Creepy

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/03/27/maquech-broach-beetle-jewelry_n_1383319.htmlUgh.

Confusion

I used to have a junk drawer--everybody has one in the kitchen or in their desk.  However, my junk drawer was expanding  into every drawer in the kitchen.  At that point I had what could be called a junk kitchen.  Every drawer in the kitchen contained some unclassifiable items I needed from time to time.  The junk accumulation then leapfrogged into my study.  First one drawer, then another, and finally all of them filled up with stuff.  The overflow found its way into the closets and from one room to another. 

About three weeks ago, I decided to clean out the junk I had in my study.I loaded three cartons with this stuff.  I threw out hundreds of paid bills and Medicare stuff.  Old Christmas cards.  Personal letters.  There seemed to be more stuff left than ever.  Ads for concerts and special events, art exhibits, bank statements..  All gone.

Here's what I took out of these drawers and don't know what to do with: shoe inserts, bandages of every size, lint rollers, telephone cords, USB cables, picture frames, swimming goggles (2), hair curlers, old photographs, bathing caps,(2) swimsuits (also 2),more USB cables, an iPod, a Flip, scotch tape, picture frames, telephone wire, picture wire, picture hangers, needles, a screwdriver with interchangeable blades, a hammer, screws, nails, nail files, shoelaces, old address books (4), CDs, DVDs, special offers from Comcast.  And plenty more.

I'm just going to dump most of it and start out fresh.

Fruit trees in flower at African American vets memorial

 

In answer to Kitten, a faithful reader, as you may have guessed, everything is not hunky-dory around Charm Manor (Dad died in April, plus misfortunes too many to count, some trivial).  But I am Hanging in There, to coin a phrase.

Birthday Tuesday.  Head bloody but unbowed, and all that rot.  I just haven't been feeling too light-hearted and humorous these days.  Keep coming back.

Newborns aren't people?

So say some ethicists.

 “The moral status of an infant is equivalent to that of a fetus in the sense that both lack those properties that justify the attribution of a right to life to an individual.”

Rather than being “actual persons”, newborns were “potential persons”. They explained: “Both a fetus and a newborn certainly are human beings and potential persons, but neither is a ‘person’ in the sense of ‘subject of a moral right to life’.

Can we agree in advance that ethicists aren't really "actual" persons? If they were "actual" persons, they wouldn't be so morally obtuse.

Blogger Appreciation Day

Just got the news from insty that today is Blogger Appreciation Day.  So come on, you guys.  It's time to appreciate me.  You only have an hour and 15 minutes left to express your appreciation.

Meanwhile, many the bloggers I cherish have moved to Facebook, Twitter, and even Flickr.  Do they still count as bloggers?

More extortion

Here's someone else complaining about red light cameras.  Read it and weep.

Tragic haircut

When I was ten years old I transferred from commie private school to public junior high. All the other kids were bigger and older than me, which put me at a disadvantage, but what really riled me was the way mother dressed me. Like a little girl, which I was. But I wanted to be dressed like the popular junior high girls.

Worst of all was my hair. I had long, beautiful golden hair, which mother thought would turn to brown if I cut it. But all the other girls wore either a flip or a pageboy. And every day I had the indignity of sitting at the kitchen table while bubbe braided my hair. I hated those braids with a passion. I tormented mother until she gave in and allowed me to go to a beautician and get a decent haircut.

I guess she didn't think I would really do it. When I came home with my new do, she was aghast and went into her room and slammed the door. She didn't speak to me for hours. She was right--when my hair grew out it was a dull brown. And hairwise, it was all downhill from that day forward.

My latest painting

A display in a thrift shop.

I'm still here!

I designed this as a Christmas/Chanukah/holiday card, but didn't send any cards out because the printer was on the blink. I'd like to send copies to my friends to let them know I'm still alive and that 2011 didn't do me in. What do you think?

A few weeks ago I was stranded at Philadelphia Airport without a ride, and I was forced to use the Old Lady card.  Fortunately, it succeeded, but the problem with using the Old Lady card is that you have to be an old lady before, during, and after employing the card.  There is no time off for good behavior, no furlough, no chance of a reprieve.  You never even get one day off.

Once upon a time I had a Cute Young Thing Card, but it expired and can never be renewed.

Euphemism

I got a bill  with a photo of me going through a red light, sent by some kind benefactors who call themselves the Red Light Safety Program. They wanted a decent sized check, but that's not what it's about. It's all about my safety.  No doubt they could use the cash as well, but it's really, really about keeping me safe. And the children, too, I'm sure.  Let's not forget the children.

Can't we ever call things by their real names?  This program should be called the Revenue Enhancement Program, or the Gotcha! Program.  That would be more honest.  Just as it would be more honest to refer to abortion and birth control by their own names, instead of piously calling them Women's Health Issues.  And talking about saving women's health.  Pregnancy is not an illness.  Every single person I've ever met was the result of a pregnancy.  Every one.  No exceptions.

Does it ever occur to anyone that women can still get abortions and birth control by paying for it themselves? It's perfectly legal.  But it seems unthinkable.  We used to pay for medical care, in living memory.  When my kids were small, we took them to the pediatrician and paid the bill out of our own pockets.  They got the required shots and well-baby exams without  aid from the government or insurance.  Insurance was for catastrophes.

A couple of years ago, my father suffered an attack of shingles.  It was hideously painful, so when shots for shingles came out, I asked the doctor to prescribe a shot for me.  The insurance carrier had not yet approved this for payment, and my doctor's office was gobsmacked when I offered to pay for it myself.  I did, and was not struck down by a thunderbolt from heaven.

My brother, the genius, sent me this photo.  I don't quite know why he sent it, but I thought I would share it.

Old plants, new shoots

 

I got these plants as gifts a year ago. Put them in the garage and forgot about them. I discovered yesterday that they had sent forth new shoots. So I watered them and am watching them grow.

Someone sent me a comment, which has since been eaten by Blogger, asking what kind of plants they are.  The answer is crocus, daffodil, tulip, and I forget.  I don't know which are which, though.

Undoubtedly more will be revealed.

Relatives?

 

Maybe. I can't tell. The photo is not labeled.

The importance of being Ernest

 

The image above is that of a thug who was responsible for countless deaths. He has become an icon of the American left because of this picture, which is everywhere: on coffee cups, T-shirts, posters, and for all I know, condoms. The picture looks so dashing, so glamorous! That beard, that beret, that intent expression! And his nickname, Che, is so chic, full of masculine bravado. He is of course, Ernesto (Che) Guevara.

Imagine if his friends and family had called him Ernie, instead of Che. Picture him in an alternative universe, in a baseball cap, glasses with unfashionable frames, no beard, and wearing a T-shirt saying "I'm with stupid" and with his pants falling down, showing his underwear.

Girl in snow

 

Ambiguous

In my e-mail:

You have been selected to receive this ticket because you are entitled to government funding maybe. The US Government must find recipients in order to distribute over $360 billion dollars to organizations and private individuals.

What's that "maybe" all about?

The Chicago way vs Albany Democracy

I wonder whether the Chicago way has any resemblance to Albany Democracy. In Albany, and in Albany County generally, the Democrats controlled everything. Albany voters voted the straight Democratic ticket every time. I think they are the only county in the US to go overwhelmingly to George McGovern. A sinister Irishman whose name I have forgotten ran the machine. When a house in Albany changed hands, the evaluation--and the taxes--went up. The whole thing was choreographed like a classical ballet. First you got the letter concerning your new evaluation, then you called a lawyer who agreed to "represent" you in appealing the rise. Our fixer, another Irishman, was always off somewhere attending a wake, funeral, wedding, first communion, or barbecue, so you had to keep calling him. When you finally reached him, he said he would fix--I should properly call it "fix"--the assessment for you. This was supposed to make you grateful and turn you into a lifelong Democrat. Every election, a little old man who wheezed and smelled of cigarette smoke came to your door and told you who to vote for. He was completely sincere and meant it but we voted for whomever we pleased. It didn't matter who we voted for. Everyone else voted the straight Democratic ticket. The good thing about the machine was low taxes. The bad things were rotten schools to which no member of the school board would send their kids, potholes, little or late snow removal, no street cleaning, and a host of other deplorable conditions. The good thing was low taxes. Loyal Democrats were given low-paying jobs around the city and were appropriately grateful for them. The elevators at City Hall had actual elevators run by city hacks, years after all the other elevators in the world were automated. Free turkeys and baskets of food were delivered in poor neighborhoods at Christmas. Our mayor was supposed to be very smart and came from a distinguished family. The story went that he could have risen to the House or the Senate, so distinguished was he, but he Had a Mistress, which disqualified him. He came to politics poor and left rich, albeit in a pine box, despite earning about $5,000 a year. I guess he was lucky in his investments. I thought he was an egregious ass. My daughter, a fifth grader, wrote him a letter requesting pay raises for firemen. He sent her a pompous reply as if she were a grownup, but not too bright at that. This all happened a long time ago and I'm sure everyone in Albany County is completely honest and trustworthy at present. Like Chicago. But with lower taxes.

Mother and dad

 

I'm sure I posted this once before. I love the picture, though.

I wish my mother and dad had had more pictures taken of themselves. Dad didn't because he was always behind the camera, and mother didn't because she was waiting until she lost a lot of weight to have her picture taken. She actually cut pictures of herself out of family snapshots. I wish she had stopped wishing to be different and accepted herself as she was. Wasn't it enough to graduate from law school before she was old enough to practice law? To be an attorney whose clients loved her? To know every policeman in Columbus, OH? To be married to a handsome guy?

Nope, she was never good enough. Mother told me that her parents never praised her and her brothers. Never kissed or hugged them. Bubbe, particularly, was sparing with kind words. Sarcasm she had plenty of, though. Her tongue was a knife that cut two ways. Her children and grandchildren had to be perfect. Since they weren't perfect, she was never satisfied. The boys didn't seem to mind, but mother felt she could never measure up.

The weight thing came down through the generations and has driven all us granddaughters crazy. I am the fattest of the bunch. The rest are the type of skinny woman who eats seven grapes and four almonds for lunch. Only one of her grandsons had trouble with his weight, and that was my brother the genius. However, he could drown his sorrows in mathematics.