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.

It Is Over, Finally!


It is over. Finally, We have a new President, a new Congress, and a new agenda. Time to get to work, so just stop having tantrums and act like adults. You have four years to work the kinks out of your complaints and to fix your democratic party. By then, even the most infantile amongst you should be mature enough to understand politics is not personal and have to do with the country, not your feelings.

President Trump is neither a Republican, nor a Democrat, he is an Constitutionally aligned Independent, and as such, has no loyalty to either party in power. Bravo! America First, not the pundits of the Washington D.C. Beltway. As such, he will have an uphill fight against all the entrenched politicians who are stunned that he actually won. I was laughing like a loon once he was sworn in as our new President.

Yes, Our new president. I loathed everything Obama stood for, the very sound of his voice made me ill. Nothing he had to say interested me, I was worried about living day to day under his regime. But, he was still the president, and even if I couldn’t respect him as a man, I could respect to office he held. It was a struggle, but I managed. So suck it up cupcakes, and learn to deal with the present, not what you didn’t get.

Today is the first day of the new presidency. What do we see, what does the rest of the world see? People who should know better out tearing up businesses, burning things, screaming foul language, and exhibiting rude behavior all in the name of an almighty temper tantrum. You did this when your candidate lost, it didn’t change a thing; one would think you would learn from that. Have your tantrum, all it does is make people with an ounce of common sense laugh at you, find you immature, or a paid ally of the true enemies of the United States. Just stop. It will not change a thing, nothing, Nada, and the administration of President Donald J. Trump will go forward.

I am hoping when the histrionics, snowflake crying sessions, thumb sucking, and kicking of feet stops (probably when they get bored, hungry, stoned, or sober), that people will just learn to make a difference in their lives for good and for the good of their communities. Stop playing patty cake with childish behavior, and take another step toward being a grown up. Roll your sleeves up, and get to it.

People of my generation used to protest, but my heavens, we didn’t tear up our own neighborhoods to make a point. We didn’t tear up anyone’s neighborhood. We had to live and work there the next day. This mess will take days to clear up, and people will be out of work because of YOU. Feel good now?

Look, life doesn’t stop for anyone, and all of us have a finite amount of time here on earth, why not use it to build something, make something, grow something rather than destroy what others have worked hard to obtain?

Many people will never like President Trump, eh, so, don’t like him. His job isn’t to make everyone like him, his job is to keep American safe, financially stable, and strong. Your opinion isn’t going to change those things that need to be done. No one is taking any rights away, for heaven’s sake, and heaven knows women have the same if not more rights than any man. I don’t care if you are one of the rainbow alphabet people, or an 80 year old white man, we all need to be safe, financially stable, and have the strength of the military to protect us against terrorism.

We are all people, different, thank goodness, some good, some bad, some peaceful, some angry, but we are all people. Stop pretending to be offended at every little thing, stop pretending to be scared of progress, stop being a damned victim and simply work to be a descent human being. I don’t like some things I see, and I certainly didn’t like Obama at all, but I didn’t cry about it. We tried it the uber liberal way, it wasn’t working. Time to try something new. Crybabies and cupcakes can go to your safe place and sulk all you want, but Mr. Trump will still be president tomorrow. Keep acting out and your safe place might be the county jail, because like with all childish displays of temper tantrums, the adults in the room get tired of it, and discipline happens.

Now, lets see what is going to happen before making the decision to be a brat.

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.

Fear and Hatred in the Bloggosphere


Interesting that you hate so much. Educate yourself before spouting nonsense spun by the leftist haters who support a murdering criminal for OUR next president just because she has a vagina.

You Said: On the weekend I read, on Facebook, that a group of armed Trump supporters protested outside a Hillary Clinton campaign office in Virginia. And there are already threats of intimidation on election day.

FACEBOOK? Really? Holy cats woman, NO one who puts crap on facebook does due diligence on the stuff they “share” with others. Fact is, it never happened. Fact is, Someone DID fire bomb the Republican headquarters in South Carolina. Fact is, there is proof now that the Clinton Rabble STAGED violent events outside Trump rallies all over the US. They hired Mentally Ill people to do their bidding. That is beyond sick. And don’t tell me that the queen bee didn’t know about it either. That female train wreck is so tightly wound and controlling that nothing gets done without her approval in her camp. Ever.

For every single “report” filled with negative idiocy against Mr. Trump, There are dozens more that refute those idiotic charges. I think he is brash, straight forward, hard hitting, and does’t tolerate bullshit from anyone. No he isn’t likeable. I don’t CARE if he is likeable, I care about what he stands for. And that is to better America both within our country and throughout the world. If Clinton had the same values and agenda as Trump, I would vote for her in a heartbeat. She doesn’t she hates all of us, she hates freedom, she REALLY hates women, the poor, and people of color – Margaret Sanger is her hero after all. She hates our Constitution, our Amendment rights, and everything our flag stands for. She hates the military, even more than the moron currently in the white house, and she loathes the veterans who saved her butt along with the secret service who guard her.

I am worried sick if she gets in office. Russia will go after the middle east as his second kingdom, then us. I am worried that if SHE wins, we will be over run by more terrorists and illegal aliens that we can effectively fight against as she will hobble both law enforcement and the military. I am worried that our debt and taxes will continue to go up exponentially with her so called economic plan. More and more Americans will be forced into living ghetto lives, making them slaves to the federal government to survive. I am equally worried that when Trump wins, the whiners and moaners, and paid thugs of the leftists will start an inner city war that will lead to many dead and wounded.

I am passionately anti abortion, and pro life. She just wants to kill off babies, even after they are born and healthy – even at full term. That is very very mentally ill. Just beyond sick.

So, I wouldn’t be worrying much about Mr. Trump. You may not like how he gets things done, but he does get things done for the BETTER for Americans. Just ask anyone who knows and works for him. (My husbands co-worker from NYC, who happens to be Muslim, and knows and worked for Mr. Trump thinks he is an amazing man who puts people before himself. The co-worker is an immigrant from Bangladesh, here legally, just so you know.)

This is an ugly election. Very ugly. Why is the question. I have researched and studied both sides of the aisle and candidates for several years. I have a good idea why. It is because both sides of the political status quo are terrified of losing their grip and control on the American people. They are afraid of losing their pork deals, cushy side deals, and outrageous freebies garnered by the pay to play agenda that has been ongoing for decades. BOTH parties are guilty and both are terrified that they will no longer be your boss instead of your employee. Sick. But true.

Baby Know How To Play The Game


Baby Knows How to Play The Game.

I recently observed the following while buying shoes.

A young woman 25ish and her boyfriend/significant other/husband were next to me as I was trying on a pair of shoes. He was standing with a shoe box in his hand, having obviously found what he wanted rather quickly. She was standing in front of a mirror with a fancy high heel boot on one foot and an even fancier high heel shoe on the other. The conversation went something like this.

She: Honey, which one do you like best?

He: obviously bored out of his mind and a bit frustrated – Baby I don’t care, just pick one.

S: Pout face, baby voice – But honey, you are buying them, so you get to pick them. I like them both.

H: How much to they cost?

S: a bit put out – They cost about the same, the shoes are a few dollars more.

Silence – I could see the man logic swirling. Okay! For two dollars LESS you get all that leather and boots will last a long time. You know how it goes.

H: Well, then get the boots. He was thinking this was a done deal.

S: But honey, I don’t know. I mean the shoes fit better . . .

She fell silent posing with one foot then the other in front of her. Letting the man stew a bit.

H: Look Baby, if you like the shoes better . . .

S: breaking in – Oh but honey, I don’t know that I do. They are both so precious.

BEWARE the use of the word precious used when a woman is shopping… always back up a few steps.

H: Baby, both look great on you. I don’t care just pick one and we can get out of here.

S: Shooting him a glare, Well, Never mind then, if you are in such a hurry, I won’t get either one.

H: finally catching on. The light bulb was tangible. Look, Baby, just buy them both. Then you don’t have to decide and we can go have something to eat and relax.

S: Squealed with excitement, followed by a kissy face hug. Oh honey I love you so much!

H: sighing. Love you too Baby. Love you too.

I took a peek at the price tags when they left. On Sale! Boots 125.00; heels 240.00. GASP!! Wow! I guess Baby knows how to play the game. And Honey has learned how to let her.

It Isn’t A Tragedy


I over heard a conversation this morning between two women. It left me a bit gobsmacked and annoyed. It seems these two women have a mutual friend who had a kidney transplant via a relative. One woman said it was such a tragedy that their friend had to have a transplant. They went on to talk about how everyone needed to make allowances for her erratic behavior, and that she should be treated carefully as she recovered. After all, with someone else’s kidney in her she would never be normal.

I thought, “Tragedy?’ Not to me, it isn’t. That woman will live a long healthy life, she is not an invalid, she is not helpless, she is the product of the miracle of medicine and blessings. How can that be a tragedy? They acted as if having any transplant was something no one would ever want. What?

Tragedy is something that cannot be controlled, stopped, or overcome resulting in either an end of a life or constituting a complete change in circumstances for a survivor. Tragedy is losing a new mom to childbirth. Tragedy is a child with incurable cancer. Tragedy is a wounded warrior who has lost limbs, sight, ability to walk, or suffers brain damage or mental illness from serving in the war. Tragedy is a teenager committing suicide. Tragedy is a plane crash that kills 300 people. Tragedy is an old person freezing to death. Tragedy is the mentally ill on the streets of the country when they belong in a safe institution where they can be cared for, instead of suffering the effects of cold and heat, and the lack of food. Tragedy is losing someone to addiction to drugs or alcohol. Tragedy is having a funeral for a twenty year old girl whose death was sudden and unexpected. Surviving a kidney transplant is not a tragedy! It is, instead, an opportunity to celebrate a new and continued life!

What those well meaning women are doing is placing their friend in a box labeled perpetual victim. In pandering to her, giving her excuses for bad behavior, and creating a tragic attitude around her, they are making her weak, mentally, physically, and emotionally. In refusing to celebrate the miracle that her life is, they want to demean it. That isn’t friendship, that is an attitude of superiority. “Poor little thing, she will never reach her full potential,” one of them stated. The other agreeing and doing the Southern thing when faced with perceived tragedy, shaking her head, and murmuring, “Bless her heart.”

I don’t get it. I really don’t understand their attitude, especially treating her as if she is fragile and unable to cope with surviving. She isn’t one bit more special than anyone who has survived a horrific illness. Instead of encouraging her to be helpless, they need to stand behind and beside her as she moves forward into a strong, healthy life. Instead of lowering their expectations for her life, they should be the best of cheerleaders, celebrating each and every milestone in her recovery. And, the last thing they need to be doing is enabling helplessness. I repeat, she is not an invalid. The only tragedy in her life is that her friends see her as a victim who will never be normal instead of a survivor.

The Fat Lady Needs To Exit Stage Right, Now!


 

Over the past four years, I have lost 168 pounds and change. Yes, I feel better, have more energy, look better, and enjoy my grandchildren more. However there are a few drawbacks that never occurred to me before hand.

Skin. Losing weight, even as slowly as I have, leaves a lot of saggy, ugly, rumply skin. Bat wings for upper arms, skin that sags down from thighs to knees, and it just keeps on going long after I stop moving. Totally gross, totally embarrassing. And wrinkles are much more prominent too. I always had a smooth face, now I have wrinkles that I never had before. The upside is I look a lot thinner, the down side is learning a whole new way to apply makeup – when I bother that is.

Clothes. For years, like most fat women, I tried to hide my weight in baggy clothes, ugly dresses, and lots of jeans and t-shirts. Underwear was pretty much limited to grannie panties, and because I am rather well endowed up top, very boring super strong support white bras. Now, I nearly have a panic attack when I go into a store to buy clothes. I have gone from a size 28-30 in Women’s (that means fat lady clothes in girl code) to a size 14-16. But because I still have the well endowed parts to contend with, I get a larger size top. I don’t like tight clothing, it generally shows every lump and bump, cellulite, and muffin top on a fat lady. But, I find if I get looser clothes, they fall off me, which can be horribly humiliating if it happens in public. Oh, and shoes. Did you know that when you lose a lot of weight your shoe size gets smaller? Neither did I, but I have had to replace a large portion of my shoes lately. I’ve gone from a 8.5 Wide to a size 7 average. How freaky is that?

Temperature. I have long passed menopause, but temperature change really causes me issues. If it is cold, I freeze when the same temperature in my fat lady stage didn’t bother me at all, because I was always too warm. I forget about that and pay for it by shivering constantly. Wind also has an effect on me. I used to relish the cool wind, not so much now. Besides, I actually got pushed hard enough to almost fall the other day. I am so used to being sturdy enough to stand up to anything up to about 40 miles an hour winds. Now I just feel cold and like a wimp. Heat still makes me miserable. I hate hot and humid climates, but I don’t get miserable as fast as I used to, and can actually stand hotter weather than before.

Hair. I have always had rather thin hair. Now, because I am healthier, stronger, and I actually take my meds and vitamins every day, my hair is thicker. So I have had to learn to change my whole regime while washing my hair. It is hard to break a habit of over 30 years. I keep heading for my old shampoo and conditioner when I simply do not need that brand any longer. It is, well, annoying to have a routine totally changed.

Food. I didn’t have surgery to lose weight. I became very, very ill. Even the doctors didn’t think I would pull through. Fooled them. Wasn’t my time yet. Anyway, I used to crave sweets, sodas, carbohydrates, and fatty foods. I could eat a full meal at any restaurant in America. I was always hungry, and I used food as my drug of choice to cope with life. Now, food – eh – whatever. I don’t often eat every day, and I rarely have more than one meal a day. I make it a policy to eat only half of what is on my plate when we go out to dinner. Because half of a serving is a bit more than a serving for one person should be. The standard meal is FAR too much. At least it is using American sized servings.

Attitude and Mood Swings. I have never been so easily angered as I am now. Part of that is hormonal because everything is still out of whack. But a lot of it has to do with my attitude. While I have never been one to be a door mat, I would often allow my feelings about being fat make me want to stay in the background and unnoticed. Today, I am pretty much one of those old ladies who says what she thinks and devil take the hindmost. Whereas, I used to stay quiet, I am now more than willing to debate and do verbal battle with those who oppose my stance on everything from politics to dealing with bratty kids. So, on one hand, I am dealing with moodiness, and on the other I am dealing with trying to shut the hell up and stay out of trouble. Not doing too well on either issue.

The up side to weight loss is better health, the downside is that my entire lifestyle had to change and catch up with my body changes. I sometimes don’t recognize myself in the mirror. I sometimes think that I am fooling no one, and the fat lady still resides in my mirror and every one knows it but me. I sometimes feel overwhelmed with the way everything changed and continues to change as I keep losing weight.

I guess, because I can spot a phony a mile away, and because I don’t suffer fools gladly, that I tend to step back from every compliment. Like most fat ladies, people would compliment me on my eyes, color of my clothes, hair, but never say I was pretty. Now, folks do say I am pretty, but the fat lady hasn’t sung and exited stage right just yet. I really wish she would shut the hell up so I can get on with who I am becoming. Hateful cow.

Shopping With The Husband


Never take your husband shopping at the grocery store. Especially if he is hungry. One never knows what they will find when they get to the check out counter. It is even worse if we go to get groceries at Wal-Mart. Not only will odd types of food find their way into the trolley, but other things like tools, duct tape, smelly candles (that I can’t stand, but he likes), and the occasional packet of underpants will end up in the trolley too.

However, when we are in the grocery store together, I have a list, and send him off on explorations to find certain items. “OK,” he says, practically dancing, “what do I need to go find?” If he were a hunting dog, he would be salivating with excitement. “We need a loaf of French Bread. Not the kind in the regular bread aisle, but the Rustic French Bread from the bakery. Oh, and while there, check and see if they have any fresh hummus – the garlic kind – at the deli.”

“Rustic French Bread, bakery and hummus – garlic – deli next to bakery,” he repeats. Then heads off in the correct direction. I know that he will be gone a while, because he will get distracted before he ever gets to the bakery area, and once there, he will have forgotten what I sent him for in the first place. He will remember, bread, hummus – “Oh Look, CHEESE! Butterkasse, yummm.”  And when he gets back he will have the wrong bread, the wrong hummus, but he will have his favorite cheese.

Meanwhile, I will have finished with at least half my list, working methodically from one side of the store to the other. I take what he brought and send him off again. “Dish soap for the DISHWASHER, fabric softener, and I need some of those small paper plates.” “Dishwasher soap, Fabric softener, paper plates – small.” Off he goes.

I know, you see, that he will have to go past the automobile aisle, the office and craft aisle, and the miscellaneous household doodads aisle. He will get totally distracted the second he finds the light bulbs and he will spend ten minutes looking at stuff before he gets to the aisle that has all the cleaning products. Meanwhile, I keep on moving and filling my trolley. Eventually, he turns up, with Dawn soap, dryer sheets, and a huge container of paper plates, regular size – because they were cheaper that way. Along with light bulbs for our collection of about 50 packets already, super glue, some crayons for the grandkids, and a stapler – because it looks so cool!

The next things on the list will stump him for even longer. I am sending him after cookies, hot dogs, and a whole chicken for baking. Diabolical. Before he even gets out of sight, he is distracted by the magazine rack. He slows down and lets his body keep walking forward while his head turns as far as it can while he checks out the new computer mags. I know, of course, that it will take him forever to decide on hot dogs. He will end up with Hebrew National, but he won’t be able to stop himself from doing all sorts of computations to justify buying the most expensive hot dogs in the store. And he will end up with a few Lunchables for the grandkids. The cookie aisle will slow him down even more, because I know he likes Oreos more than any other store bought cookie, but there are so many more less expensive, and he will do the hem haw dance trying to talk himself into getting the Oreos. Then comes the chicken. A whole chicken. That means he has to decided how big, how much to spend, which brand, and by the time I am nearly through the store, he will come back with what I wanted. Sort of, anyway.

Then I send him off again for Ice Cream, get some for himself, and then find some difficult to find flavor for me. He will get Blue Bell chocolate chip for himself if they have it, and then end up with strawberry sundae for me from some off brand. (I actually feed this to the grandkids. Ice cream is ice cream to them.) While he is off doing that little chore, I put back the Dawn soap and get the right stuff for the dishwasher, I put back the dryer sheets and get the right fabric softener, and replace the paper plates with what I want. I keep his light bulbs, super glue, crayons, and stapler. I figure we can always us them some day. I end up getting the right French Bread, hummus, and replace on of his favorite cheese packets with one of my favorites. He never notices the different products when we check out, he is too distracted by the magazine rack.

Am I a horrid wife? Nah, just one who knows I have to keep him busy to keep him from putting odd things in my trolley when I am not looking. He is helping by staying out of my hair. It works. Really. Try it next time you have to take the husband with you. Just don’t forget about him and leave him in the magazine aisle, the store management really doesn’t like that at all!

Have you ever wondered?


Have you ever wondered at the ads that keep popping up about different treatments to make you look younger, whatever? Why is it that most of them are from a “secret formula” especially designed by some scientist or dermatologist? I bet if we all got the list of the junk in them, they would all be pretty much the same. Then, they have the audacity to charge upwards of a hundred dollars for a 4 ounce jar of the goop. And women buy it! Are we all really that paranoid about growing older? Good skin comes from eating right, hydration, and genes. Don’t smoke, don’t drink to excess, and for heaven’s sake don’t do drugs. And go easy on the makeup, it clogs pours no matter how well you clean your face.

My sisters and I (four of us girls) always had nice skin. My mother didn’t allow us to drink soda, eat junk food, and we used good old Ivory soap and Jergen’s lotion to keep our skin in good conditions. I still use soap and water to clean my face, and I use an inexpensive night cream (Ponds) to moisturize my face once a day. Oh, and a sun screen anytime I am outdoors for very long. I’m not a beauty at 60, but my skin is still in good shape.

Anyway, there are no “secrets formulas” that out do common sense and practicality. I know, some suffer from the dreaded acne gene, but keeping your face clean is the most important part of dealing with that.  Photo is from waaaay back when. And the handsome guy next to me is my hubby.

couple 1971

Sometimes, women really tick me off.


Today, my husband told me about an exchange he had on his social media site. It was with an obviously very uninformed woman. She posted a photo of a person holding a sign insisting that incoming Freshmen boys have a mandatory course on not raping women. It should be what all Feminists would want. What?

First of all, sexual assault is a horrific act of violence, and I think men or women who do that sort of thing should be de-sexed and put on death row, especially if it involves children. So put that in the back of your brain for a moment.

Having said that, nothing annoys me more than a helpless woman. Suck it up sister, and get some training on how to protect YOURSELF. If a woman is a true feminist, then her whole mantra for the past 30 odd years is, EQUALITY. But, you say, men are stronger than women. True, so you equal things up by learning self defense, or better yet, carry a gun and shoot the jerk. You don’t have to kill him to stop him, just take out his knees or put a bullet center mass.

In a pinch, almost anything can be used as a weapon, including your own body, the nearest rock, sand, dirt, alarm clock, dish, shoe, or even liquid. Get off your princess cushion and be a real woman who CAN take care of herself instead of waiting to be rescued like some wimp.

By the time a woman is off to university, she should be smart enough and trained enough to know better than to do certain things. Don’t go out alone. Don’t get so drunk you don’t know what you are doing or who you are with. Don’t dress like a street walker and rub up against men (or women if you are that way inclined) and tease them with sex. Don’t dance with someone and hint that you want more than a dance if you aren’t going to follow through. There are names for girls like that, and they aren’t kind at all. Don’t walk places in the dark that are dangerous. If you are afraid, or untrained, get campus security to walk you home or to your car, it is their job to do so. Don’t expect some randy boy who thinks more with his nether regions than his brain to keep you safe, or to keep his hands off you if you so much as touch him. Flirt and you get what you ask for.

OK, you say, well boys need to be taught to be in control. Excuse me, woman, but if that young man hasn’t been taught by his parents how to treat a girl with respect by the time he is off to university, it is FAR too late. Some wimpy two hour class on how not to be a date rapist or stalker isn’t going to make a difference. Besides, most girls know by the age of 12 that they control the guys around them by the way they act toward them. If you don’t, then you are far too immature to even be out of the house on your own, let alone at college.

I can hear all you anti male feminists gasping in outrage from here. Get over yourselves. You want equality, you got equality. Deal with it and stop trying to play at being both an independent feminist woman and a helpless little princess. Either you learn to take care of yourself, or you learn to be weak and dependent on others. There is no way in hades I am going to allow myself to be weak and at the mercy of others.

True story. When I was seven months pregnant with my first child, we were living in rural Oklahoma. I came home one day to find my house being burgled. I slipped in the back door, grabbed our hand gun, and walked into the living room. They took one look at my gun, another at my belly, and thought I would be an easy mark. I wasn’t. They ran like hell when I pointed the gun at them. They also had four very large bullet holes in the back of their van. Made it easy for the cops to find them. Fortunately, they hadn’t had time to actually put anything in their van. But they had made a huge mess of my house. I protected myself, my child, and my home. I would do it again today. There is a reason why I have a carry permit and keep a gun near or on me at all times.

It is NOT the university’s responsibility to train boys about sexual assault. It is the responsibility of the individual female to know how to take care of herself if she finds herself in a bad situation. But, you say, what about being kidnapped or given date rape drugs? Back to the rules, don’t go anywhere alone. Guard your drinks, and if you get off the dance floor, get a fresh drink – don’t drink from the old one unless someone has been keeping an eye on it. Don’t go home with a stranger, or allow him to take you home. Girls watch out for each other, and that means keeping each other from doing stupid things. Stop getting stinking drunk and making yourself a mark. It is up to YOU to do what you need to do to be safe. And stop blaming guys for everything when you don’t do the basics to take care of yourself.

To be clear, I think feminism is a joke. All blather and screaming and no substance. Because when things get difficult, they always return to the same crap. I am woman, hear me roar, but I am helpless in the face of men, so protect me. Gag a maggot, grow up and be responsible for your own safety.