The church is lit in candles. The seraphim and cherubim smile down from stained glass. The pews creak under the weight of the congregation. The rustles of Mass beginning are dulled against the tapestries hanging from the old walls.

The congregation bows heads in prayer. The sick cough into their patched woolen sleeves, a babe is hushed. The choir begins the chants. Mary is porcelain and vacant, hands extended above the prayer candles. (An old woman, on her knees, lights three candles for three wishes, one for each grandson).

It is drafty in the old church; Christmas Eve is barren in Belgium; cold, biting, intimidating. This year is a desolate Mass, and the young members of the congregation are missed.

And the Mass is said in quiet drones by the Father, and the amen’s sung, and the choir begins its antecedent. A star (single, bright, pure) shines into the meekest nave of the oldest church, and the candles all wander to attention. A collective breath is taken. Hope is born, just as it was hundreds of years ago, when the Christ child was born.

What the congregation does not know is their star (single, bright, unfettered) is not a star at all, but a flare.

For miles away, over the trench-lines, the troops, bracketing against the cold, facing enemies, have drawn a conclusion this night. This night, there shall be no war.

The Germans have thrown the flare. The British have watched it explode into the blackest, coldest sky. The British remember the Nativity scene, and 2nd Scots Guardsman Hupper whispers to his patriots in the trench, “Truce.”

It is whispered throughout the trenches. The word freezes instantly as it leaves the lips of the British soldiers, but somehow, it carries across No-Man’s Land, translates into German.

“Waffenstillstand,” the Germans whisper in the cold.

Three Germans stand in their trench and heave a keg of ale up. They begin to walk across the barrier land. Another flare goes up, and the British see the band of men nearing. Three British rise to meet the Germans underneath the candescent glow of flare. And there, on the coldest, loneliest night of 1914, the British soldiers and the German soldiers share mead.

The congregation of the old French church departs Midnight Mass. Two stars have shirked the cold air and are alive La Veille De Noël. The congregation is still cold, and poor, and hungry, and missing the youth of the town. But as the last voice in the choir falls silent, and Jour De Noël falls upon them, there is warmth growing in the eyes of the poor villagers, of 2nd Scots Guardsman Hupper, of German Lieutenant Nuemann.
And it is Christmas now.

1. I really LOVE Michaela. She is sincere, funny, adoring, and just too good to be true. Plus, she is RELIGIOUS about reading my blog, and I hate to admit it, but she could teach me a thing or two about being gracious about reading other people's blogs. It's wonderful to see her comments.
So, I present to you, dear Michaela, my Portrait of You:

2. Pet Peeve #65:

When I'm brushing my teeth, I sometimes turn on the hot water instead of the cold water, but don't realize it until I wash my mouth out. Ick.

3. Go ahead. Hate me. Because:

I'M DONE WITH MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING.

Yup. Every last bit. mmmhmm. I know. I rock, but it's only because I get to work from home and set my own schedule, so I got all my work done before the end of the month so I could have one (yes, only one) day to complete my shopping.

Ahhhhh. Now, I get to sit back and relax, while everyone else scurries about, grumpy and totally un-Festivus like.

Last night, I had a long discussion with Michael about...steel mills.

See, when Michael lived in Detroit, he worked in a steel mill in his late teens, early twenties. He described for me the working conditions in the mill. I had no idea.
Michael described machines two to three stories tall, molten metal at temperatures of 3200 degrees Fahrenheit, burn victims, slag deposits, lye explosions, metal balers and a victim pulled into a baler, slowly churned around and around so much that he had to be cut and burnt out of a steel bale. Michael worked as a baler, as well as a machine operator, materials handler, bulldozer-er, and all around steel mill aficionado. He worked in temperatures exceeding any Atlanta summer day, covered in black slag. He described the constant bloody nose he would have, thanks to the lye being breathed into his sinuses. He told me about lifting great pots of steel and driving them with a bulldozer up a hill to dump it into a pit fifty feet deep, banging the fifteen foot tall pot against concrete, creating a cacophony of noise--so much so, he needed to wear heavy-duty ear mufflers. He described a hell on earth, filled with banging noises, hot magma-like steel, black powder, chemicals. This is what he did for a living, making short of fifteen dollars an hour.

When we drive through the industrial parts of our towns, many of us wrinkle our noses at the smells and sights of smoke, blast furnaces, and riff-raff of blue-collar workers. We forget these men put themselves in harm's way everyday and many of them suffer from terminal illnesses. To this day, Michael gets about three nosebleeds a week.

I remind myself as I drive by these huge monstrosities of smoke and terror that the size alone is enough of a testament to the capable man, let alone the byproducts of these factories and mills. The enormous girth of these machines is intimidating and fascinating. Even more so is the knowledge that man built these great beasts of steel and brick. We are an amazing race of dreamers and doers. And as we cook on pots and pans, and admire stainless steel kitchens, and drive past railroad tracks, and sit in safer cars, we should remember those dragons of industry, and how they have brought us our comfortable lives.

And we should remember the men who work the dragons, knights with helmets, burn scars, and bloody noses. These are the men that churn out our comfortable lives.

10. Fair Tax
9. Privatization of Public Schools
8. Privatization of Social Security
7. The Current Health Insurance Standards
6. NAFTA
5. Corporate tax breaks
4. Anything lauded as 'good' by Fox News
3. Welfare
2. The Entire Basis of the Iraqi War
and the number one
most
stupid and ineffective idea ever....

PRISON BOOT CAMPS

They just don't work at all, and manage to make offenders even more pissed off.

*Brought to you be a still-fuming ex-Probation Officer.

Okay, I'm a liberal theology major. I don't really think anyone is wrong in any belief or religion. I just want folks to be at peace. That's all.

On that note: I REFUSE to use the term 'FESTIVUS' this year or any other year.

It can be a holiday. It can be Kwanza. It can be X-mas, Christmas, The Birth of Christ, Hannaukah, whatever.

It is NOT Festivus!

Oh (yawn), it's Monday morning. I just got back from the gas station. For smokes. I tried to quit last night. I got through the night. Hmph.

For Goodness' Sake, it won't happen all at once!

And now, for Proper Nouns Worth Noting:

*The Gas Station Clerk: This dude knows my brand of cigarette and always greets me with a smile. He is very kind. This morning, he said, "I know you didn't wake up just for cigarettes!" and I said, "Yeah, I did. Pretty sad, huh? I tried to quit. It didn't take." And he said, "There will be plenty of other opportunities to quit."

What a nice guy. What a profound thing to say at six a.m.

*Doctor of White Trash: This physician of the blog world found my photo and borrowed it for his site. This is quite complimentary; I feel as though I have a new fan, and therefore, I am the doctor's new fan. Check it out: My Doctored Photo.

*Bands recently discovered via Sirius: Goldfrapp and She Wants Revenge. Very note-worthy.

*Last but not least, one of my favorite sites--well-written, humorous, analytical, touching--none other than Stuntmother. She's incredible. And she does all of her own stunts. Amazing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I guess I'm a little vain...about my talented boyfriend. He's the only one who can make me feel AND look like a filmstar. Please forgive the multitude pictures of myself. I actually feel beautiful, thanks to him. 

I lied.

I do like the holidays.

Just not all at once.

Bit by bit.

In small doses.

Like those shots of morphine car-accident victims can administer to themselves in the hospital.

Can't wait to get the film developed from our trip. All five shots include cows and a fish-fry.

Am going to surf the web for the following:
Honey Baked Ham
Really Cool RVs
Steeda Short Gear Shifter for Focus SVT
What's so great about the X-Box 360
and
What it takes to move like this chick.

Jesus Christ! Why'd you have to go and get born during the busiest season of the year?

Damn holidays. Damn turkeys. Damn families. Damn travelling. Damn spending money on overpriced gadgets and gidgets and clothing from the Northeast. Damn it.

It's the night before Thanksgiving
and all through the house
Theres's a feeling of hopelessness
and tragedy and stress.

There's work to be done
that's not getting done
and there's dishwashers needing emptying
But I just can't friggin' deal.

I just spilled dirt all over the floor
and the Kirby died
Whilst shampooing the spot.

I'm trying to pack
to drive to Kentucky
to meet some future in-laws
and the eighty thousand cousins of my boyfriend.

The cat won't stop eating the plant
that caused the dirt spot;
not even twenty squirts from the waterbottle
have prevented her crimes.
Now she's gonna yack. Probably right
on the spot just vacuumed.
Fuck.

I've got this new job and I'm
not quite sure what I'm doing and then!
the holidays come and screw everything up.
Man, am I over it.

I'm already wishing it were January 9th
some stupid nondescript day
where nothing happens except
normal crap that does NOT involve
driving half-way around the world,
or stuffing
or pumpkin pie
or memories of dead relatives
or that sinking feeling that occurs after
all the presents have been unwrapped.

I wish every season could be filled with
peace, hope, and goodwill. The damn fact
of the matter is we all turn into demons this
time of year and run each other over on the highways
instead of looking twice.

Just so we can stuff our gaping maws with
fattening foods and watch some MORE damn football.

*sigh*

I just don't DO holidays.

Yeah, totally. It scared me, too.

That song rocks rough and stuff with my afro-puff.

We bought this camera for Michael recently.


Which meant I got his old camera, along with my 35mm Canon EOS Rebel II.

Yeah, we're a bit spoiled.

Anyway, let's review our respective talents behind the lens. Mind you, I shot some film that has yet to be developed. First, let's look at my pictures with the Fujifilm Finepix S602z:

Yeah, I know. Whatever. So, now let's look at the genius at work. I present to you:

Michael's Atlanta Pics:

Aw, crap. More later. Blogger is working at the speed of a snail. My point is: Michael's skill is really incredible.

Okay, welcome to my life as an anal retentive. Now that I work from home, I found it necessary to create a separate work space from the shared desk of late. So, off to IKEA we go and get this fabulous red desk. Chair was purchased elsewhere, but is also super sleek. Look how FREAKIN' organized I am.

The other wonderful thing about this work station is the view. How cool is it that I have a window view in a job I've only worked for three weeks? Uh huh, that's what I thought. Not only is my office twice as nice as the crappy state offices I've worked in, but the view is gorgeous, and no one is watching over my shoulder.

The only downside so far about this job is knowing when to quit for the day. On Friday, I stayed up until 11pm just working on organization, notes, and contacts. Of course, the upswing to this is that I work when I want to, blog when I want to, and get to be as anal as possible.

This is good stuff.

Just thought I would share my little life with you while listening to more Hearts of Space on my iTunes. 

The other day, I realized my bra was a little tight. I didn't think much of it until I took a picture.

Apparently, they ARE closer than they appear. 

When I was seven years old, my parents relented on the 'no pets' law and took me to an animal shelter. There, we adopted two kittens. One was pitch black with a long tail and a sweet little 'mrow?' voice. He was promptly named Lyle Patrick by yours truly. Next, we found a slightly older girl kitten, a calico with lovely white paws and hazel eyes. She was such a demure girl; I named her Sarah Jane.

Sarah Jane and Lyle Patrick came home and quickly hid underneath my bed--and this scared the bejesus out of me. I spent most of the night on my hands and knees, waiting for the cat attack that was surely coming. As the months went on, cats would be flung from my bedroom with great succor. Soon, the cats learned that this little human was just an evil embodiment of a pesky dog. They stayed away.

There was another purchase, that year. This was to be the threshold of technological advance in my household. A microwave was bought. A large, convection, bulky one from Montgomery Ward's. It was placed on a cart in the kitchen, and looked like a shrine. The first meal made in it was fried chicken, and the little waves of heat emanated from the charred flesh of poultry. All were amazed.
"How could you ruin the chicken in a microwave?" Dad asked.
"I don't know! It's VERY POWERFUL!" Mom replied.
I tried to flake off the burnt parts and go on with my magical microwaved meal.

On school days, I was a latch-key kid for about an hour before my parents came home from work. Before the microwave, I spent my hour in the kitchen, where the boombox was, listening to pop stations and dancing all over the linoleum. I pretended I was a superstar, singing and dancing my heart out, interspersed with licking ketchup straight from the bottle. But then the cats came, which meant dress-up and tail-pulling. And lastly, the microwave.

The stage has been set.

One afternoon, while jamming out to Salt 'n Peppa, I considered the microwave. I found a peice of cheese and put it in the microwave. I nuked it for ten seconds. The cheese was still solid, but slightly warm and gooier. "This is a good thing," I thought as I swallowed the cheese. Next, a peice of lunchmeat went in. Then, an apple. Pretty soon, I was bored with food items, and getting full, too, as I kept eating all the little nuked snacks. I was about to turn away when I felt a tail brushing against my legs. I looked down, and there was Sarah Jane.
"Mrow?" she asked.
"Come here, kitty!" I reached down and swooped up Sarah Jane.
"mROW!" she cried in protest.
"It's okay, kitty!" I said. Sarah Jane went into the microwave. Ten seconds later, she came out slightly warm and confused. I set her down and she wobbled over to her water.
Next, Lyle Patrick went in. I upped it to fifteen seconds with him. He actually looked as though he could fall asleep while being nuked. When the buzzer went off, I took out another warm cat and let him go back to the sofa for the continuation of his nap.

The cats were probably nuked about a minute each, when all was said and done. When I saw 'Gremlins', I realized that microwaving live animals probably wasn't a good idea, so I put a nix on the experiments. I never told anyone about my Dr. Frankenstein-like trials, and when Mom would ask no one in particular why there was cat hair in the microwave, I managed to always appear busy with homework or chores or a new hangnail.

Now, there IS an upside to this story.

Let's see...I was seven in 1986. Sarah Jane ran away in 1997, but she was very healthy at the time of her disappearance.

And Lyle Patrick? Well, he lived until 2004. At the time of his departure from Earth, he was eighteen years old, and until a terrible accident occured on the front lawn involving Mom's Thunderbird and Lyle's front leg, he was a healthy, grouchy, rambunctious cat. My point?

I think I extended those cats' lives via microwave.

Shew. It's good to get that off my chest.

I realize the whole scanner thing is going to get old for my readers pretty quick, so I'll be slowing down, soon. But first, I did want to introduce all of you friends to the most beautiful woman in the world. That's my momma, with her mouth wide open. This is a genetic trait, as my mouth is often wide open, as well. There I am, looking askance at some chick playing with my xylophone. My mother is probably saying something like, "You actually got a toy AWAY from Fritz? Holy cow!"

Momma--we're getting older, now.
We still hold hands and laugh.
But we're getting older, now.

Soon, I'll be a married woman. I'll be all grown up.
You'll cry at the wedding, and remember your own wedding.
You'll remember being a girl, too.

I'll remember your hair tickling my face as a little babe,
wrapped up in swaddling, wrapped up against my Momma,
the safest place in the whole world.

The other day, we visited, and I taught you some new things
Just like how you taught me to read at age three,
and taught me how to draw, and taught me how to speak well.

It makes me a little sad, and a little happy.
We're both growing up.
But I know one thing for sure--
you're the only Momma
who could love me they way you do.
You're the only Momma
who is the prettiest Momma in the whole world.

I can't tell you how much I love you and all of our wonderful memories.

This is a desperate cry.
My mother is sixty, and thinner than me, and prettier, and in far better health.
I am fat. Grotesque. Slothlike.

All I do is eat. I can't find the strength to exercise. I hate my body. I hate food. I wish someone could help me. I want to be the woman INSIDE this flesh, instead of just the dimples and rolls on the outside.

I used to be so pretty.

I haven't done HNT in awhile, so I thought I would come back with a bang. I know I've lectured before about integrity and pride and being decorous, but screw it. I'm going for the money shot with this one. To build the suspense, I've decided to precursor this momentous event with some totally pointless pictures.

Okay, ready for Fritz's Boobs? Huh? Yeah? Ya sure? Okay....here goes!:

(Fritz, age 3)

I know. I'm such a shit.

You know that song by the Dixie Chicks. I've never met anyone who actually LIKES the Dixie Chicks, but somehow, innocent folks like us manage to learn their songs. Anyway, there's that song:
"I need wiiiiiiiiiide open spaces..." and then blahty, blahty, blahty.

I hang on to that little riff in my head because I swear they are singing about my childhood. I had gaps between my teeth, my mouth hung open most of the time, and I seemed to embody the term 'vacant eyed stare'. I'd like to say these appearances had something to do with me being so smart I couldn't comprehend daily life. Sadly, the truth is, I just had a lot of wide open spaces.

Evidence:
















How did I even survive childhood?

I was lost, driving somewhere within Atlanta. All was hopeless. I couldn't find the interstate. I had been jettisoned to the far right lane behind a smelly semi covered in a picture of smug cows. I was going to cry.

But then, I saw the Tumblebus.
Man, it looked fun.
And as I drove, I saw Maggie and her baby playing in the Tumblebus. Snorting, blasting their trunks, those pachyderms were REALLY tumbling.

I hijacked the Tumblebus and headed to Kansas City. Poor Maggie; she got stuck in the ballpit and is getting carsick.

But that's all I did, today. I'll tell you how Kansas City is when I get there.

Man, am I a spoiled rotten little brat. For an early Christmas present, I got a toy for work and home. I got a laptop.

I've been using Michael's monster machine all this time, but this new job demanded my time on a computer even more than the blog. After some sweating and wire crossing, we realized life would just be easier if I had my own computer. Enter: COOL PARENTS.

Basically, I now have a laptop, wi-fi connection (I'm in the bedroom as I type this), a really cool printer/copier/scanner thingy, and a wireless mouse. Now, I don't mean to brag. All this stuff is so over my head that I still think it's magic. I'd like to keep thinking of it that way.

You can go back to your previously scheduled blogging, now. I just needed to say thanks to my awesome parents and utterly fabulous boyfriend. Thanks to them, Michael and I don't need to share his monster handbuilt computer and I can get my work done.

When I worked as a Probation Officer, I put myself into a frightening position. There I was, an educated woman with a degree in Social Work, and a minor in Theology.

I had read all the right philosophy books. I attended one of the foremost humanitarian universities in the country. I prided myself on world knowledge, and the basic tenets of all world religions. I wrote regularly in a journal and drew to express myself. I believed in people. I believed in civilization.

But then, I had four years of sadness. For, working with the dredges of society was indeed less liberating and hopeful than my idealistic little brain could comprehend. There was no time to discuss Rahner or Plato with meth addicts. There was no hope to influence Mazlow's hierarchy of needs upon people who only knew how to cope in this society by committing crimes. Eventually, I lost my hope in people.

And then, I lost my hope in myself.

You can only dwell in that kind of environment for so long before you come to see fellow humans as mere cysts on the face of an otherwise perfect Earth. You forget what the philosophers said about duties, responsibilities, beliefs, and passions. You only see the failing systems of criminal justice. And then, you just give up. You find yourself surrounded by individuals who also lost faith in themselves, or who found sustanance only through punishment of others. You spoke with other law enforcement officers who would sooner shoot a man than offer him help. You trap yourself into the deluge of unhealthy persona. These individuals would lie down and take immoral policies than stand up for each other, and humanity.

My boss said it best. "When you locked those people up, Fritz, in your heart, you just wanted to help them."

But I didn't know how. Nope. All that education, all those book smarts, all those essays and studies and internships and long talks with professors and priests did not prepare me for probation, felons, courts, lawyers, corrupt agencies.

Thank God I got fired.

I am trying very much to protect the job I have now, and protect those individuals whom are the basis of my work. But I can say this much: I work with developmentally disabled and/or mentally retarded individuals.

At first, I was extremely anxious about this kind of work, not having as much experience with this population as others. But as I learn more, and visit more facilities, I begin to see: my hope in humanity is being restored.

In one day, I received more hugs and smiles than a whole month working in Probation. I received more joy and more thanks than four years working for the State. I see now the importance of these individuals--those slightly 'blemished' in society's eyes are some of the most accepting and true people I've ever met. This is not to simplify what or who they are. It is only to remind myself: at the core of us, beneath our intelligence and books and knowledge, there are true human emotions. And the emotions are beautiful.

I cannot express to my readers enough how fulfilling it is to work with this group of people. It is as though God has spoken in an uncanny way. Of course, there is much that needs to be done for these folks. There is much that stands against them. Beyond the sneers and stares of people who don't understand the mentally retarded/developmentally disabled, there is a lack of resources for them. Sometimes, they are not treated well. Sometimes, they are overlooked.
Oh, but the hope! The hope in their eyes is irrefutable, and the warmth of their hands is genuine.

I do believe I can say: humans are indeed good things. Humans are indeed worth the fight.

I'm chillin' over at the Spinster's house, waiting for her ass to get ready so we can hit the field together (yeah, she got me this job and I'm grateful, but don't tell her, it'll go straight to her head).

Currently, she's brushing her teeth.

The Estrogen Fishbowl has three dogs. Three barreling, mischevious dogs. One of the dogs is really smelly, too, because he's old and has gas. There is also a ferrett (Stu Weasel, the Ferrett King). It gets a tad nuts over here.

I come over to make sure my Zoloft is working; if I stayed at my house, I would never know if it has any affect. It's nice and quiet at my house, except for Delilah Amelia, who suffers from bouts of insanity. But just bouts.

Ten minutes ago, the dogs started barking. For no apparent reason. They wouldn't shut it. So I'm typing in here, and Drunk Dialer is in the bathroom, and I hear her say, "SHUT UP!" The dogs do not cease their torrential cacaphony.

So then, I hear her call to her very OWN dog (not shared with the Lesbians), "DARBY ELAINE MERCEDES DOO! BE QUIET!"

This is the name of her dog.
Darby.
Elaine.
Mercedes.
Doo.

Now, she's making fun of the way I say 'Shasta'. Like she should talk?
AND she's singing some Ani DiFranco song, but she doesn't know all the words.

I wish she would hurry up and get ready.

This is what happens when you:
-Go to intense orientation
-Panic over details when you really aren't responsible for them, yet
-Have serious software-to-computer miscommunication
-Get fingerprinted
and
-break your new SIRIUS radio equipment.

Loyal Fans: I thank each and every one of you for your fond and kind wishes. I'm getting acclaimated to a very intense job, and may need a brief reprieve from blogging just to stay afloat. When people say 'work from home', I didn't really know they meant 'WORK from home', not 'get paid to Blog all day'. Hmm.

But don't worry! Things shall work out, in time, and I'll get the hang of this. Then, we can all be as one as before. Or something. Meanwhile, I look forward to visiting on the weekends or in spare moments of sanity. Or not. I miss each and every one of your blogs and can't STAND being away, but sometimes, those ol' priorities reach in and strangle you.

Thanks again. Keep swingin' by...

1. I cleaned2. I changed the catbox (much to Michael and Delilah's relief).3. I broke, then fixed, then continued to use the washing machine. I'm now on load seven.

4. I went to the library to pick up this book recommended by Spinning Girl. What's really neat is that the library didn't have it in stacks, so they bought it NEW just for my request. Pretty cool, huh?

5. Bought new inserts for my DayTimer. Do you realize these things cost WAY too much money? The total came to fifteen dollars. My God! I got in the wrong business.

I really know how to live it up, don't I?

The fluid truth of the ride
overwhelms the senses--there is no
verbage to convey the amazement.
There is only pavement, and its curls
and licks and lovely dips
like my own wide hips.
There is only tree tops
ocher, brown, yellow, green
like all the colors in my hair.
There is only wind
soft and hard all at once
and shimmering and complete.
And there is sky.

The presence of the Self
deepens as the throttle rolls
and I become hands and feet,
hips and head
turns and twists and deep sighed breath
and all the parts of the body
that make me work.

To maximize a lean one must
tuck the neck, drop the elbow
lean a bit and give it throttle.
Downshift maybe, maybe not.
See it through until it stops.
Imagine what's on the other side
and breach it with ferocious drive.
Or drift!
Drift through and see the leaves,
the purple hum of pavement,
the swish of cars that pass.
Dwell in the moment of the curve;
if not! Beware! The impetuous may fall
and then the drive's no fun at all.

Instead, be lean and wary.
See the Rider as only atoms, floating through
the densest Proof. And then--
I become the Ride and all it means.
A simple being over an engine.
A magical test of faith.
A solid fragment of myself.
A woman on a motorcycle

As I grow, I don't hold it against my father for saying he never wanted a kid.
When I first heard him say this, I was thirteen. It was a bit traumatic.
Life often shows us that the most selfish desires can often be the most altruistic wishes, as well. Talk about duality!

My father was in the Vietnam generation. He was drafted but had some 'medical' problems that kept him from going. My mother and father tell me stories of men who went to Nam and didn't come back, or came back changed. Both of my parents had fathers who served in some fashion in World War II. But Vietnam? It was a bit different, and met with different emotions. Needless to say, my parents are primary evidence of the 'Nam violence. Distraught, hopeless, angry--no wonder my dad didn't want kids.

I was born a bit later in life for my parents, making my mother thirty-four when she had her first (and only) child. My father was thirty. They delayed me long enough to spare me of certain truths. I missed the Generation of Desert Storm.
And now, I am too old to partake in the War on Terror.

My boyfriend, however, is ten years older than me. During 1990, he was all set to sign up for Desert Storm. His father had served in Vietnam and (thank God) came back to create Michael. Michael told me of how he and his friends would go to bars just to watch the news--to find out if Desert Storm was going to become World War III. That's what he was being told by the machines of war. Desert Storm: the next holy and righteous war, ever.

Thank heavens it DID not come to that.

We are a nation of polarities. We live in such splendor and wealth. We choose where to eat, where to shop, what to buy, how to live. We have fantastic credit debt and continue to consume. We all have cars--everyone of us has a car! We watch violent television and movies, and eat fattening foods. We consume, consume, consume, and the Powers that Be feed on this, as well. They create complacent cattle and threaten the cattle with less feed if the cattle do not support the inane desires of Government.

Our generations of young men move from the safety and softness of a culture overridden with wealth to the horror of war. Unjust war. Unrighteous and unfulfilling war. These young men are taught to 'KILL! KILL! KILL!' and push buttons to blow up bombs in cities miles away, where flesh ripped to shreds won't be witnessed by Americans. Our generations of people since WWII have moved from hope to hostility, thanks to the nature of a violence-dominated culture. There IS no righteous war, as before. There is only mind-numbing, button pushing, life destroying, envious politics. America feeds its young men a recipe for violence with video games, complacency, fattening foods. And then, off they go, to fight in the Middle East with no concept of true horror, true poverty, or true humanism.

And then, they come back.

And we expect them to settle back in to a world of fattening facts and push-button technology without a hitch. We show them the reality of life, the do-or-die truths, the 'brotherhoods' of the armed forces, but we take away their rifles and give them buttons and remote controls with which to fight. We train men to kill, and give them nothing to sate their appetites.

You tell me why sociopaths roam the street.
You tell me why so many young men are criminals.
You tell me why children have such short attention spans.
You tell me why my father didn't want to have a child.

"Every war is different, every war is the same." -Jarhead.

There are certain places I will not step foot into.
These include TACKY FLEA MARKETS, BIG LOTS, and DOLLAR GENERALS.

Each one of these stores represents a horrid, horrid memory for me. Each memory involves S and M Spinster. She is a horrible influence on me.

The Dollar General Episode remains one of the touchiest nostalgic moments in our friendship. S and M has a strange desire to shop at all places involving bins, irregulars, and bulk purchases. Often luring me out to 'shop' with her, promising 'five minute looks' in stores that I hate, I wind up at her side, perusing aisles of crap for crap to buy. S and M likes to buy cheap candy and push it off on her friends. She's attracted to cute pink fuzzy things that have absolutely no purpose than to annoy the shit out of me. It is during these moments that I remind her of her Polish ancestry. She takes these rubs well, as she knows I am defenseless to her bargain shopping. But let me tell you, I would rather put a hole in my head than wander around Big Lots with women in hair curlers and rather stinky alcoholics looking for the toilet paper deals.

So, off we go 'for just a minute' to Dollar General.

S and M Spinster and I have some very different ideas about lots of things, and this is just fine. However, during the trip over to the Dollar General, we were talking about praying, I think, and being spiritual or something. And I was saying that there is nothing wrong with praying, and maybe we shouldn't pick on people who pray a lot, and that I pray. And she started mocking me, in her cute way. I wasn't really upset, but as we started meandering the crowded, dank shelves of the Dollar General, we continued our conversation. Of course, sarcasm, my best weapon, came out at some point, and I said, "Oh, okay, well then I'm just going to be totally irreverent and say 'Screw God' and then hope everything works out well for me."
And, being the snarky bitch she is, S and M mockingly said, "GASP! How dare you speak of Our Father like that?"
And this woman on the OTHER SIDE of the shelf came around and looked at me and said, "You know, you don't have to be disrespectful of people's beliefs. I pray all the time. God brought me through addiction, and abuse, and all sorts of horrible things. Your friend is right. You shouldn't be so sacrilegious!"

I stood there, slackjawed. Damn that S and M Spinster! DAMN HER! I was still fuming while we stood in line to check out. The woman who was so incensed was in front of us. She tried to pay for her ten dollar purchases with a bad check, and the cashier caught it. The lady glared at me (like this was my fault for her getting caught at being a criminal) and said, "Well, I'll just have to get another checkbook from the car." She took off and did not return. Of course, this made me even angrier, and sent S and M into gales of laughter. "See, look how spiritual SHE was!" S and M laughed while paying fifteen dollars for some kitsch.

This is the kind of crap that happens to me at bargain stores.

PAYBACK:
Shortly after this, S and M talked me into going into some crappy flea market store. As soon as we entered, I looked around at the tacky shit filling up every spare inch of space and knew I was in for it. S and M would take THREE HOURS to go through this dump.
"That's it," I said as we entered, "We're splitting up."
I walked off in a huff.
S and M was left standing at the front, with three old ladies staring at her.
Yup, they thought they had just seen a lesbian breakup. We had to leave immediately, because S and M was embarrassed.

Needless to say, we don't go to Bargain stores together anymore.

I'm so freakin' jealous. This thing is a thousand CC engine, and it PURRS. PURRS, I tell you. It sits pretty high, but Michael was kind enough to let me take it around the parking lot a bit. And man, lemmee tell you. I just better NOT get my hands on one of these for my own. I'll be gone in less than ten seconds. This thing hauls about 130 horsepower (oppossed to my bike, which is somewhere around 55 horsepower, and my car, which is about 100. Pathetic).

So, next year, Dear Lilith may find a new home. And I might be on a Sportbike. But now, I'm just happy Michael has his bike, and I have a riding partner.

GO US! We're too sexy for our motorcycle helmets.