Power Plants, Power Trips, and the Powers That Be

More than two years after the nuclear disaster at Fukushima Daiichi, Japan has finally admitted what local fishermen, independent investigators, and everyone else on the planet (save perhaps our friends at FOX news) already knew:  hundreds of tons of heavily contaminated radioactive ground water continue to flow daily into the Pacific Ocean. The extent of the problem cannot even be rated on the IAEA’s International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale because no-one knows how much water is escaping, how contaminated it is or what effect it is having on the sea and marine products.

Start melting the butter.
Catch of the Day for dinner —
melt lots of butter.

What fools!  The inevitable effect it will have on the sea and marine products is patently obvious to Husband, Stepson, Wife of Stepson, Son #1, Son #2, and me. We know from dumping radioactive waste into the Japanese seas.  We spent many years studying this phenomenon.  We can quote in detail from the 28 educational films produced by Toho Co., Ltd. on this very subject.

Godzilla’s origins are as fiercely debated as our own.  He may, like Bigfoot, have been the 8th-day doodle of a whimsical god, made from the rib of something leftover in Loch Ness.  I know better than to suggest that the Creation included any false starts or failures:  The platypus, for instance.  The snake.  The human being.   In any case, it’s safe to say that Godzilla is an enormous, violent, prehistoric sea monster awakened and empowered by nuclear radiation.

In truth, there is nothing safe about Godzilla.  He’ll defend humanity when it suits him, or when he’s trying to impress Mothra’s sexy little groupie twins, or when his pal Rodan needs help, or when upstarts like King Ghidorah and Gigan forget their places.  But he’s likely to turn on mankind and destroy Tokyo again, just for the hell of it.  The Japanese people have bigger things to fear than nuclear waste in the air and water and ground and food.  Godzilla does not like to be awakened.  He will not emerge from the sea like Venus, smiling on the half-shell.

Anybody got a charger?
Anybody got a charger?

We have only ourselves and our cell phones to blame for the Fukushima disaster and the coming Godzilla resurrection.

How much energy does it take to power your smartphone addiction?  The average iPhone uses more energy than a midsize refrigerator, according to research published by Digital Power Group, a tech investment advisory. A midsize refrigerator which qualifies for the EPA’s Energy Star rating uses about 322 kW-h a year, while your iPhone uses about 361 kW-h once you stack up wireless connections, data usage, and battery charging.

Drill, baby, drill.

Godzilla’s signature weapon is his atomic breath, a concentrated stream of blue or red radioactive fire that is unleashed from his jaws while his dorsal fins glow.  I want this super-power.  It would have come in handy, this past week.

So let’s say that I work for a large bank.   I run the loan processing center at one of the branches.  I’m sitting at a table with 8 or 10 other people who all do the same work for the same company at different locations.  We’re meeting to discuss a new IT system.  We go around the table introducing ourselves.

Most of those present are Loan Officers.  They do not say,  “I am a Loan Officer;”  that is more or less a given.  They say, “I run the loan processing center at thus and such.”  This is what I say, too, although I am not a Loan Officer.

I'm counting to ten
I’m counting to ten

The woman beside me is next.  She says, “I, too, run a loan processing center, but I’M a LOAN OFFICER.”  She speaks in boldface capital letters.

This person has long gone out of her way to humiliate me whenever our professional paths cross.  Or to try and humiliate me – such tactics only work if I’m willing to buy into them.  She must resent that a clerk has full access to the same the double-secret important insider information that she does.  She must resent that a clerk has the effrontery to effortlessly fill her banking shoes across town.

She does not need to resent this. She has the master’s degree and the professional salary and the title and the incumbent banker’s glory of it all.  I pose no monstrous threat to the city she’s built.

I'M running this meeting
I’M running this meeting

The facilitator, a woman from the bank’s home office, does no better.  She’s one of those humorless, brittle, thin-lipped, bird-like women who looks down on everyone and everything from a perch of vast superiority.  She has a Rodan (rather than Rodin) sort of look.

“So what I’m seeing here today is that we have Loan Officers, Loan Officers who run Loan Processing Centers, and . . .”  she trails off, and looks at me

“Support staff,” I say.  “I’m support staff, but I do the same job.  I run one of your loan processing centers.”  I hate myself because my cheeks have flushed with what looks like embarrassment.  My job does not embarrass me; if I cared about having a better one, I’d have it.

I breathe deeply and practice Positive Self-Talk:

1.  I’m flushed because I can’t respond in a picturesque or profoundly profane way.  I can’t unleash my atomic breath.

2.  Only pathetically insecure people puff up their sorry egos at the expense of others.

3.  Rude Self-Puffery says more about the Puffer than the Puffee.

Stay Puft
You go, girl!

4. Self-Puffers have to work hard at staying puffed.   She is not an officer and a gentleman.  She is the StayPuft™ Marshmallow Woman.

I’m cured!  But I’ll never be able to face her again without sniggering.  I guess that’s more polite than searing her with my atomic breath.  Or my searing pen.

Audiences respond positively to Godzilla, after all, because he acts out of rage and self-preservation and shows how science and technology and Loan Officers can go wrong.  So, too, with me.

Thanks for visiting!  Missy
Thanks for visiting!
Missy

Burning Issues: Goat Shit, Cheetos, and Chemical Weaponry

“Is it safe?” asks Brand New Husband.

I have just driven the car up through the middle of a rocky Vermont cow pasture and have come to an abrupt halt beside a ramshackle hovel.  We have traveled an hour and a half from the nearest major airport. I have told him we’re taking the back way in, to surprise my family.   He is nervously needing to pee.

Clampetts
I kid you not. I don’t even exaggerate.

Peeing is not an immediate option.  An artful tableau is arranged around the faded red sway-backed shack:  Ma O’B has pink rollers in her hair.  She’s wearing faded worn-out cast-offs and a dirty apron and is clutching a broom that’s seen better days.  Pa O’B hasn’t shaved in several days.  His old jeans are filthy enough to stand by themselves in the corner.  Lil’ Sister O’B pats her hugely pregnant belly and smiles to show her missing tooth.  Lil’ Brother O’B chews on a straw and is stuffed, shirtless, into pants that are a size or two too small for him.  It’s all quite festive.

“Is it safe?” asks Brand New Husband.

I am finally able to look at him.  I have not made eye contact since we hit the Vermont border and he started asking keen and penetrating questions about location (my parents live in upstate NY).  “Oh, this is just the back way in,” I say.  “My town’s right on the border.  They’ll be watching for us from the front road.  We’ll surprise them.”   Brand New Husband foolishly trusts his brand new wife.  He knows the depth of her absolute lack of directional sense but knows, too, that she grew up in the area.  He gives her the benefit of the doubt.

I have married a man my family hasn’t yet met.  They expected a different groom, later this same summer.  I’ve come east by myself for a few days to assure them that I

a) am not pregnant

b) have not fallen prey to some pimp

c) have not fallen prey to some cult-like religion (Catholicism excluded)

d) have not fallen prey to some playboy out for my money or body (as if I ever had either).

New Husband is to join us after I lay the necessary reassuring groundwork.  It seems like a good idea at the time.

You kids at home don't try this.
A benign bunch of crap

“Is it safe?” ask the people of Windsor, VT, after a 120-cubic-yard pile of goat manure bursts into spontaneous flame last week. A dairymaid on her way to do the milking at the 800-goat Oak Knoll farm discovers the fire at 3:00 AM.  She waters down the flames, but the pile continues to smolder, casting a dawning pall over town.  Vermont often seems like heaven – but that morning in Windsor it must seem like hell.  Fire and brimstone can surely smell no worse than the thick heavy stench of burning goat shit heaped 20 feet tall.

I do know that the word “dairymaid” is a hopeless anachronism.  But it’s so sweet and pastoral – when else in my life am I likely to be able to use a term straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel?  I also know that the dairymaids at Oak Knoll farm are more likely to wear heavy jeans and rubber boots than bonnets and voluminous skirts, more’s the pity.  And rather than mooning demurely over the handsome goatherd, they are more likely to be sexting that goat Anthony Weiner.

He wishes
He wishes.

Weiner has announced that he is “100% NOT sexting” anyone anymore.  Now, I know that I myself am also a hopeless anachronism.  It has always been my impression that NOT doing something means that you are – well — NOT doing it.  Period.  We can cite percentages, now?  I might say, for instance, that “I am (75%) NOT being unfaithful to Husband anymore,” and get away with it?  I might declare, “I am (50%) NOT getting drunk anymore??”  Or, “I am (25%) NOT eating huge mounds of Cheetos anymore?”

“Is it safe?”  Even a Cheeto devotee like me would ask that, presented with the latest in Japanese snacking.  The people who are making radioactive tea of the sea have now come up with Pepsi-flavored Cheetos.  “In these snacks, the cheese powder has been replaced with a cola powder that is disturbingly not brown,” writes a trend-setting taste-tester.  He adds that the puffy little snacks “even fizz a little” when you chew.

Violent extremists need to eat more Cheetos (known as “Chee-tos” until 1998, when for various clandestine reasons the Frito-Lay folks deleted the dash).  You eat more Cheetos, you get too fat and complacent and lazy and unhealthy to be a violent extremist anymore.  Eating lots of Cheetos is the key to world peace.  It has worked in America.

No exaggeration here, either.
No exaggeration here, either.

It could work elsewhere.  Scientists in Syria waste their talents on chemical weaponry when they might better be inventing roasted-goat-flavored Cheetos (Syrians eat a lot of roasted goat).  They could even offer a smoked-goat-shit flavored variety to the cognoscenti.  Satisfied Syrians would lick their fingers happily and forget all about waging raging civil war.

“Is it safe?” ask Damascus grandmothers, wondering what to feed their families.  Damascus fathers and brothers and sons are all off killing goats and each other, leaving the problems of living for the women to solve. Days after a poison gas attack killed hundreds of people in crop-growing suburbs, residents of the Syrian capital are afraid that  their food and water supplies are contaminated.

I’d be afraid, too.  Western countries believe that President Bashar al-Assad’s forces recently carried out the worst chemical weapons attack since Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein gassed thousands of Kurds in 1988.

They think they’ve got it bad?   Our own President wants to provide everyone with affordable health care:  the horror, the horror.

“Is it safe?” I ask, standing at the farmer’s market buying a 25-pound box of Colorado western slope peaches.

The lovely young farmer (wholesome as a dairymaid) hands me a sample, explaining that the fruit is organic, picked just the day before.  The peach is heavy in my hand and bigger than my fist.  When I bite into it, juice runs down both sides of my chin.  The essence of summer is distilled into that peach; it is manna from Palisade.

How should it be that I am gorging on perfect pesticide-free peaches while the women of Damascus scrounge for sarin-laced foodstuffs?  How should it be that my Japanese counterpart pauses between Pepsi-flavored Cheetos and strawberry-frosted ones (another horrible Asian truth), agonizing over her crunchy snacking choices, while the desperate women of Damascus are afraid to give their children water?  How is this fair?  How is this God’s Good Plan?  Clean thoughts and pure living have not earned me this position of privilege (please see theoretical behavioral percentages, above).

Missy attempts to sweeten herself up
Missy attempts to sweeten herself up

It’s all such a crapshoot – sometimes the shot lands you in a pile of goat manure and ignites it, and sometimes the shot lands you in peaches and cream.   I made eighteen jars of peach jam this morning.  In the dreary dark of February, I will spread my morning toast with jam that tastes like sunshine and find in the jar this preserved summer’s day.  Why am I so lucky?

Husband is lucky, too.  His marital crapshoot lands him in a Vermont pasture, surrounded by a mob of ersatz hillbillies.  No goat shit anywhere — just plenty of cow dung.

It’s all Husband’s fault.  “They’ll think I’m a hick,” says he, a shy Denver boy fretting about meeting his doubtlessly sophisticated new New York family.  Husband resolves to swagger off the plane wearing fancy cowboy boots and a fringy rodeo shirt and a big-ass Stetson, ready to tell them all what a fine filly they done raised.

I relay this plan to my family a night or two before Husband is to arrive.  It is after dinner.  We are drinking wine.  We are feeling peachy. My family likes this plan.   But, “we’re the ones who’ll seem like real hicks to someone who grew up in Denver,” says Mother.  Sister disappears, like the Cheetos dash.   We discuss the nature of hick-dom.  We drink more wine.

Sister returns to the dining room.  She has blacked out a tooth with eyebrow pencil.  She has donned an old flannel shirt and stuffed a pillow beneath it – she waddles with pseudo-pregnancy.  “I reckon if he wants hicks, we kin give him hicks,” says she.   A lively planning session ensues:  I am to drive to the airport while the rest of the family gets into ice-breaking costumed position.

“But you can’t bring him up to this house,” says Father.  “He’ll know it’s all a fake as soon as you round the corner.  If we’re going to do this up right, you need to take him over to Deer Camp.”

No cowboy hat, no string tie, no holster
Thanks for visiting!

And so, family history is made.  Brand New Husband, baptized by fire, is immediately accepted into the O’Brien ranks.  We all laugh, loudly and at length, and then don’t have to spend the rest of the week awkwardly discussing the weather.  It is brilliant.

But, “is it safe?” asks Husband.   It’s been 29 years, and I still don’t have an answer for him.


 

Oh Death, Where Is Thy Dance Card?

For most women, a poignant moment in their wedding is the traditional father-daughter dance.

Or so I hear.

I’ve also heard that there are in fact people out there who don’t live and breathe Guilt, who don’t lie awake at night running through a rosary of remembered Mea Culpas and who don’t wake up every morning ready to break fast on more. This notion is to me as far-fetched as Sasquatch or aliens or guardian angels.

I was horrified when the nuns first taught us about guardian angels, unseen creatures who watch us every minute of the day and night.  “When I’m peeing?” thought I.  “When I’m picking my nose or my toes in what I thought was privacy?”  I found the whole idea repulsive, and still do:  spies for a god who shouldn’t have to resort to espionage if he is indeed omnipresent.  Is the ether full of winged busybodies hovering nosily around like reclusive old ladies peering at the neighbors through cracks in their curtains?  Those invasive invisibles should all be consigned to the limbo of a Russian airport transit zone, with no shot at political asylum.

You can't do this anymore (if indeed you ever could)
You can’t do this anymore (if indeed you ever could)

Then again, Benedict XVI did away with limbo in 2007.

Could he really do that, after 800 years of entrenched formal catechism?  Does this mean his predecessors were only infallible ‘til death did them part?

Rachel Wolf of Auburn, CA, knew that death was soon to part her from her father.  This is indeed a sad and tragic thing.  Rachel, facing the inevitable, focused on the fact that she’d be cheated of the father-daughter dance at her wedding (let’s heap some guilt on the old man, shall we?  He hasn’t had enough to think about, fighting a long losing battle with pancreatic cancer).

Now, Rachel has no Prince Charming on the horizon.  No glass slipper to force her foot into,  thereby forcing his hand.  But she planned a night in white satin and propped her dying father up in a tuxedo and made a dance video (to her credit, she did not make him do the limbo).  The song she chose was “Cinderella,” by Steven Curtis Chapman. The assembled crowd wiped away tears as father and daughter glided across the gazebo.

Order Before Midnight!
Order Before Midnight!

The gazebo, the tux, the limo, the gown, the veil, the make-up and hair, the catering, the DJ and the photography were all donated.  The YouTube went instantly viral, as schmaltzy sentimental stories are wont to do, and Rachel and her donors became famous.  She has received marriage proposals from around the globe.  If I weren’t a good person, I’d suggest that all that careful event planning smacked of tacky tasteless self-absorbed self-centered self-aggrandizement.

It will shock you to learn that I am not a good person.

Why not make a video of your dying father that’s actually about your dying father rather than about you?  Why not record him discussing the record of his long life and his lasting loves and his last lessons?  Why not pay him private personal tribute with a meaningful interview?  A chance for him to have his say, and speak to his descendants?  A respectful retrospective of his days and times?

Now consider this, as if all that weren’t bad enough:

Some years from now, Rachel Wolf will most likely have come to peace with her father’s death.  In the intervening months, she will have met the man of her dreams and planned her dream wedding.  Once again, she will have arranged limos and dresses and hairdressers and gazebos and dance floors and DJs (she will have to pay for them this time, unless she can milk that first production for encore interest).  At the reception, her cheerful guests will be happily celebrating.  Is there anything happier than a wedding?  Even the most cynical of us smiles and gleefully abuses the open bar.

no moreSuddenly, a pirate ship appears on the horizon.  The lights go down, everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats and gets quiet, and then – the voodoo video of the dead dancing father airs.

Is this a mood-killer, or what?  No amount of champagne is going to fix this party.  People will edge toward the exits and escape as soon as is decently possible.  The carriage will have turned back into a pumpkin.  Others, into living vicarious grief, will declare the spectacle a piteous wonder, sobbing over the wonderful bride and her wonderfulness in providing such a wondrous experience for the dead man.

I don’t know that dead men have experiences.  I think they are – well — dead.  Until some pope decrees that death doesn’t exist, I’m betting that it does.  Lots of dead people are with me on this one.

Rachel should surely choose La Dia de los Muertos for her wedding, a remarkably festive pre-Columbian holiday honoring the dancing dead. Sugar skulls are traditional gifts, with names of the dear departed inscribed on each gleaming white forehead.  Wedding guest favors?  Done! — and with Martha Stewart-esque flair: Daddy in frostinged calligraphy.

Don't Fear the Reaper
Seasonings Don’t Fear the Reaper

Why so vehement about this, you wonder?  Why not cut the silly girl some slack?  In the words of an English professor grading a rather acerbic critique I wrote years ago, “Your gratuitous contempt is unattractive, Missy.”

We harpies eventually abandon attempts to seem attractive; we’re a niche market at best.  Gratuitous contempt, as my professor well knew, is generally a mask for personal insecurity.  We scorn that which we secretly fear we are or might become.  We sneer at sentimentality when we’re apt to fall prey to it.  We wear colorful death masks at morbid Mexican festivals knowing we’ll one day be skulls ourselves – and not pretty candy ones.

I cheated my dad of a father-daughter wedding dance, you see, and have felt bad about it ever since (just one entry on the dance card of my life-long affair with Guilt).  Husband and I went down to the courthouse one afternoon with a handful of friends and nary a relative, and married without flourish or fanfare (although there was plenty of champagne).  I could try and fix this, I know, given Rachel’s example.  I could dress up my dad and make him waltz about with a blowsy middle-aged matron trussed up in white like a sacrificial virgin.  We could capture the moment in a still photograph to stick in my old shoebox with the fuzzy wedding snapshots my friends took on their Kodak Instamatic cameras.   But neither guilt nor death will be cheated.

Thanks for visiting!  Missy
Thanks for visiting!
Missy

 

 


 

 

 

A Dearth of Mirth

“You really need to make time for some MIRTH,” says Husband, helpfully.

“Oh?”  I say, in full attack mode.  “And just what is that supposed to mean?  You find me uptight and humorless and dour, lately?  You think I’m dying by grumpy degrees for want of a creative outlet?  You’re suggesting that I need to lighten up and stop staring at my naval and worrying that our sons will still be living in the basement when they’re 40 and that I’ll die without ever having had an empty nest moment?  You think I’m unhealthily obsessing about the fate of the planet and the fact that Girlfriend of Son #1 will doubtless get another goddamned Siamese fighting fish when the one living listlessly in my front room finally gives up the ghost?  You think our marriage has become yet another household chore that I’m grossly neglecting?  You think I’m even more strung-out and grim than usual?  You think I’m doing that pathetic ‘I have wasted my whole summer’ thing again?  Just what do you mean, giving me a glass of wine and suggesting that I sit and work on my mirth?”

Husband gets one of those deeply hurt but patient and understanding expressions on his face, which pushes me over the edge.

Me, except for the boobs and the Scarlett O'Hara waistline
Me, except for the great knockers
and the Scarlett O’Hara waistline

“And just what does that look mean?  You think I’m just another hysterical middle-aged female raging-hormone case?”

I am, of course.  I take the wine and apologize to Husband for having morphed from the fairly docile creature he married into a full-blown harpy.

And not even an up-to-date computer-graphic harpy – I fancy myself one of those awkward stop-action figures from the old film version of Jason and the Argonauts.

I mourned the recent passing of Ray Harryhausen.  His army of marching skeletons terrified me when I was a nervous young babysitter trying to stay awake through the wee hours of the night.  To this day, I figure Death will come trooping after me on bony skeleton feet.   I’d prefer little cat ones and a nice fog, but I don’t get a vote.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls
Ask not for whom the bell tolls

The news server I frequent kindly arranges a sidebar of articles selected “just for me,” chosen by some godlike algorithm that examines what I’ve researched in the past  (yeah, I know – Bigfoot, classical music, carnal relations with aliens, 18th century literature, the Guinness record for biggest fake boobs – I can stump a sophisticated mathematical formula without even trying).  Sometimes it does get it right, though, trotting out the article on the death of the Dynamation man.

This morning I woke up to Goats Unleashed at Congressional Cemetery paired with Women at Wailing Wall Incite Ultra Orthodox.

"Are there any women here today?"
“Are there any women here today?”
(courtesy Python Cam)

It works, really.  Washingtonians are wailing about weed-eating goats invading a place of their dead as if they were widows in weeds invading a place of worship.  Or perhaps my personal news search engine ran “goats” and “Jewish mothers” through the system and decided they belonged together because Kosher law forbids the cooking of a young goat in its mother’s milk.  Makes perfect sense, in a binary sort of way.

MIRTH at its most whimsical would be hard-pressed to top that.  But MIRTH didn’t even have to try – the next two articles on the list were entitled, Panda Cam Offers Adorable Eavesdropping and Vigil Set for Boys Strangled by Python.

I’m thinking a Python Cam might be a better investment than a panda one, at least where defenseless young boys are left sleeping near killer snakes.  I’m thinking that pythons need some strict food rules  — no young boys, period.

I grew up eating fish every Friday.  I understand that religious dietary laws are a call to holiness, a demand for minor martyrdom.  You’re craving a big messy chili dog in the worst way, but your god expects you to substitute a dried-out frozen fish stick.

And why?  “Because I said so.”  It’s an indulgent exercise in flaunting power for power’s sake.  Every parent who ever lived has lived for that line.  There’s a certain thrill in intoning Thou Shalt Nots.

The Abrahamic god was clever with his Catholics.  Many of them had no money for meat, anyway, so he had them make a virtue of necessity by abstaining on Fridays.  He might have done better by his chosen people, though.  Why not just teach them to cook their pork to an internal temperature of 145 degrees and pasteurize their milk?  Any god worth his salt should have some gourmet cooking expertise and be willing to share it.  Think of the advantage he’d have on IRON CHEF.

Dietary laws are also a call to discipline. The ability to distinguish between what’s right & wrong, good & evil, and pure & defiled helps our species survive.  Your innocent daughter is slumming in a seedy biker bar late Friday night?  You want her to understand these things.  Your sweet son is downtown where he shouldn’t be, propositioned by practitioners of the oldest profession?  You want him to have this concept down pat.

Terror of men everywhere -- an earnest young woman with prayer book
The terror of conservative men everywhere
— earnest young woman with prayer book

Black and white turn to grey when we turn to questions of the sacred & profane – goats in the cemetery or women at the Wailing Wall.  Jerusalem’s last extant piece of the Temple of Solomon is a fiercely contested prize.  Solomon himself would laugh (or perhaps cry) at seeing his baby cut in half — or, more likely, into eighths or ninths or hundreths, with Jews and Arabs and Christians and many vicious sub-sects of each fighting each other tooth and nail for control.

We none of us like to share our toys, but most learn to do so with reluctant grace (except for my new laptop, which by Jesus no-one else will ever touch unless of course I need tech support, in which case Sons #1 and #2 will grudgingly be allowed temporary access).

Commandment #11, alas, went missing long ago:  Thou Shalt Share Thy Stuff.  Clear, straightforward, and free of all that confusing coveting and envying wordage that makes some of the Top 10 seem redundant.

Commandment #12 is an important one, too:  Thou Shalt Not Be An Asshole.

#13 reads, Thou Shalt Be Kind.  #12 by itself is not enough, you see.   Not being an asshole just renders you neutral.  We’re after active goodness, here.

#14 says, Thou Shalt Bite Thy Tongue.  It continues, “ . . . Until It Bleedeth, If Necessary.”  Ultimately, your opinion does not matter, even to God.  Or perhaps especially to God.  Father of Kid’s Friend has no business rocking back on his heels, Moses-like, and instructing me to kick my slacker sons out to toughen them up.  He knoweth not my situation.  He loveth not my sons.

The friend who advised me to flush Fish of Girlfriend of Son #1 down the toilet may, however, have a point.  Everything is relative.

imagineImagine how smoothly the world would run, given those four simple rules!  Instead of militarizing the Wailing Wall, pilgrims of every faith should learn to say “Please” and “Thank You” and “No, After You!” and visit it respectfully together.

You may say that I’m dreamer, yes? (although I never actually liked John Lennon much, a confession I know is akin to saying I don’t believe in God.  Forgive me, you ardent Beatles fans.   I haven’t grown horns.  Really.  That’s just my harpy persona).

Lost Commandment #15 is best of all, though:  Thou Shalt Not Put Empty Ice Cube Trays Back In Thy Freezer.

Husband was right again (I hate that).  Some wine, some MIRTH, and the earth is worth it all once more.

Thanks for visiting!  Missy
Thanks for visiting!
Missy