Blue Butter

Call me crazy, but I’m feeling especially “Christmas-y” today.  I’m terribly sentimental and still have love letters from my high school sweetheart.  Granted, they’re at my parents home, much to Mom’s displeasure since my sentimental nature affects her life in that she can’t clean out that one closet due to any mention of it sends me into an automatic, “Why can’t you just leave that closet alone?  You know how much my stuff means to me!”  Guilt buys me time. Because of my unexplainable sentimental nature (God only knows where that came from - because my mom and sister have bizarre looks reserved for any conversation regarding my need to keep everything), I have all of my pictures organized beautifully in an elaborate electronic library.  Not only that, but I have them backed up on two memory sticks, strategically placed in areas that I can get to quickly if, say, the house burns down or a hurricane comes ashore that I wasn’t aware of (fat chance of that!). 

Like I said, I have the Christmas bug and have been plundering through old pictures of my favorite “Santa” gifts.  I came across my all-time favorite shoes from 1976.  Black patent leather with these clunky heals.  Not to be confused with my “Olivia Newton John ‘Grease’ shoes”, these are closed-toe beauties that I only wish I still had, since my foot hasn’t grown since I was a kid.  I’d definitely be stylin’ if I had them today.  I remember begging Mom to buy those shoes for me.  I think we were in either TG&Y or Gibson Brothers.  Y’all remember those stores?  I do.  I can even remember passing by those stores, asking Mom to stop, her telling me no because she had no cash on her only to have me offer a solution of, “Well, just write a check.”  That usually evoked her mumbling something along the lines of, “oh, you poor naïve child.”  Anyway, I begged for those shoes from Halloween up until Christmas Eve.  I figured I simply wasn’t getting them.  I was never told to wait for Santa or that it was too close to Christmas to buy anything unnecessary, instead, I was always told, “No, mam. You’ll kill yourself in those things! Absolutely not and I don’t want to hear another word about it!”  Here’s where it gets good: I watched those shoes, week after week, slowly dwindle down in the available numbers.  I just knew my size wouldn’t be there should I manage to convince someone to buy them for me, whether it was my Maw Maw Nellie, Mom or Dad.  So, I concocted this plan to hide the last pair of size sixes.  I confessed to Santa in hopes he’d swoop in, grab them and ensure they landed under our Christmas tree.  Well, it worked because sure enough, those shoes were under the tree on Christmas morning.  This picture still causes us to laugh because I was such a clumsy child - hell, I’m a clumsy adult!  My guess is even if I did still have them, I’d be no more graceful now than I was then.

There was a special on TV today. It’s sort of a “Christmas on Ice” presentation. I hated it. Oh, I don’t mean I hate the sport in general, but I do hate the fact it makes me a nervous wreck. Worse, I hate knowing why I feel that way. You see, I’m about as graceful as a drunk man trying to flirt - there just ain’t nothing attractive about it.
Off the top of my head, I can think of six recent events that prove my point. Most recently was the trip over the extension cord I left on my front porch. Don’t go judgin’ me - let me tell the story first.
Let me lay the groundwork - trust me, it puts me in a far better light than if I just told the story with no foundation. I live alone and my yard behind the privacy fence is small enough that I can use the weed eater in the summer. The only problem is I have no idea how to mix the oil and gas and my Dad, God love him, has long since given up any hope of my learning how to mix it either. His solution was to arm me with his two electric weed eaters. My daddy is a wise man. He once told me, after I’d moved about an hour and a half north of my hometown to be careful with the gun he left me. He told me to be sure I hit what I aimed for and to be even more sure of my target - he had no intentions of making the drive in the middle of the night to bury one of my dogs I’d mistaken for a burglar. But that’s another story. So, here I am, with my weed eaters I plug into an extension cord. I have one of those big orange ones that will cover the entire parameter of the yard. One particularly hot day, after I’d finished with the yard work, I left the extension cord on the porch and I clearly remember thinking to myself, “You better get it out of the way….you know how clumsy you are”. But me, in my own delightful world that no one else is privy to, I convinced myself that I’d just avoid it until I managed to gather enough energy to put it away. That energy was a long time coming because two days later, it’s still on the front porch. And then I trip over it. I busted my knee up something fierce. The scar is horrendous and even though it’s been months, it still pops from time to time. But it gets better. A few weeks later, after I’d managed to heal to some degree, I’m doing my yard work again on a Saturday morning. I had an electric hedge clipper at full speed and heard my cell ring. And yes, I know better. I turned for a split second to see who was calling and when I turned back, I misjudged the distance from the handle to where the little hedge thingeys were moving at warp speed. All I remember is a flash of red and my finger flying past my head (don’t go judgin’ me - let me finish my story). I dropped the hedge clippers and reached into my car for a t-shirt that’d been in the back seat for God knows how long, closed my eyes and wrapped my hand in it to catch the gallons of blood. Then I called Mom. I think I told her I cut my finger off. I was traumatized - I don’t remember exactly what I told her. I was too scared to look. What seemed like ten seconds later, she comes wheelin’ in the driveway in her truck. It’s funny now, but so tragic as it was happening - the dogs were trying to greet her (or maybe trying to make their escape - again, I was traumatized and I don’t remember clearly). She takes the t-shirt off - I think I was in shock and near the passing out stage - and the next thing I remember is, “Donna, you didn’t cut your finger off!” I finally muster the courage to look for myself and all my fingers were still attached. She bandages it up for me and sings the chicken soup song and doles out the appropriate amount of maternal “oh baby, it’s OK” reassurances before she goes home to tell Daddy my latest mishap. For some reason, Daddy waits until Monday morning to call me - from work - to tease me about it. Yeah, something about an audience made it that much funnier, I guess.
Anyway, back to the ice skating. I find it so difficult to believe the grace these athletes have. It’s truly an art - but I just don’t know how they do it, time and again, and never manage to fall or trip or something. Of course, I don’t want them to, but I do want to know how they do it. I want to know how they manage these incredible and graceful moves when I can’t even drink a diet Coke without spilling it down the front of my shirt! And in case you’re wondering, my finger I swore I saw fly past was a twig that was in the hedge clippers.

Eight years ago, my ex husband come in from work with a puppy.  I was a little bothered because we’d just gotten another puppy, a border collie that I adored, but who was deaf and received all of my attention. I’d been training Cinderella and teaching hand signals to her, so for Mr. Jackass of The Year (he won that award ten straight years!) to come through the door with a six pack of Miller Lite in one hand and a black and white puppy that barely fit in his other hand, I knew what that meant - I’d be the sole trainer for yet another new member of the family.  Still, Little One grew on me just as Cinderella did.  When I gave the ex hubby back to his mother so she could finish raising him, I kept the two dogs.  It might interest you to know the dogs were raised, the ex?  Last I heard, his mom was still trying.  Anyway, Cinderella and Little One had been with me all these years.  Cinderella died two years ago, while Little One is still the “tramp of the neighborhood”.  My mom has sworn for years that Little One is gay.  Other than the way he sits and holds his left paw, I’ve no idea why she says this.  She can usually figure people out instantly.  She can spot a man who’s cracking the secretary from ten paces, she can accurately predict which marriage will last and which won’t make it through the first year - and she does this sitting in the pews at the church, watching the bride walk down the aisle.  So, naturally, as a rule, I’m inclined to believe her.  But this nonsense with Little One?  Nah - not true.  He roams the neighborhood too much.  Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder.  Maybe he is gay.  I sort of come to this conclusion when I read this post and found myself laughing at the entire blog - it’s great reading, for sure from one of the only other people on this planet who “gets” it.  Don’t get me wrong - it makes no difference to me if Little One’s gay, it’s just the fact that once - just once - I’d like to find myself in the rare position of being right at the same time Mom’s is wrong.  Who the hell am I kidding - I’m forty years old and it ain’t happened yet. 

So, if a cat a can be gay, maybe all those times I thought Little One was following the natural inclination to procreate; maybe he was following the male dogs that were following the female dog that was in heat.  And yes - I know what this means - I’ll have to call mom and declare, once again (just as I did in high school when she told me I’d get over my first love and each time over the years she told me my hair looks better blonde) that she was right. 

Think of the holiday traditions that were started when you were a kid.  Most parents love to define new ideas with their own unique touches that are repeated every season.  I have one sister and no brothers, so there’s one gift we can always expect under the tree.  It’s been that way since we were kids and it just evolved into our adulthoods.  It wouldn’t be Christmas without these gifts from Mom.  Of course, little girls always get their baby dolls from Santa every year, but my mom has made it a ritual, even as little sis and I are both staring forty in the face, to make sure there’s a “baby doll” under the tree.  It’s like comfort food for our souls.   The only year that Mom ever swayed from the expected was the year I had my son.  This is the only year I got a baby boy doll, the rest have been little girl dolls with brown hair or blonde hair or even red hair - just depending on which color our own hair was at the time.  These aren’t expensive collectible dolls that can be defined as monetary investments, instead, the value of my collection is intimate and personal and treasured.  Even in the years that were things were tight in our home, Mom always made sure there were two “happies” under the tree, usually wrapped in identical paper, with my name on one and my sister’s name on the other.  And the years things weren’t so tight financially, those two matching gifts would still be there, regardless of anything else under the tree.  Money just never played into it.  I have every doll from every year and can remember every Christmas each doll symbolizes - whether it’s 1986 or 1999. 

Dad’s ritual, though, are the little brass ornaments you buy at the jewelry counters in Wal Mart or Target that can be engraved with a name or year the ornament was bought.  He didn’t begin this tradition until after my son, the first grandchild, was born.  From then on, he’s bought one ornament, and then two and finally, three ornaments each Christmas - one for each grandchild as he or she was born.   He’s particular in what he chooses and he insists on engraving these shiny tree decorations himself.  He carefully  engraves each with the name and the year for each grandbaby on his chosen ornaments.  He usually picks his ornaments based on what the year has brought for the kids.  Sometimes it’s a truck or a football or a doll.  My niece loves cats, so there’s one of a cat with her name and the year and now that she’s into horse riding, I’m sure there will be one of a horse this year.  Every year, the tree displays these ornaments along side the ornaments my sister and I made in elementary school.  There are crinkled construction paper angels with bits of glitter that hasn’t fell off over the years and bells made from pipe cleaners with pieces of yarn looped through the tops for easier hanging on the tree’s limbs. 

As more and more stories hit the news of parents arrested in meth houses with their kids crawling on the floors and stories out of Nebraska of yet another teenager being abandoned with no consequences to the parents, thanks to a poorly worded (and soon to be changed) safe haven law, these ornaments are proof of a solid and happy childhood.  They’re proof that Mom was right each time she’d say, “One day you’ll thank me” every time we told her how horrible our lives were because we had an eleven o’clock curfew or were refused permission to run away from home (yes, we actually thought we needed permission!). 

We’re gearing up for Mom’s traditional pot of seafood gumbo for Thanksgiving, complete with Daddy’s potato salad and maybe one of my red velvet cakes.  My sister usually brings the baked yams with marshmallows melted on top.  The odds of us all actually being together at the same time are pretty slim, but only because of extended families and hunting trips that are always top priority.  Eventually, though, my sister and I always cross paths at some point over the long weekend.  Our topic of conversation is always what we’re getting Mom and Dad for Christmas.  Do we go in together and get a big gift for both of them?  Is she shopping in Mobile or online this year?  Did Mom tell us how much more sugar we needed in the tea (hers is always the one pitcher that’s sweet enough)?  You know, just girl stuff between two sisters who share an incredible childhood.

OK - I can’t stand it for another second!  We all love the holidays, yes?  And we know it’s time to start gearing up when those cheesy and teeth grinding commercials start hitting the airwaves.  And no matter how hard I try, there are times I can’t reach the remote fast enough to mute the commercials.  I know, I know - I need a life.  Get in line - my mom has dibs on reminding me of that fact.  But back to the subject.

Every year, the jewelry stores start with their exclamations of how some lucky gal is fortunate in that her special someone went to this jewelry store, proposed in front of 43 family members with the goal of selling a “happily ever after”, and finally, it begins to fade out with grandma’s smile,  just as the news of where the guy went makes its rounds at the restaurant.  Ugh! It drives me crazy.  And let’s not forget what every kiss begins with: apparently, it’s a jewelry store.  And aren’t those sugary women’s voices in the voice-overs nauseating?  A particular toy manufacturer comes to mind where the kids are happily sharing the “toy of the moment”.  I’ve never known two kids with only one toy between them not go to war.

The truth is though; it’s not just during the holidays the mute button gets a workout.  Think of the one that includes a small family taking bets on how many “sheeters” any spill is going to take to clean up. That one has me convinced I had a mean mommy.  I can’t ever remember Mom peeking over the counter and declaring with a smile, “Nope.  That’s a one sheeter.”  In our house, it was “Donna Janell - get that spill cleaned up and you better make sure it’s done right!  I don’t want feet sticking to the floor!  And don’t blame your sister…I saw you knock that glass over!”

Oh, and remember the cellular phone commercial a couple years ago, where the two sisters were battling one another over the cell?  They were scrapping it out in the middle of the living room while the dad was trying to watch TV over them.  Now that’s a realistic commercial!  There was a particularly memorable fight between my sister and me when were teenagers over the telephone (way before cells invaded our lives).  I’ll never forget it - Mom was out, probably grocery shopping or something, and Daddy’s trying to watch a boxing match (how ironic!) on TV.   We were in the middle of the floor while Daddy was trying to see the professional fight over the fight going on in the living room.  He didn’t say a word until one of us managed to hit the recliner.  We knew we were close to getting him riled up (and trust me, it takes a lot to get Daddy riled up), but when we nearly knocked him out of the chair (I think I had my sister by the hair and was dragging her around), we knew it was on then.  In one fell swoop, he reaches down, grabs the phone we’re fighting over and declares, “Both of you - go to your rooms NOW!”  And that was it.  Party over.  But we knew if Mom came in before Daddy had cooled off, we’d not be a part of a phone call for no telling how long.  She’d have restricted us in about two seconds flat.  Luckily for our social lives, Mom never found out (well, until now). 

Now, not all commercials drive me crazy with their unrealistic images.  There are a couple that break my heart.  Two that come to mind have celebrities speaking.  Both tell of some of the horrors animals endure.  One is regarding dogs and cats in animal shelters while the other tells of how global warming is making it difficult for bears to survive due to melting ice. 

And finally, just when we get used to “Smilin’ Bob” and have learned to tolerate his face across our televisions seventy two times a day, they retire him and come out with different uhm….enhancement products.  There is nothing ickier than a bunch of grown men sitting around and singing an old Elvis Presley song while giving each other these “cat that ate the canary” looks.  Kind of a visual high five. 

And now, I’ll wrap this up with a couple of honorable mentions:

The internet dating sites where we’re lucky enough to overhear a conversation between two people who met on the site promising to never do this or never do that.  The actors in both commercials look more like siblings.

The commercial where you’re invited to order an egg shaped foot filer that catches the “dust”.  Why is it these commercials never allow the women to paint their toes!?  It’s icky enough, a little color can’t hurt.

The croissant commercial where two people at the table are debating over who gets the last one.  Any woman who spends all day cooking a holiday feast and can still smile while telling her guests to not worry, there’s more cannot possibly be human.

Every so often, something happens that reminds us of an incredibly good decision we’ve made in some area of our lives.  Sometimes our spouses do something that causes us to send up a quick prayer of gratitude.  It can as simple as hitting the clothes hamper instead of the floor or as exciting as a surprise vacation to Italy.  Most of the time, it’s the little things.  And sometimes, it has as much to do with an initial decision that was made in desperation.As we all know, the mortgage industry has taken a huge hit.  I think for the first time in my life, I was able to see how national economic issues affected my own life.  Since I was in the mortgage business and worked for a small brokerage company, in a small town, no less, the loss of my job was almost imminent.  I was also one of the rare ones who received a salary.  Although I had my originator’s license, my job was on an administrative level.  I handled the payables and receivables, worked as the go-between with the banking and consumer finance division of the state and was the office manager.  It never really occurred to me that I’d have a problem finding a new position.  In fact, I’d never had a problem.  This time was different.  I sent 52 resumes out with absolutely no offers.  I must have reviewed my resume a thousand times, looking for that one typo or poor sentence structure that stuck out like a sore thumb, inhibiting my efforts.  There were no typos and my references were solid.  On a fluke, I did a quick search for freelancing positions.  I was looking for anything that would provide an income.  Well, almost anything.  My mom would’ve kicked my ass if I considered prostitution.  And besides, I’m too old.  And have too  close of a relationship with Blue Bell ice cream that keeps me from wearing those little get-ups.  And if I thought I was broke before, trust me, this line of work would’ve ensured I became homeless.  So, without that being a consideration, I looked for anything else would’ve provided an income.  I found an excellent outsourcing site and the rest is history. 

Now for the epiphany.  Yesterday, as I was going into town, I had the radio on and heard the DJ say something along the lines of, “Up next, your favorite afternoon personality comes on.  And you know what that means: you’re two thirds finished with your workday!”  And it hit me.  If I can continue doing well in the freelance arena and can support the bills and Blue Bell addiction, I will never have to view working as a 9-5, nicely boxed and constricted “duty”.  It hit me that for the first time in my life, my assignments are based solely on what I choose them to be.  I’ve known since beginning this journey that I was doing what many wanted to do, but this was different.  This was some kind of thumbs-up from heaven.  Just the fact that I haven’t set an alarm clock in two months is blissfully fulfilling.  My only problem is ensuring I don’t become too much of a hermit, which is going to be a challenge, since I’m sort of a loner anyway.  The whole “too much of a good thing” aspect is a bit worrisome, but manageable and certainly doesn’t go into the “con” side of my list.  In fact, in my list of “pros and cons” that I seem to have for every aspect of my life, this is the only unbalanced list, as everything falls into the “pros” side while the “cons” side is well, blank.  If I choose to work within a typical and traditional work day, that’s fine, but usually, I’m vacuuming at 3 a.m. and anyone who stops in is just as likely to see the computer alive and kicking at 1 in the afternoon as it is at 1 in the morning.  The point is, all of the stress - and when you notice your hair coming out in your brushes in clumps, you know it’s stress - but the stress I felt only a few months ago is replaced with a peace and contentment.  The bills are still due, but I’ve learned it’s one crisis at a time and one day at a time.  And although is a gruesomely slow dance, the bills are beginning to lose their weight on my shoulders.  The burdens are being lifted and I’m grateful for the absence of any fear that might could have prevented me from pursuing this under different circumstances.  Maybe it’s one of those things that God knows better than any of us ever can.  Sometimes it boils down to knocking our heads against the wrong walls so that only the right ones, the painless ones, remain.

I was plundering through various sites tonight, looking for a topic to post that included a legal angle for a blog.  This is a daily routine for me, as I’m contracted to post at least five times a week.  I always get sidetracked with some of the insanity I find.  With headlines describing in five words or less of how teenagers are killing their classmates over a girlfriend, mothers who are using the Nebraska safe haven laws to drop their teenagers off in front of hospitals and other designated areas, only to return to another state with the freedom to do their drugs all day and all night and other equally disturbing displays of human nature, I’ve realized the charmed life I truly live.  Couple this with the privilege of being able to cast a vote in only six hours that will play a role in this American life I live, I’m really beginning to see things in a different perspective. 

As I’m sitting on my sofa, able to watch at least a hundred channels, thanks to satellite TV, I look around and see this:

I have books on my shelves that will take me anywhere I want to go, books that have the power to broaden my horizons simply by opening a page and learning the definition of a new word and even books that remind me why the movie version is one of my all time favorites.  Think Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.  To this day, Gregory Peck is the ultimate movie star in my eyes because of this classic.  My eyes scan to the walls that are solid and provide shelter for me and hold pictures and physical trinkets that are a witness to my having been on this planet.  I have a picture of my mom when she was around five years old. It’s still in the same frame that it was probably displayed in when my grandmother had the picture made.  Her tiny hands remind me of my own at that age and her little pink socks match the pink summer dress she’s wearing.  Hands in her lap and her legs crossed at her ankles - she was such a cutie.  And then, I look two feet to the left and I see a picture of the one reason that makes my life so spectacular - a picture of my son.  He’s sixteen in this picture and is sitting in a boat, watching the pier with his hand on the boat motor.  His baseball cap is on backwards and I can tell he’d spent the entire day on the river because his shoulders are already a dark shade of pink. There’s the shelf my dad nailed to the wall when I moved in to my little place and on this shelf, is a framed photograph of my niece and nephew.  Bittersweet thoughts when I look at this picture.  My heart hurts and I say a prayer.  And so this slow dance goes, from these treasured pictures to the area in my tiny living room that holds a desk and printer, but is seldom home to the computer since it’s always on my lap on the sofa or on the counter as I’m checking email and waiting for my Pop Tarts to warm.  And of course, the dogs are driving me crazy.  Trixie can’t stand for Little One to be near me and Little One tolerates it until he finally gives up to wait by the door, ready to dart as soon as I open it. 

These daily things, mundane and routine, are why our votes count.  We honor the freedoms by recognizing their meanings.  Let’s face it, there are places I could be right now that my nail polish and tattoo wouldn’t be allowed.  And my ability to let my mouth overload my ass (as my mom says so eloquently)?  Not in a million years would I be allowed to live to tell the tale.  And speaking of moms and dads, mine would never have abandoned my sister or me in another state.  There were times we wish they would have, but each new story that comes out of Nebraska makes me that much more grateful and too, it makes me that much sadder for these kids who live with that knowledge of knowing they were abandoned. 

So tonight, I choose a safer topic for my blog posting, one that doesn’t hurt my heart and after it’s posted, I pull the Pledge and dusting rag from under the sink and begin polishing my treasures - well, most of them.  The dogs tend to make a run for it.

 Where Some Are Happy

I got a phone call earlier today.  It was a call I knew would eventually be made.   Turns out someone I was crazy about in the recent past is getting married.  His mother called to tell me.  I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out why it bothers me. 

We were about as incompatible as two people can be.  We were raised very differently and while his life has been one major mistake after another, but with never any lessons learned and a sum total equaling his living at home with his parents at the age of 40, addictions that I know of and no telling how many I’m not aware of and an attitude that justifies his victim mentality.  He’s never been able to differentiate between “blame” and “responsibility” and spends too much energy looking for shortcuts to get what he wants.  I know this sounds harsh, but believe me, it was a long time before I was able to find perspective and see things as they really are.  I spent too much of my own energy and blind faith believing that if he could only see things as they should be, he’d be able to redefine what’s acceptable and that a fulfilled life didn’t have to include reckless and self destructive behaviors.  All I managed to do was blur the lines of what was acceptable for me.  I realized I’d made way too many concessions.  Partying every night, drinking every day, taking pills to get up and back down, living in filth and working only about half the time is something I can’t imagine and refused to allow.  It was tiresome when he was around.  I stayed nervous with him because I never knew what was coming.  He was so unpredictable and stood me up more times than not. He’d disappear for days at a time with no one knowing where he was - now, I realize it was because I didn’t bite my tongue and refused to go out with him or listen to his excuses.  He was so moody and even though I was never afraid of him, I stayed afraid for him. Still, I couldn’t figure out why he would continue to choose the wrong things.  Why he was drawn to the wrong people and wrong choices while kicking aside the possibilities that could lead to a happier life.  The better I tried to be to him, the more he pushed me away. 

Finally, after two years of one step forward and two steps back, it occurred to me that we (meaning people in general) are drawn to the familiar evils.  What we know is far more comfortable and safe.  He just knew better than I did.  He knew it’d never work because of our differences, even as I struggled to understand why. Fear keeps us from so much in this life. 

When he started seeing the woman who he’ll be marrying in less than a week, I was devastated.  By that time, I’d already realized how miserable I would’ve been with him.  So even though I knew I didn’t want him, it still took awhile to figure out why it bothered me.   And then it hit me: with her, he’s not expected to do better.  They both share alcoholism and pills with no desire to achieve anything more than what they are.  She doesn’t expect him to be responsible, go to work each day, make today better than yesterday and tomorrow better than today.  He’s happy at rock bottom and he has someone who doesn’t want him to be anything more, because that would mean one of two things - she’d have to exert the energy to pull herself up or if she didn’t, she would run the risk of losing him. 

I’m not saying I’m this driven and overly ambitious person.  I’m not.  But neither would I ever settle for growing roots at the bottom.  There’s so much I want from this life.   And it has nothing to do with money.  Hell, I stay broke as the Ten Commandments and with this new path my life has taken, I expect to continue making a few sacrifices until I’ve created my own niche in my career choice. 

When I finally got off my high horse and stopped wondering what was wrong with me and why he would choose her, and instead, just chalked it up to two different ideas of what each of us wanted and that they were poles apart, I finally got it.  So after the phone call today and declining the invitation to participate in the bets of how long this marriage will last, I finally and permanently closed that chapter of my life.

 At the risk of upsetting my mom, I’m going to say it because it needs to be said: Nancy Grace is trying my patience.  Before I go into the reasons why, if there’s anyone who can provide a safe haven for me to relocate to, please email me. My mom’s going to run me out of town for sure and I foresee something along the lines of the witness protection program. In Mom’s eyes, the sun rises and sets on Nancy Grace - she has a dog named what else but “Nancy Grace”. Now, as a rule, I totally dig her feisty attitude, but she is becoming quite aggressive with the guests on her show.  My frustration is from her refusal to allow guests to make comments or answer questions that aren’t interrupted by her demands.  Usually, it’s one of the guest attorneys she’s “unleashed”, and they can’t seem to get a word in.  But when she wouldn’t bite her tongue long enough for Tim Miller, the director and founder of Texas EquuSearch to provide answers to her questions, I knew it was time to flip the channel to the closest Law & Order rerun.  She’s already a fireball, but this new aggressive and rude side is one I hope she reins in and quick. 

I don’t think it’s occurred to her that the folks she’s attacking are on her side and usually in agreement with her.  There has to come a point in time that some of these recurring guests decide they’ve had enough of her belittling ways.  It’s all I can do to bite my tongue on a daily basis, so I know it’d take about two seconds for me to snap the microphone off of me and stand up and walk off - with very little care of it being a live show.  What’s even funnier to me is that most of them just grin and take it.  What are they thinking?!  Are they such narcissists that they’re willing to take it if it means a few minutes on TVs across the country?

And how glad are we to not have the first statement out of caller’s mouths, “Hi Nancy…your babies are beautiful.”?  Yeah, yeah…babies are beautiful.  These “babies” have to be nearing college by now.  No, I’m not serious, but they are approaching their first birthdays. 

Here’s the kicker - I’m just as drawn to the Casey Anthony brouhaha as my Mom is.  Nancy Grace is the only one who is still dedicating the lion’s share of her show to this case.  And seriously, I love that show - it’s just that I’m not very keen with this new and improved version of Nancy.  And if I miss it at seven o’clock, there’s always the 9 p.m., midnight and 2 a.m. replays.   I’m just hoping for that kinder and less rude side of her to reappear.  In the meantime, I’ll be cringing each time she annihilates one of her guests.

We’ve heard time and again of how women influence elections.  Maybe so, but I’m going to throw something out there that may or may not be a thought to any other woman in the country.  Actually, I’m going to throw more than just one “something”. 

I watched the debate tonight that was held in Memphis between the two presidential candidates.  As usual, I found myself saying out loud, “What?! You big jackass - you don’t have me fooled” or “Give me a break - do you have to be so condescending?!”  Yeah, I know….the dogs were my only audience, but I still voiced it.  I’m going to make a broad statement and hopefully, I’m more right than wrong: I think as women, we want to know when these candidates walk out and shake hands, that’s it’s a sincere gesture.  Honestly, it makes me uncomfortable for them to verbally assault one another.  I know it’s politics and it’s part of the game and they signed on for it, but it bothers me that they can exchange poorly-hidden jibes back and forth and in the next breath, turn to the audience with a “Oh, I’m so glad you asked that, Matilda.”   They take every opportunity to martyr themselves, especially when schmoozing the moderator, in this case, Tom Brokaw.  Tom Brokaw reminds one of them of the two minute time limit, and lo and behold, the one who wasn’t chided jumps in and says, “You won’t have to remind me of the time limit” Sheesh!  It takes me back to the days of my sister and I kissing up to Mom and taking advantage of the fact one of us was in trouble by telling Mom, “That’s OK, Mom.  I wouldn’t forget to take the skillet off the stove and almost burn the house down.”  (By the way, that would’ve been me who nearly burned the house down, thank you very much and yes, baby sis played it to the hilt)

Why can’t we hear a sincere, “You know what?  My opponent is absolutely right.  I agree completely and to be honest, my response matches his verbatim.”  There’s nothing wrong with agreeing with a statement even if the democrat candidate said it or the republican candidate opened the door for further discussion.  I can’t imagine points dropping in any race because of a gracious statement along those lines.  Our faith is shot to hell anyway - let’s be honest.  They both are harping on what should be done and what they’re going to do.  I realize they are on very tight time constraints in the debate arena.  Why can’t we hear a “That’s a great question and I can tell you it can be done, but it’s going to be tough and we’re going to have to weather this for awhile.  And no one has the cure-all, but I can promise you we’ll find it.”  Guess what?  We’re not fooled.  We know there’s no easy answer and honestly, we even know that there simply may not be a solid “one size fits all” solution to the problems this country faces.  I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that if my boss approached me with a huge quagmire that had no clear solution and told me to “find one anyway” and then come back to me the next day wanting to know if I’d found the answer, I would surely say, “Not yet.  I have some ideas that I’m working on, but it hasn’t come full circle yet.”  He’s either going to put me in the company dog house or he’s going to respect the fact that I owned up to it and didn’t sugarcoat it.  The last thing I’m going to do is eagerly agree and insist it was a piece of cake.  With my luck, that’s going to be followed up with, “Well let’s take a look.”  Yeah, that’s one bell you just can’t unring. 

And by the way, why are major corporations having to borrow money to make payroll?  I didn’t realize this was a common practice.  A comment was made that part of the solution was for feds to free up money to corporations so that loans could be made to make their payrolls.  Business 101 teaches us that’s a clear indication of an unsuccessful company.  And another thing - I learned tonight that AIG, after having been bailed out to some degree, went on a “junket spending spree” this week.  One candidate suggested an immediate full repayment to the treasury and the discharge of the head honchos.  I couldn’t agree more.  In fact, this post from several days ago was at the height of the Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac admissions during AIG’s initial panic.

I can’t believe I’m even thinking this - but the only good thing I can pull from this election is the fact that we have less than a month to go.