A Walk Through My Neighbourhood

This is what was great about POSTING and READING on Vox. (Sigh…)

I. The Politically Wise

“I wear (Captain Walter R. Schmidt Jr.’s) MIA bracelet all day, everyday. He was a Marine pilot who went down 09Jun68 in South Vietnam. I wear this bracelet until the day he or his remains come home. Happy Veteran’s Day Capt. Schmidt.”

http://jennifer0214.vox.com

“…the U.S. – politicians and people – would do well to remember Jefferson’s “wall of separation…” –

http://paikea066.vox.com

“…If you legislate morality, moral choices lose their value…”

http://shushnow.vox.com

II. The Politically Witty

“Reality TV Idea Number Two- Only in California- Each week, the Governor chooses who will be electrocuted, after a round where the prisoners are judged on various labour tasks that they may find out of the ordinary (e.g. baby photographer, maître d’hôtel) and attempts to escape are dealt with by immediate dismissal from the show, also by electrocution.

The show is best known for the Governor saying, ‘You’re fried.’”

http://jackyan.vox.com

The College Opportunity and Affordability Act’ is a pretty name, like a crack whore might be pretty after you’ve had 5 martini’s, but before your doctor diagnoses you with a dozen STD’s that won’t be so bad if you would just stop scratching….”

http://schoonerhelmvox.com

III. The Acerbic, Yet Thought-Provoking Social Commentary

“America is Starsky & Hutch in the same way as OZ is Crocodile Dundee. Americans are not The Brady Bunch, and similarly, what we Aussies project into the world – what we strive to project – is just advertising. It is not who we are. In our art and advertising we encapsulate our aspirations. These are collective dreams reflected in a media looking-glass…..The real Australia is not a long stretch of golden beach, a tropical island paradise, or a dusty outback vista. In the main we are middle-class and suburban.”

http://snowy938.vox.com

“It just goes to show that no matter where you are, the naysayers will always have the loudest voice.”

http://baria.vox.com

“We are supposed to be a nation of tolerance. If you criticise someone for being gay, for being fat, for being black or being female you will (quite rightly) cop a severe tongue lashing for your lack of empathy. However apparently it’s quite okay to criticise people for being thin. The phrase ‘real women have curves’ springs to mind. A lot of people have been saying it in response to Jennifer Love Hewitt’s bikini photos. Initially it sounds great, after all real women are allowed to have curves and still be real women. Huzzah! What a great idea! But the problem is it doesn’t say real women can have curves. It decrees that real women and curves are inextricably linked. Real women have curves. If you have no curves, sorry, no amount of menstruation, ovulation, lactation or possession of a vagina is going to make up for it and bring you back to Real Woman Status. Too bad.”

http://evilwombatqueen.vox.com

“I am completely fed up with everyone lumping Christians together in one big box and painting them all with the same broad brush…..whether you are praising them or criticizing them, although its usually the latter when I hear people taking about Christians. Its akin to racism to lump all Christians together. You wouldn’t say that all blonde people are the same, would you? Or that all Indians are the same? Or that all Africans are the same? Or all Americans are the same? Or all Canadians are the same…”

http://foxsydee.vox.com

“look. i write the way i speak. i am no grammar nazi, by any stretch of the imagination. but this stuff really bugs me. i don’t know why. it just DOES.

1. supposebly [it's SUPPOSEDLY. that's a "D." not a "B."]
2. i could care less [if you COULD care less, then please. by all means, DO. it's i COULDN'T CARE LESS]
3. irregardless [what's with the ir- in the beginning? it's just REGARDLESS]
4. respectfully, instead of respectively.
5. when people confuse “leery” with “weary” or vice versa. what’s that about? they’re two very different words.
6. and in one of mia’s books about a manta ray, they use the word “sleek.” but they spelled it “sleak.” and that is really annoying.

i know there are a LOT more. and i think i’ve written about this a few times (at least i did on my blogger blog) but it still bugs me. and it just surprises me to no end how someone who is relatively intelligent could use (or rather, MISuse) those words….”

http://grrrace.vox.com

IV. The Beautifully Introspective and Reflective

“Too much, too often, has happened to make me doubt that someone isn’t driving this bus.”

http://riggernquill.vox.com


“The weight of the responsibilities I had then…real and imagined….broke me down to the bare minimal existence…almost reduced me Literally to Ashes. And few know that it’s really a miracle that I’ve made it on the other side Alive…and Kickin’….”

http://msgenevieve.vox.com

“I could do with a hug, and yet there’s no one at law school I’d even dream of turning to for that. Perfect opportunity for them to whip out a knife and stab me in the back…”

http://lightchaser.vox.com


“Self-judgement, sometimes, can be cruel but so real.”

http://iliask.vox.com

“…In this case here was a girl I barely knew and perhaps would have never met again. But her blog today made her alive for me…”

http://halfrebel.vox.com

“Were we all meant to go down this garden path together? A collective fate sealed by the inner workings of a very small minority of people?”

http://petitebelette.vox.com

“Today I forgive you.

You are my father that never knew me.

You are the drunk frat boy that raped me.

You are the husband that cheated on me.

You are the love that lied to me.

You are the friend that betrayed me.

You are the mother that turned her back on me.

You are the sister who critisizes me.

You are the boss that made my life hell for a year.

You are a gossiper.

You are the self-righteous.

You are me.

I forgive you.”

——–

http://irishluckylass.vox.com


“But just as a Buddhist monk is thankful to his poverty for reminding him of the true purpose of life, so must I be grateful for having had the opportunity to learn of life’s cruelly neutral nature at such a young age through strictly imposed violent sports…”

http://kirkstarr.vox.com


V. …And This Entire Post From a Whole Different Perspective:

http://paxblog.vox.com/library/post/our-place.html

There are also the artists who, with their vision, remind us how beautiful our earth is…

http://philhellene.vox.com

http://kiminuk.vox.com

http://laurie069.vox.com

http://lezleevictoriah.vox.com

http://michelle-solange.vox.com

And after you spend some time strolling through these, remember that these neighbors are not even a tenth of my neighbourhood, nor even one percent of the whole of VOX. There are so many others whom you might meet, if you explore. So, do it. After all, as Peter (http://petermcc.vox.com) says:

“…These days I go on the rides rather than hold the bags and watch.”

Happy Holidays, Happy New Year

and

Peace on Earth

to All

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Look Harder

“Look harder.”

Gee…did I just hear you say that again? You’re an English teacher. Surely you must know that one can’t look “harder” at written words on a page.

One can look “longer,” delve more deeply into the meaning of those words, if one can read them, that is, but one can’t look “harder.”

Yet, at least once a week, with distaste and fury layered through your voice, you say it to one of your first-year (seventh grade) pupils.

A girl today, I see.

A twelve-year old girl, whose life is already a misery. On the edge of puberty, her breasts feel sore all the time and, much to her constant mortification, one is growing faster than the other. No matter what blouse she wears to school, this is noticeable. The boys in her class often point to her chest, whispering and laughing behind her back. She hears them and wants to die. She feels she has nothing to balance this physical “anomaly” because to her mind, the other girls in her class are so pretty and sophisticated compared to her. The other girls in her class know how to flirt, while she just gets tongue-tied. And while the other girls in her class still maintain that smooth, soft complexion of their baby years, her face is already always breaking out.

Apart from her uneven breasts and pimples, her feelings of social ineptitude, she’s “stupid,” she’s been told.

By her older brother, when she can’t read the ingredients on their box of breakfast cereal, or when, in a rush of shyness, she’s struck mute when his friends come over to visit. “Don’t pay any attention to my sister. She’s stupid,” is his way of explaining her silence to them.

Her mother agrees. Oh, not that her mother actually says the word out loud, she just looks at her daughter pityingly when shown her marks. “Well, honey,” mother sighs, “I guess not everybody can be good at school.”

But, this young girl is not “stupid.” She has dyslexia.

When you, her teacher, place this before her:

“…after he was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared…”

This is what she sees:

“…after he saw ushereb otni this worlp of worros and rtoudle, by the barisp noeqrus, ti remaineb a rettam of consiberadle boubt whether eht chilp pluow survive ot dear yna name ta all; in which esac ti si tahwemos more than bropaple taht these sriomem woulp reven have addearep…”

Yet, all throughout her seven years of schooling so far, not one person in her life has noticed. Her brother, being a child, couldn’t notice. Her mother, not having had much education herself, might not notice. But you – her teacher? Why didn’t you notice?

I know why. You really didn’t want to be a teacher, did you? You wanted to be…hmmm…let me guess…a writer? …An actor, maybe?

And because the agents didn’t knock down your door in their enthusiasm, because the studios didn’t shower you with movie contracts, you “fell back” on teaching, didn’t you? Someone, some career counsellor somewhere, or even another teacher perhaps, advised you, “You can use your M.A degree. You just need to take a few education courses. It has great benefits and you get your summers off,” didn’t they?

And you thought about it. You thought that the salary wasn’t too bad, especially for the amount of effort you were planning to put into it. Better than being a waiter, anyway. You also realised that the teaching day, ending at 3 p.m., would give you just enough time to play at your real interests. And on a subconscious level, you knew that if you didn’t succeed at them then, you could always blame it on the fact that you, “had no time, you had to teach.”

Then the years went by, faster than you could have believed. You never got that publishing contract and Johnny Depp got all your good roles. So your disgust with Johnny, with Random House and with yourself, grew.

Eventually that disgust manifested itself into an abiding revulsion for your pupils. In particular, this little girl in front of you now, who is flushed through with agonized humiliation because, on top of everything else she thinks she should be and isn’t, she can’t read Charles Dickens and she knows you loathe her for it.

In your loathing, you’ll go one step further. You will make sure all her classmates detest her for it, too:

“I can’t believe this. Are you just going to sit there? Read it. We’re all waiting for you to say something.”

I understand you believe you should be able to express what you feel, at the very least. At least, here – in a classroom full of twelve-year-olds, you are in charge. You can say whatever you want and no one can stop you, because you have tenure, another job perk of your insufferable ‘career.’ So the worst that can happen is that you’ll get a lecture from the headmaster if any one of your pupils, or their parents has the temerity to complain. Which they hardly ever do.

Last week, it was a boy. You really outdid yourself there. You managed to make him cry. In a room full of other boys his age, he cried, because of you.

And now his life at school is effectively over. He’d already been having trouble. He’s the smallest male in his class and he can’t hit, pitch, kick or dunk a ball. However, he was managing to get through with his wry sense of humour and his ability to run pretty damn fast. Now he’ll never fit in, thanks to your public, verbal flogging.

There’s good news, though. For you, anyway. You know how you so wanted to make a social impact with your literary and/or theatrical endeavours? You have. Your words and your performances will never be forgotten. You are immortalised in the minds of your pupils.

This little girl today, for instance. She’ll will always remember and be affected by you. The first time she meets someone who calls her “friend,” she’ll be so surprised and grateful, that she’ll probably be misused. Her first job promotion, she’ll feel a clenching in her stomach, as she wonders if she’s really capable of handling it. When a man tells her he loves her, there’ll always be doubt whispering in her mind, that he can’t possible mean it. And if she becomes a mother, she’ll worry far more than most, that she’s making a mess of it.

As for that boy, if he has a supportive family, he’ll make it through the next five years of school, though they’ll be hell for him. The girls will always roll their eyes when they see him coming and sidle away. He might come to hate women because of it and himself, too. And if he doesn’t have a loving family, he might decide life is not worth it and take himself out, along with some of his classmates and teachers, probably. Possibly you.

All because you and so many others like you, couldn’t respect yourself, or your pupils or the job you were hired to do. It’s a job you’ll always despise, yet one from which no one will ever be able to pull you away. And every day you’re in it, you make my job harder for me.

Haven’t you figured out who I am?

Well, maybe you should look harder, too.

I’m the English teacher across the hall. And I hear you every day.

——————————————

credits – excerpt from Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist, photo from ‘foversouls’ on Flickr- “First Day of School”

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Some of the Little Things

Even I can’t think about George Bush’s plan to take over the world all the time. Every once in a while, “Aiz got-sta have a leee-tle fun.” And for those of us stateside (United States-states that is,) ‘Turkey Day’ is coming up. Now, ordinarily I don’t like even Turkey Day. In fact, I could scare up a whole other political blog on the propaganda surrounding Turkey Day. Not to mention the excess calories. But not this year. ‘Cause this year, three out of our four surviving sons are coming to our place for Turkey Day and that in itself is enough to be thankful for. So, to hell with diets and politics both. For anyone who’s interested, here are some of the little (and not so little) things, in alphabetical order, that make me smile*:

2. Berries - Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries. Tasting them one by one, or a spoonful with vanilla yoghurt. Nothing else to say except “yum.” Nature is so good to us.

3. Duncan Hines Deluxe Yellow Cake Mix - A very different food than berries, I know, but, come on– how can you not love everything about this stuff? The delicious scent of the powdery fine flour mix. Stirring in eggs, oil, vanilla and water, easy and even more fun than making mud pies when I was a child. Scraping the batter off the bowl. The way the kitchen smells as it bakes. The anticipation as it cools, of frosting the done cake with dark chocolate fudge icing. My husband’s smile when I hand him a slice. The moist, creamy taste when I take a bite. Mmmm. Yeah.

4. Frasier reruns - I’m so glad they’re still on air. Every actor in this sitcom is a super-talent. The writing is really something special and the actors deliver their lines with slapstick, genius timing. Two episodes air back-to-back, five nights a week here and hubs and I try to watch at least two each week. It’s so much fun to sit together, watch the actors do their thing and laugh, laugh, laugh.

5. Justin Oliver’s corny jokes – the reason I get to eat yellow cake (well, sometimes, anyway,) is because I work out with Justin Oliver. Apart from being an excellent trainer, Justin tells really excellent corny jokes. Like, “Hey, you better call a plumber- those pipes look ready to burst!” I love working out with Justin, because he makes me work hard. But he also makes me laugh. Those of us who work out with him can’t decide if we should pay him extra for that, or if he should pay us for all the corn kernels we have to shake out of our gym gear when we get home.

6. Laptop, My - my laptop is the way I make my living, my door to the entire world outside my little spot on earth, a testament to what genius man can create when he’s not busy making war and a great game board for ‘Spider Solitaire.’

7. Morning coffee on my patio – a morning spent on my patio is better than meditating. It’s surrounded by bay trees and oak, but there is one giant liquid amber tree, which every fall, scatters gold and red amongst all the green. There are deer, raccoon, squirrels, birds and other creatures who stop by. The grass around my patio smells sweet and slopes down to meet a creek, which trickles or surges, depending on the season. When I can drink my morning coffee on my patio, sitting there in the quiet of nature’s anticipation, I feel thankful, blessed and awed all at once. And the coffee tastes so much better, too.

8. Music - All kinds, from all countries. One of my VOX neighbours, Snowy, said that “music is the only sound you hear with your emotions rather than your ears.” So right. When I think about what musicians give to the world, I am proud that we have so many in my family.

9. Pete’s kisses - You know, it’s really not polite to boast about such things, but I have to say, I am one lucky woman to be the recipient of Pete’s kisses. Wow. Far better than berries or chocolate-frosted cakes. Perfect, in fact.

10. Red lipstick - Nothing makes me feel more feminine than a tube of red lipstick. Twisting up that sexy red cylinder of colour, slicking its softness over my lips, I feel I’m transformed from ordinary girl to fabulous woman when I’m wearing it. My favourite kind? Max Factor Midnight Red.

11. Sixth Sense – ESP, whatever you want to call it, (Pete calls it “nonsense” but he believes in ‘poker gods’ so he’s not fooling me) I’ve had the ability to sense what most people would say is extraordinary phenomena since I was a child. It only happens sometimes, when I’m not thinking about it, or trying to will it, but when it does, it’s accurate and astonishing. And I like it very much because it convinces me that there’s much more to this world than science or organised religion tells us there is.

12. Sons, mine and Pete’s – when I married Pete, we had five combined. My cousin Jo said, “Do you remember when we were young and you told me you wanted to have five sons someday, just like our grandmother had?” I had forgotten about that. She was right and I couldn’t have picked out five better sons from a line-up, if I’d tried. Each is wonderful in his own way. I’ll keep this simple and just say I love them more than anything. We lost one and he’ll always be missed, but the four who remain, just they alone, truly make life worth living for hubs and me.

13. Toddlers in supermarkets – Gosh, I love watching them. Whilst mum and dad push them in carts, they look around as though they’re in a wonderful, exotic country. Take them through the produce section and their eyes go wide at all the colours and shapes of the hundreds of fruits and vegetables. Seeing a supermarket through the eyes of a toddler makes me realise how remarkable some of the things we take for granted are. But the best part of toddlers in a supermarket, is waiting in the check-out line with one in front of me on the queue. I can make ‘peek-a-boo’ faces at them to pass the time waiting and they almost always smile with delight. To me, coaxing a smile from a toddler in a supermarket, is like winning a prize.

14. VOX neighbours – never in my life has it been this easy to meet so many fantastic human beings all at once. Knowing that I’m communicating with people based everywhere from Bombay to Sidney, male and female, ages 16- 70, who are all so intelligent, kind, funny, and loving, just restores my faith that we will all be all right and so will our planet, eventually.

15. Women in my life. They are strong, brave, loyal, hardworking. They encourage and comfort, they inspire, they have lifted me up when I needed getting off the ground. We share a drink, a story, a smile and our lives. They make the world better just for being in it. They are my friends. I’m proud of them and I would be lost without them. I won’t say I saved the best of this list for last, because it’s a tough call. But if I’ve learned one thing in all my years, it’s that if you’ve got just one truly good friend, you’re blessed with riches beyond counting. You know who you are, ladies.

Do I give thanks for all these things? Hell, yes. Thinking of them reminds me that, apart from every other reason we’re here, we’re here

to LIVE and ENJOY living.

 

And you? – What are some of your “little” things?

*Inspired by the Muse of Comedy, Thalia, who is shown here painted by the artist Thalia Took

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Senators, Thank You for Your Support

 

 

Michael Bernard Mukasey  is an impressive man. His alma mater is Columbia University and Yale Law School. In 1987, Mukasey was nominated as a federal district judge for the Southern District of New York in Manhattan by President Ronald Reagan. He served in this position for 18 years, including tenure as Chief Judge from March 2000 through July 2006. Mr. Mukasey is also is a teacher. He began teaching at Columbia Law School in the Spring of 1993 and has taught there every Spring semester since. In addition, he is well-connected politically. Mukasey and his son are justice advisers to Rudy Giuliani’s presidential campaign. And, on top of all this,  as of yesterday, November 6, 2007, Michael Mukasey has been appointed by our “democratically-led” Congress as 81st United States Attorney General.

For those who are not familiar with the title, The United States Attorney General is the head of the United States Department of Justice concerned with legal affairs and is the chief law enforcement officer of the United States government.

Quite a notable resume, don’t you think? Yet, despite all of Mr. Mukasey’s accomplishments, you might be surprised to learn that he, The United States’ top law official,  doesn’t know how to use the internet. When Mr. Mukasey was asked by Senator Whitehouse, “Is waterboarding constitutional?” Mr. Mukasey replied, “I don’t know what’s involved in the technique. If waterboarding is torture, torture is not constitutional.”

But, he said, “if.” Which means, he can’t be sure.

Mr. Mukasey, I can help. Go to your computer and type in “waterboarding” on any search engine. Here’s what comes up on Wikipedia:

“Waterboarding is a technique that simulates drowning in a controlled environment. It consists of immobilizing an individual on his or her back, with the head inclined downward, and pouring water over the face to force the inhalation of water into the lungs. Waterboarding has been used to obtain information, coerce confessions, punish and intimidate. In contrast to merely submerging the head, waterboarding elicits the gag reflex and can make the subject believe death is imminent.

Waterboarding’s use as a method of torture or means to support interrogation is based on its ability to cause extreme mental distress…Although waterboarding in cases can leave no lasting physical damage, it carries the real risks of extreme pain, damage to the lungs, brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation, injuries as a result of struggling against restraints (including broken bones), and even death.”

Wikipedia also states that, “Numerous experts have described this technique as torture.” Funny, but somehow I don’t think it tales an expert to figure that out, which is why I can‘t understand why Mukasey is having so much trouble with it.  Some nations have criminally prosecuted individuals for performing waterboarding. In the past, The United States has been one of those nations.

Why am I talking about this? “Waterboarding” – a euphemism that sounds like a fun sport, instead of what it actually is, got renewed attention September 2006, when reports claimed that the Bush administration had authorized the use of waterboarding on extrajudicial prisoners of the United States. ABC News reported that current and former CIA officers stated that, “there is a presidential finding, signed in 2002, by President Bush, Condoleezza Rice and then-Attorney General John Ashcroft approving the ‘enhanced’ interrogation techniques, including water boarding.”

Waterboarding became an issue in the nomination of Michael B. Mukasey to be the next U.S. Attorney General because of his wishy-washy stance on whether he approved of waterboarding or not. Several Senators indicated that they would not vote for him without a more definitive answer.

Yet, his nomination was confirmed by the Senate yesterday.

My thanks to Wikipedia for providing most of the material for my VOX blog this week. But my biggest thanks goes to The United States Senate for upholding my beloved Constitution.

Good job, people.

 

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Uh, oh. It’s That Time of Year Coming ‘Round Again

 

Ahhh, the holidays, when anyone with any neurosis, addiction or quirk at all, has the excuse to really go hog wild with it.

Let’s see…what have we got?

1) The Control Freaks

What they say:   “I want my relatives to come to my house for this holiday but, I’m  going to do things my way and let’s just hope everyone enjoys it.”

What it means: “Through familial obligation and their spirit of generosity, I’ve managed  to trap my family into spending the holiday with me at my house. Now I’m in charge and I’ll finally be able to teach them the difference between the right way(mine) and the wrong way (theirs.)”

2) The Frustrated Martha Stewarts

What they say: “Who decorated the cookies like that? Do you people think this is a joke? Can’t I get a little cooperation around here? Do you want to have a nice Christmas or not?

What it means: “I feel like a loser. This is my one chance each year to impress my friends and relatives and if I succeed, I can finally be impressed with myself.”

3) The Gloom-and-Doom Blokes

What they say: “You know, I just don’t get the holidays. I mean – what’s to celebrate? There are people suffering everywhere. It’s all to make money, anyway. It’s just so phoney.”

What they really mean: “Spawning misery makes me feel alive. You’re too happy today. We need to fix that.”

4) The Miss-the-Point Perfectionists

What they say:  “That’s the gift you got for so-and-so? I really don’t think that was a wise choice.”

What they really mean: “Gosh, I hate Christmas. I don’t know why, I just do. Do we have to have it?”

5) The Guilt Generators

What they say:  “You know, this might be the last year I’m around for this holiday.”

What they really mean: “I realise I’ve alienated you to the point that I can’t get you to spend any time with me at all unless I emotionally blackmail you.”

6) The Compulsives

What they say: “Oh, come on, why shouldn’t we eat this/smoke this/buy this/ drink this? It’s a holiday. Why can’t you let us enjoy ourselves?”

What they really mean: “I’m obsessive and out of control. I’m looking for an excuse to go down and take you with me.”

7) The ‘Jaded’ Ennui Couple

What they say: (bored tone of voice) “Oh. You’re wearing jack-o-lantern earrings. I guess today’s  Halloween.” (eye roll)

What they really mean: “It’s terribly important to us that others think we’re ‘hip’ and ‘sophisticated.’ To achieve that, we won’t find anything amusing ever, so that when we die, our tombstones can say, ‘We were the coolest.’”

8) The ‘Saved’ Ones

What they say: “I think we should all join hands and pray before we eat.”

What they really mean: “I’m better than you. I’m going to Heaven and probably, sadly, you’re not.”

It took me more than forty years to develop the following list of holiday rules that I now follow faithfully, when plagued by the people above.  They haven’t steered me wrong once. I recommend them to everyone:

1. To “The Saved Ones” – I pray when I want to pray, where I want to pray, how I want to pray and if I want to pray. People who try to force me to pray when I don’t want to, are guilty of “religious rape.”

2.  To the “Jaded Ennui Couple,” “The Miss-the-Point Perfectionists” and the “Gloom and Doom Blokes” - I have FUN on holidays because life is short.  I have fun for the people who, in this crap-shoot called ‘life,’ can’t have fun, because they’re too sick, too poor, or too busy trying to escape bullets. I have fun because I’ve been blessed with much and to deny that by being gloomy would be a worse sin than not praying at the dinner table. So, bugger off.

3. To “The Frustrated Marthas” – If you have the meticulously decorated Christmas tree, the beautifully prepared meal and the well-set table, I might notice or I might not. But if you’re harassed-looking, in a sour mood and your children and spouse flinch whenever you say their names, I’d definitely notice that. One definition of the word, ‘holiday’ is, “a day free from work that one may spend at leisure, a halting of general business activity to commemorate or celebrate.”  Which means we’re supposed to do what we like. And I know for sure that years down the road, what grown children mostly remember about holidays growing up, was whether there was happiness and laughter or…not.

4. To “The Compulsives” and “The Guilt Generators” I’m remorseful about of a lot of things, but not spending enough time with people who are mean, manipulative or abusive, just because it’s a holiday, just because we share the same DNA, or just because I labelled you ‘friend,’ is not one of them.  I donated to that self-destructive charity drive for many years, until I finally ran out of blood. Now I spend not only holidays, but all of my life with only those who appreciate and respect me.

5) To “The Control Freaks” - When you’re invited to my place, I’ll do all I can to make you feel welcome and comfortable. When  you invite me to yours, I hope you’ll do the same. If you have special rules like, “we only serve tofu,” “no alcohol” or “no shoes,” please tell me ahead of time, so I’ll know what to expect. Don’t prepare food you know I don’t like or can’t eat and then tell me to “just try it.” If this happens too often,  I might just bring my own sandwich. Don’t ask annoying questions that masquerade as ‘interested’ ones, like, “Why aren’t you married yet?” “Why did your son get a tattoo?” If this happens too often, I might just tell you to “mind your own business.”

Yup, enjoying the holidays takes self-confidence and self-discipline.  Every year,  starting about now, we get to practice those.

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Menopause and Melanin

Menopause and Melanin

A Scientific Exposition/Rebuttal by Dr. James Dewey Watson,
Nobel Prize Winner 1962, Physiology or Medicine

Ladies and Gentlemen, Esteemed Colleagues, Students of Genetics and Medicine:

As many of you already know, I received the Nobel Prize for my co-discovery of the structure of DNA. I’ve been the chancellor at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in the United States, where I created a research environment unparalleled in the world of science. There, we prided ourselves for our non-profit research dedicated to exploring biology and genetics, advancing our ability to diagnose and treat cancers, neurological diseases and other causes of human suffering.

But that’s not good enough for some people, is it? Some people have to get their knickers in a twist over the following statements I made recently:

1) I am “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours – whereas all the testing says ‘not really.’”

2) “Our wanting to reserve equal powers of reason as some universal heritage of humanity will not be enough to make it so,” because “”people who have to deal with black employees find this not true.”

In simpler words, what I’m saying is this: people whose ancestors come from Africa are just not as smart as people whose ancestors don’t come from Africa. We have indisputable proof of this, because of their test scores, which are consistently lower than everyone else’s.

Boy, you’d think I’d said something terrible, the way some people are carrying on. I even had to resign my post today as chancellor at CSHL, a centre I helped put on the map, simply by my being on staff there. Those ungrateful weasels.

What’s really got my goat however, are the comments made by two female bloggers. One, a young law pupil, being honoured at Brown University, comes across as intelligent, passionate about social change and dedicated in her quest to lead a purposeful life, but in actuality is a sassy whippersnapper who needs her cute little ‘tushie’ spanked. And I’m just the man to do it.

She called me a “senile old fogey.” And who does she think she is? Does she have a Nobel Prize? (Not yet.)

I do. And would they give a Nobel Prize to someone who doesn’t deserve it? Certainly not.

However, even more irritating than the law student’s remarks, were those made by a former New York City Public school teacher, Patricia Volonakis Davis, the self-proclaimed “doctor of Patrichism,” who stated, “Just ignore him.”

How dare she?

I took care of her, though. I took over her blog today. The second thing I did was ring her up and ask her what-in-the-Sam-Hill did she think she was doing telling people to “ignore” me?

‘Dr.’Davis, in what I can only describe as a diatribe, then said that when she was teaching at an inner city school in New York City, she’d observed the following about standardized tests:

1) The black children who tested poorly on exams were often children who hadn’t eaten breakfast, or had had one consisting of sugary cakes and coffee. This was because their parents had to go out early to work, or worked nights at minimum wage jobs and left the children unsupervised, to get ready for school on their own. Others were simply too poor to eat before they came to school. Some did not have reasonable bedtimes. Lack of sleep, empty stomachs and/or high levels of sugar and caffeine in the bloodstream prevalent in lower-income, unsupervised middle-graders, does not make for controlled test conditions.

2) Black children who had dyslexia also scored low on exams, because their learning differences were purposely misdiagnosed by the school examiners. That was because in New York State at the time, students with certain learning differences, such as dyslexia, could be assisted only by specially-trained ‘outside’ teachers. In order to prevent spending school funds on ‘outside’ teachers and in order for special-ed teachers to maintain the number of pupils required to support the need for their special-ed classes, children who had dyslexia were deliberately placed in with teachers who were not trained to help them improve their scores. ADHD was also not taken into consideration and often left undiagnosed by teachers, as well as by uneducated parents.

3) Testing conditions were chaotic. Tenured teachers showed up late to proctor exams because they knew they couldn’t lose their positions over it and because they believed wholeheartedly that the pupils were bound to do poorly, regardless of test conditions. One example was of a proctor who showed up over ten minutes late to a class that had been painstaking tutored for the test by their classroom teacher. Though they achieved high scores whilst in her classroom environment, the unsupervised pupils grew bored waiting for the proctor and decided that a brilliant way to pass the time would be to pull off all the chewed gum stuck under the desks, roll it into one big ball and hit the blackboard with it. The giant ball of old chewing gum bounced back and one student (black) was hit with it. He had a swollen eye as a result, but was told to take the test anyway. The test started almost twenty minutes late in that particular class (tests are timed and all classes must finish together, by law) and the pupil with the swollen eye who’d scored an 80% in classroom practice tests, got a 49% on the actual exam. The rest of the class lost twenty minutes of time to answer their questions and scored lower than on their practice tests, as well.

4) Extra federal funds (called Chapter 11 funds) were issued proportionately to the schools, based on the number of pupils below the 50 percentile in reading, writing and math. The more pupils per school at these low levels (based on their test scores) the more funds the school was given. There was no way the federal government could ever determine what the funds were actually being spent on, or how the tests had been administered at every public school.

Dr. Davis had a lot more to say than this, including some stuff about parental “modelling,” average parental age and education, as well as the fear some black students admitted to having that if they did well on tests, they’d be mocked by their peers for trying to be “white,” but I say it’s all “poppycock.”

For starters, let’s have a look at this woman:

In her photo, she (a) has crows’ feet, therefore it’s logical to conclude she is (b) not a young woman.

If a, then b.

She (c) is also not smiling.

If we have the above ( a b + c) it’s logical to conclude that she is d) peri-menopausal:


(a b + c) = d

And we all know that peri-menopausal women are unfeminine, infertile, bloated, illogical and unless we feed them volumes of chocolate and apple martinis, downright nasty.

Consequently, Dr. Davis’ conclusions come from nothing more than her being an old, dried-up, smarty-pants bitch.

On the other hand, my conclusions that those of African ancestry are not as smart as everyone else, are based on true scientific methodology. Obviously we couldn’t administer standardised tests to every black on the African continent, because they’re all very busy killing each other in civil wars, recruiting children to become mercenaries, stealing diamonds back and forth and selling them to Americans, Dutch and English merchants and getting AIDS, that they don’t have the time to sit down and learn how to read and write. Especially in English.

However, we did have a control group and in that group, my team of biologists and genetic researchers were able to conclude that the more melanin someone is born with, as evidenced by the presence of darker or lighter “coffee-colour” of the dermal tissue (skin) the less intelligent they are. The pigment directly affects the brain function.

Dr. Martin Luther King- Dark Coffee
Light Coffee- Halle Berry

Light Coffee- Halle BerryThe following chart will demonstrate that undeniably. I’ve included photos of several African-Americans who have “light- to deep coffee skin tone,” STRICTLY for reference in correlating the test scores to the skin colour:

Test Scores in Reading, Writing and Intelligence:

Darkest Coffee- 59% below average. Many of those in this colour group could not spell the words, “astronaut” or “Challenger hero.”

Dark Coffee - 49% below average. Those in this group had trouble writing out the “I Have a Dream,” speech.

Medium-Coffee - 40 % below average. Could identify and write the “I Have a Dream Speech” but had trouble with the definition of “empowered female.”

Light Coffee- 20% below average. Knew all of the above, but had some trouble remembering the name of the character, Cliff Huxtable, played by Bill Cosby on The Bill Cosby Show.

As you can see, the lighter the skin, the higher the test score. Therefore we can conclude quite plausibly that those with no skin pigment whatsoever, would be the smartest people on earth.

And so as I go out on my own, after my fifty years at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, I would like to introduce to you my new partner in genetic research, Edgar Winter:

Edgar Winter -The Most Intelligent Human Being

Edgar Winter -The Most Intelligent Human Being

Edgar, who has albinism, did not go into the sciences as a young man. He was in the arts, a “blues and metal musician.” But it was evident even in this field, that he was brilliant and well-read, because the title of his hit album, They Only Come Out at Night, is in perfect verb agreement and his most popular tune, Frankenstein, was named for Mary Shelley’s classic work of literature.

Further, those with the most intelligence will see, quite clearly, really, that my original hypotheses and eventual conclusions were brought about by well-conducted and sound research.

Skeptics be damned.

James D. Watson

On my retirement, October 25, 2007

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Maria Shriver’s California Women’s Conference

I have been away from the computer, volunteering at an extraordinarly empowering and non-partisan women’s conference, called the California Women’s Conference. Despite it’s title, women and men, leaders and activists from all over the world, participated. I loved it, found it to be simply ‘life-affirming.’ There’s nothing we can’t do if we really want to do it! You can read all about it, if you’re interested, on the link.

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On Organised Religion (to SNOWY)

 

I’ve been having some very interesting philosophical, social and religious discussions with some of my new “netpals” from Australia. Their perspectives got me thinking about something I wrote in my memoir, Harlot’s Sauce, which has just been completed and which is being shopped around to publishers as we speak. So for this week’s blog I’m taking an excerpt on religion from that memoir and dedicated it to my new Aussie friends, most especially to one very deep thinker, Snowy.

I expect an extra drink from that still of yours for this one, Snowy.

; )

On Organised Religion

I was raised Catholic, as were many people I knew growing up. But, I had a few friends who were Protestant and then there was my friend, Margie, who was Jewish. When we were in high school, just for fun, we’d tag along to each other’s worship services occasionally. Even though Margie married a Catholic later on, (another intriguing story, that) she was overwhelmed when she first walked into my Catholic church as a teenager. The depiction of Jesus nailed to a Cross terrified her and the smell of the benediction incense nearly gave her an asthma attack.


Despite that, Margie wasn’t as affected by Catholic services as much as I was affected the first time I attended Protestant services. Having attending Catholic services all my life, the Protestant Church seemed too… well…comfy. The service too upbeat and brief, there was nothing daunting about the altar and there was no forbidding priest looking down from a godly height.

In fact, the officiator, who was actually smiling from the ground-level pulpit at the people attending worship, was allowed to be black or even female, I was told. I also thought the parishioners’ role was too easy. They didn’t have to kiss the hands of priests, nor kneel in supplication when he started his wailing. (Which in this church, he never did.) After all this cheerfulness in church, I just didn’t feel browbeaten, as I was supposed to, after I’d left. Therefore, Protestant church couldn’t truly be church…could it? Not to me, at least. I was a “first-generation American” and our priests were from the ‘old school.’

If you don’t know what it means to be a “first-generation American,” you’ll probably never understand the wide gap there was between those of us whose parents or grandparents had immigrated from other countries and those whose ancestors had been in the United States since the Constitution was signed. There are many differences between us, believe me, but they’re especially evident in our religions. Things might be different today, but when I was growing up, we first-generation ethnic groups had much more grinding religions than our more assimilated counterparts. As children, these religions kept us awake nights, terrified, our thoughts circling furiously. As adults, some of us became crushed followers or bitter atheists. Others tried intensive psychotherapy, but it didn’t help. Our spiritual educations were like deep moles in our skin. They were impossible to remove and could go bad at any moment.
Don’t misunderstand. I believe all religions based on the teachings of Abraham, Mohammed, Christ, or whomever else you’re partial to, started out as marvellous ideas. But here’s what I think happened:

One fateful day, Satan said to his followers, “I’ve just had a thought that might make this religion stuff work for me.”


With that, he went out and hired:
Tony Blair’s tailor

Sylvio Berlusconi’s plastic surgeon


The British Council


The U.S. Senate

The O.J. Simpson trial jury

Michael Moore’s film editors

Three tenured high school teachers

Six class valedictorians

Nine widowed old ladies who’d never had orgasms

Twelve zealots in pursuit of a cause, but who wanted to wear fur and eat meat and hadn’t read Orwell

He hit the jackpot when he signed on these last three:

Rupert Murdoch, Karl Rove and Bud Selig

Together, these dynamic disciples, whom I’ll name, “The Revelation Delegation,” brainstormed a business plan, which re-scripted all the religions of the globe. Somehow, (here my theory needs more research,) they sold us the revised versions, through which we learned:

a) to memorize lists of sins, degrees of sin and the punishments for them.

b) which foods are “clean” and which foods are “dirty.”

c) that our babies are born permeated with vice and in order to purge them, we must pierce, peel, oil, splash, dunk, paint, decorate or bind them.

d) anything that’s too much fun or feels too good will send us to hell. (“Bingo Night” is okay, though.)

e) if we don’t do what they tell us with our hair, beards and head gear, our souls will stay soiled forever.

f) that shame, remorse, hunger, pain, abstention, untreated illness and Irritable Bowel Syndrome, are all virtues.

g) Good people follow our religion. Bad people don’t. We should try to change the bad people’s minds and make them be good, but if we can’t, it’s better for them if we torment or kill them.

h) Last and most essential, that when all benevolent religious leaders of the world stated, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” they did not mean, to quote from Bill and Ted, “Be excellent to each other” and “party on, dudes.” What they actually meant was, “Do It unto others before they Do It unto you.”


—————
And, that’s just a portion of what I’ve learned about organised religion. If you’d like to read more about this, go to
www.patriciaVdavis.com and click on the Writings Excerpts Page. There you can read all about another aspect of certain religions, a thing some of us have never even heard of, but many of us know know well. It’s called, “The Evil Eye.”

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Oops, I Have a Conspiracy Theory (A Political Satire)

The Bush Administration has a Secret Weapon against free thought of the masses and towards eventual world domination. It’s Britney Spears.

Think I’m a madwoman? Let’s just look at the facts, shall we?

In 1998, a group called Project for the New American Century (http://www.newamericancentury.org ) sent a letter to President Clinton which I’ve excerpted here:

Dear Mr. President:

We are writing you because we are convinced that current American policy toward Iraq is not succeeding, and that we may soon face a threat in the Middle East more serious than any since the end of the Cold War. We urge you to seize that opportunity, and to enunciate a new strategy that would secure the interests of the U.S. and our friends and allies around the world. That strategy should aim, above all, at the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime from power.

…if Saddam does acquire the capability to deliver weapons of mass destruction…the safety of American troops in the region, of our friends and allies like Israel and the moderate Arab states, and a significant portion of the world’s supply of oil will all be put at hazard.

The only acceptable strategy is one that eliminates the possibility that Iraq will be able to use or threaten to use weapons of mass destruction. In the near term, this means a willingness to undertake military action…In the long term, it means removing Saddam Hussein and his regime from power. That now needs to become the aim of American foreign policy. Although we are fully aware of the difficulties in implementing this policy, we believe the dangers of failing to do so are far greater. We believe the U.S. has the authority under existing UN resolutions to take the necessary steps, including military steps, to protect our vital interests in the Gulf. In any case, American policy cannot continue to be crippled by a misguided insistence on unanimity in the UN Security Council.

If you act now to end the threat of weapons of mass destruction against the U.S. or its allies, you will be acting in the most fundamental national security interests of the country.

And this letter was signed by the members of the group, some names of whom are easily recognisable:

Elliott Abrams   Richard L. Armitage   William J. Bennett
John Bolton Dick Cheney Paula Dobriansky
Francis Fukuyama   Zalmay Khalilzad Richard Perle
Donald Rumsfeld William Schneider, Jr.   Vin Weber
Paul Wolfowitz R. James Woolsey

So, three years before the World Trade Centre was attacked, with Clinton still president, this group already held the position to wage war on Iraq.

Why didn’t the people of the United States know about this? Simple – the same year, 1998,  Britney Spears hit the pop scene. At barely legal age, Britney became an instant international success because the music video accompanying her hit song, ”Baby One More Time,”  featured a Lolita-like Spears wearing a girl’s Catholic school uniform, that made grown men drool and grown women speculate whether they could duplicate the look without appearing pathetic.  Britney-mania was launched.


How could we think about foreign policy when we all so enthralled by Britney? She performed and we debated, “Is she really a virgin?” “Has she had her breasts ‘done’?” We remained focused on Britney for two solid years. We opened a newspaper;  there she was- Britney, Britney, Britney. Is it any wonder we had no clue that an invasion on Iraq was already in the making?

But there was a blip in our national concentration on Britney Spears in the year 2000, when Al Gore protested the results of his presidential run against George W. Bush. There were some strange goings on, weren’t there? Ballots marked incorrectly and unaccounted for, Democrats in Florida, where Jeb Bush, George’s brother was governor, prevented going to the voting polls by state police, dead still on the registries ‘materialising’ to vote Republican, all added up to a suspiciously close margin.

But then, Britney’s new single, “Oops, I Did It Again,” debuted, breaking the record for highest sales in its first week by any solo artist. And while some protested the inauguration of George Bush by holding up placards that read, “Hail to the Thief,” this became a tempest in a teapot when Britney, at the MTV Music Video Awards, ripped off a black suit, revealing a provocative flesh-coloured, crystal outfit. Well, who could pay attention to what George and Al were up to after that? With “Oops, I Did It Again,” Britney ensnared our attention…again. The new administration was off the hook.

However, not even Britney could distract us when the towers fell in September of 2001. We were as transfixed by that as we’d been transfixed by our young diva. We even asked questions, though not enough of the important ones. It looked like the Bush Administration might need more spin control than distraction to mollify the nation. An ingenious propaganda campaign was launched and we were on our way to the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.
Was it a coincidence that Britney announced she was taking a six-month career break that same year? No more than this little gal is an unwitting pawn in the Bush Administration’s agenda.

Though we had plenty of evidence to support the fact that the US invasion on Iraq was a personal vendetta and money-making strategy for them, none of us wanted to believe our eyes and ears. We saw that there were no weapons of mass destruction to be found, despite the claims. We heard Bush when he said about Saddam, “Don’t forget, this is the man who once tried to kill my Daddy.” We read in every newspaper that Halliburton, the Texas company which was awarded the Pentagon’s post-war construction contracts at outrageously high bids, was still making annual payments to its former CEO, the vice-president Dick Cheney. (The payments appeared on Cheney’s 2001 financial disclosure statement in the form of “deferred compensation” of up to $1m yearly.) Then there were the horrific photographs that came out of Abu Gharib and the soldiers’ testimony that the Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld,  knew and approved of the illegal tortures there.  But we still couldn’t accept that a presidential administration would resort to Machiavellian schemes to get us to invade a country that was really no threat to us. Then.


Instead, we chose to listen to Britney, our ‘nymphette,’ when in 2003, she told us, “Honestly, I think we should…trust our president in every decision he makes… just support that, you know…be faithful…” The same year, she exchanged a steamy kiss with Madonna (self-proclaimed “spokesperson for Judaism,” for which every practicing Jew is thankful, I’m sure) and mesmerised us…“once more time.” The war in Iraq raged, we now had “Homeland Security and colour-coded terror alerts, but we were back to being captivated by Britney.

Still not convinced that Britney is working undercover? There’s more.

By 2004, the death toll in Iraq was equivalent to Vietnam in 1966.Our soldiers faced combat zones every bit as deadly as the ones their fathers had faced in Southeast Asia. But Iraq wasn’t like Vietnam, we rationalised. These soldiers wanted to be there, so we shouldn’t worry about whether we’d sent them to die or be maimed for no good reason. Instead, we worried about why Britney would marry a back-up dancer who was only after money and fame, clearly. “And what was she thinking with no pre-nup?” We fretted over her marriage far more than we ever thought about the marriages of our soldiers coming home in the boxes we weren’t permitted to see on nightly newscasts. But Britney married her dancer and that’s what we remember of 2004.


In August 2005, came Hurricane Katrina. Once again, the Bush Administration was under fire. In an attempt to correct the half-assed job of disaster readiness and rescue by FEMA, the government spent over three million in tax dollars per citizen of New Orleans. Nobody knows who got that money, but one thing is certain – it didn’t go to the citizens of New Orleans. Two years later, New Orleans is still a bloody mess and even the most ardent Bush supporter was embarrassed. For a while, New Orleans supplanted Britney in the news.  It was entertaining to see every government official pointing fingers. But not as entertaining as Britney becoming a mother. By giving birth through scheduled caesarean section, she came to the administration’s rescue again. . Was there a medical reason that the c-section of a first child was scheduled only one month after the hurricane hit? Hardly. This was just another way to divert the American public’s attention. And it worked. New Orleans hasn’t been in the news since.

Now, we’re back to “all Britney, all the time” reports. Britney dumping her loser husband, Britney running wild with Paris Hilton (another cunning, bottle-blonde agent for this regime,) Britney without her knickers, Britney without her hair, Britney without her children. On any server’s home page, on any television news station, Britney is inescapable.

She got her divorce less than one month after George Bush signed the Military Commissions Act, an act so reprehensible that it’s being protested by every civil rights group. But he got away with it, because most Americans don’t even know what it is, how it will effect them and thousands of other innocent people throughout world. Nor do they know it was developed in order to legalise other unlawful acts for which the Bush administration was already being legally challenged. We couldn’t know, because we’ve been hypnotised by Britney Spears.

And when the Blackwater atrocities came to light recently, people didn’t know about that either, because we weren’t thinking “Blackwater,” we were thinking “black bikini.” Britney’s black bikini, worn during her “comeback performance.” (The term, “comeback” a misnomer, for the reason that, unfortunately, she’s never been gone.) The whole nation, most loudly Simon Cowell, (a former spy for Tony Blair’s Administration) gave their opinion on whether or not she should be wearing it.  The slaughter of civilians in Iraq by a firm of private mercenaries paid by the United States government, went unnoticed by most. (These same mercenaries, by the way, were first on the scene in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

But what finally convinced me of my “conspiracy theory” was last month’s YouTube video. You have to know the one I mean, because I never look for this stuff, but it finds me, anyway, since the CIA planted it everywhere and we all had to see it. In it, a young man, Chris Crock-of-sh**,  cries into the camera to all of us, “Leave Britney alone!”

I have to digress here to say that if this young man were my son, NOT because he’s gay and NOT because his eye liner‘s overdone, but because he has such a pathetic self-image that he CRAVES this kind of attention from strangers, I’d find the nearest surgeon and say:

“Cut out my eyes and give them to a blind child. Take every one of my vital organs and distribute them to people who deserve them more than I.”

And the surgeon would say, “Legally, we can’t take your organs until you’re dead.”

Then I’d say, “But I’m the mother of the boy in the Britney YouTube video.”


Then the surgeon would say, “I’ll go get my scalpel. Do you want anaesthesia or can I do it without?”


Nonetheless, this vid has received over 2 million hits. The perpetrator was eventually offered his own television show. And when did he post this video? You guessed it- September 11, 2007. Six years to the day after the towers fell, when the number of American casualties in the Gulf, as confirmed by DoDs, is nearing 4000 and 29,000 wounded, the number of Iraqis killed over one million and US. tax dollars spent nearing 460 billion.

Simultaneously, Britney’s “comeback single” is number one on the charts. She calls it …“Gimme More.”


So, is ‘Spears Craze’ the result of a media that’s now heavily censored, a nation tragically obsessed with fame and youth, or is she a “Mata Hari archtype” engineered by some zealously nationalistic ‘techie’ with a laboratory hidden in the bowels of the Pentagon? What do you think?

Though the country’s fascination with Britney clearly hasn’t waned, The Bush Administration has another secret weapon standing by,  in order to insure the American public’s support. Believe it or not, it’s another bleached blonde – Hillary Clinton.
_________________________________

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September 30, 1987

 

 

Nick 1989

 

 

 

 

I used to be one who hated the change from summer to fall. The cool in the air always reminding me of how’d I felt as a child. Summer fun over; no more playing in the garden or climbing trees. September meant back to getting up too early, in what would quickly become too cold weather, to eat a too-hurried breakfast, just to sit in a stifling classroom for too many hours out of too many days.

That changed forever twenty years ago. Now every year when the last days of August roll around, I get a zing! of anticipation, because autumn brings back to me that momentous September when my first child, my son, was born.

I remember every detail. September 12th was the ‘target date,’ the doctors had said, but we had everything ready long before then. We already knew we were having a boy and that he’d be named after his grandfather. So our tiny dining room in our first flat had been converted to a nursery, complete with white armoire, dresser and crib with blue trim, blue coverlet with a white rocking horse design and blue curtain with white polka dots on the window. On the door, in ceramic letters, we’d put up his name, “Nicholas.” All his tiny clothes were ready, his ‘onesies,’ washed and folded neatly in the drawers, stuffed animals on top of the armoire, ready to welcome him. Every day, I’d go in and look around, just to make sure everything was clean and perfect. I’d smooth my hands over the comforter and my belly and think, Soon, very soon, I’ll finally get to meet you, son.

But he was in no hurry. September 15th came and went with nothing more than what I recognised by now as his usual stirrings. By September 20th, I was getting anxious. “What if they’re wrong?” I asked my friend, Sylvia. “What if I’m having a little girl? She’ll feel like she was ‘second choice’ if she has to sleep in a boy’s nursery.”

Sylvia smiled a patient smile. She’d had to live this pregnancy along with me, as we were working together. The sudden shift in moods, the descriptions of nausea and insecurity and the too-sensitive nose that had us eating lunch at an inconvenient new place, because the glassware in our regular place “smelled horribly of garlic.”

“So, if it’s a girl, I’ll take the curtain down while you’re in hospital, take it back to Fortunoff’s and exchange it for a pink one. We’ll make a new name for the door, too. No biggie.”

Actually it was “a biggie.” The baby, that is. Almost nine pounds and twenty-three inches when he was born, at long last, on September 30th, after three days of labour and a c-section. Throughout which the obstetrician grunted, “What is it with you tiny girls marrying such big, tall men? This is like trying to deliver a full grown Great Dane through a cocker spaniel.”

Thanks a lot, doc, for the visual and…uh…sorry to put you through so much trouble.

But now my son was sleeping peacefully in my arms. I was finally holding him, looking at him. Three days of labour and a caesarean hadn’t been kind to either of us, I saw. He was a bit grey, one of his eyes was slightly swollen, making it appear larger than the other and his nose seemed a bit squashed flat and sideways. Apart from his complexion, he looked like Sammy Davis Jr. on a bad day. In other words, perfect. And wonderful and mine.

Twenty years later, the only physical trace on my body of that birth is a thin, white scar across my lower belly. But mentally, the effects are immeasurable. On September 30, 1987, I gave my son life, but he gave life right back to me. A better life than the one I’d had, a better “me” than the “me” I’d been.

 

Nick 2002

 

 

 

 

Just by holding him, I understood that there’d better be more to my existence than my perceived shortcomings and inabilities. Those had no place in my life anymore. From then on, I had to be purposeful and confident, because someone else besides myself needed me to be. And because he did, I grew to be courageous and that courage made such a brilliant change for me. I became more compassionate, global and determined. I learned to see more than my insular world, I developed an unbreakable bond with all mothers and all children everywhere. I endeavoured to be everything I knew deep down I was capable of being. Before this, I hadn’t been able to, though I’d so much tried. But now I felt more strongly than ever that I mustn‘t fail, because to fail didn’t mean failing myself only any more, but him, my son. In short, what I’ve been able to achieve and the person I’ve strived to become over the last twenty years, has been because I had a remarkable incentive. I was no longer a girl, a woman, a wife, a teacher or a writer. I was now also someone’s mother. And to me that meant joy, but also accountability. No room for excuses and no room for fear.

So thanks a lot, son, for helping me live my very best life. It started out being for you and then it became your gift to me. I know that someday soon you’ll find your own impetus, whether it’s a child or something else, to be everything you already are inside. It’s just waiting in there, for you to bring it forth. Happy Birthday.

 

Nick 2006

 

 

 

 

 

 

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