Jetlagged Sugar Babies

Appropriately enough, Halloween falls on the same night that Daylight Savings Time ends. A dark and creepy holiday to be sure, but without that extra light tonight, it will definitely be scary. Some say the origins of All Hallows’ Even began with the festival of Samhain, also regarded as the Celtic New Year. Samhain celebrated the end of the “lighter half” of the year and the beginning of the “darker half.”

Why do we observe either of these things? Halloween is a pagan holiday that surely we could live without. Daylight Savings is a program that saves nothing but gives everyone in America jetlag without ever having to board a plane. So basically we are allowing our children to eat themselves into a sugar-high right before they jetlag into a hangover from “hell.”

For the past few years we’ve debated for and against wishing people a Merry Christmas. Instead, stores and businesses have instructed their employees to say, Happy Holidays, so as not to offend those of other faiths. This year schools were actually debating whether to give Halloween the more politically correct name of Fall Festival. I guess so they wouldn’t offend the non-pagans. But offending non-pagans apparently doesn’t cut it, cause 72% of parents with kids in school thought it was silly to change the name. They reasoned that Halloween has been around for a very long time—so why change it now?

Makes me wonder what happened to “reason” when changing Christmas to Happy Holidays was on the agenda.

Junior High: The Past That Haunts Me

Recently I’ve come in contact with old friends from the past--my long ago and really awkward past—junior high.

When you leave a place before you see the full growth and maturity of individuals, they stay in your mind as goofy kids forever. You have gone on, grown breasts, had lasix surgery, changed your name (by marriage), and made a life, but those you leave behind are still caricatures portrayed in the school yearbook: the fun one, the nerdy one, the popular one, the one who could burp The Star Spangled Banner, the one who was allergic to everything.

Junior high is painful for most kids. Awkward growth spurts, beginning acne, haircut mishaps, and just wanting to fit in, makes for a boatload of preteen angst and nail biting. I’ve always wondered if the kids that were deemed “popular” ever suffered from the same maladies or were immune because of their position on the junior high food chain.

In junior high pretty much all the teachers scared me. I believe that's why I’ve suffered memory loss from that time. I can picture some of them, but can’t remember even one of their names. This phenomenon is in direct correlation to my endeavor to be invisible during class. It apparently worked. And since I wasn’t really there, I can’t remember much.

Meeting these individuals now after all these years is a bit cathartic as well. Seeing the cheerleader, bookworm, class clown, etc, in grown up bodies, with grown up jobs and families is a big equalizer. Everyone has flaws. Receding hairlines, weight issues, botox addiction, ugly children, whatever. Back then it was hard to see the flaws in others—just in myself.

Now that I’ve matured and grown up, I now see flaws in everyone else and find that I’ve become nearly perfect. Isn’t the circle of life strange?

Gitmo Musical Festival

Recently in the news: Members of American rock bands have been demanding to know which of their songs were used to torture terrorist “suspects” at the Guantanamo Bay detention facility. Apparently, word leaked out when former detainees filed lawsuits against our country for mistreatment. Declassified documents listed 35 artists, including the theme from Sesame Street. The band REM said the use of their friend’s music to torture detainees was “horrific.”

Really?? Horrific? Wow. That sounds bad.

Okay, I totally understand how playing the theme to Sesame Street over and over again might be deemed as torture, but really? Horrific?

Horrific is when our soldiers are captured in Iraq and their captors use a drill on them. Horrific is when terrorists flew into the Towers and murdered thousands of innocent people. Horrific is when you have to listen to a bunch of drug-addled, self-centered, rock band members spout their opinions on politics, world peace, or being eco-friendly. They should really stick to what they know: drugs, groupies, and hearing aids.

As the mother of two grown children I know a little something about torture. Sometimes it does include music but not always. I can usually handle the music. It’s waiting up all hours to hear them come in safely, waiting for them to clean their bathroom before mold eats its way through the walls to the rest of the house, waiting for them to learn fiscal responsibility, waiting for them to call, waiting for them to...

Waiting. That’s torture.

Of course, if I had to listen to “It’s a small, small world” for any length of time, I might rethink this whole article. Actually, the theme to the Brady Bunch would probably have me screaming for mercy.

What I really want to know is, if these rock band members think their music is “horrific torture” why do they keep writing and playing it? Perhaps they should get a real job—something they’re truly qualified for—like running a jackhammer or teaching at Harvard University.

It's Just My Thyroid Acting Up!

America is obsessed with weight gain and weight loss. We’re fascinated by pictures of celebrities who have gained weight and then lost it with some amazing new diet of goat cheese & Cornish hens wrapped in a bed of corn husks, or eating only food that is blue. We stare at people larger than ourselves and think, “there but for the grace of God and the love of rice cakes, would be me.” Losing weight is pretty much a national pastime. You don’t hear too many people say, “Gee, I wish I could gain another ten pounds.” If they did, someone would probably smack them in the nose. And they’d deserve it.

According to statistics, most people in this country need to lose weight. Almost a third of Americans are obese and at least five percent are morbidly obese. That’s a lot of weight to lose.

Have you ever thought about where the weight goes when you lose it? I have. The boy, Tootles in the movie, Peter Pan, lost his marbles. Lucky for him, he found them again in the end. Unlucky for me, I usually find what I lost again in the end as well as the middle.

ABC had a story on this morning about a new mother and fellow blogger who has decided to lose a hundred pounds in the next year. That is a tremendous goal and I wish her the best, but doing it in front of the world would not be my choice of a weight-loss program. Like that show, The Biggest Loser, it seems so theatrical. I guess with the attention she gets through the Internet and television she should be sufficiently motivated to actually get it done though. Different methods work for different people. It reminded me of a book I picked up the other day, “The Writing Diet (Write yourself Right-size)”. The title grabbed me at first glance. Being a writer and having extra poundage to divest myself of, it would certainly be the perfect plan for me. I have yet to read it...but it sits here on my desk looking very thin in its attractively designed dust jacket.

Another article in the news today was about KFC giving away free chicken on Monday. They are trying to improve their finger-licking greasy image to a healthier, slimmer, grilled image. But I have to tell you that without the coating of Colonel Sander’s secret recipe, that chicken looks quite anorexic. Could be why it’s healthier for you. There’s not enough to get between your teeth much less add inches to your hips.

Then there was an interview with Pennsylvania’s Governor Rendel who has recently lost 50 lbs. His big secret? Eat less. Duh! Too bad all politicians aren’t this smart about spending our tax dollars. How do you help people in this economy? Spend less. (That’s about as probable as finding water on the moon)

Romantic Secrets of a Married Woman

We celebrated our 28^th wedding anniversary this past Saturday. My husband and I have been married so long I can hardly remember being single. Oh yeah...we called that childhood. Well, lucky for him, he grabbed me early before I became completely self-actualized. Otherwise I’m sure I’d be a best-selling author by now and wouldn’t have had time to give birth to his children, cook dinner, or iron shirts. But because I mastered the whole housewife thing a ways back, I now have plenty of time to waste writing this blog for your entertainment.

So...yesterday we started celebrating with Breakfast at McDonalds. Okay, maybe that doesn’t sound as romantic as Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but Tiffany’s doesn’t give away those little Monopoly game pieces, do they? Next we had lunch at Culvers. No diamonds there either, but they have lovely rich chocolate custard. To get ready for dinner at The Outback, we took a robust, afternoon hike in the woods with the dogs. By the time we returned home I was completely ready for deep fried mushrooms and cheese fries. You may think that sounds like a lot of fat grams and calories, but don’t judge. You only have a 28^th anniversary once in a lifetime! Usually. Besides, we also had side salads.

After a day like that, the only way to end it all was to start watching a new season of 24. Bated breath, nerve tingling, hair-raising excitement can only be had watching Jack Bauer torture terrorists and thwart their evil plans.

Was it a romantic, memory-making day? I believe it was. I can still remember the little thrill that came over me when the waiter delivered our platter of delectable mushrooms and fries to the table. Indeed, it’s a memory to be savored.

Move over Evian. Bottled Moon water coming soon!

NASA decided it would be a great idea to try and blow a hole in the moon the other day. Now I know there are probably women working for NASA too, but I’m thinking that the males were the driving force behind the idea. If I didn’t know better, I’d say alien males across the universe have been using the moon as their playground to set off explosions for a very long time. After all, it is pock-marked with massive craters.

I’ve heard it cost us around $97 million to run a camera-ready rocket into the surface of the moon and videotape this so-called explosion. That’s a lot of firecrackers.

The reason for this mission was to find out if those shadowy places in the craters were somehow hiding ice water. Now I’m pretty sure our Astronauts take water with them when they go to space, but just in case they run out it would be nice to be able to make a pit stop on the moon, get a nice long drink of ice water and be on their way. If indeed there is water to be had in them there craters.

I think it would have saved a lot of money if they had just erected one of those signs we see along the highways, “Free ice water at Wall Drug. Only 238,857 miles to go.”

That way all the space explorers would have something to look forward to as they grow tired of playing travel monopoly or counting the number of asteroids they pass.

The “explosion” went off as planned. People around the world were watching in rapt attention for...something. No burst of flame, no shooting rock, no nothing. NASA said to be on the lookout for a plume of smoke, but I could not detect even a small sign that anything at all had been disturbed on the surface of the moon.

$97 million dollars and nothing to show for it. Not even a few missing fingers.

Boys have been blowing things up for fun ever since the beginning of time. There is no rhyme or reason. They just like to watch things explode. The problem with explosives is that they are so unpredictable. That’s why so many guys have blown off a finger while trying to kill a frog.

In California a 23-year-old young man went to the hospital with four fingers missing. He had been mixing homemade explosives in his family’s garage. The Internet is just a world of information for idiots with nothing to do. Apparently, his mother and brother were also entrepreneurs. Inside the house they ran a daycare and outside in the backyard they grew a nice crop of marijuana. The police love to “bundle” their arrests. It makes it so much easier than getting a speeder here, a hooker there, a mugger down the street, etc.

Back on the moon...

NASA says they got lots of great information through this experiment. They didn’t say if it was worth $97 million dollars but what the heck. Our government just threw one and a half trillion down the drain. Why not play demolition derby with the moon?

Peace on Earth & good will toward those that agree with Dear Leader

Holy cow! Another far-left liberal, socialist leaning president wins the Nobel peace prize. What a shocker! Jimmy Carter, Al Gore (wannabe president), and now The One. Well, you have to give the Norwegian wonder board members credit for sticking to their agenda. They will NOT be thwarted by reality or truth.

I’m more than a little confused by the peace-making part of the prize though. Are they counting how he reached out to tea-party protesters in love and understanding, belittling their freedom of speech by classifying them as fringe wingnuts? Or how he accused a police officer of acting stupidly and then invited him over for beer? Or how he blogs on his White House site, "Let me be clear...I hate you FOX, cause you don't suck up to me like the other networks do." Or how he smiles benevolently down upon all of us "little people" daily, and speaks words of wisdom read from his handy teleprompter?

Personally, I think the American people (those that actually pay taxes) should get a Nobel Peace Prize. Our money has gone to pay for world peace for decades now. We pay countries not to blow each other up. We send them free food so their crazy power-hungry leaders can keep all the money for themselves. We send troops to other countries to keep their people from killing each other. We pay for a façade of peace around the world. The president has nothing to do with it.

American soldiers fight and spill their blood for freedom and are called murderers. Our people send multi-millions yearly to ward off war, famine, catastrophes (earthquakes, mudslides, tsunami), holocausts, etc, and in Norway a tiny board of self-important people deem Americans to be blood-thirsty war mongers who are lucky to have Dear Leader to bring us back into the fold where the rest of the world can love us again.

Obama would be a better president if he weren’t a little junior high school girl wanting desperately to be popular. Of course, he doesn’t seem to care if he’s popular in America—only to the rest of the world. We aren’t the cool kids. Europe is.

His next peace mission should be to walk the streets of Chicago and stop young people from killing one another. Maybe he can teach them to embrace their inner Barack Obama...

To Read or Not to Read

I’m slogging through a book by a British mystery writer right now; trying to finish it before the end of the world, but not sure if that goal is attainable. Some books you whip right through, unable to stop long enough to sleep or take bathroom breaks. Others, you read at regular intervals, perhaps an hour before bed or during the laundry cycle. Still others, you slog through, one sentence at a time, telling yourself you’re almost to the end. It won’t be long now. The protagonist is finally doing something other than thinking about how she feels about radishes and making circles in the frosted windowpane with her finger. But it never seems to end. Reading each page is like finishing a chore you’ve been avoiding.

Interestingly enough, some of the books I’ve hated the most, found to be a complete bore, often come to mind years later. They stick with you whether you want them to or not and make you ponder over the strangest things.

It’s not that this specific author is a poor writer. She’s a very good writer, renowned for her mysteries. At least in Britain. I’m not sure Americans feel the same way about her though. After all, I did pick up her book from the bargain table at Barnes & Noble.

I think the problem I have with this author is that the characters are British, which isn’t to say I’m prejudice against brits, but that they are so different in many ways and hard to relate to.

For one thing, they are very class oriented. Talk about putting people in their place! These characters are constantly pointing out the differences between class groups, and whether they are better than them or not. They obviously haven’t gotten over the whole domestic servant/master thing over there. I guess turning socialistic didn’t diminish the lines at all. In fact, they seem to cling to their station in life as though that is the only identity they have left.

Secondly, they say things like, “take the lift up to my loft,” instead of “take the elevator to my apartment.” Babies wear nappies and take rides in perambulators. The hood of a car is called a bonnet and the trunk is a boot. (are they obsessed with clothes, or what?) Why is it called the “king’s English" and which king are they referring too? Did (said) king of England make up these stupid words as he sat around on his throne with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs?

But mostly, it’s just a really slow moving story. The little bit of humor that’s there is so dry as to be almost indiscernible. And when the murder weapon is a block of concrete dropped from a bridge, it’s not only an impersonal way to commit murder but is also taking blunt-force trauma way too literally. What happened to murderers with a backbone, who face their victims eye to eye instead of paying someone else to do their dirty work?

Anyway, I refuse to give up on this story. I must finish reading it to the end. If only to have a good cry. After all—it’s called, “End in Tears.” Here’s hoping!