Civic Duty

I was summoned for jury duty. It's one of those anticipated, unavoidable, life experiences that, even when you have the date and know it's coming, you believe on some deep, fundamental level, that it won't happen to you. Like death.

Well, the day arrived and I reported. There are probably 300 of us, assembled in the largest courtroom auditorium, watching the banal, insipid, short film produced to inspire our patriotic duty and love of justice that will encourage our compliant involvement in the mandatory service, required by summons, during the next few insufferably boring hours and/or days. I can't imagine the vast array of quashed circumstances that have been put in indefinite stasis in order to participate in this love-of-the-law fest. I'm fighting for all I'm worth not to be bitter.

The next ploy is: divide and conquer. We are randomly(?) divided into "panels". We feel absurdly privileged when the panel we "belong" to is "called". Really, it's a spiritual exercise. The "called" are removed from the masses to a special, better place. We believe in that "place". Anything is preferable to the abject misery of enforced boredom. The chairs are hard and uncomfortable and too few in number. There is no natural light. The windows that be, are covered in blinds and/or draperies. We are herded and managed by matrons, ala Nurse Ratchett. The ceilings in the jury rooms are low. We potential jurors have all brought distractions, but these quickly lose their glamour. Too many people talking to read, too many people present to speak comfortably on the cell phone, too few plugs for the laptops, too few options in the coffee shop. No where to walk...no where to run.

So, as our panel files into the designated courtroom for selection, we aren't thinking about anyone but ourselves. This is new, this is interesting, this is different. Oh, there's the judge, all stand; there's the defendant, all boo - not really, that would be rude. There's the defense attorney, demon seed; there's the prosecuting attorney, saving us from evil. I was surprised at the strength of my preconceptions. It's not easy to practically translate the noble precept of "guilty until proven innocent". By the time the jury panel files in, there is a huge assumption of quilt. The defendant has been arrested, arraigned, there is enough evidence to prosecute and the trial by jury is about to begin, inconveniencing innumerable innocent by-standers, not to mention there's a victim somewhere in the wings.

The judge begins our briefing. He explains and instructs. He questions us. We answer under oath. Then the prosecuting attorney takes a crack. We do realize that "Court TV" and "Law & Order" aren't real? Before we can answer the judge chimes in, "I thought "Court TV" WAS real!" Ha....ha....ha. Comic relief noted. The defense attorney is a little more thorough. He asks specific questions about our beliefs and experiences, he smiles too much. I can't see the defendant's face, but he doesn't appear to be snoring. Before the jury selection begins, we break for lunch.

The jury panel is back and seated, in order and on time. It's strangely like grade school. And we are a very obedient, cooperative class. We sit quietly and still, on our hard, uncomfortable benches waiting for the teacher...uh, judge...to begin. But, he's not here. We begin to fidget, and whisper among ourselves. The court clerk is reading a novel, the only other authority figure is a 14 year old police officer. We fidget some more, and talk a little louder. I have an overwhelming urge to throw a spit ball. Someone poses the brilliant and brave question, "Are we allowed to go to the bathroom", to the room at large, but it's the baby policeman that answers, "yes". He has become our god. People pee, just for something to do. They come back with giggled reports of the activity in the halls and other courtrooms. We begin to "relax". People stand against the wall, get out their books, check their blackberries. Time d....r....a.....g.....s. Finally, after thousands of hours of fruitless waiting, the judge arrives. We stand, and he motions us to, "please, don't...", in a self-conscience, I'm-not-worthy-you're-the-real-heroes way. We agree. He explains that the defendant decided to plead guilty and will be sentenced. This is obviously a lengthy process involving many man hours and tortuous legal manipulations. We are thanked for our cooperation and rewarded by being dismissed "early".

We fight to get out of the courtroom and into the elevators on the first trip down to street level. It is holiday, it is snow day. The relief and freedom is palpable. We have promised to be back tomorrow morning at 8:30am, but for the evening we are liberated. Life is full of possibilities once again.

The next day begins the same, without the movie. We're still identified by our panel numbers. We still sit and wait. But, we're beginning to become comfortable in our forced captivity. We move into the large courtroom that we avoided yesterday. The seats are padded, and pew like. We can stretch out. We remove our shoes, some of us nap. A few brave souls openly defy the jury matrons and sit up on the dais in the padded swivel chairs. Rebels. Time d.....r......a......g.......s. We're dismissed for lunch in staggered groups. Our wills have been broken. There's no rejoicing or revelry. We know we'll be back in an hour and fifteen minutes, or face fine and/or imprisonment.

The afternoon looms large. More napping, more grumbling. Discontent and unrest grow along with the inactivity. This is the beginning of the two week long criminal court season. We should be inundated with trials demanding our impartial services. Only one panel has been called, one jury selected. The matron enters and shoos the delinquent dais sitters off their comfortable perches. Everyone who is NOT on panel one needs to clear the courtroom. This is looked on with bitterness and despair. We have established camps. We are greatly inconvenienced by moving.

We hang in the hallway, waiting for re-admittance. The doors blow open and giddy, laughing former jurors blow past us, with coats flapping and glad tidings of great joy. They have been "dismissed", the bastards. We file back into the room, silent and sullen. We feel persecuted. We take our need to remain personally, as punishment. A few hours later, another group departs with happy exclamations, and shortly thereafter, I can go home, I don't have to return, for at least three years.

There are a few jurors left, and I have to pass by them to access the exit. I can't meet their eyes. I have no words of comfort to offer. I don't linger. There's nothing I can do to alleviate their suffering. Poor, unfortunate wretches.

What Are You Talking About?

Ahhhhh, this is really nice. It's 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and I have the time to write. Of course, I have nothing to write about. All the time I'm running around like a chicken-with-its-head-off, blog ideas are fighting for mind space. I compose whole books, complete with chapter headings, while I'm frantically multi-tasking. I never write anything down because I am sans head. I'm considering one of those small, compact, itty-bitty personal recording devices so I'll never, ever, not-in-a-million-billion years forget anything again, that have been advertised all during the holiday season, but Christmas is over and I haven't seen the commercial in hours! I think my phone has a message feature (personal, not the voice mail, I'm not daft). It's actually the ONLY feature on my cell phone - my cell phone sucks - but I forget how to use it, and when I need it, I'm never near the manual to look up the instructions.

Nope, not a darn thing. The grandsons won't be over today, the wash is in the spin cycle, I've cleaned the pellet stove, run the vacuum, worked-out at the gym, and answered email....tap, tap, tap. I have a book, the paper, and a couple of magazines to read, so that's compelling. I could compose a couple of more email messages, and clean the TV screen. Hummmmm...

I'm trying to decide if I want to take my laptop with me to jury duty next week. I have books reserved at the library that I hope, hope, hope will be available. But, if I have my laptop I can write. "They" (the person(s) who write the instructions for jury duty) caution you about bringing a laptop or cell phone. They (the laptop/cellphone) cannot be taken into the court room and must remain in the jury room, and no one is responsible. Of course, it IS a courthouse, with guards and authority, but also a lot of criminals awaiting trials...so what to do, what to do?

Tall One sent me, via email, a very interesting (in a good way) scenario involving morality and proselytizing that I could respond to... if I felt like turning my mind inside out. Maybe I should just bury my head in the sand. That often works, until the gestapo arrives for the children.

I could turn on the TV. But, I think the only things on are "Oprah" and/or "Dr. Phil" and I am so not going there. I have some shows on the DVR, but that seems shameful in the afternoon. Except for Saturdays. Anything goes on a Saturday.

Yes! The washing machine just called me with its pleasant, but persistent chirping. I will go transfer wet clothing to the dryer and begin another wash load. Hang in here with me. Maybe inspiration will strike!

Uhmmmmm....ok, nothing. Daughter called, and while I was on the phone with her, I lit a candle - coconuts & lime - and thought of something I needed to do. It was on the important side. But, I got side-tracked with the candle and talking and now I can't for the life of me-or-those-I-hold-most-dear remember what it was I should take care of!

I just noticed the light is on in the bathroom upstairs. In order to be as "green" as possible I need to go and turn it off immediately. I feel much better now. Al Gore would be so proud in his gas hogging, electric sucking, multi-million dollar mansion. But, I'm not bitter, just relieved, that he's so knowledgeable. What was his graduate degree in again? Oh, that's right, he doesn't have one! In fact, in researching this blog entry, I can't find what Al Gore's undergraduate degree from Harvard was in. Anybody know? Not that it matters, really, I don't have any credentials. Just a huge ego, and too much time on my hands. But, then again, I didn't make a movie about my passion for moderate exercise combined with common-sense healthy eating. Even though I know a lot, can try and contact experts who would appear if I threw money at them, and can bull-shit pretty well if I have enough time to think and spell check.

Man! There goes that washing machine again. I'll be right back....

I got a little hungry so I made a snack of two Wheetabix biscuits, a banana and some 1% milk. I'm living my convictions. Not to mention how repulsed I will be if I gain one more ounce this holiday season, and there are still Christmas cookies laying around. Well, they aren't laying, actually, there are some arranged decoratively on a plate, and more in the freezer - not so decorative, but...fresher.

What are Wheetabix biscuits, you may wonder? Well, I first had them in Ireland. In the bed-and-breakfasts Tall One and I stayed in, we had a choice; a full Irish breakfast consisting of breakfast meat, breakfast meat, and a side of breakfast meat, or a small ala cart assortment of Wheetabix and milk, and in one B&B, a banana! I chose ala cart, breakfast meat troubles me. Wheetabix is England's (God-save-the-Queen) answer to shredded wheat, thus Ireland has it too. It's much better than shredded wheat, and I really enjoyed it, plus, it kept me regular. Why are you eating it now in the US of A, when you were in Ireland five years ago? Well, I'll tell you. We found a store in the city that sells British imports, "pip-pip", "I say", "jolly good"!

I'm finished. Time to check in on face-book. Priorities.

Joy in My World

Well, well, well, or should I say, "ho, ho, ho" - in keeping with the holiday spirit. Christmas season, 2008 is in full swing and I'm in pretty good shape. Ok, I have the beginnings of a head cold, the major gift purchases are still vague ideas, and Nana's holiday party is tomorrow, but the cookies are baked, the food ready for tomorrow, and the few presents I need a.s.a.p. are wrapped and ready. The decorations have been up forever, since before Thanksgiving, and the photo cards have arrived, suitable for addressing, and I picked up the stamps today. The gift to California was sent when I got the stamps. I'm heading out to Ohio, on Wednesday. Celebrating with Tall One's side of the family the following Sunday. And, we wind up the festivities on Christmas Eve...end of post a la 12/12...it's now 12/20/2008!

I did indeed, survive Nana's holiday party. It's pretty much the same every year. It's pretty much the same every party. Which is ok. I know what to expect. Five times a year, Nana and I get together with the-sisters-from-Redding. Four birthdays and a Christmas. We vary the menu; pizza, subs from a shop, or home-made party tray. The key is more food than four people could eat in a lifetime. We exchange gifts. Sometimes they're worthy, sometimes they go directly into the Goodwill Box. But, it's always good to see the sisters. They are really, very, very nice...and they love Nana. Which is helpful.

I flew out to PhD's home on Wednesday. It was eventful in a bland, blase sort of way. We had a "bit of weather". Some minute amount of snow, and the first leg of my flight was delayed. As I waited in line to find out if I'd make my connection, The lady in front of me was barely surviving her altered itinerary. Thirty minutes later, it was my turn. Turned out, I'd make my second leg. "We should have an easy button", chirped the ticket agent...and he went on to tell me EVERYTHING about his kitties...as in kitty cats...as in substitute children. They are trained to come to a bell. He calls him before he leaves the house, because one of them has a tendency to "sneak out". He is an adoring, attentive master/daddy. So, I proceeded on my way.
PhD and I had a really, really, really nice visit. His new apartment is lovely. His life is happy. We did eat in an authentic Greek restaurant, that I would frequent if I lived in that city. The pitas were exactly like the ones Tall One and I salivated over in Greece.
We watched an episode of "Intervention". My life will never be the same....
The six hour drive east was thoroughly enjoyable. For me. I hope for PhD. We talked about everything and nothing. It's strangely gratifying to realize your child has grown to successful adulthood. Big sigh of releif...again....I've known for sometime that he's capable.

And tomorrow is the Tall One-side-of the-family traditional Christmas family get-together. For awhile, a couple of years, we'd assemble over a dozen pizzas. We (the children and spouses) LOVED this! MomMom did not. Three years ago, she decided to host the Christmas gathering...in her condo...and provide and prepare the entire meal. It almost killed her, it did destroy the condo. So...we're off the pizza, back to the sit-down meal of ham or turkey and all the trimmings. This year, I got a little jiggy with the menu. We're having ham loaf...complete with trimmings. I think it'll be ok.

The Christmas cards are in the mail...I swear. I might have to bake MORE cookies, but only because I want too. I've been eating them hand over fist...or head over heels, enough to worry the scale at the gym. There will probably be a separate post about the-my-side-of-the-family traditional Christmas family get-together. And, you won't want to miss THAT!

Tonight we ate Chinese. I can't tell you how tickled I was to find a box of free sushi with the order! Complete with wasabi sauce. I love wasabi. Really, I would marry it.

JOY to the world...

Thankfully Surviving Thanksgiving.

Here I am, the last day of November, 2008. I remember reading the book, "1984" and thinking, "we still have time".

I survived Thanksgiving with nary a scratch. Two days before I was ready to flee. By the day before, I was contemplating the advantages of suffering a debilitating accident. The day of, I resigned myself to endure and was desperately seeking for positive imagery to focus on. As the guests started to arrive, I practiced deep breathing, but after a 5 minute conversation with my much appreciated sister-in-law, Married-into-the-family, or Mitf for short, I knew I would make it. And, I did.

Nana was even more charming and pleasant than last year, MomMom completely coherent. My brother's wife, Hypochondria, couldn't make it so that insured a pleasant time for him and his adult daughter, and therefore, the rest of us. The nieces and nephews are getting older, so there's not the constant need for attention. And, my grandsons were, as always, perfect little angels.

The meal is traditionally scheduled for 1pm. A couple of guests arrived a wee bit late, but that worked to my advantage. The potatoes refused to get done! They were doing a little, "nah, nah, nah" dance in the humongous aluminum cooking pot, that I only use for the mass feedings at holidays, and perhaps someday, for funerals. I had thought that I had added enough liquid, but as the late arrivals came in through the door, they greeted us with, "What's burning?", "Is something burning?" , so I should have had a clue.

PhD and Master's came later. Master's has a complicated family situation that requires much traveling around burdened by massive quantities of angst. Master's handles it so well. Maybe she's used to it, maybe she's just a tough little bird. She looks wonderful. She has legs that won't quit and an ample bosom. She's lost a little weight (not that she ever needed to) in anticipation of an upcoming cruise with her mother. PhD looks good, too. They seem happy and content. A mother can't ask for more. They did, however, forget my Internet liquor order that I had to have delivered to their home due to the inane liquor laws in our state. Lucky for them I possess a degree of maternal instinct, and lots of leftovers...I feel no need to kill and eat my young.

And, in just over two weeks, I'm flying out to see PhD during the aforementioned cruise. We'll drive back east to pick up Master's and then PhD and Master's will drive back home. I haven't seen their new apartment, PhD and I will probably try one of the Greek restaurants in the area the night I'm there. And...I....will NOT forget the Amber!

This Is How We Celebrate

"I'm a good daughter, don't listen to that inner voice. I am a good daughter." Oh, yeah, I talk to myself...constantly.

Yesterday I looked into the abyss that is "old age". It's taken me until now, the medication has taken effect, to summon the courage to relate my experience.

At 7:30am, I left my home and began preparations for accompanying 78 year old, Nana, to the American Music Theatre's Christmas Extravaganza. Nana had paid for the tickets months ago with her credit card, which I used when calling for the reservations. Apparently, I use the telephone, very, very well. I got seats in the "special" aisle row in the balcony. We need the aisle row because there are no steps to negotiate, and Nana uses a walker. The American Music Theatre is set up for the geriatric and the infirm (not one in the same, but not mutually exclusive either). At any given performance, looking over the crowd from above, it looks like a sea of cotton balls, punctuated by the occasional gleam of a bald pate, or the unnatural orange of a die job gone bad.

The show began at 10:30am. "Why", you ask, "did you need to leave three hours ahead when Nana lives four miles away and the theatre is a mere 30 minutes from Nana's home? Were you walking?" No. First, I did Nana's weekly grocery shopping, which consists of 14 cans of cat food, various frozen dinners, and a quart of milk. She does indeed own a cat, have no fear. The shopping is always done on Wednesday, and even though we were going "away", that wasn't cause to make an exception. Most weeks, Nana comes along and takes me to breakfast. She always pays...because I "do so much".

The shopping took about 30 minutes. I then proceeded to Nana's, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Another 20 minutes, max. Nana swapped walkers. She has her indoor walker, which is identical to the outdoor walker that she keeps at my home and I cart back and forth on the days we go out. She doesn't like to use her indoor walker, outdoors. It will get dirty and ruined. She is convinced that her walker's wheels were destroyed going into and out of her granddaughters home...about twice a year. There is an exceedingly rough patch to negotiate over the gravel parking area. She also ruins her wheels navigating the "damaged" sidewalk leading to her condo.

It takes a few minutes to go down the steps. She still, very bravely, has to do steps when we go out. Her condo is on one floor, but there is a private entrance and that involves steps. We get to the car and load up Nana and her walker, and we're off. We must have spent more time that we anticipated "getting organized" because we arrive at the theatre at 9:15am. This allows us to choose a prime handicapped parking space. But, not first choice, as there are a whole lot of people that got there ahead of us. We sit in the car talking (I speak to this woman at least two times a day, everyday, there's not a lot of news), mostly about celebrities, because the theatre doesn't open till 9:30. And even if you go in then, you can't go to your seat until about 20 min. before the show. It's reserved seating, but you'd be surprised how important it is to be first in line.

At 10:00 we make our way inside, take the elevator to the balcony and find our seats, after admiring the beautiful Christmas decorations. It's the beginning of November. I'm practicing my deep yoga breathing. I need to park, "Jenny", Nana's walker out in the lobby, and before I can get back to my seat I'm blocked by massive groups of slowly moving, bitching, old people. It's too hot, too cold, too far, too dark. They can't see the seat numbers on the tickets. They're huffing, and groaning. Thankfully, no one is collapsing, and I know it's taking me too long to get back to my seat and Nana. But, I'm stopped, I have to wait in line, even though I've been to my seat and my tickets have been confirmed. You don't ever, even give the appearance, of cutting in front of a group of seniors. They are daunting.

I finally see my opening and excuse my way past the hoards. Nana greets me with, "That took you a long time, did you stop at the bathroom?" My frequency of use is of great fascination. I either go too often or not often enough, and always at inappropriate times, apparently. I'm serious. Nana reminds me to use the facilities before we leave the house. I am 52. I will "hold it" till my bladder explodes.

Even the ushers at the theatre are elderly. But very nice, for the most part, and equipped with flashlights and reading glasses. There's nothing they, personally, can do about the temperature or the wheezing. But, they placate with programs and coming attraction information. Finally, the lights dim, fashionably late, and the show begins. The only thing that can save me now, is that I actually like Christmas music. I do. My eyes tear up over "The Little Drummer Boy", even Whiteheart's rendition.

So, in spite of the tacky decorations, the obligatory soprano, the bad hair piece on one of the featured male singers, and the strong resemblance to a Lawrence Welk show, there are things I enjoy. I liked the fiddler. I appreciated the costumes, although not of my taste, or anyone's taste unless they are older than 65 and attending a formal wedding. The piano player was real good. But, the nymphet dancers where not to my liking, and when they donned animal costumes, I started repeating the "om mm" to supplement the deep breathing. I cringed when the ventriloquist appeared, but he turned out to be OK. The long, boring, embarrassing skit where two grown people portrayed obnoxious children, a la Lilly Tomlin, and the Elvis impersonator sent me into hyperventilation. If I would have had one, I would have been breathing into a paper bag. The "om mm" was now a silent scream.

But, I've lived to tell the tale. Almost. After the show, Nana insisted on a "good dinner" at the local Old Folks Restaurant. The prices are to die for, the food is from cans. She always insists that I get a "good meal". This is translated: "Order what I tell you too...or die...!" Oh, yes, I can be intimidated. By a geriatric nazi. She is a dictator...and I am her cowed, brainwashed, sniveling, daughter. I get the damned flounder. But, some how manage to convey to the waitress, without Nana's knowledge, that I want the "smaller portion". Thank god. It's all I can do to choke that down!

Dinner over...we head for home. Nana seems content. That makes me content. Maybe this will be the last year, and a happy memory...or I'll do it again...'cause I'm a wuss.

Autumn Muse

Fall is a lovely time of year. The leaves are really coming down, which provides hours of amusement for the grandsons... and Tall One. Tall One is at Home Depot, or it's first cousin, Lowe's, with Surfer Dude. There is no place on earth they'd rather be. Unless, it's Disney World, and Disney World doesn't sell lumber.

Tall One's project du jour is the compost heap. He is building an enclosure to keep the weeds, grass clippings and other organic debris at bay. It's situated behind the small shed he built a few years ago. The shed was supposed to house the lawn tractor and it's accessories, but the lawn tractor's accessories are now too high-fallutin', hoity-toity to stay in the shed. They are living in the garage. This is only acceptable because we have a two bay garage, and my car still fits on the other side. I have grown accustomed to parking in a garage.

Last year, or was it the year before?, Tall One invested in a leaf collecting device that he hooks to the riding mowing. It looks as if he's pulling a small, noisy shed around the yard. In actuality, it's an unnatural combination of a shop vac, mulching mower, and temporary storage system. Tall One appears to drive this contraption, willy-nilly, helter skelter all around the grounds and then empties the contents out by the side of the road where they wait (get blown into the neighbors yard) for the borough leaf collectors to take them to their final resting place (land fill). I am way too unskilled (a woman) to operate this state-of-the-art monstrosity. Suits me. It's just silly.

And, I should probably say a word or two about the pellet stove. I'm still a bit skeptical. It hasn't really been so cold as to give the thing a real challenge. And, surprise, gas/oil prices have not continued to escalate...in fact they haven't even bottomed out from the nose dive, so I can't make a judgement on the fiscal feasibility. I'm not convinced that "saving money" was the real impetus anyway. I think Tall One saw it as a cool toy - hearkening back to the primal desire to provide shelter for his shivering family - and he's a bit of a temperature wimp. Remember, he's the one who lost the pissing contest on "who's-gonna-turn-the-central-air-on" - not that I'M keeping score. Nah, nah, nah, nah,nah!

There may be a pellet shortage. The local hardware store is "rationing". But, the 42,876 pounds of pellets we've stock piled DO fit on the leaf collector's side of the garage, so there is THAT. Let's hope the floor holds. I was concerned about the smell. Yes, we love the smell of wood burning in the winter, but when burned constantly, for heat, not aesthetics, everything begins to reek of baloney. So far, there's no discernible odor except at start up, power down or if standing directly down wind of the ventilation pipe outside on the deck. And, I've cleaned the stove twice by myself, and once with Tall One (never again) and it's this-side-of-inconvenient. It's only about a quarter as filthy as the wood/then coal stove of our early years. As long as the ashes don't do lasting damage to my very cool, very pricey (ye gads), lavender vacuum cleaner that I had to purchase because our whole-house vacuum system is terminal. There's a short...somewhere...so the damn thing never turns itself off. You have to go all the way downstairs, through the shop, and flip the switch. And, heaven forbid we actually find someone to service the thing. It probably would have cost less than the replacement Dyson. But, I'm sure the extra expense will be absorbed by the pellet stove, after it pays for itself, by working part time at McDonald's. This is all acceptable - if not prudent.

There is one thing I really like about the little pellet burner. In the morning, it casts a truly cozy glow.

A Better Man, and Sensible Shoes

I have a cold. I didn't feel too badly until I woke from my two hour nap on the sofa, and now I feel stuffy, yucky, and just generally mean. But, all's not lost. I have my new lap top, which I love, seriously love. I'm sitting in MY chair, covered in a fleecy throw, drinking MY ginger ale and orange juice and typing on My laptop. It's not at all cold outside, but it's almost dark (at 4:30pm, don't get me started on daylight savings time changes) and I'm quite cozy, miserable cold aside.

I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about the Pearl Jam song "Better Man". You know the lyrics, "...blah,blah,blah... Can't find a better man... blah,blah,blah...". Well I can't for the life of me figure out if they mean that this girl is so pathetic and void of self worth that she can't find anyone better than the lout she's stuck with, or, this guy is so good there is no one better, really, and the chick's a selfish bitch with issues not limited to an overwhelming desire to destroy all the good life's given her, probably because of her pathetic lack of self worth. And 'round and 'round we go. Once again, I probably oversimplify. I'm sure that Pearl Jam is stating something profound and soul changing if only I weren't so thick.

Also, I'm reading a very interesting book. I don't normally read non-fiction. I need to escape, chronically. But I heard about "The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes and Why" while reading the gardening column in our borough newspaper. I know, it's confusing, but those are the facts. Anyway, there is a physiology and psychology to survival that can be tapped and exploited in horrendous situations, and this book explores all the possibilities. In the midst of all the horror, I read something today that I find riotous - and I quote - "On 9/11, women were almost twice as likely to get injured while evacuating, according to the blah, blah, blah. Was it a question of strength? Confidence? Fear? No, says lead investigator Whatshername. 'It was due to shoes.'" That is hilarious. Can we be so vain as to wear foot gear that will actually cause injury? Of course, this is not news! Bunions, hammer toes, sprained ankles, broken ankles, bad knees, torn tendons...women are why podiatrists are born.

We are idiots, we deserve to be injured in catastrophes! We MUST be protected from ourselves....and terrorists. Our new Glorious Leader (can't find a better man) will guide us to a better reality. We'll sacrifice all our money and earthly possessions, including our uncomfortable, dangerous shoes. We'll start dressing for comfort and function, 'cause style's become passe (according to the example of our Glorious Leader's Glorious Wife). Let's go with something we can work in, something that will stop calling attention to our weak, subservient sexuality, something that will "make" us all equal, and hopefully, apathetic. Perhaps, a loose fitting pajama in a neutral color, a la "The Peoples Liberation Army". Or, a long, loose flowing robe like garment...I think they're called "burkas". At the very least, that's stick with sensible shoes, something we can survive in...'cause, apparently the Apocalypse is coming. Joe the VP said so. Within six months.

This is not a cold induced rant...this is a public service message...I'm being extremely insightful in a clever, entertaining way...heed the warning...

And get rid of the heels....(oh, that's good, too!).