Family Reunion


Last weekend, I took my mother to a family reunion down in Texas. I hadn’t been to an event like that as an adult. I knew three people in the entire room, one was my mother. I felt odd, awkward, out of place, and strange. As a mature female of over 60, it was like being back in junior high where everyone else had gone to school together forever and I was the new kid. Awkward.

So, I sucked up my shyness and talked about genealogy, family history, and said hello a lot. I also smiled a lot and I ate far too much good food. It is no wonder all of my family tends toward the round shape, the good cooking gene runs in the family line.

As a child, I grew up away from my parent’s home town. We lived all over the place with the military, and as an adult my husband and I both wanted to be on the move. So I don’t really understand knowing all about one’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and extended family. I know my dead relatives better than the living because I am a family history addict. I am a bit like the odd duck in the family.

They grew up together, or at least with knowledge of one another. And that was a great thing to see. My memories of my grandparents are strong, and real, but these cousins are from different places than my branch of the tree. Still, you could see the solidarity, love, and strength in knowing their family was there in any time of need.

My mother loved every minute, she had looked forward to the event for months and could hardly wait to get there and meet everyone. She kept telling me that she couldn’t belove we were blood relatives to so many people. Of all of her generation, in her family line, she is the only one left. Her parents had two daughters, and my aunt passed away long ago.

Another interesting thing was how the faces looked like faces I knew as a child. The same nose, eyes, mouth, laugh, hairline, walk, and even the way they stood reminded me of other long gone family. Funny how DNA directs how one looks and moves. Strong blood lines tend to breed true. This one certainly does.

I am thankful I went. It was good to see my cousins, two of the few, from my youth that I actually remember. I am thankful that family is so important to our extended family of cousins that they have this reunion every year. I am thankful that I was able to visit the graves of my great great grandfather and grandmother who started our family lines in Texas and Oklahoma.

Maybe next time, I won’t feel so disconnected and awkward. And, perhaps, I will know more than three people in the room.

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That’s How We Roll


The Mr. and I went to our standby comfort food restaurant for dinner. I didn’t want to cook, neither did he, such as he can. Dinner was filling, and if you get the chance, have the yummy pumpkin custard at the Cracker Barrel near you.

We were, as usual, discussing issues in the news and politics while eating dinner. It occurred to me that I am surprised some nitwit leftist hasn’t started opposing the name of the restaurant yet. After all, it is a Southern company, started in Lebanon, Tennessee. And the folks who own it are white. Ergo, it must be owned by white redneck extremists – also known by the derogative term “crackers.”

Therefore, in leftist think, they must be racists, as all Southern whites are by association . Yep, must change the name, I can hear the hue and cry going out amongst those with nothing better to do than take stupid to the farthest degree possible.

Trouble is, that sort of mentality fails here. As we sat there enjoying our meal, only four other tables were full. At one table was another senior couple, farmers from the cut of his clothes and his farmers tan. The Mr. and I represented the Indians in the room. Next to them was a man and a woman, she was black, he was white. Next to them was a table with two men, one black, one white. The server on our side of the room was white, and the server on the other side of the room was black. The cashier was white, but the greeter lady was black, and the cook in the back was white, but the guy busing the tables was black. So, I guess folks of all backgrounds were represented. As it generally is down here in the South.

Now, I don’t live in the southeastern part of the Southern states, I live in the mid-southern/ deep south state of Mississippi, right at the very northern edge of the state next to Memphis, Tennessee. So, maybe it is different here when it comes to blacks and whites than it is in other southern states. I’ve lived here ten years, and I have never had an issue with anyone due to my skin color (which changes from pink to medium brown depending on how much sun I get). As a matter of face, I grew up in the military where segregation ended long before it ended in the rest of the country. I’ve always gone to school with people of different colors, backgrounds, and lifestyles. So pardon me if all I do is shrug when leftists get their knickers in a twist over race issues.

When I look at the demographics for those who are screaming racism, generally it is from folks on the east or west coast, or places like Chicago. Mostly, though, it comes from young people who haven’t a clue what racism is really like. So, why aren’t all the folks in the deep south marching and breaking things? Well, most of them are too busy working and taking care of their families. Except, of course, for those with nothing better to do than make up offenses to have tantrums over. By and large, most of the BLM morons around here are just that, ghetto morons who are uneducated, unemployed, and unhappy because they don’t get everything they want on a platter. Ditto the ANTIFA – yawn – pampered leftist babies of the rich. Regular folks are too busy to waste time with stupidity like that.

Instead of breaking things and marching around trying to rile each other up, they are in church on Wednesday and Sunday, coaching kids in sports, taking kids to lessons or dance, or horse riding. Spending time as a family, often extended family – especially down here in the South, family is a big deal, or they are helping those less fortunate. And maybe, like the Mr. and I, they just like to be at home relaxing at the end of a hectic day.

My point is that I simply cannot fathom having the luxury of time that it takes to be out acting up and breaking things all in the name of faux freak-out issues. Only those with no responsibilities, jobs, school, or future plans have that sort of luxury. Most young people I know are working and going to college, working and raising families, or they are military and working to protect the rights of the whiny leftists rear ends who insult them every chance they get. I don’t live in a racist community, I live in a diverse community of folks with kids, dogs, and lifestyles devoted to bettering themselves and their kids. We have old folks, young folks, teenagers, and babies. We are just people. And that’s how we roll in the mid-south.

Reality Check


My husband and I support two young girls in Uganda, Africa through a charity for orphans and destitute families, by paying for their schooling every year. It isn’t all that much, but it is what we can do for them. You see, they live in such abject poverty that it is amazing they have lived as long as they have. Most do not have parents, they live with elderly grandparents at times, or other relatives or within the orphanage. Fathers leave in droves, because there is no money or food, and many parents are both infected with HIV. Some of the children are born infected as well.

Each day is a struggle for food, water, shelter and the most basics of hygiene and health. Recently a case of measles broke out among the children, most became very ill, and there was nothing to given them to do so much as relieve their fevers. Something as simple as an infection in the eye of one child was spread like wild fire due to lack of clean facilities and medication. The organization we work with, does wonders with the little they have to share with the children. They are even building a school bit by bit as they can afford it for the children.

The reason I am bringing this up, is that despite all the hardship, the children smile, laugh, support each other, and find joy in every day living. Compared to the constant complaining of the leftists in America, they live in a hellish world. But the people constantly looking for a reason to be discontent and worried about their feelings are the people from a world that would be sheer heaven to our girls in Uganda.

Weak, ineffectual, pathetic snowflakes take umbrage because an inanimate object hurts their delicate sensibilities. How luxurious that they can afford the time and effort to indulge in each little idiosyncrasy their tiny minds can imagine. They can go home to a warm, or cool, house, with food, plumbing, showers, electricity, and all the toys they can ever use. And still, they moan and whine about how awful the world is to them.

Meanwhile, our girls struggle to find enough wood to heat the cooking fire, and pray that there is food for them at the end of the day. If fortunate, they get two meals a day. The water they carry home in old gas cans is filthy, but they are grateful to have it to drink and wash in. Our girls get fed at school, as part of the tuition fees, and that is just as important as the schooling, because without nutrition, learning is difficult.

Snowflakes rant and rave about how unjust their lives are, and demand that everyone bow down to their wants. Wants because they have everything they need. Our girls are grateful to be healthy and alive. They know all about what it means to be less important than the family goat. They know what it means to know that they will have no chance to climb out of the poverty/AIDS/ drugs/sex trade cycle that their people have been stuck in for generations. They know unjust means that even though over 10 per cent of all adults are HIV positive, there are no medications to save their lives, and many will die before they have a chance to raise their children. But the snowflakes and whining baby adults of American leftists think they have it hard if someone calls them by the gender that is part of their DNA instead of their preferred daily wish gender.

Our, for want of a better word, foster daughter, Bridgette, struggles so hard to do well in school because it is her only way out of the poverty cycle. She wants to be a nurse to help others in need. She knows she will always be able to provide for herself with an education. She works at it every day. And she is excelling. Even though she still has to help cook, clean, carry water and wood, and study every day, she knows there will be a day when it will get easier for her. Our littlest girl, Milly, is just a baby in the equivalent of Pre-K in the US. She wants to be a teacher some day. She has a delightful, mischievous little smile, and even though she looks tired, underweight, and, at times, lost, she too, knows, at her young age, that she has to work hard to overcome her circumstances. My great granddaughter is only a year or so younger than Milly. Every time I look at Addie Rose succeed at something, I know that it would take our Milly longer, just because of the tough start she had to life, and the daily struggle she has to overcome.

Yet, our baby adults think we need to allow them to vent and break things because they are not getting all the attention they want. They have tantrums and scream about a corrupt government and how evil those who disagree with them are toward their agenda. Really? Bridgette and Molly, and every other child they know don’t have time to sit around and make up excuses to whine. They are too busy trying to, literally, live another day.

Leftists think our government is corrupt and our country is an awful place to live need to trade places with our foster girls for a year. Corruption takes on a whole new definition in their home country. Just getting a package from the post office requires a bribe. Those with any power can take anything the poor have, including their innocence and lives if they wish. Prison is another word for hell, and damnation is spread by disease and poverty.

So, to all those ANTIFA, leftists, BLM, and idiotic people supporting their anti America hatred, go live in Uganda, or any other third world, poverty and crime stricken country for a while. A place that has no freedom, has no rights, and has laws that can strike down anyone who speaks out against those in power. Go live in our foster daughter’s shoes, please. Then come home and tell me how awful America is to you.

Our girls, with God’s blessings, will make it to adulthood and become strong women who will make a difference in their world. And we are blessed that they lovingly call us, Mother Karron and Father Harold. With all the negative in their lives, they can go to sleep at night knowing that thousands of miles away, someone cares and believes in their dreams of a better world.

Feminist or Victimist?


Back in the dark ages of the 1970’s women declared themselves to be feminists by burning their bras, and protesting Viet Nam. They cried, “I am WOMAN, hear me ROAR” while prancing around bare breasted to declare their freedom from oppressive males. Yee Haw, no longer ladies but WOMEN! And a lot of the regular women went along with the hard core man haters as they were bullied and shamed into standing “with the sisterhood.” Personally, I thought the whole thing was silly and embarrassing.

I didn’t need a bunch of females telling me how to be a woman, nor did I need to join a group of man haters and burn my bras to feel free. I didn’t need to have sex with everyone to feel empowered, and I sure as hell was not going to let anyone bully me into being a pathetic follower. I was, and always have been, always will be, a strong, independent minded, fully functional, intelligent, lady. Meaning, I have manners, morals, and a mental altitude geared toward compassion, motherhood, and being a wife and partner to my husband.

However, the hater feminists screamed louder, and the younger set fell for their lies and consummate bullying tactics, and we are now in our third generation of feminist females. I don’t have a clue what women find attractive about that title. More than a few have followed the Gloria group, declaring they deserved to have it all. A partner, kids, and a career that made them feel powerful. That the glass ceiling had to fall, and they would be the generation of women to do it. Yawn… whatever.

What happened is there are generations of kids who were raised in day care instead of their mothers. The women spent their lives torn between career and kids. And if there was time, a moment or two a week with their partner, who still had to work to fulfill the American dream of a home, a car, and two vacations a year. One with and one without the kids. Many longed to stay home, but were pressured by the mantra of the haters to do all and be all – and to be treated just like a man in all ways. Except in a special way. – Politically correct, you know, like they were delicate flowers deep inside.

So, look what we have forty years later. Feminism has turned into Victimism. Women no longer ROAR, they whimper. They no longer burn bras, they think they need to either prance about in a vagina costume, or cover up to support Sharia law. The haters are angry because their plan didn’t work, so they hate men even more, although it is more likely they drove more women away every generation with their vitriol spewing violence. They demand equality, and once they got it, they hated it. Because they weren’t special any longer, but just another cog in the wheel of the working wonks of the world, and that isn’t faaaair…. Be careful what you ask for, it just might bite your right on your ego.

Now, victimism has managed to emasculate every traditional male role, and it has made something as normal as appreciating the beauty of a female body illegal. Feminist flaunted their bodies and told women that it was something they should take pride in showing off. So, women dressed like they were walking sex on display, and now they are whimpering victimists because some guy, or another female, looked at them. Just looked. Well, if you look like a street walker, expect people to see a street walker.

Once, women were treated with respect by benefit of being a female. No longer. We are no longer valued by men as a loving companion, mother, or lover. We are treated just like any other guy, and with less respect than ever. Feminist saw the light in the 1990’s, and decided the way to force their issues was to become victims of Every. Single. Thing. Victimism is the new feminism of the twenty first century. They want fair, but not equal. Fair is not an option in most real life situations. Equal makes them feel demeaned – go figure – and that makes them victimized via being a feminist. Yes, I know, vastly vexing and illogical.

The roaring women of the 1970’s have fallen on hard times. There is no pride in sisterhood, it is every woman out for herself, and the wimpy males that hover in the background are the whipping boys of the future generation of women. Every feminist screamed defiance. Every victimist screams they are demeaned. Listen carefully the next time the likes of Ashley Judd gets in front of a bunch of other females. Hatred, anti male, anti family, anti women who disagree with the agenda, angry, bitter, vitriol spewing victimism all over those who just want to be normal, every day, honest to heaven, women, moms, wives, partners, and most of all happy.

I am not a victim, and I am sure as hell not a feminist. I am a woman, I don’t need to roar, a smile and a chat works wonders to solve issues. Oh, and I quite like men as friends, much more than shrewish victimist females.

I Will NOT Feel Guilty About Christmas Gifts.


I saw a meme on Facebook today that left me speechless, for all of four seconds, then I was totally ticked off. I do NOT like it when people try to manipulate me in any way, and this was exactly what the meme was trying to do.

Basically, it calls people on the carpet for buying nice gifts for their children and labeling them from Santa Claus. Because, after all, some other child might not get anything as nice as a laptop or phone, they may only get gloves and a scarf or something less expensive from the man in red. Therefore, those of us who give our kids something from ‘Santa’ that is more expensive will cause hurt feelings if they share what they got with those less fortunate. In other words, we have to limit what we spend on our kids, or we are guilty of flaunting our wealth, and that makes us evil people.

Quite frankly, that is a load of bull$*(*#!!! If you have kids young enough to believe in Santa, they won’t give a flip how expensive the gift is, because it will be from Santa! That is all that matters. If they are old enough to know the cruel truth of who bought them the gift, then they won’t be upset because it will be from you no matter what name is on the package. Sometimes the logic of the knee jerk emotional response people baffles me. No, the logic of such people always baffles me.

Why would it be my responsibility how your child reacts to what my child receives for Christmas or any other time a gift is offered? I don’t expect you to buy your children’s gifts based on my income or what my child might want. It is utterly ludicrous to suppose that anyone should be involved in gift giving between myself, my children or grandchildren but us.

Everyone knows Christmas comes around every December 25th. Everyone knows that we give gifts to one another in remembrance of the gift we received from God in the Savior, and in the gifts the Magi gave to the Christ child. We know it is coming all year long. I do not understand why everyone waits until the last possible minute to recognize the expense, whether in dollars or time and effort, that will be added to the budget. So let me explain how we do things.

In January, I take my empty Christmas money jar, and start putting back as much as I can from my budget. Some months it is more, some less. I have a goal of one hundred dollars per child or grandchild, a bit less for the babies as they are happy with wrapping paper and boxes until about the age if two. I also factor in things like baking goods, baskets, and wrapping paper to the fund. As I save each month, I start a file from each kid or grandchild about the things that they are interested or would like to have. It gives me a bare bones budget from which to work.

Around the end of October, I start shopping in earnest. I look for sales, coupons, two for one sales, any way to save money and still buy them what they want. It doesn’t matter if it comes from Santa or me, each gift is carefully chosen and paid for with CASH. No debt here, thank you very much. By Christmas, I have spent my savings, prepared goodie baskets for my friends and neighbors, wrapped all the gifts, and have everything set for a family dinner.

Even on a limited income, this can work as long as you are diligent about saving and keeping the funds for Christmas. The trick is to be determined not to waste the funds on other things. If it is in the Christmas jar, nothing short of a life and death situation will get it out of the jar before Christmas. My point is, that anyone can give their children nice things, if they want to work hard enough for it.

Sure I will go without other things, and maybe I won’t have that extra whatever I wanted, but at the end of the day, did I really need it? How many pairs of shoes, or handbags, or goodies does one need to be healthy? Not too many. I would rather see my granddaughter’s face light up with joy at her “Santa” present, or have a heart felt hug from my son for the item he has wanted for a long time, but didn’t want to spend money on with a family to feed.

So, back to the meme, get over it people. No one is responsible for your family but you. My family comes first, and what I have left over, I share willingly and for as far as I can stretch it. Maybe it will only be a basket of Christmas cookies and muffins, but it is given with love and appreciation to my friends and family.

Don’t try to manipulate or guilt people into shame for doing well, working hard, and giving generously, be it from “Santa” or from Nana and Papa. It makes you look inept, immature, and impractical. It used to be people stood up for themselves, they didn’t expect everyone else to feel sorry for them and make life easy. Be honest with your children. They aren’t stupid, they know if you are wealthy or if you are barely making it. So, work hard, save hard, give with love, and teach your children to do the same.

How Did I Get So Old So Darned Fast?


Today I turned 62 years old. I think that qualifies me as older than dirt. I know it qualifies me as a senior citizen. What I want to know is how it happened so darned fast. Just a few weeks ago, I swear I was trying to figure out the whole concept of being an adult.

When I turned nine, I remember it well, because my parents gave me a copy of Huckleberry Finn. The first real book I remember ever getting. I still have it. And I took time to re-read it not too long ago. When I turned 17, I was a married woman of a whole three months. I remember thinking I had it all, and knew it all, and wasn’t afraid to face everything life would throw at me. I was a grown woman, and by heaven I knew it all. Arrogance knows no bounds to a 17 year old.

When I turned 20, I had a three month old son, he was taking me down a peg or two in arrogance, and teaching me that being a grown woman was harder than it looked. Being a mother certainly was harder. Little did I know that by the time I turned 22, I would have a second baby boy and life was set on fast forward for the next twenty years or so.

I don’t remember many spectacular birthdays. They seem to blend together. However, I remember when I turned 30, my two best friends kidnapped me, drove me all over Harrison, Arkansas for a few hours, then took me out to eat at a steak place. When I walked in, almost the entire church ward, most of my Boy Scout Leader friends, and many others turned up for a surprise party. I was totally shocked. Not a clue slipped out from anyone. Back then, there were no cell phones, so no one was able to tip me about the kidnapping or anything. It was great! I was fully embarrassed, but it was the slickest thing anyone has ever pulled on me. Candy, and Edie Mae , I have not forgotten, and I will get even one day.

The best gifts my husband gave to me are: The Elton John Concert in Hong Kong, The Michael Buble concert in Memphis, and my beautiful blue Honda Del Sol sports car, I call Posh. Treasured memories, and one of the most fun toys I have EVER had.

Once our boys moved out and on with their lives, and we got custody of Crystal, we decided to move to Europe, and then around the world, using employment opportunities to set off on our next adventure. When it was time to move on to the next new home, it was always on my birthday. We were either moving into a place, or packing to move out of a place – or in accommodations between places. Since it was either a sad time, or an exciting time, there was never time to pay much attention to celebration. One exception, however, was when we were living in Hong Kong. The other moms with children Crystal’s age who attended the same international school as Crystal took me to lunch. It was a fabulous time, and each gift is still something I use today, or wear today. They are part of my treasure horde. Of course, tea in the plaza after school every day was special too. Sigh, I miss you all.

I guess I was busy having a life, and simply didn’t notice time sneaking past at such a rapid rate. Technology has overtaken the simple pleasures, and I miss that. I miss being the mom of growing boys (before teenage hell set in). I miss the summers at the swimming hole with Edie Mae and her girls, and Candy and her boys along with me and my kids. I miss the Plaza with the ladies there and their kids, I miss the women in London and Nottingham, and I miss the dear friends in New Zealand, especially Leah who was more than willing to give me a kick in the attitude when I needed one most. I miss being young and strong physically even if I am old and stronger emotionally and have more wisdom.

The older I get, the less it matters if we celebrate my birthday or not. It is a day I do a lot of reflection on my life. Since it is so close to Christmas, and the anniversary of my baptismal date this month, there always seems to be more important things to focus on. Especially, for me, spiritual matters.

But I still don’t understand how I got from 22 to 62 so darned fast! The upside, is now I have grandchildren, and great grandchildren to love and spoil. I have a husband of 45 years, who has grown up and old with me. And who can still carry on a conversation and debate over all sorts of interesting topics with me, Who still, after all this time, wants to have adventures with me. So, I guess the real trade off of getting old, is that I have had a great life, get to do so much more, and know that life is still full of adventures.

Come Christmas Time


I am one of the odd ducks that happens to be fully ambidextrous and, according to all the tests I took in college, I have a brain that is exactly balanced between the right and left sides of the brain. What this means, actually, is I spend more time figuring out which hand to use to do what task, and I argue with myself on almost every single issue.

Emotions in public embarrass me, so that makes logic a good choice, except emotional people think I am cold and unfeeling because I give a logical response. If others get emotional, with good reason, I have empathy for them, but I probably won’t join them in a crying jag, hysteria, or temper tantrum. On the other hand, or side, I get hurt and angry, and I am capable of having a tantrum, I just usually turn to sarcasm, facts, and downright snobby rhetoric to let others know how upset I am.

The biggest battle I face with myself, is admitting that I am such a softie when it comes to anything to do with children, my family, my country, my religion. I can be brought to tears just hearing the National Anthem, and nothing gets to me like seeing a flag flying against the sky. Only years of self control has kept me from breaking out singing God Bless America at a flag raising. See, Embarrassing.

I love my family. I have the most wonderful children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and all the steps and add on family that comes with them. I have a husband of 45 years who has grown old with me that I love in more ways than I can say. I am deeply proud of all of them, even the one that has gone on before us brings me pride and joy. I admit, blushing, that when I see them do something that brings them joy, I have to fight tearing up. After all, they don’t want to see an old, weepy lady sobbing all over them. So I have learned to suck up the tears and smile with pride, and enjoy their achievements. Holding a grandchild for the first time is magical, sacred, and fulfilling in a way only a parent can understand. It is a continuation of all that we are. But, I never cry, nor do I laugh out loud, the logic side keeps me under control enough to be excited, but calm. None of that means I don’t feel emotion, I am just more comfortable with keeping it close and personal.

Music brings me to deep emotions, especially music that speaks to my religious being. My country and all that it was founded on is as much a part of me as my name. That patriotic belief comes from my ancestors who both founded the United States, and those that were here to meet the ships as they came in.

So, as I sit here with my fifty-fifty brain, we are once again embarking on Christmas and all it means to me. I secretly LOVE Christmas. I start planning gifts and decorations in mid-summer, and can hardly wait until Thanksgiving is over to begin my Christmas plans. I love the bright lights, glittery decorations, brightly wrapped packages, Christmas trees, baking, and all that goes into it the family traditions that our melded family celebrates. It makes me HAPPY!

On the emotional side, I love the deeply religious meaning of this time of year. The sacred music, the beautiful story of the birth of Christ, the amazing story of Mary, mother of the Savior, and the abiding love of Joseph for both of them makes me feel filled with love and understanding for all other mothers and fathers. Though our struggles may be different, we, as parents, have same love for our children.

This is the one time of the year I tell my logical side to zip it and take a holiday. Oh, I allow it control when it comes to things like planning how much I need of what to get things done, and I allow it free reign with finding the best deals for gifts, but otherwise, it stays out of things. This is the time of year I can cry, laugh, and rejoice without feeling embarrassed, or out of control.

Yep, being one of those few that struggle with an ambidextrous brain and body, is not easy. But come Christmas time, only one side is in control. God Bless You One and All, may your dreams come true, and may you rejoice in all the love of Christmas and all it means.

Enough Already


Okay snowflakes and crybullies, enough is enough. It is one thing to protest, you have that right, it is totally different to riot because that crosses the line to illegal activities.

Those windows you broke, the businesses you looted, the cars you destroyed, those belong to someone who works hard for a living. Many of them may have voted for your candidate. In fact, most of them probably did seeing as the areas being looted are in the most liberal cities in the country. How does that help your ’cause’?

All Americans who have been on the opposite side of the results of an election have been disappointed and upset by being on the losing side. But I have yet to see Conservatives tearing up the town to protest their loss. It seems that the majority of them are either too busy working or too busy taking care of family and helping in the community to go out and break things. If they do protest it is by voting or writing a letter to their congressional representatives. It is a futile thing to keep expecting a different outcome from behaving the same way over and over.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr must be turning in his grave to see how people “protest” these days. Dragging a man out of his car and beating him just because he is white and may have voted for Trump, beating a girl at high school because someone in her family voted for Trump (she wasn’t even old enough to vote), beating a 70 some odd man because he shouted All Lives matter and the black woman next to him didn’t like it, all of those are acts of violence. Dr. King was as anti violence as anyone could get. He helped change the world for Black and White people, and this is how you treat his legacy? Really?

To be clear, according to my DNA, I am a multi-race person. I have light skin, light eyes, and silver hair, but I am not just white. Likewise, if you are an American for more than one or two generations, you are probably as mixed race as I am. So that will make you just like me and me just like you. Get over the race thing, it is immature and self defeating. No one respects a bully, and that is what calling everyone racists is doing, bullying.

Get over yourselves all you millennial snowflakes who melt and swoon at the drop of the use a perfectly decent word. When you grow up and leave your protected safe place at university, you will have to go out into the big bad world and work. Guess what, your boss isn’t going to give a rap about how someone micro insulted you. Put on your big boy or girl britches and grow the hell up. The whole micro aggression thing used to be solved easily on the playground around the age of six. “Sticks and stones may break my bones… or it bounces off of me and sticks to you…” Holy cats people, have you really been so wrapped in cotton wool and protected by your helicopter parents that you can’t cope with someone saying something without taking it as an insult or becoming a sobbing mess?

I have noticed, however, that the most easily offended snowflake or crybully is often the first to start screaming invectives and socially unacceptable verbiage as soon as they have two or more bullies at their back. Having a conversation is not allowed due to their allergy to their self perceived micro aggression. Instead, they start throwing things and becoming unmanufactured in the most vicious way possible. Then they whine about racists, sexists, homophobic, people who don’t understand them. Well gee whiz, Wally, get a grip, no one is required to agree with or understand your snit fit.

I am old, to most of you snowflakes, ancient. I don’t agree one whit with the whole concept of safe places, binky, and blanket nonsense that you demand like a bunch of spoiled two year old brats. If you are considered an adult, act like one. Otherwise, go to your safe place and suck your thumb until you can act like one. Enough enough, it is time to get over yourselves.

Stop Saying That!


I was sitting in a café having breakfast this morning when a gaggle of 20ish to 40ish women came in and sat down at the table behind me. They were talking loud and being a bit obnoxious, but I tried to ignore them and read my book while eating breakfast. Soon, however, it became impossible to concentrate because they were talking over each other, squealing, and generally trying to out talk each other. One phrase kept coming up, over and over and over…. “Oh My G-d.” It was used so often I actually started counting the number of times I heard it. In a 25 minute stretch, it was said 44 times by different females, with different vocal expressions. It was used to convey everything from awe to anger, to agreement, to disappointment. It was, quite frankly, annoying beyond words.

I guess that three word phrase is today’s equivalent of earlier generations catch words such as like, you know, just too…whatever. And it is designed to make whomever utters it sound like some empty headed wannabe (another catch word) who has no idea how to make a cogent remark of exclamation.

However, the reason this constant utterance of Oh my G-d bothers me so much is that it seems, well, offensive to those who are Christians. I was taught that to use the word G-d in casual language, or even more so, as part of a swear word, was highly offensive to the Divine. When one calls His name, one is asking for His attention. We say in in reverence and supplication in prayer, we say it in times of dire need for direction or help, we call upon Him in rejoicing and thanks, but we do not simply use His name as an expletive or common exclamation of surprise or shock.

I always remember the prayer of Jesus Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane when he calls out in spiritual agony, “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46, KJV) That is the standard of emotional being that would result in the need to cry out to the Father in such a way. Not just because someone has spoken about a juicy bit of gossip, and everyone responds with equally juicy surprise and avid curiosity for the speaker to tell more.

I recently had an bit of a verbal discussion with a woman who was allowing her children to jump off a retaining wall into a very busy car park. At least I thought she was allowing it. She had her face buried in her phone text messaging. Three other adults asked the children not to jump off the wall because they could get hurt as there was so much traffic. Finally, after the children ignored everyone, I asked where their mother was. They pointed her out. I walked over and told her that her children were in danger of being hit by cars since they kept jumping into traffic, and if she didn’t get off her damned phone, I was going to call the police and let them sort her out. She looked up at me in surprise and said it was none of my business what her children did. I told her it certainly was if I ran over one of them when they ran out in front of me. I calmly started to dial the emergency number, but before I hit send, she screamed, Oh My G-d, what the hell are you doing? I told her, I don’t know what He is doing other than keeping your kids alive, because you are too busy playing on your phone to pay attention to your children. I, however, am trying to get you to be a responsible mother. Then she upped the ante with Oh my F-ing G-d. I responded with the comment that the as far as I knew sex had nothing to do with the conception of Jesus Christ, and the Divine probably wouldn’t have sex with her no matter how much she begged. She threw her hands in the air and stomped off to her car, only remembering to call her children when she was half way there. When I passed her car, she was still texting. And probably using the OMG comment every two seconds. Some times sarcasm is just too intelligent for people to understand.

My point, however, is this. There are many of us who find the causal used of the name of the Divine in common vernacular, to be offensive and rude. Please, just stop and find a better way of expressing yourselves. To me it is just as offensive as being called the N word is to black people. Remember, when you use the word G-d you are asking for the attention of the Father. And if you add the word damn to the first word, you are asking Him to bring damnation down on someone. He probably won’t, but asking him to might bring you more attention that you would care for when you get to the other side. I don’t know about you, but taking on a deity is not my idea of smart.

Why We Need A Two Year Old At Christmas


1. It is a good excuse to watch Christmas movies all day long.

 

2. You can sing Christmas songs at the top of your lungs and the kid thinks it is GREAT!

3. Tape takes on a whole new dimension when left in the hands of a little kid.

4. Baking cookies can be a daily activity, and so can eating them, cookies are a healthy snack if Nana makes them.

5. It is cool to be excited by Christmas lights, and we can say inane things to a the child, like “Oh Look! A Reindeer!” without other adults looking at us like we are on cog shy of a gear.

6. We can go shopping with the child, and no one bats an eye when we spend half an hour in the toy department playing with the toys. Gotta know if it is age appropriate after all.

7. We can say, in public, “If you aren’t going to behave, I am going to call Santa RIGHT NOW and have him put you on the naughty list.”

8. We can decorate the house and yard as garishly as we want, because children love all that sparkle and glitter, giving us the excuse to be over the top all we want.

9. We get to eat. A lot. Because children need to eat, and we need to test the food to make sure it is safe and healthy for them. Doesn’t matter if it is all the goodies we can get our hands on, someone has to be the taste tester.

10. We can read “The Night Before Christmas” and “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” and the story of the birth of the Christ Child every single night, or day, at home or in the car, and no one thinks it is weird.

11. We can go see the newest movies for kids, and not feel like everyone thinks we are some sort of weirdo sitting in a theater full of kids.

12. We get to do fun stuff, like make Christmas ornaments from glue, paper, felt, paint, and the occasional crying fit.

13. We can make a mess every single day, and it is just fine to leave it until the child goes home. Unless, of course, it is spilled sugar – that has to be cleared up so it doesn’t feel like sand is all over the floor. Besides, a two year old might just decide to lick it off the floor (true story) for fun.

14. Wrapping paper can be more fun than the gift we are trying to wrap. Especially when combined with excuse number three.

15. We can play with all the toys that the kid got for Christmas, BEFORE the kid gets to. Someone has to put them together (some assembly required, my …. or how to bring out the Grinch in the old man on Christmas Eve).

16. Going to Walmart with cookie dough and flour down the front of your sweat shirt is OK. After all, the two year old has it in his/her hair, down the front, and in his/her shoes too.

17. Helping the child to dress the dog up to be a reindeer isn’t all that crazy and idea. But, I wouldn’t advise trying to do the same to a cat. Really. Not. Smart.

18. There is nothing wrong with having the child’s stuffed tiger in the manger for the baby Jesus. It works. And it saves on the requisite fight over the dolly that takes place between the angel and Mary after the play is over.

19. It is perfectly fine to sing different words to songs like Jingle Bells and Santa Claus is Coming to Town – as long as you keep them clean. Kids love that sort of silliness – and as long as there is a kid around, no one thinks you are two cogs short of a gear.

20. Stay up late night takes on a whole new meaning with an excited two year old who is waiting for Santa. But once the child is asleep, Papa Santa gets to eat the cookies and milk, and Nana Santa gets to eat the carrots and celery left out for the man in red and his reindeer, leaving behind enough crumbs to prove someone ate them. Then the “some assembly required” commences, leaving two very grumpy elves to find their way to bed way past their bedtime.