EVERYONE IS A RELATION

This morning at 5:30 a.m. it was 26 degrees outside.

Two weeks ago, that would have been horrible.

This morning, it was almost a relief.

Everything is relative, isn't it?

MISSION STATEMENT

1. This blog IS for my entertainment and developing of writing skills, phrasing, illustrations, and increasing the likelihood of spelling a word such as exemplary without having to revert to a thesaurus to get a word close enough to exemplary that I can actually find exemplary in a dictionary.

2. This blog IS NOT for constant and anxious checking of the stats to see if anyone else might actually have glanced at my blog, noting down the time and location, and fantasying about old high school nemeses grinding their teeth at my brilliant posts.

3. This blog IS for reflection, contemplation, arranging of thoughts, beliefs and concepts.

4. This blog IS NOT to be viewed as a potential source of income by allowing crass advertising companies to take over.

5. This blog IS for future development to an increased audience, and if somehow on the way we share the spotlight with some potential grass-roots movements with admirable goals and the ability to support us in a manner to which we would like to become accustomed, so be it.

6. This blog IS NOT for the posterity to learn more about doodling old Grandma Wilt's illiterate and confused scribblings (in fact, I would be pleased and honored if the first thing done following my death is the total and complete destruction of all my computer files - especially Hope/Documents/Self/Mutterings/CCM.)

7. This blog IS to be used for entertainment purposes only. The information and images on this site are not to be used as advice in any medical action, legal proceedings, or government overthrows, and are not representational of any and all actions to be undertaken by a legally sane individual.
 
Okay, I feel better now. Do you?

GREAT BALLS OF FIRE

Freud alone can be held responsible for the death of about 1,822 trees by publishing such a prodigious number of psychiatric papers/books specifically about men's sexual organs.

Freud's views have been called "phallocentric" for it seems men already had the phobia of losing their 'manhood' as a recurring nightmare back in the late 1880's

No, wait a moment - nightmare is too gentle a word - for the sheer TERROR of somehow being separated from their male... anatomy (sometimes known affectionately as "George," "Chuck," or "Tootsie").


Freud insisted that these 'fears' came from deeply repressed memories of childhood sexual abuse and men's fear of castration.

He even declared there was a female fear of castration, "penis envy", by the following convoluted logic (care of Wikipedia, the source of all quick albeit not always accurate information online):

- A girl develops a sexual impulses towards her mother, but realizes that she is not physically equipped since she does not have a penis.
- She desires a penis, and the power that it represents and wishes to obtain her father’s penis.
- The girl blames her mother for her apparent castration
- Sexual desire for her father leads to the desire to replace and eliminate her mother.
- The girl identifies with her mother so that she might learn to mimic her, and thus replace her.
- The girl employs the defence mechanism of displacement to shift the object of her sexual desires from her father to men in general.

And I'm certain that since all men have such a, er, intimate relationship with their penises, they naturally assume that women must be incredibly envious of not having one.

Really, guys?

All of this was brought forcibly to mind as I helped my vet in the gelding of Samuel, a young but obviously potent stallion who fathered the little colt, Roo.



Now, is gelding too strong a word, guys? Castration gets the point across, but also makes every man I knew wince and pale more than slightly.

It's a fairly simple procedure, so just take a look at this fun video from eHow (another great source) with Mike Rowe, the guy from Dirty Jobs - I'm the lady at the head of the horse (hmm, perhaps a poor choice of words there):

You just open the scrotum with the scalpel so that you can clearly see the testicles, then remove them with the emasculator. 

Okay, how many of you men will admit to have just gotten up off the floor after fainting?

LAUGHTER AT ITS BEST

The most wonderful part of being a grandparent is that it almost always is a part-time job.

You get to hold, hug, hover, and hurrah - but at some point, you also get to go home.

Alone.

Since my own grandchildren are 896 miles away (give or take a mile or so), I occasionally play Grannie to a little one at church.

And yes, I do try to pick a baby off of the most exhausted or frustrated young mother at services.

Sunday, I indulged my insane inclination to baby-nap, and took over one of my favorite babies - Obadiah (cool name, eh?) - in Sunday School.

And could not keep myself from making him giggle - again, and again, and again.

Which made everyone in the class smile - again, and again, and again.

It was great.

We need to do more giggling at church.

And since I work with 14 and 15 year old girls at church, I get to do a lot of it already.

ON THE TRACK ONCE AGAIN

One of the most difficult moments in an argument is when you realize you are totally and completely wrong.

And I have no right to complain about something where I am the only one responsible.

I let our greyhound out around 9:50 p.m. tonight, following the logic that it was late, it was FREEZING (literally - it was 32 degrees outside), and she would simply do her business and rush back in.

HA!

I finally found her by driving my truck far far down the road - at least she had turned around and was headed back.




Reminder - never ever EVER let the greyhound without a leash on her.

Or at least not until Arizona warms up.

HEY, JO... I MEAN, RACHAEL... I MEAN, SALLY....

Probably everyone has called someone by the wrong name.

It can get sticky - you call your husband by an old boyfriend's name - use your dog's name instead of your mother-in-law's - it can be awkward to say the least.

My mother, for my entire life, called me by my older sister's name.

And as a mother, I have generally gone through all three of my kids' names until I hit the upon the right one.

But now I am in a much deeper quandary.

Right now I have Josephine, Roo, Triple-A, Rachael, Renegade, Samuel, Najale, Sally, Sofi, Delilah, and Pandora.

I confuse Triple-A and Josephine, because they are mother and daughter, and have almost identical markings.

Samuel, Sofi, Sally - I'm sorry, all the S's just run together.

Roo is pretty easy to remember.

So for the moment, when I go out to the pasture, I simply go through every one's names, and hope that they can at least hear their name in there somewhere.

YES IT WAS A MONDAY WHY DO YOU ASK?

I can't keep this to myself - this email was to prove that I was still alive and breathing at the end of the day to my family members:

------------------------

Yesterday (Monday) wasn’t a bad day - there are a lot of really good things that I happened.

However, the number of HORRIBLE things that have appeared out of NOWHERE balance the scale quite nicely.

Please allow me to tell the story.

GOOD THING: Had a doctor’s appointment first thing in the morning at 8:00 a.m. - so I was certain I would be in and out quickly for once - YES.


BAD THING: For reasons completely unknown, about 2/3rds of the way to this appointment, I suddenly had to pull the truck over to vomit quite unexpectedly and copiously into an empty paper sack which (thank goodness) on the floor and I had time to grab. Have not a clue why.

GOOD THING: Got home and had time to take the dogs outside and talk to the horses a little when I first got back.


BAD THING: Delilah, our greyhound, occasionally wanders off by herself. But greyhounds are programmed to go IN ONE DIRECTION, and have a great deal of trouble reversing, backing up, turning around.

I gave her ten minutes, and began walking, yelling out her name. Another five minutes. Took the truck, leaning out the window and calling her as I drove every road within a mile of our home. Then two miles.

Now, Delilah was wearing a bright red cover-sort-of-thing to help her when it’s cold - so she should have been easy to spot as well as warm. But this morning, it was around 49 degrees. Not all that cold, unless you are a greyhound that has less than 2% body fat.


So now I am seriously worried about her.


I begin stopping at houses, describing her outfit, asking them to call me, and just beginning to panic that I have lost my husband’s dog.

GOOD THING: One advantage to living in the middle of nowhere - you get to know your neighbors quickly out of necessity. So there was a car I didn’t recognize pulling out of a house that has been empty for a while.

I rolled down my window and started to launch my “If you see a greyhound…” They answered back immediately, “And is she wearing a red jacket-thing?” “YES!” “And is her name Delilah?” By then, I was out of the truck and gathering her up in my arms. Whew. They were driving to our address which is on her tags.


GOOD THING: With the help of my great neighbor, Cherie, safely transported five horses to her house and mine - one of them a sweet little baby colt named Roo.

BAD THING: My mare, Sally, was almost immediately set upon by the new alpha mare, Triple A (stands for “Always An Angel”) and put in her proper place. Sally wasn’t hurt physical… just her pride.

GOOD THING: I sat for probably an hour and watched the three girls work out their social status, without Najale to bother them.

BAD THING: But Najale, my gelding, was racing back and forth in the corral, watching all of this social adjustment, and getting himself literally into lather. To share his excitement, he kept running over to me to exclaim “WHAT THE @%#^#&* IS GOING ON WITH THESE GIRLS!!?”, and in one of this dashes, slammed his hard head right into mine.

For those of you who don’t know me, this is the same side of my head which was fractured back in 1976, to the point where I was brain-dead for eleven days. The side of my head which I am never, ever, supposed to get hit again. I sat and saw stars for a few minutes, but was fine about that.


GOOD THING: My friends Kate and Cherie got to know each other much better.

BAD THING: But in the midst of this warm camaraderie, Kate suddenly yelled to me, “CAN YOU DRIVE ME HOW RIGHT THIS INSTANT!??” She had gotten a phone call from her neighbor that her (Kate’s) husband has cut off his thumb.

She and I jumped into the truck and took off, but I assumed that it probably was just a bad cut. However, the paramedics were en route, Kate was terrified, and so I stepped on it.


GOOD THING: My truck can - and did - reach 95 mph on the paved road. I did not race into any speed traps. My truck can also corner at high speeds much better than that I thought possible.

BAD THING: When we got to Kate’s home, they had already called for a helicopter to medivac him to Tucson because, yes, Dave had completely and painfully cut off his entire thumb, bone and all, below the knuckle.


GOOD THING: A helicopter can land on the corner of Hereford and Palomino Road safely. By then Dave had an IV going, had received enough pain killer to be real spacey and out of it, so was loaded quickly to be flown to the hospital.


BAD THING: They were unable to re-attach his thumb; it was too ragged a cut.

GOOD THING: I got safely home.

BAD THING: But first look in the mirror confirmed that I had gotten a BAD sunburn on my face (the rest of me was covered by three layered shirts and two sweatshirts - really). Next to an amputated thumb, it shouldn’t have been much, but I looked like an over-ripe cherry.


GOOD THING: Harmony years and years ago had enlightened me to the magic of Banana Boat Aloe After Sun Lotion, which can turn anything but a third degree burn into a nice tan.


GOOD THING: And the horses were getting along better.


BAD THING: However, by the time I finally released Najale to join the girls, he was hoarse (no pun intended), sore, and was having difficulty simply walking.

HORRIBLE THING: And Cherie had asked one of her kids to ‘put the dogs back’ while we were unloading horses. But inside of the outside kennel, the child put the two large, aggressive dogs inside the house - and they killed Cherie’s cat. A sweet orange kitty that she had videoed playing with the Christmas tree and put it on Facebook.

GOOD THING: Last thing at night, I went out to give the horses some treats and be certain they hadn’t killed each other or broken out en mass.

BAD THING: Najale, for the second time only, bit my finger by accident - he thought that Josephine was trying to get the treat first, and snapped at her… but got my finger instead.

I  do still have my finger... but it looks like it got bit... by a horse.

GRAVITY WORKS, PART TWO

My daughter introduced me to many decorating concepts. Such as using colors which are not complete opposites on the color wheel. Curtains. Throwing away Tupperware containers from 80's.

And cool glass jars from Target.

They do look great on the counter - and make it much easier to remember how much chocolate I have on hand (a critical matter in my life).

But I have also noticed that the level of whatever is in the jar gradually lowers as time goes by.

Both the dogs and the cat have been put through lie-detector tests, and have proven their innocence - although the missing amounts could probably be explained away by cockroaches, if I would allow myself to consider having cockroaches in my house (I will, however, freely acknowledge the huge gopher snake, as well as droves of field mice who have eluded the cat).

So I must blame it on gravity.

Which allows for a complete leap of faith to explain one other matter:

This must be why weight continues to gather right around my midsection - it's gravity, that's all.

So, how many of you are with me on this? And if not, why?

THE YEAR OF LIVING COURAGEOUSLY

In one hour and two minutes, it will be 2011 (Mountain Daylight Savings Time).

And I just don't like that.

Not the new year - the number 2011. I don't like odd numbers (except 13 - I love 13) - and the number eleven is even extra odd.

 

In the Arabian calendar, it's 1433. So that's not good either.

It's the end of the Year of the Tiger - that sounds cool. But it's the beginning of the Year of the Rabbit - nah.

So I think we each name this year. Whatever

 is meaningful to us.

So this is going to be the Year of Living Courageously.

For me.

"YOU ARE WRONG"

It doesn’t take much to send some people over the edge.

For me, it’s when people ask what kind of cookie you want - as if there is anything besides chocolate-chip cookies.

Someone I know has an almost psychotic response if you hold your hand up to him in a “stop” motion - I still don’t know entirely why.

(No, forget the ‘almost’ - it is completely psychotic)

But there is something that no one ever likes to hear - “You are wrong”

It has taken me decades to accept the pure and simple fact that no one ever changes their mind by simply being told, “You’re wrong.”

There is a very natural human reaction when you are hit to hit back - probably one of the reasons Christ mentioned turning the other cheek, because it takes a very conscious effort to not retaliate.

I have a poster of a cartoon character completely losing it -- just to remind me how people will punch back emotionally (and sometimes physically) if they feel threatened -- even if you don’t mean it as anything like a menace.

And there must be someone in the world who can hear, “You’re wrong” and calmly and politely answer, “Why, if you say so, I must be wrong.”

But I haven’t met them.

Yet.

LET'S GET CYNICAL

The media campaign continues to trump the message that youth is beauty - beauty is youth.

Immense amounts of money are spent on lotions, creams, dyes, tighteners, exercises, even surgery to eliminate those horrible horrible things such as grey hair, wrinkles, drooping parts of anatomy.


One of the funniest, at least from my point of view, are the 'wonder'bras and breast 'enhacement' surgeries - yeah, you're 115 lbs., but somehow you also have  boobs that would make Dolly Parton jealous?

And young women in particular, do you honestly want to appeal to the most infantile part of a guy who was bottle-fed as a baby?!?


And the most discouraging thing? WE WOMEN GO ALONG WITH THIS.

We put on the creams, we inflate the wrinkles and the bras, we dye our hair, we wear tight clothing, high heels and bright red lipstick.

And we look critically at other women's make-up, fake eyelashes, breast enhancement, and tight clothing, while they look down their noses at ours.

I'm sorry - I've never been pretty, and I know that have been beyond tom-boyish from sheer rebellion. I had a mother who wanted a pretty, feminine little girl - but she got me. So I refused to wear dresses - nylons - make-up for years and years and years - so part of this scorn

So women - why in the world aren't we out there supporting, helping and building each other up instead of being competitive and tearing each other down?



Come on girls - let's stop worrying about pleasing the men, the fashion critics, and helping a lot of people make money off of us - let's work together, and let's spend our paychecks on real things - like clean water and food for people all over the world.

Okay.

TELEGRAMS

I'm teaching a lesson about communication today, so it got me thinking.

Used to be that telegrams meant only one thing:
A death.

That was the method of notification - at the time, it was fast, efficient and reliable.

I honestly don't know how death notifications are done now - phone call? An officer of the law showing up at your doorstep? Do they just send you an email, and hope that you are on the Internet?

I know with the military, it's always done personally, and I LOVE the logic of the 'how' (care of the all-knowing, all-powerful wikipedia):

For military notifications, there are usually three persons involved: the notifying officer, a medic (in case the family member faints), and an officer that stays in the car in case the family members react violently.

So why does the officer stay in the car; so he doesn't get hurt? So he can drive quickly away and abandon the other two? So he can simply witness the murder of the notifying officer and the medic?

Geesch.

Sorry - perhaps a bit of a morbid attitude, but it makes me giggle (note: take a look at the name of this blog).

TIS THE SEASON TO BE CRAZY

It's Christmas Eve Eve, right?

And everybody is in a rush - they are going someplace to visit family or in-laws, they've bought into the American media fantasy of having the perfect meal, with the perfect presents while wearing the perfect clothing and trimming the perfect tree.

They need to get to the mall - to the grocery store - to the pharmacy - someplace.

And it is absolutely CRITICAL that they get there FASTER than you do.

So if that entails that you go through a red light, when it's only just turned red - it's actually sort of a light orange, really - well, yeah, that's okay, because you have to get there right now.

And it absolutely means that YOU get that parking space before I do. It doesn't matter if it's an elderly lady trying to pull in there - you may be a young man with an elevated red pick-up with NASCAR stickers all down the sides, but damn it, he has to get into that mall before you do.

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Yes, 'tis the season for sharing, giving, and caring -- as long as it doesn't have to be on the roadway.