NOT condiments...

Oh no, no no, no condiments at our house.

WE've got THE MAGIC BULLET!

---

Parsley Porn

In a ceremony long on sequins and short on edible canapés, the American group PETA has again anointed its King and Queen. Every year at around this time, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals takes pause from its important work of saving Our Broken Earth to recognise The World’s Sexiest Vegetarians.
Every year at around this time, I take pause from the important work of blaspheming on a personal weblog to recognise The World’s Most Pointless Activists.
Having received its annual Vitamin B 12 shot, an organisation that regularly relieves me of any lingering omnivore guilt named two marginal television personalities as its Sexiest. These are Carrie Underwood, a country-lite blonde singer from Oklahoma and Kevin Eubanks, a guy who plays in Jay Leno’s Tonight Show Band.
I have squandered the better part of a morning looking at pictures and moving images of these two putative celebrities and trying to work up some lust. I can report, neither of them is particularly “Sexy”. And, ask any leftover from my Salad Days, my standards are pretty generous.
Kevin, frankly, just looks like a nice Dad type in clumpy shoes and American catalogue-wear. I tried to imagine him pulling my hair and calling me his beyatch. No. By eleven, all that had occurred was an elaborate and unsexy fantasy which ended with him usefully painting my cornices. By which I mean: he usefully painted my cornices.
Two time title holder Underwood, although physically lovely, is every bit as sexy as the typewriter for which she was named. In fact, I decided this long ago as she reprised Love Is a Battlefield during the ’04 season of American Idol. Those of a certain vintage will recall the AWESOME boozy jiggle enacted by Pat Benatar in the original version of this powerful tune. Miss Underwood, sadly, drained a massively sexy song of all its sex.
Jus as PETA continues to drain real activism of any actual might.
For years now, this organisation has colluded with famous idiots. Using the vacant mechanism of celebrity, it has attempted to jam the machine of animal slaughter. It has asked Naomi Campbell (still an unapologetic fur-wearer and Very Hot Criminal) to pose nude for its anti-fur campaign. It has lured vegan Playboy models into its employ and draped them publicly in lettuce leaves. Yes, girls, it’s apparently fine to inject poison into your tits to uphold the phallic standard and show your arse-hole to Hef and the world for money. But eating little lambies is Just Not Cool.
Amid all of this hypocrisy and shallow, selective World Saving, PETA never misplaced my interest so utterly as when they named Mr Paltrow, AKA Chris Martin of Coldplay, as 2005’s Mister Herbilicious.
Coldplay? Sexy? !? He contains all the strapping sexual protein of char-grilled eggplant and I shan’t be eating a slice of him any time soon.
If PETA wishes to engage the attention of myself and other potentially principled foodies, they might start by engaging our intellect rather than libido. Cos, try as I might, I’m just not seeing Caz, Kev and I in a Jacuzzi.

PSA

Film submissions wanted - see below:

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

6 CONTINENTS

207 COUNTRIES

MILLIONS OF WOMEN

The International Museum of Women invites you to be a part of Imagining Ourselves, an online global exhibit featuring art, photographs, essays and film by young women in their 20s and 30s answering the question, "What defines your generation?"

If you have a story to tell and a voice that wants to be heard, we welcome your submission. We are now accepting short films for our Online Film Festival. Get to know our exhibit by going to www.imow.org and clicking on the Imagining Ourselves exhibit.

Read stories, view artwork and film and listen to music and spoken word from the many young women from all around the world.

Be inspired. Get involved. Take action.

Visit www.imow.org

----

Paris, still Burning

Despite earlier reports, P Whitney Hilton is not made from filigree titanium and life-force drained from the souls of sleeping children. She is not, after all, a blonde bagless vacuum with a synthetic chassis designed to suck the organ of discourse dry.
No. She’s an upright, Christian Girl Scout getting set to hock her sugar cookies to the culture. Yum.
As any penitent celeb would, Paris sought absolution from Barbara Walters on Sunday. From deep within her dermatitis, she told Walters, “God has given me this new chance.”
Freshly pressed into the service of the Lord, Paris declared her intention to help Those Less Fabulous. She announced astonishing plans to open something like a Centre For Children Who Can't Read Good. Then, she, like, rilly regrouped as a Total role model and confessed that her dumb act was, “no longer cute.”
Apparently abject stupidity has soured beyond its erotic Best Before date. Who knew?
PR redemption is a story that is played out every other week. Apparently, we love it. Angelina, a renovator’s delight, was once a tatty bi-curious hovel. Now she’s a rainbow cathedral of hope. Madonna was once a man eating onanist. Post Kabala, it don’t mean a thing if she ain’t got that string.
The thing is, though, Ange and Madge might actually give a crap. It is entirely possible to believe that they wish to use their charms for good instead of crotch grabbing evil.
As anyone who has seen Miss Hilton’s adult video might attest, she is not the world’s most responsive woman. So could God really prod her into a more active service?
Well, duh, no.
As is her mode, Paris simply proceeds through the motions. And in doing so, provides another handy clue to the burgeoning crappiness of the culture.
Today, she’s Redemption Barbie (with optional stick on rash). The world’s most expensive cipher has, again, drained the meaning from something beautiful.
Thanks to Paris, the practise of living has itself been refurbished and is now sold back to us as A Lifestyle Choice!
She hasn’t learnt anything so much as she has redecorated. This is salvation as performed by the Fab Five of Queer Eye.

Today I am Reading a Book

I thought I'd reignite an old infatuation. Thanks, in small part, to the advice of a pal and thanks, in large part, to the buzzy suspicion that I've been getting awfully thick and lazy in recent years, I'm reading a book.
It is not as if I have never done this before. I do read books on occasion.
Occasionally.
These days, I seem to prefer the internet, the advice of allies and magazines to the slow torture of entire books. Rather than immerse myself utterly in a boiler of hot prose, I prefer the cool instant fix. In this Cheat Note epoch, I reason, why should I bother? Because I should.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, I read many books. I read them in a concentrated teenaged era of hope and fearlessness. Reading, as any active reader will attest, actually requires a great deal of bravery and commitment. As an adolescent, I had both these qualities. When these fused with naiveté, there was no stopping me.
I had no idea who or what I was reading. I was just eager to dive into it all. And I didn’t care.
I read Marx and Sartre and Graham Greene and Angela Carter and Kerouac and Flaubert. I read Mann and Kristeva and Derrida and Patrick White and, shock, even poetry. (Although, I think, I've always had some aversion to poetry. Due, I think, to a fairly practical mind and a fear of sentiment and unnecessary weeping.)
By the time I was 20, I read more, I feel certain, than I will read for the remainder of my wobbly days. One reads orgiastically at that age. One reads with genuine lust.
When I think about the dousing of this pale fire, I am reminded of a conversation with a long ago record company executive who (irrelevant to the narrative but funny nonetheless) would often attest to his will have me walk on him in bespoke stilettos while he masturbated. Ah, rock’n’roll memories. Ah, youth.
Of fading desire, he would say, “Put a dollar into a piggy bank for every time you fuck in the first year of marriage. Then throughout your marriage, take a dollar out for every time you fuck thereafter. You will always have money.”
Do excuse my coarse language. I’ve found that this maxim is neither funny nor compelling if I erase the rude words. In any case, you know what he meant. And, in all likelihood (unless you’re medicated or a liar) you’ll agree with the sentiment.
So it is, for me at least, with reading. I'll never match my youthful literary zeal. When the Honeymoon was over and the first flush of attraction had soured, I guess I suspected that Reading would always there for me when I fancied a bit. Reading was always within easy reach. I never approached it again with the energy that it demanded.
Once, I was so intimate with my literary heroes and heroines. I was, I think, actually in love with Nietzsche. I loved him. It was erotic and it was intense and I will never know a love like that again.
You might think I’m name dropping. And, clang, yes I am. But these men and women ignited my youthful libido. And it pleases me to mention them again.
So, I am reading a book. And now, I labour and I sit with a dictionary and a Dictionary of Philosophy and even in the moments of fluttery crypto-cleverness, I know I'll never explode in the way I once did. But, slow familiarity is also good. Strange, fast pleasure is the province of the young.
I am no longer young.
But, today I am reading a book.

Mother One do you read me, over.

the Earth,
her surface crissed with steel pipes collecting
her bubbling pockets of digestion gas.

The Iranian Embassy said Turkey gets about half of its gas supplies from Iran, but Botas said it did not expect any shortages. The company said the cut in Iranian gas would be compensated by supplies from Russia, which are brought in by way of the Blue Stream pipeline underneath the Black Sea.

Fertility for generations to come
if we let her bubble grind and crush the poisons
into rocks weeping fertile futures ten million years
from now.

Turkish and Iranian officials are reportedly discussing expanding the pipeline for exports to Europe.

Has not it been written
that we are in a garden of Earthly delight?
Doesn't she give us naturally all that we need?
She is my Mother.

China supplied its own oil for decades from domestic oil fields, but became a net importer in the 1990s. Driven by a booming economy, it has quickly risen to become the world's third-biggest oil importer, after Japan and the United States.

A web of pipes and screw driven ships
mix and churn the surface of my Mother.
And the wires
the wires the wires

A Public Radio Dream

No, I am NOT giving up on Grateful Dread Radio. No way in heck is that happening. But when you've spent a lifetime dreaming about and preparing for working in public radio to do good, positive, progressive, world-changing work and an opportunity so incredible as the Public Radio Talent Quest comes along, you simply have to go for it. Please humor a middle-aged do-gooding journo as she attempts to make a lifelong dream come true. I'm certainly more than qualified for the job, and uniquely so, but frankly, it comes down to votes, and the first cut is massive (only 10 entries from nearly 1000 move on to round two). Please drop by and if you like what you hear, vote for me (and please steer your friends and associates toward it too). Costs nothing but a couple of minutes and it could -- oh please, oh please, oh please -- change the entire course of my life for the better (and, frankly, would be great for public radio too). Thanks and pax vobiscum!

http://www.publicradioquest.com/node/1068

blank paris

In every life, about a handful of Truly Significant moments are collected. These, unless you’re easily given to joy upon opening stationery catalogues eating spaghetti, polishing brassware et al, are wrung from events broadly agreed to be drenched in emotion. Births, deaths, marriages and all their variants and relatives from illness to ignited love provide the stuff of big moments.
You will recognise these moments for their potency. Within these instants, some sort of emotional coin is dropped. A new mechanism is activated and, slowly then suddenly, your insides creak and you’re changed for good.
When you care to peruse your album of rare and remarkable moments, you will almost certainly find these were built in the immediate company of life, death and affection. You may also find that this record is slim. This, truly, is the way it should be. A life too well-punctuated by high drama and joy is a life drained of meaning. Unless, of course, you’re Namoi Campbell.
I suspect that I’m quite fortunate to have collected a few such moments for display and ready reference. My internal emotional directory contains a select hit list at the top of which is an “I Love You” closely followed by an “It’s completely operable”.
Occasionally, however, I find myself eager for the inclusion of new moments.
Like a brooding tween hepped up on a dissatisfying diet of Emo and trans fats, I find myself idly hoping for bad-ass, life changing emotional action.
I’m not at all entirely certain who to blame for this accerelated urge. However, apportion blame I must. First, as a selfish student of the twenty first century, I automatically seek to blame external forces for my own emotional failures. Second, and more or less altruistically, I have noticed a great many other adult persons who appear in similar need of memorable exhilaration. It’s a virus that someone, at the very least, should diagnose.
And Paris Hilton, culture’s screaming diseased chimp, is its point of origin.
When Paris says she “loves” something, as she nearly always does, I believe she means it. She loves Vuitton luggage. She loves Hermes scarves/Kelly bags/toilet paper dispensers. She loves frankly vapid conversation with former stars of That 70s Show just as much as she loves anything. Unchained in the high end boulevarde of post-meaning hell, Paris can no longer identify between the kind of love one reserves for people and the sort formerly reserved for Really Cute Shoes.
Emotions of the more purplish hues, it seems to me, are in over-supply. Passion, despair, fear and stinging love all seem to ooze more freely from the unglamorous rocks of the everyday. A heretofore unseen level of passion dominates the supermarket queue, the workplace, the acquisition of a throw rug.
One tempting way to explain this emotional gush is a reference to “stress”. It is popularly held that we are subjected to a great deal of stress.
Certainly, we are over-stimulated. Probably, we reside in a toxic cultural landscape where meaning and satisfaction have been ablated by sugary drinks, neo-conservatism and other fizzy distemper.
Stress, however, is no genuine excuse for our unstuck, post teenaged flock of feelings. My grandmother lived through the rather more identifiable stress of World War, depression and the introduction of packet mix cake. (Incidentally, as a former sponge champion, she regards this latter infraction as the worst.) And, to this day, she feels little need to show improper emotion. (With the exception of shouting at game shows and pictures of the prime minister.)
The term “stress” I think, has been cheapened by its overuse by nearly everyone. Just as the term “love” has been cheapened by overuse by Paris Hilton.

Bush to the Next President: "Here ... Catch."

President Codpiece celebrated “Mission Accomplished” day by vetoing the Iraq war spending bill. Why turn down money he’s just dying to get his grubby hands on? Cause those mean Dems are trying to make him end the war some time during his Presidency. And that just ain’t gonna happen.

No way will George W. Bush clean up his own mess! He’s never done it before, so why start now? Bush has always used the "here … catch: approach to life, kicking the can down the road and sticking somebody else with problems he created. And that brings me to my
latest limerick.

Mad Kane

Mother's Day Limerick Writing Contest with Money Prizes

Wow, it's been a long time since I've posted here. My apologies! I hope to be better about posting in the future.

I wanted to let you know I'm running a Mother's Day limerick writing contest over at one of my blogs. (Yes, I'm insane enough to have both a humor blog and a political humor blog.)

I sure hope some of you will consider entering. There's no entry fee and I'm offering money prizes.

Here's my Mother's Day limerick contest announcement post.

I hope to see some of you there. Thanks!

Mad Kane

MANAGED DIALOGUE?

Quote: “That is one of the mistakes a lot of people make — believing that uncensored speech is the most free, when in fact, managed civil dialogue is actually the freer speech.” --Tim O’Reilly, as quoted in the New York Times.

Quote: "My ass." -- Jeneane Sessum, as quoted in allied.

Vonnegut Dead at 84: You're Free, Uncle Kurt

From the NY Times:

Kurt Vonnegut, whose dark comic talent and urgent moral vision in novels like "Slaughterhouse-Five," "Cat's Cradle" and "God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater" caught the temper of his times and the imagination of a generation, died last night in New York. He was 84 and had homes in New York and in Sagaponack on Long Island.

His death was reported by Morgan Entrekin, a longtime family friend, who said Vonnegut suffered brain injuries as a result of a fall several weeks ago.

Vonnegut wrote plays, essays and short fiction. But it was his novels that became classics of the American counterculture, making him a literary idol, particularly to students in the 1960s and '70s. Dog-eared paperback copies of his books could be found in the back pockets of blue jeans and in dorm rooms on campuses throughout the United States.

Like Mark Twain, Vonnegut used humor to tackle the basic questions of human existence: Why are we in this world? Is there a presiding figure to make sense of all this, a god who in the end, despite making people suffer, wishes them well?

He also shared with Twain a profound pessimism. "Mark Twain," Vonnegut wrote in his 1991 book, "Fates Worse Than Death: An Autobiographical Collage," "finally stopped laughing at his own agony and that of those around him. He denounced life on this planet as a crock. He died."

---

The conclusions you shared in A Man Without a Country scared the hell out of me.

I had taken a break from you after spending a good two decades-plus immersed in your words and, in blazing my own literary and activist trail, surveying, researching, exposing and trying to repair a broken world. Needed to expand my worldview and dive into new pools and explore other vistas. Just two months ago, I saw the book in a cafe/bookstore -- ironically your last book, it turned out, heh -- and was compelled to purchase it. Immediately read it cover to cover. And it terrified me.

Listen: At 82, the age you were during the writing, you concluded that we are beyond hope. We humans, consumed with greed and selfishness and a reckless disregard for other humans, have scarred the planet and the communal soul. The damage appears, no, is irrevocable, you wrote. So it goes.

Having those sentiments come from you, a scribe I have long revered and one in some sense I know intimately, did not surprise. What was stunning was that these conclusions are the very ones that have kept this progressive scribe mired in deep depression for nearly four years (and probably longer). I now am a relatively young, but regretfully old, 45. Imagine that.

So it goes.

Keeping on with writing and do-gooding and disseminating ideas, however hopeless the endeavor. Beats joining the Church of the Utterly Indifferent. Will try harder to savor the nice moments along the way; I'm toasting you right now with ice-cold southern sweet tea, and it is really nice. Another blessing: The libation serves as a bracing distraction from the searing pain of immeasurable loss. Call it liquid oxycontin. Yeah, sipping this tea is awfully nice.

And perhaps all hope is not lost. After all, something led me to pick up A Man Without a Country; the book's advice for coping with life in the midst of the world's insanity -- and perhaps the lesser craziness that is my own -- will be invaluable if I must endure another four decades.

Thanks for the long-ago slap in the face, that whap! of cold, hard truth. For the laughs. For Kilgore Trout. For catching Al Stewart's eye and making me take Twain more seriously.

Color me devastated and numb, but grateful and glad you are free of this hellhole.

And forgive me if, just for today, I ditch one piece of the wisdom you shared with a disillusioned and lonely girl via handwritten letter 35 years ago. OK, two: I used a semicolon. I have my reasons.


Love,
An 84-year-old man in the
body of a middle-aged woman

P.S. Damn you, you've left me with a question and now you must know the answer: Is death really the logical solution to any problem? Since neither you nor the late Samuel Clemons are here, I'll have to tackle that on my own. To wit: Some deaths -- for example, those of a baby, a newlywed, a just-certified doctor or Dana Reeve -- defy logic. Logical and inevitable are not synonyms. Sometimes, however, the two intersect. Goodbye, Blue Monday!

---

The following poem appears at the end of Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s final book:

When the last living thing

has died on account of us,

how poetical it would be

if Earth could say,

in a voice floating up

perhaps

from the floor

of the Grand Canyon,

"It is done."

People did not like it here.

real women have....

Yes, I know. The expected subsequent word is "curves," and I was going to post about having an appointment tomorrow morning to sign up at "Curves for Women" so that I can get myself on an exercise program.

But that was before I checked over at a blog from Saudi Arabia written by an American woman who lives there. If you haven't found Sand Gets In My Eyes yet, you're missing out not only on some excellent writing, but even more important, on a perspective on that country that is both honest and personal.

Her post Is Phyllis Chesler Right? is infuriating because it's so honest, so correct (although not politically), and links over to an even more infuriating article in the Times Online by Chesler entitled How My Eyes Were Opened to the Barbarity of Islam.

Now, I have been a fan of Chesler since I read Women and Madness at a time in my life when I was both mad/angry and wondering if I were going mad/crazy. That book helped to launch me into the heart of feminism.

Just as I can't understand how savvy, smart women can tolerate the demeaning attitude toward them from the Catholic and other "Christian" churces, I have never been able to understand how anyone with an ounce of humanity in them keep finding excuses for the way women are treated in so many of the Islam-based cultures. I find it infuriating.

And so do Lori of Sand in My Eyes and Chesler of the long list of
publications challenging women to stand up and men to wake up.

I'm not going to quote from either of them here because both of their pieces (see third paragraph above for links) should be read whole.

I continue not to understand why the most "religious" people totally ignore the Golden Rule.

[cross-posted at Kalilily Time]

Melbourne's One Day Mini Conference is a week away

We are in the final stages of putting together the biggest mini conference in Brevard County - Five dynamic speakers will give presentations and let you into their worlds. These people are scribblers,biographers, novelists, essayists, bards, poets, columnists, journalists, writers, authors, editors, and publishers - some are a little bit of each, while others specialize in one or two areas - but they are all writers. And each one is preparing to share with you, his or her unique knowledge of the writing industry, and how it can impact your life in a personal way.

Our team of volunteers have been working diligently to provide a fantastic experience for you, on the beach! We'll have a delicious lunch, snacks, and some tremendous goodie bags as well as door prizes and some amazing and amusing surprises.

This is a one day conference, you won't want to miss. If you haven't yet registered, you'll want to print out the form below and mail it in quickly.

If you have any questions, please email writermary@gmail.com

Carnival Linkage

There are more carnivals than you can shake a stick at around the blogosphere, but I think the following will be worth the reading time of this blog's visitors. Scientiae Carnival #1 is over at Rants of a Feminist Engineer. It's a compilation of some thought-provoking posts on women in science and engineering.

Virginity Soap??!! WTF!!!

A blogger in Saudi Arabia tells of a scam that takes us back to the fantasies of men in the Middle Ages -- and in their middle ages -- when the virginity of their women was one of their prized possessions.

Read Lori's post in her blog, Sand Gets in My Eyes, where she reports:

According to Peaceful Muslimah, the soaps are indicative of a larger problem in the Middle East (and likely other parts of the world), where a woman’s virginity is her most important asset." Unfortunately in many Muslim societies, as well as non-Muslim underdeveloped nations, there is an extreme pressure brought to bear on women's chastity. As I recently discussed here, lack of chastity or even the perception of it can lead to fatal consequences. So is it any wonder that Muslim women are willing to go to extraordinary measures to maintain the appearance of the virginal bride on their honeymoon."

[snip]

I did some checking, and the soaps are readily available throughout the world, thanks in large part to the internet. The idea is that the soap’s astringents “constrict and tighten" , creating that coveted "look and feel" of virginity.

One manufacturer boasts their product is...."Used and enjoyed by hundreds of thousands of women in the Middle East and Asia, it has brought back youthful passions, rekindled sensual yearnings, and completely intensified sexual experience.”

Ha! What a lot of bunk!

Her entire post includes more links and info. It would be great if other Blog Sisters would post about this issue as well.

Cross posted at www.kalilily.net

WHO are we?

Dear Blog Sisters, Wanted to let you know, I claimed our page over on squidoo, and anyone who wants to can go over and edit the page -- ADD your bio, links to your other blogs and websites, the stuff you care about. Have at it! Let me know how it goes. Much love, your fearless leader.

Spirits dance

I walk through the landscape in my mind…it becomes a stroll through memories, past, present, and future...

...always he is there...waiting for me, beckoning...

And we connect yet again...never missing a step…as if we had never been apart…and where we meet, our spirits intersect...there is beauty, there is joy, there is some melancholy as well...

I realise that he never left...that we have always shared...that we always will...that we will meet again in the next lifetime..and, remember again...lifetime after lifetime.

There is no hiding from this, there never was...we just drifted like snows, like sands shifting in the desert...yet, like the snow melting that returns to the earth, like the sands that shift but remain part of the whole terrain forever – we never really leave each other…we remain tied to one another...through life, through other lovers, through lifetimes past, present and future...

Always...

Laughter and Chocolate

This picture makes me smile so much! It's my young son - laughing and covered in chocolate on holiday in Southern Spain.

I am pretty new to the world of blogging and this site.

I live in a small and beautiful village in England, and I think a few other countries like the U.S., Canada, France and Australia seem much more comfortable with this medium. I have been finding my way around, and trying to make sense of the links and blogrolls and all that la-di-da - what has intrigued me is the way women are linking up and talking about really important and personal issues. I guess that's no surprise, we're pretty fantastic at that, huh? - but what an amazing idea, that we can do that globally and easily without the barriers of distance, nationality, colour, race or cultures.

I'm married to an American, who wandered across to Europe for the obligatory trip in his twenties, and stayed 15 years! In 2003, I was a single Mum to a 3 year old boy , working full-time as a Director of HR for an animal welfare charity. I found the love of my life on the internet! We flew to meet each other after 17 days of emailing, and in 36 hours knew we had found our respective soul mate and decided to change our whole lives around to be together. It was at this point the irony of life kicked in ,and the company he was working for in Europe posted him back to the U.S. for 14 months... West Coast at that... It was mad, but fairy-tale stuff - all-day flights to get to Las Vegas for 30 hours to see each other and then fly back to take my son to school... and I HATE flying... and leaving my son! Luckily I had moved to my parent's village, so he was quite happy that I take off occasionally - time to be spoilt at the Grandparents!!

Now we're trying IVF, and I'm deep in injections and hormone hell.

There must be so many of you out there, thousands of miles away, juggling the same challenges that I am (and many of you juggling much, much more)...Sliding into work wondering if you remembered to put your child's spelling book in his bag whilst rushing off the next meeting....Fitting the weekly shopping around lunch breaks and trying to fit in a million priorities... Flopping down on a Friday night having "survived" another week!! Great that those moments can be shared in this way - some of the blogs I've stumbled across have been fantastic - funny, heart-wrenching, witty, sad, optimistic - sometimes all in the same blog!

So I wish you a day like the photo of my son - laughing and with plenty of chocolate!!

http://thechallengeoflife.blogspot.com

Random thoughts of interest

So we have all heard; if a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, how do we know if it makes a sound....
Well if a blogger, blogs how do we know if there is someone out there reading if you don't post comments....
Now that I got your attention......
We blog for our sanity, therapy and to get feedback and help from our friends loved ones and anyone in an "ear-shot", but how do we get people to flock and respond....I have plenty to talk about and want to say...and I think the kindness- no i am counting the kindness of you kind sould to get me through the dark times, and the fun times....
I had a rough year last year with my dear friend dying, and life happening all around me while i stood there being numb, or trying to be, but it was a hard time to get through..and heck I am still getting through it. How can you get through a time like that.... I mean I got through it, but am more than still visibly shaken...
Then on to better time last year....right before that...finding true love. On March 5 to be exact, when the love of my life and I confessed our true feelings for one and other...completely and utterly out of the blue(I missed Resse Witherspoon exceptence speech on Oscar night, when the feelings where announced). And the winner is:....drum roll please.....ME! That was a thrilling and odd night to say the least..one that will be fun to tell the kids and the grandkids some day trust me...
Then this year I got to have a few highlights so far....The near completion of the remodeling of my apartment....meeting Tommy Lee, Dave Navarro, Dilana, and Toby Rand, and seeing (the ever so hot) Jenna Jameson *standing like 10 feet away* ..And all in the same night...the best part of this new year....Seeing my oldest and dearest friend that I haven't seen in 15 years at the same concert (SuperNova)..And it was so cool playing catch up and seeing her Sister and their husbands, it was surreal for sure..And yet it was like no time had passed at all.
the next stop for this year - My man comes home next month...I can't wait.
the furture is wide open and just waiting. And I am waiting to, for you my viewers. Let's play catch up...and talk and get to know one another. Share the good the bad and the ugly.
so please let me know your out...
Heck throw out a topic and let's see what trouble we get into.....
catch ya on the flip side...