. The commercial was enough. Yet there we were, in our home, and our mother (who kept fresh fruit aplenty and would later ban ‘The Simpsons’ because of Bart’s negative influence) was all blanked out, drool trickling from her chin.

Thanks Ma. Because of that brief run in with Regan, I spent my adolescence certain that satan was shaking my bed. At catechism, we’d be told stories of the reality of possession and how satan hung out at rock concerts. By my freshman year of college, I’d summoned the courage to ask a boyfriend to rent it and watch it with me. It was horrible and nasty and everything I thought it would be, but there was a positive flip side: it ended up neutralizing a lot of my possession fears. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate “Tubular Bells” and find the movie poster eternally creepy, but watching it somehow sucked the power out of it.

I went through a phase a couple years ago in which I doubted the existence of evil, rationalizing that satan was more an irrational component of our unconscious Ego. Honestly, I really don’t like to think about it today. I like to believe I still rationalize the power of our Ego run amok, but I cannot ignore the senses and coincidences. For instance, a recent episode of This American Life included an interview with a man who, at the age of 12, was at a Christian camp and challenged the devil. The devil won.

So I guess all I’m saying is that God and I, we’re good. He/She/It tolerates my non-belief and, in fact, relishes in my questions and lack of faith. But satan? I just don’t go there. I’m not saying I believe or don’t believe. While I no longer fear my bed shaking, I also no longer look to get spooked. Life’s freaky enough without my imagination getting into the mix, though is it just coincidence this is my 66th post on the 6th day of August? And my husband and I are watching Johnny Depp's "From Hell?" Uck! Begone, dark one!!!!