Let's start with the Raves . . . this weekend we enlisted the help of Kate's roommate, Morghan, to take our family picture for our Christmas card. This is a total break with tradition. Up until this year it's always just been the kids on the card (or as Kate pointedly pointed out, sometimes just Tyler - as in last year's Italy collage). I thought I might have a mutiny on my hands but I was surprised (and a little annoyed because I had a whole slew of arguments to use) that no one seemed to mind. Keep in mind that up until a few years ago I was the photographer. I am certain that Kate and Tyler planned for months in advance how to be rotten little kids when it came to picture time. It was awful. I had to take literally three roles to get ONE picture where they weren't poking each other in the eyes or slobbering on one another. After we had the family shoot, Morghan took us to see her office, Barkley USA. They moved into the old TWA building downtown and it is beyond fabulous. It's ultra modern and sophisticated - and wild and wacky at the same time. No one has an office - even the VP has a cube, but they really aren't even cubes. They're more serpentine, flowing and curving and looking very sexy. They have ping pong tables, darts, ASTEROIDS!!!! and one of those rocket rides that used to be outside grocery stores that you'd beg your mom pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease can I have a nickel so I can blast through space and get the heck out of this stinkin' grocery store. They also have beer on tap - it's strongly suggested that all imbibing be done AFTER 4p.m. Maybe the coolest thing of all are the client meeting rooms. The Sonic Drive-In room has an actual menu board - like the ones you order on (yes, I pushed the red button, but no one waited on me. I'm writing a letter). The Blue Bunny room had a whole freezer full of Blue Bunny ice cream stuff. I didn't see the Helzberg Diamond room, but I'm sure there were precious stones just lying all over the place. For some people it would be complete sensory overload, but for those creative types it's like LSD. Like wow, man. It was a very fun (and perfectly legal) trip.
Ok, now for the rants . . . I have two.
Rant #1: Flyaway hair. I've just spent the last two hours retouching, sorry, editing, a really cute girl. Great smile, beautiful teeth, incredibly straight, fine hair. It's enough to make me want to start doing something very illegal and highly addictive. I zoom in to 300% and, using the miracle patch tool, remove each strand, one microscopic bit at a time. I'd love to put before and after pix on my blog, but then I'd have to get her permission and I'd probably end up telling her that next time she wants to get her pictures taken she might want to consider shaving her head. I'm so tactful.
Rant #2: Dumbledore is what? Last week, during an interview about the Harry Potter series, author JK Rowling made the startling revelation that Dumbledore (the headmaster at Hogwarts, the wizarding school) was gay. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME????? You'd think that in seven books - and about 6,000 pages - that there might have been some sort of tip off to that fact. I think Ms Rowling needs to take a writing course in Character Development. That's like Harper Lee revealing that Atticus and Calpurnia had a thing going on in "To Kill A Mockingbird." I have two theories as to why she waited so long to out him. One: She knew it would be a HUGE log to throw on the fire set by some religious right groups who were already convinced that children reading her books would all change their names to Damien and begin asking their moms to pick up some "eyes of newt" at the grocery store. Two: She was starting to shiver from being out of the limelight and, thus, needed to find a way back into that warm spotlight.
So there you have it. One rave. Two rants. Time for bed.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Recent Viewings
That sounds creepily like something that would be on a funeral home marquee. Which would be equally creepy - a funeral home with a marquee. Instead of "Now Playing" it would be "Now Resting." ForEVER! Talk about a long-running engagement . . .
Actually, I'm referring to what I've recently been viewing via Netflix DVD. Those Netflix guys must be lounging somewhere in the south of France, slouching in the beach chairs once occupied by Blockbuster corporate execs. I noticed our local Hollywood Video is going belly up and all of their dvd are on sale for $5. I zoomed in there one afternoon and asked if they had "Band of Brothers." An employee, obviously dreaming of being anywhere but there, told me they had one copy and that it was (with a half-hearted sweeping gesture) somewhere out there. So, I began the arduous task of going down each row, looking at each shelf. It was the stupidest display of chaos I've ever seen (except maybe for Kate's room circa 1996). Nothing was in alphabetical order, nothing was categorically organized. I found the first season of "Rome" on one of the outside walls and season two clear across the room. I spent an hour wandering like a lab rat in and out of the aisles, only to find one DISC of the series. Arrrsghslssstshtsthslslsl! And, seriously, didn't find a single other movie I was compelled to buy. However, if you're dying to buy "Flight 93" or "Failure to Launch" . . .
Back to my recent viewings. It's "Dexter." I'm so conflicted I think I may need long-term psychoanalysis. It's about this blood splatter expert (brilliantly played by Michael C. Hall, the guy from "Six Feet Under") who has a secret life as a serial killer. Turns out his foster dad, a cop, discovered Dexter's dark side and helped him channel his lust for death by telling him that there were lots of bad people who needed to be killed. Also taught him a thing or two about leaving a "clean" crime scene. So, Dexter researches (hunts) people who do bad things and then . . . well, he kills them. Oh, his dad also taught him the importance of learning how to blend in. Things like smiling for a camera and pretending to like people. Because Dexter is pretty much dead inside. And boy, does he have the pretend thing down. You can't help but like the guy. And when he was about to be exposed, I was frantic with worry. I DO need a shrink! The language is rough and there are buckets of blood, but if you can get past that - it's a good watch.
The other night Ron said he was going to start sleeping with one eye open. I said he didn't have to worry. I'm going to start sleeping with a bowie knife under my pillow.
Actually, I'm referring to what I've recently been viewing via Netflix DVD. Those Netflix guys must be lounging somewhere in the south of France, slouching in the beach chairs once occupied by Blockbuster corporate execs. I noticed our local Hollywood Video is going belly up and all of their dvd are on sale for $5. I zoomed in there one afternoon and asked if they had "Band of Brothers." An employee, obviously dreaming of being anywhere but there, told me they had one copy and that it was (with a half-hearted sweeping gesture) somewhere out there. So, I began the arduous task of going down each row, looking at each shelf. It was the stupidest display of chaos I've ever seen (except maybe for Kate's room circa 1996). Nothing was in alphabetical order, nothing was categorically organized. I found the first season of "Rome" on one of the outside walls and season two clear across the room. I spent an hour wandering like a lab rat in and out of the aisles, only to find one DISC of the series. Arrrsghslssstshtsthslslsl! And, seriously, didn't find a single other movie I was compelled to buy. However, if you're dying to buy "Flight 93" or "Failure to Launch" . . .
Back to my recent viewings. It's "Dexter." I'm so conflicted I think I may need long-term psychoanalysis. It's about this blood splatter expert (brilliantly played by Michael C. Hall, the guy from "Six Feet Under") who has a secret life as a serial killer. Turns out his foster dad, a cop, discovered Dexter's dark side and helped him channel his lust for death by telling him that there were lots of bad people who needed to be killed. Also taught him a thing or two about leaving a "clean" crime scene. So, Dexter researches (hunts) people who do bad things and then . . . well, he kills them. Oh, his dad also taught him the importance of learning how to blend in. Things like smiling for a camera and pretending to like people. Because Dexter is pretty much dead inside. And boy, does he have the pretend thing down. You can't help but like the guy. And when he was about to be exposed, I was frantic with worry. I DO need a shrink! The language is rough and there are buckets of blood, but if you can get past that - it's a good watch.
The other night Ron said he was going to start sleeping with one eye open. I said he didn't have to worry. I'm going to start sleeping with a bowie knife under my pillow.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Keeping Up with the Sagdiyevs
I know I'm behind the cultural curve by about five light years . . . I just watched "Borat." And I have to say . . . I thought it was, for the most part, really, really funny. Irreverent? Yes. Scandalous? Yes. Offensive? Yes. But still really funny. Maybe because he spread his prejudice and tastelessness over the entire human spectre. And because it was so over the top. And, if we're honest, nearly every ethnicity and "specialized" class makes fun of itself. Remember the Seinfeld episode when Jerry was convinced that his dentist converted to Judaism for the jokes? Borat just steps over the line (about eighty million steps) and takes advantage of the "he doesn't know any better" excuse.
Perhaps my favorite: the "not" joke scene. And the feminists who were just not having it. And I thought it to be very telling that he referred to the war in Iraq as our "War of Terror" instead of our "War ON Terror."
I won't watch it again, but now I know what all the buzz is (was) about.
Perhaps my favorite: the "not" joke scene. And the feminists who were just not having it. And I thought it to be very telling that he referred to the war in Iraq as our "War of Terror" instead of our "War ON Terror."
I won't watch it again, but now I know what all the buzz is (was) about.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Boomers Coming of Age
I heard this week that the first baby boomer born began collecting social security. And that something like 70 million others are lining up right behind her. I think I'll just close up shop now. Check out. Push up some daisies. Turn into worm food. Because, of course, by the time I'M eligible for social security the word "security" will no longer be part of the title. It will be something like "social obligation" or "social burden." Or "Shut up and eat your prunes."
Who started social security anyway? Was it Roosevelt or Truman. Wait let me google it.
Officially titled Federal Old-Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance, the program was started in 1935, which makes it Roosevelt's baby. The first benefits were paid in 1937. I think we've been behind the eight ball ever since. Experts say that "According to most projections, the Social Security trust fund will begin drawing on its Treasury Notes toward the end of the next decade (around 2018 or 2019), at which time the repayment of these notes will have to be financed from the general fund. At some time thereafter, variously estimated as 2041 (by the Social Security Administration or 2052 (by the Congressional Budget Office]), the Social Security Trust Fund will have exhausted the claim on general revenues that had been built up during the years of surplus. At that point, current Social Security tax receipts would be sufficient to fund 74 or 78% of the promised benefits, according to the two respective projections."
I think that means we'll be robbing Peter to pay Paul. And Mary? She'll be SOL.
Who started social security anyway? Was it Roosevelt or Truman. Wait let me google it.
Officially titled Federal Old-Age, Survivors, and Disability Insurance, the program was started in 1935, which makes it Roosevelt's baby. The first benefits were paid in 1937. I think we've been behind the eight ball ever since. Experts say that "According to most projections, the Social Security trust fund will begin drawing on its Treasury Notes toward the end of the next decade (around 2018 or 2019), at which time the repayment of these notes will have to be financed from the general fund. At some time thereafter, variously estimated as 2041 (by the Social Security Administration or 2052 (by the Congressional Budget Office]), the Social Security Trust Fund will have exhausted the claim on general revenues that had been built up during the years of surplus. At that point, current Social Security tax receipts would be sufficient to fund 74 or 78% of the promised benefits, according to the two respective projections."
I think that means we'll be robbing Peter to pay Paul. And Mary? She'll be SOL.
Monday, October 15, 2007
You Can't Always Get What You Want
No, I'm not back to using song titles; it just happened to be appropriate.
I'm in the middle of retouching a girl with a zillion freckles. (Sidebar: I've noticed recently that most people who do what I do refer to retouching as "editing." I guess that's the politically correct term. Retouching is much too . . . um, let's see . . . honest?) Back to the freckles. I would bet Ron's brand new nine-tools-in-one screwdriver that she hates them. Dreams of peaches and cream skin. Has heard the "let's play connect the dots" just one too many times for it to be amusing. Longs for alabaster skin.
Why do I know? Because I've had a similar yearning - long, straight hair - my entire lifetime. Ok, only since about the third grade when the curls slowly began their takeover - a hostile one, I might add. It was the 70's. Marcia Brady and Laurie from the Partridge Family had stick straight hair parted down the middle were the epitome of the cool girls. I wanted straight hair so bad I put pink tape on my bangs. Yes, pink. It was made especially for hair (didn't pull out every third hair). Sometimes I was so desperate I used real tape. Wouldn't advise that. All the tape really did was flatten my wavy bangs to my forehead. I kinda looked like Donald Trump. Ok, that makes me sick to my stomach.
All my friends who have straight hair, of course, covet my curly hair. Once, when I got my hair cut, I scooped up all the hair on the floor, put it in a ziploc bag and gave it to my friend, Judy. She looked at me like I was crazy. "What?" I asked. "You told me you wanted my hair! Take it!"
Over the years, I've found that there are certain benefits of having a permanent perm.
1. I really never have to brush my hair.
2. It's never the same look two days in a row.
3. I don't have to sleep on curlers (ha - how old am I?)
4. It drives Ron wild.
5. I can never commit a murder (or other heinous crime) because my dna will be everywhere.
6. Marcia Brady and Laurie Partridge are now jealous of ME.
Who's the cool girl, now?
I'm in the middle of retouching a girl with a zillion freckles. (Sidebar: I've noticed recently that most people who do what I do refer to retouching as "editing." I guess that's the politically correct term. Retouching is much too . . . um, let's see . . . honest?) Back to the freckles. I would bet Ron's brand new nine-tools-in-one screwdriver that she hates them. Dreams of peaches and cream skin. Has heard the "let's play connect the dots" just one too many times for it to be amusing. Longs for alabaster skin.
Why do I know? Because I've had a similar yearning - long, straight hair - my entire lifetime. Ok, only since about the third grade when the curls slowly began their takeover - a hostile one, I might add. It was the 70's. Marcia Brady and Laurie from the Partridge Family had stick straight hair parted down the middle were the epitome of the cool girls. I wanted straight hair so bad I put pink tape on my bangs. Yes, pink. It was made especially for hair (didn't pull out every third hair). Sometimes I was so desperate I used real tape. Wouldn't advise that. All the tape really did was flatten my wavy bangs to my forehead. I kinda looked like Donald Trump. Ok, that makes me sick to my stomach.
All my friends who have straight hair, of course, covet my curly hair. Once, when I got my hair cut, I scooped up all the hair on the floor, put it in a ziploc bag and gave it to my friend, Judy. She looked at me like I was crazy. "What?" I asked. "You told me you wanted my hair! Take it!"
Over the years, I've found that there are certain benefits of having a permanent perm.
1. I really never have to brush my hair.
2. It's never the same look two days in a row.
3. I don't have to sleep on curlers (ha - how old am I?)
4. It drives Ron wild.
5. I can never commit a murder (or other heinous crime) because my dna will be everywhere.
6. Marcia Brady and Laurie Partridge are now jealous of ME.
Who's the cool girl, now?
An Actual Conversation
I'm in the kitchen. Ron walks in and says, "You been here long?"
In what can only be explained as the onset of hearing loss, I whirl around and sneer, "YOU leave ME alone!"
It's starting. Laugh or cry?
In what can only be explained as the onset of hearing loss, I whirl around and sneer, "YOU leave ME alone!"
It's starting. Laugh or cry?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Make Me Laugh Out Loud
I think the neighbors heard me tonight. It was the opening scene of "The Office" and Meredith comes back from her hospital stay (caused by Michael hitting her with his car, resulting in a fractured pelvis). She shuffles over to Jim and thanks him for visiting her in the hospital. Jim points out that EVERYONE visited her in the hospital and she says, "But I'm singling you out." She pulls out a sharpie and asks if he'll sign her cast. He says, in his agreeable kind of guy way, "Sure." She then pulls up her dress to her waist to reveal her female anatomy encased in a plaster cast. This provokes my first WHOOP of laughter. Jim's eyes widen nervously and he hurriedly scribbles his name. Meredith leans in and whispers, real sexy-like, "I'll read it tonight when I get home." Oh my gosh! I want to be in the room with the people who write this stuff. Of course I'd make a complete fool of myself, but whatever. So, so funny.
You might be amused to find out that I do a lot of my laughing in the bathroom. That's because my Reader's Digest library is in there. (Guideposts is in there, too, but it doesn't produce too many guffaws.) Every month those two magazines arrive in the mail and I put them in the wire basket in the corner. Used to be I could read both issues in a month. But somewhere along the line I got behind. I'm pretty sure my trips to the loo haven't decreased that much, but I just can't figure out how I got so backed up (ha). Anyway, my point is, I'm reading issues from last year and finding out important stuff that I completely missed when it was relevant. Oh well. I guess life will go on.
The current issue I'm reading is all about humor. So, for the next few posts, I'll include some of the best of the best . . . today a thought-provoking observation from Jerry Seinfeld:
So they're showing me, on television, the detergents getting out bloodstains. I mean, come on, you got a T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it. Maybe laundry isn't your biggest problem right now.
Laugh well . . .
You might be amused to find out that I do a lot of my laughing in the bathroom. That's because my Reader's Digest library is in there. (Guideposts is in there, too, but it doesn't produce too many guffaws.) Every month those two magazines arrive in the mail and I put them in the wire basket in the corner. Used to be I could read both issues in a month. But somewhere along the line I got behind. I'm pretty sure my trips to the loo haven't decreased that much, but I just can't figure out how I got so backed up (ha). Anyway, my point is, I'm reading issues from last year and finding out important stuff that I completely missed when it was relevant. Oh well. I guess life will go on.
The current issue I'm reading is all about humor. So, for the next few posts, I'll include some of the best of the best . . . today a thought-provoking observation from Jerry Seinfeld:
So they're showing me, on television, the detergents getting out bloodstains. I mean, come on, you got a T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it. Maybe laundry isn't your biggest problem right now.
Laugh well . . .
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Taking Action
Ever since "The War" documentary ended on PBS last week I've been haunted by my perception that we (and by "we" I mean "I" - hee hee, Leah) aren't doing enough to support the troops in Iraq (and all over the world). Some time ago I read an article either in "Reader's Digest" or "Guideposts" about adopting a soldier. So I googled "letters to soldiers" and landed on http://www.soldiersangels.org/. It was started by a mom of a soldier who was inspired by her son once he finished his tour of duty. He was telling his mom how much he appreciated all the letters and care packages she sent. But he was also amazed by the number of soldiers who rarely got any mail at all. So, Soldier Angels was born. I signed up.
My soldier's name is James and he's in the 82nd Airborne Division. Those two things alone make my heart beat fast . . . Both my dad and Tyler are named "James" and my uncle served in the 82nd during WWII! How cool is that? By being James' angel, I've committed to sending him one card or letter a week and at least one care package per month.
So here's the challenge . . . adopt a soldier. Maybe a group at work could adopt one and take turns writing letters and donating stuff for care packages. The package I sent cost $12.90 and letters only require regular postage. Now would be a great time to adopt a soldier since the holidays are right around the corner.
On a completely unrelated note . . . in the last month or so I've seen a number of trucks sporting a new bumper ornament. It is, without question, all the evidence I need to verify that our society has sunk to a new low. Without going into too much graphic detail, it involves a certain part of a male's anatomy, swinging to and fro. I guess it's now not enough to have "HEMI" emblazoned somewhere on the vehicle to prove that you're a man's man. Tyler was in the car the last time we spotted a pair and he and Ron had a great time saying lewd things that they knew I'd object to. Ron says he wants to get a pair of steel ones for the Prius and hang them so low that they throw sparks. I asked him if he'd be donating his. That shut him up.
I think women all over America should steal those fake boobs they give you at mammograms to school you in finding lumps (ugh) and super glue them onto their headlights. Yeah!
My soldier's name is James and he's in the 82nd Airborne Division. Those two things alone make my heart beat fast . . . Both my dad and Tyler are named "James" and my uncle served in the 82nd during WWII! How cool is that? By being James' angel, I've committed to sending him one card or letter a week and at least one care package per month.
So here's the challenge . . . adopt a soldier. Maybe a group at work could adopt one and take turns writing letters and donating stuff for care packages. The package I sent cost $12.90 and letters only require regular postage. Now would be a great time to adopt a soldier since the holidays are right around the corner.
On a completely unrelated note . . . in the last month or so I've seen a number of trucks sporting a new bumper ornament. It is, without question, all the evidence I need to verify that our society has sunk to a new low. Without going into too much graphic detail, it involves a certain part of a male's anatomy, swinging to and fro. I guess it's now not enough to have "HEMI" emblazoned somewhere on the vehicle to prove that you're a man's man. Tyler was in the car the last time we spotted a pair and he and Ron had a great time saying lewd things that they knew I'd object to. Ron says he wants to get a pair of steel ones for the Prius and hang them so low that they throw sparks. I asked him if he'd be donating his. That shut him up.
I think women all over America should steal those fake boobs they give you at mammograms to school you in finding lumps (ugh) and super glue them onto their headlights. Yeah!
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Mammary Explosion
Warning: This could be rated "girls only"
I've been retouching seniors (the ones in high school, not geriatric folks) for a long time now. When I first started doing it at home Ron would invariably walk in, take a look at the girl on the screen and ask, "How old is SHE?" My reply was always the same: "She's a senior in high school." Right now I'm having a powerful attack of deja vu, like I've already told that story. I can only hope that all my readers are as daft as I am and can't remember either. Anyway. Always the same question, always the same answer. Maybe we'd follow up with a brief conversation about how the girls we went to high school with never looked like these gals.
I think it's mainly the large boobs on these girls (pardon my frankness) that makes them look ten years older than they are. It's getting a bit ridiculous. Some of these girls are going to need to start wearing counter weights hanging from their bums lest they tip over. I can't help but think that in 40 years there's going to be some major saggage and sore backs. I'm not sure there's a correlation between breast size and breast cancer, but I'm sure some medical researcher somewhere is spending lots of grant money to figure it out.
I've read that this "big development" is caused by the drugs they pump into our protein sources, namely poultry and beef. And then I heard something about the plastic storage containers we use? I give up. Pretty soon they'll try to convince us that smoking is bad for us. What???? Oh.
Moving on to other things that females routinely fret about . . . I am so ready to be in menopause I can hardly stand it. Every month I pray and pray . . . and every month I'm sorely disappointed. It's the headaches, cramps, tenderness . . . the whole ordeal. Thirty-five years of it. I just know if I go to Costco and buy a thousand tampons it'll happen next month and then I'll be forced to sell the surplus on Craig's List. Enough already! Knowing me and my flair for the dramatic, once it does happen I'll probably wail for a year or two that I can't bear children anymore, that my womanhood is gone, that I miss the monthly inconvenience and blinding mood swings. I give you permission to slap me. Several times. But, you never know. I might just slap you back!
I've been retouching seniors (the ones in high school, not geriatric folks) for a long time now. When I first started doing it at home Ron would invariably walk in, take a look at the girl on the screen and ask, "How old is SHE?" My reply was always the same: "She's a senior in high school." Right now I'm having a powerful attack of deja vu, like I've already told that story. I can only hope that all my readers are as daft as I am and can't remember either. Anyway. Always the same question, always the same answer. Maybe we'd follow up with a brief conversation about how the girls we went to high school with never looked like these gals.
I think it's mainly the large boobs on these girls (pardon my frankness) that makes them look ten years older than they are. It's getting a bit ridiculous. Some of these girls are going to need to start wearing counter weights hanging from their bums lest they tip over. I can't help but think that in 40 years there's going to be some major saggage and sore backs. I'm not sure there's a correlation between breast size and breast cancer, but I'm sure some medical researcher somewhere is spending lots of grant money to figure it out.
I've read that this "big development" is caused by the drugs they pump into our protein sources, namely poultry and beef. And then I heard something about the plastic storage containers we use? I give up. Pretty soon they'll try to convince us that smoking is bad for us. What???? Oh.
Moving on to other things that females routinely fret about . . . I am so ready to be in menopause I can hardly stand it. Every month I pray and pray . . . and every month I'm sorely disappointed. It's the headaches, cramps, tenderness . . . the whole ordeal. Thirty-five years of it. I just know if I go to Costco and buy a thousand tampons it'll happen next month and then I'll be forced to sell the surplus on Craig's List. Enough already! Knowing me and my flair for the dramatic, once it does happen I'll probably wail for a year or two that I can't bear children anymore, that my womanhood is gone, that I miss the monthly inconvenience and blinding mood swings. I give you permission to slap me. Several times. But, you never know. I might just slap you back!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The End of the War . . .
After fourteen+ hours of really fascinating footage, broad coverage and excellent writing, Ken Burns' "The War" is over. Actually, it's not over . . . it will run most of October on KCPT . . . I encourage you to watch it.
As I sat there listening to Nora Jones' rendition of "American Anthem" - tears streaming down my face - the pictures of the young boys who consented to telling their stories in this documentary came across the screen. They're men in their late seventies and eighties now, most of them having lived full and productive lives. Remember, 1,000 veterans of this war are dying each day. Soon they'll all be gone.
Because I have this seemingly unquenchable thirst for history, it's easy for my whole heart to become engrossed in the magnitude and scope of their endeavor. But, when I let it - and I fight it - I start to think about the men and women who are currently fighting in the war. I wrote a blog for Fox 4 last week about this shift that seems to have happened in the mindset of the American people as it relates to war and our willingness to support it. I think it might have happened sometime after the Korean War and during the Cold War. I think the Cold War involved more political games than war games and kind of took the human equation out of the mix. That blog post I wrote got no comments (I got nine when I wrote a piece on OJ . . . )
During WWII, nearly everyone had a victory garden of some sort and there were tin drives, rubber drives, all sorts of drives to collect items that could be transformed into war materials. They even had drives for bacon grease, which could be converted into glycerin and then into bombs. There's nothing like that today.
And then I read a story in "Reader's Digest" about a returning Iraqi vet who has brain trauma, spinal cord injuries and PTSD and had to fight ten months to get his claim processed. Meanwhile, monthly checks totalling $14 million are being distributed to vets with hemorrhoids. Really. Whether or not they support the war in Iraq, most people are quick to add, "But I support our troops." How? A question I need to seriously consider myself.
As I sat there listening to Nora Jones' rendition of "American Anthem" - tears streaming down my face - the pictures of the young boys who consented to telling their stories in this documentary came across the screen. They're men in their late seventies and eighties now, most of them having lived full and productive lives. Remember, 1,000 veterans of this war are dying each day. Soon they'll all be gone.
Because I have this seemingly unquenchable thirst for history, it's easy for my whole heart to become engrossed in the magnitude and scope of their endeavor. But, when I let it - and I fight it - I start to think about the men and women who are currently fighting in the war. I wrote a blog for Fox 4 last week about this shift that seems to have happened in the mindset of the American people as it relates to war and our willingness to support it. I think it might have happened sometime after the Korean War and during the Cold War. I think the Cold War involved more political games than war games and kind of took the human equation out of the mix. That blog post I wrote got no comments (I got nine when I wrote a piece on OJ . . . )
During WWII, nearly everyone had a victory garden of some sort and there were tin drives, rubber drives, all sorts of drives to collect items that could be transformed into war materials. They even had drives for bacon grease, which could be converted into glycerin and then into bombs. There's nothing like that today.
And then I read a story in "Reader's Digest" about a returning Iraqi vet who has brain trauma, spinal cord injuries and PTSD and had to fight ten months to get his claim processed. Meanwhile, monthly checks totalling $14 million are being distributed to vets with hemorrhoids. Really. Whether or not they support the war in Iraq, most people are quick to add, "But I support our troops." How? A question I need to seriously consider myself.
Monday, October 1, 2007
The Proof is in the Pudding (or pie plates)
So what does it say when you open up the dishwasher to put in some dishes and the only dishes on the bottom rack are dessert plates with the scraped off remnants of apple pie?
First (obviously), I make a pretty mean apple pie.
Second (maybe not so obvious, at least to us), we're letting this empty nest thing get out of hand.
First (obviously), I make a pretty mean apple pie.
Second (maybe not so obvious, at least to us), we're letting this empty nest thing get out of hand.
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