I'm a bit proud of myself that until yesterday I had no idea that Paris Hilton and another slag I'd never heard of, Nicole Richie, had recently filmed a reality television series for Fox entitled "The Simple Life" in Altus, Arkansas, a mere 77 miles southeast of us. The show's premise is for the two girls to live in Altus for one month, giving up their credit cards and their glitzy lifestyle in order to stay with and assist a family of dairy farmers.

Why they would try to get two bimbette lushes to go "back to nature" in the Wine Capital of Arkansas is beyond me. In a town of roughly 800 inhabitants, there are three vinyards: Mount Bethel, Poste Familie and Wiederkher Wine Cellars. They do not, in my opinion, produce very good wines (except for Wiederkher's Cynthiana), but those two girls don't appear to me to be very discerning.

It pains me to think that this is one reality television show I will find myself watching because it's so very close to home, and I am curious to see how Grandma and Grandpa Altus react to having an amateur porn star and a recovering heroin junkie seduce their grandsons. I've really no need to harbor this perverse curiosity, however, because I read in an article (which I can sadly no longer locate) that the two were asked to "camp up" their personalities and to deliberately act even more ridiculous than they already do (if that's possible). So, in essence, this reality show is not all that "real."

The only truly "real" scene I'd enjoy watching would be seeing the entire family relaxing with their "guests" in the living room watching television, when news of Paris' sex tape scandal suddenly breaks. Grandma Hilton then bitch slaps both Paris and Nicole and throws their bony asses out of the house. Now that's "must see tv."

Funny how, since Paris' sex tapes were released, the show's catch phrase, "From filthy rich to just plain filthy" takes on a whole new meaning.

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Is it royal custom, an attempt at humor or merely coincidence that the menu for Buckingham Palace's state banquet dinner in honor of President Bush is written in French?

On the state banquet menu, in French, is consommé with sorrel, roast halibut with herbs, breast of chicken with basil, roast potatoes, Savoy cabbage and salad, followed by vanilla praline and coffee ice cream.

Let us pray Bush doesn't try to order himself, mispronounce all the words, become frustrated and opt for a bowl of SpaghettiOs®. We're lucky, I suppose, that as much fuss as the British media is making of how much they all hate every single little thing about Bush, the chef didn't put some joke item on the menu, like cervelle de veau aux câpres, so the President could unwittingly order calves brains while the other guests snigger and snort champagne through their nostrils.

Not to worry, because at the "return banquet" in honor of the Queen to be held at the home of the U.S. Ambassador, it is rumored that our own little cowboy plans to "put together a Tex Mex feast." A hearty serving of The Bushs' jalepeno-laden guacamole will no doubt cleanse those refined Europalates.

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Sandra Bernhard once quipped that the French are always in a bad mood because they've never consumed a cold beverage. The same must apply to the Saudis, who apparently possess no sense of humor.

Saudi actor Nasser al-Qasabi scanned Web site comments castigating him for appearing in a TV satire about an Islamic religious edict that bans Saudi women from going almost anywhere without a male guardian. One branded him an "ignorant clown.''

The offensive episode was called "Without a Mahram,'' the male guardian who must be the woman's father, brother, son or husband under the conservative Wahhabi Islamic philosophy applied in Saudi Arabia. A Saudi woman needs a mahram to go to a government office or a restaurant or to go anywhere in a car. Saudi women are not allowed to drive, and if they are caught in a vehicle with a man other than a mahram or a professional driver, they can be jailed.

The episode showed the troubles suffered by the women in one family--a mother, sister, wife and daughter--when the only man in the house has to go away for six months.

"It doesn't make sense that this ignorant clown insults the inheritors of the prophets," one of the Web site critics wrote. "The program aims at spreading decadence and corruption," said another. "It should not be watched."

These people really need to lighten up, because I see the makings of a great Saudi sitcom here. "Without A Mahram," the zany antics of a family of heavily-veiled women who concoct different ways to get to the grocery store without being thrown into jail. When their scheming plots are inevitably foiled, and the man of the family returns to find them behind bars, they can all open their mouths wide and start crying, a la Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz.

I imagine Comedy Central won't be airing in the birthplace of Islam any time soon.

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I've added this fine specimen of womanhood to my blogroll. She's Juliette Ochieng, and she's quite insightful and amusing. Found her through Nathan, who arrived safely in Qatar and is apparently still alive, as he blogged on his site today. Phew.

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Here's a little something that struck me as humorous and scary at the same time. It's Billy Graham's newspaper column, "On Christianity," which appears, rather fittingly, in the "Comics" section of the Arkansas Democrat Gazette. The Gazette is only available online via subscription, so I have transcribed the column:

DEAR REV. GRAHAM: My uncle is one of the most loving, kind, Christ-like people I know -- but he's an atheist who doesn't have any use for God or religion. How do you explain this? I've always been taught that people who don't believe in God are very selfish.

-- K.L.

Wow. The question in itself is a bit frightening, and indicates that this individual was indoctrinated rather strangely, or has a limited understanding of the nature of humanity and the true message of Christianity. As a Christian pondering the question of non-believers, does he remember such Jesus quotes as, "judge not lest ye be judged," "do not judge by mere appearances but make a right judgment," "why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye when you have freaking tree house in your own eye," "love thy neighbor as thyself," and what not? No, he only remembers being taught that those who don't believe in the Christian God -- in other words, a signficant portion of the world's population -- are just downright selfish.

To this almost childlike question, Billy Graham responded:

DEAR K.L.: Yes, some people who don't believe in God are very self-centered -- but some of them aren't, and your uncle apparently falls into that category.

After all, your uncle is like every other human being: He was made in God's image. In other words, part of God's character is stamped upon us, and even when we deface it or try to hide it by our sin, that image is still there. Just as a silver platter may be pitted and tarnished, so God's image in us may be obscured by sin. But the platter is still silver -- and we are still the bearers of God's image. The Bible says, "God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him" (Genesis 1:27).

What does this have to do with your uncle? Simply this: God's image -- including God's kindess and compassion -- shines through in your uncle's life, even if he doesn't realize it. To put it another way, he isn't good because he is a good man; he is good because he bears God's image. Think how much better he would be if he knew Christ, and had submitted his life to God's control!

Unfortunately -- I suspect your uncle thinks he doesn't need God -- and that is a tragic blind spot in his personality. Pray for him, that he will realize not only that God exists, but that God loves him and wants him to discover the joy and peace that come from knowing Christ.

I, for one, am thoroughly relieved that Billy Graham knows exactly what the Unknowable God loves, wants and thinks. However, I'm sure K.L.'s uncle won't be relieved to learn that his being a truly good man has nothing to do with his own personality or his own choice of actions, but has everything to do with being created in the image of a god in which he does not believe. If humans are only good because they have the stamp of God's character upon them, then how does one explain "believers" who are actually evil, like abortion clinic terrorists or Adolf Hitler?

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At long last, after stirring up extremist religious fervor, making a spectacle out of himself, flagrantly breaking the law and wasting taxpayer's money, the holy roller judge from Alabama has been removed from office! At least now any number of nutcases who break the law and are sentenced can't ignore the court orders by saying, "but Jesus made me do it, and I believe I was right."

When asked why he refused to remove the nearly-three-ton monument from courthouse grounds, Justice Moron replied:

It would have violated my conscience, violated my oath of office and violated every rule of law I had sworn to uphold.

Every rule of law, apparently, except those established by that little piece of paper known as The Constitution of the United States of America, which he no doubt swore to honor, uphold and protect.

Wasn't it Jesus who said, "render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's and render unto God the things that are God's?" In other words, Justice Moore, God doesn't need you to prove your devotion by plopping down three tons of granite in a public place. Follow the laws established by the government of the nation in which you happily reside, and make your tributes to God in the privacy of your own home, in the quiet of your mind, through your daily actions or in your designated place of worship.

Now, what to do about that pesky Quran being displayed at police headquarters in New York City?

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Knowing Matt to be the political animal he is, I have no doubt he will be glued to C-Span this evening, watching the Democratic filibuster, and playing his Filiblogger Drinking Game, which involves not only drinking "Hi Bob" style, but endless live blogging and naked dancing.

Me, I'll just be drinking and desperately IMing my friends for help.

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As I am apparently just a poor unfortunate woman who is being forced into the working world because my father neglected his manly-man responsibilities by abandoning his family and leaving me penniless, and my husband can't afford, at this moment, to support me while I sit on my pedestal at the homestead watching re-runs of Leave it to Beaver, I won’t have time to write a post today. I have therefore decided to comment on a comment left for me by a reader who disagrees with my little blurb regarding Kim DuToit’s recent guidelines for membership into the He Man Woman Hater's Club.

Tom Finn writes:

here's what I posted at Kim's site. SInce it's aminly in response to you, I thought I'd post it here too.

I came here from liquidcourage.blogmosis.com, to actually read what you've written. I've read a couple reactions to you but haven't taken the time to read the original, since I'm in the process of moving from the back of nowhere (central Indiana) to the outskirts of Hell (Lombard, IL).

My basic stance, and the reason I haven't made the time to come read your post, is that I agree with you. Vicky of Liquid Courage, as you may be aware, doesn't. Nor did Venomous Kate, when I ran across my first read screed against you, but she researched further and took the time to understand your point. Not agree with it necessarily, but understand it. Kudos to Kate.

Vicky, apparently, hasn't done that yet. Maybe this will help, maybe not.

=====================

The current cultural bias has a certain number of sacred cows I vehemently disagree with;

1) Men are incompetent, ignorant assholes.
2) Conservatives are incompetent, ignorant, narrowminded assholes.
3) America is an incompetent, ignorant, narrowminded, arrogant asshole of a nation. (okay, I'm getting pretty far afield from the base argument. Sue me; I see the whole architecture of attack as being related. If YOU don't, ignore points 3 and 2)

3) Arrogant. The American way of life has demonstrably resulted in a better standard of living for even the lowest-acheiving members of it. This is a GOOD THING. We're better than they are. (The people living under bridges in CARDBOARD BOXES don't get killed and shoved into shallow mass graves. Hello? Plastic shredders, anybody? French anti-semitism? German neo-nazis? Need I go on?)

2) Narrowminded. Conservatives read, and from most of what I've read, answer *on*point* to what their detractors say. The reverse I have rarely seen. (educate me. I'm willing to learn. Buehler? Buehler?)

(This is my weakest argument, because I'm not attracted to the extremes of any argument. I'm not actually a conservative. I have voted Libertarian in every presidential election I have participated in. I lean toward the conservative; I have only voted in protest to this point. moveon.org, and a number of blogs, have done a *superb* job of changing the point of protest for me.

3) Incompetent, ignorant assholes.

"Pussification"

The definition I assign to that word is: (based on a childhood in the mid-70's, and the adulthood following that):

Being reduced to an appendage of the female.

Current and past advertising and popular culture in general has consistently portrayed the male of the species as hapless, helpless and clueless. (Not without exception, but.... )

I find advertising particularly insidious for two reasons. First, you hear it but you don't always 'really' hear it, so it gets past the conscious censors. Second, it has the same (arguably higher... it pays for the rest of the crap you're watching) level of creative talent focused on 15 to 60 seconds of your mind that 40 minutes of whatever show you're watching does. The show isn't the message; the advertising that pays for it is. The show is the sugar that makes it go down smooooothly.

*mary poppins moment; "Just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down, the medicine go down...."*

Since the Women's Lib movement of the sixties the female viewpoint has been given, in popular culture, the same weight all minority viewpoints have been given; i.e. they're right, the majority is wrong. This is not totally correct or incorrect.

There are historical imbalances to redress; however imbalances are not corrected by a mindless move to the other extreme of the imbalance. The balance lies *between* them. White, Anglo-Saxon males, as the historical top dogs heaping dogshit on those less fortunate, are not entitled to that position; nor are those who historically were having the dogshit heaped upon them entitled to a position as top dog. Emotionally satisfying it might be, yet it would simply perpetuate injustice and cause a backlash in the future.

We, all of us, must earn equality. Simple word, 3 syllables but nevertheless simple. Equality. Everybody gets what they earn. Not deserve; earn. Deserve has, to me, nasty connotations of entitlement. I am not entitled to anything. Entitlements are advantages granted by fiat.

The current culture has granted the top dog status to women. Men , in the current common culture, are incompetent, ignorant assholes. Not in the business world, where, in my experience (and in the business world that's literally all I have to go on) women are approaching parity, but in popular culture.

[vitriolic, personal attack on Vicky deleted. I actually agree with you 90+% of the time; I just think that this time you're talking without thinking.]

trf

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Bitch.

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I meant to post this much, much earlier today, but work obligations prevented me from doing so.

We celebrate November 11th as Veterans Day, to honor all veterans who have served us so valiantly and defended the freedom and honor of our nation, as well as others. I take this time to commerate not only our own Veterans Day, but also Remembrance Day, celebrated on this same date by our most beloved allies, the British Commonwealth.

What Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day) and Remembrance Day have in common, is that they are both celebrated on November 11th, the day World War I was won by Allied forces. That famous saying, "the eleventh hour" is derived from this historic event, as it was on "the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month" that Germany surrendered and the Great War was won.

I find it most interesting and touching that the British symbol for Remembrance Day, the poppy, is derived from this hauntingly famous poem written by Canadian physician, scholar and World War I veteran and honoree, Lt. Col. John McCrae:

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-- John McCrae,
1872-1918

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The EU is at it again:

European Commission officials are considering forcing shops in Britain to label all yoghurt products as "fermented milk".

Under proposed legislation that could become law next year, all yoghurt sold in Britain would have to be labelled as such because it doesn't conform to the EU definition of a standardised Euro-pudding.

Most would have to be clearly labelled "mild alternate-culture heat-treated fermented milk". Others could omit the words "heat-treated", provided they contained live bacteria.

Convincing people to eat a product called "yoghurt" can be challenging enough. I just don't envision British parents successfully convincing little Nigel to eat his "mild alternate-culture heat-treated fermented milk." Will that title even fit on those little yoghurt labels?

What else can one expect from the European Commission, the same organization that forced British pig farmers to provide their swine with "cultural enrichment" toys and, because they apparently don't have anything better to do, took it upon themselves to decide that Britain isn't even an island?

I wonder if the Brits are still happy that they are "on the continent" when ridiculous events like these take place.

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In further contemplation of Jo's blogging versus living essay, I offer a bit of perspective in the form of these fitting lyrics which, fortunately, have now replaced "Our House" by Madness which I've been singing since 2:00 a.m.:

Seether
Veruca Salt

Can't fight the seether.
Can't fight the seether.
Can't fight the seether.
I can't see her till I'm foaming at the mouth. Yeah!

Aaarrgghh! How on earth did my brain decide to sing the lyrics of "Seether" accompanied by the piano and horns of "Our House?" It's going to be a long, long day.

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Despite defying the edicts of their religion by appearing on stage with rock bands and making merry with Muhammed's message, MTV mullahs appear to now be the rage:

ISLAMIC preachers with poster boy looks and pop star styles are winning legions of fans in Indonesia.

They share the stage with rock bands and use TV, radio and even SMS to spread their message. They move grown men to tears. Women mob them. Even the MTV generation is listening.

Their message: a diverse mix of Quranic teachings mixed with pop psychology as well as more conservative views on the syariah, no different from traditional clerics'.

They refuse to shake hands with women, but don't seem to mind when the distaff of the species swoon at their feet. One of them has been dubbed "the Britney Spears of Islam," and another owns a commercial empire which includes "travel agents, multimedia, advertising, restaurants and a Muslim fashion line."

The only thing missing to make this truly God, American Style is a sex scandal followed by a prison sentence and a floor show in Branson, Missouri, a la Jim Bakker.

I asked Matt how any truly devout Muslim could take these guys seriously, and he suggested that devout Christians don't really take televangelists seriously. However, I know many of them do, and that's just downright scary.

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It makes me happy when I experience a meeting of the minds, because it seems to happen so rarerly these days. Jolene contemplates the importance of blogging in this wonderful essay, and I find myself, as usual, agreeing with her on several points.

First, anonymity does, indeed, provide a comforting veil and a safe harbor. In retrospect, I regret not adopting an anonymous blog persona. Then I wouldn't feel compelled to temper my language so much and, perhaps, I would not have experienced the horrible and painful personal attacks hurled at me when I did decide to cut loose and write the same misanthropic, sarcastic opinions others seem to get away with.

Jo also ponders the question of which is more important, blogs or people. I am sure that a sweet, kind-hearted woman like her will choose people. In theory, I would choose people too, but I have a hard time doing that, because I really don't like people all that much right now. Jo stated that she has "lost all patience," but she sure possesses more of it that I. People get on my nerves. People do not act with reason. Instead, they turn their opinions into fact and approach life accordingly. Reading the news, which people create, depresses me. People are hating each other and discriminating against each other and killing each other and ruining the world. People are disrupting the delicate balance of my personal life, and that includes me, because last I checked, I'm people too.

For my part, I have been contemplating what is more important, blogging or living? I'm an impatient and mediocre writer who, despite loftier goals, winds up using this blog to express momentary fits of rage and disillusionment with the human race. Granted, that's therapeutic enough, but is it important? Am I contributing in a constructive manner? Is spending half the day reading the news and trying, usually in vain, to force my feeble mind to write something halfway clever really worth it when there are relationships to heal, college to finish, finances to rectify, skills to be attained, health to improve, discipline and patience to acquire, a spiritual life to develop? Does the world really need yet another pissed off blogger grandstanding her personal biases, when she should be working at the job of life itself?

I don't know if I'll ever work this out properly, but I am relieved and feel comforted that I am not alone. While I am contemplating these types of questions, so is another blogger that I admire greatly, someone whose even-tempered approach and balanced opinions always remind me of how wrong I am most of the time. Thanks, Jo, for expressing properly ideas I cannot, and helping me recognize what is truly important.

PS: Please don't stop blogging, or my site will just turn into one big expletive!! :-)

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Why is this supposed to be good?

F.O.G.
The Favor of God!

Are you living in the fog... the Favor Of God?

No offense to those who believe, but I'm sorry, living in a fog is just NOT a good thing. You can't see your path and you wind up wrecking your mode of transport and possibly taking a few innocent lives. Come on Jimmy! Nearly a decade in prison and this is the best you can come up with?

Sometimes attempts to be clever just ... don't ... work.

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Why is the universe punishing me by waking me up out of a deep sleep, at 2:00 in the morning, with "Our House" by Madness running through my head? It is now 3:15 a.m., and the Madness is still there. Make it stop!!

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What a dweeb.

If he wants real people (not neanderthals) to take his misogynist macho he-man crap seriously, he needs to change his name and quit wearing a fucking beret.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: The "pussy," that divine device that Monsieur DuToit insists on referring to in such a derogatory manner, is one of the strongest of human muscles and is responsible for pushing out and providing life to all of humanity, including him. Additionally, the female owners of these pussies, so chided by DuToit, spend a large portion of their lives nurturing their offspring and protecting them from ignorance, disease and death, in order that they may actually make it to adulthood and have the opportunity to spout off their personal opinions to a disinterested public. Furthermore, the last I checked, women are the MAJORITY of the population, are still the primary caregivers and, in this free American society, which DuToit claims to admire so, have the right to vote.

Deal with that reality, Kimberly, or go back to fucking Africa.

Link found via Dawn, cuz there's no way in hell I would have navigated there on my own.

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We have the stupidest cat in the world. No, I'm sorry, I know you think YOU have, but The World's Most Stupid Cat is, indeed, owned by US.

His name is "Big Cat."

I rescued him from dowtown Fayetteville last Halloween Eve so he wouldn't get tortured by stupid drunk college fucks. He's an incredibly large, handsome cat, but it didn't take us long to realize he was pretty damned stupid. One of my and my husband's favorite domestic activities is to sit on the couch, across from the loveseat where Big Cat plants his fat ass for days on end, convincing us that he's actually dead, and yell his name over and over again, at the top of our lungs, then walk over to him and yell his name right into his ear, and watch him simply NOT respond. Then we look at each other and say, "man, that's one stupid cat." (Yes, folks, married life is indeed fascinating).

Today, for a brief moment, I thought Big Cat had gained an iota of intelligence. He was sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall, and I yelled at him from the kitchen: "BIIIIGGG CAAAATTT!!!" His right ear perked slightly, which is a first, then he actually turned around and looked at me! Excitedly, I yelled upstairs to Matt, "He responded! He responded! Wait .... he's turning around! Wow, he's walking toward me! He knows his name! It's a miracle! He's not stupid after all!"

As it happens, it was all a coincidence. He just needed to fill one of his three biological requirements (this time it was eating), and I just happened to be in the same direction as his food bowl. He jumped onto my desk, knocked my drink over, ate his fill, lied back down in the permanent indenture he's made in our sofa cushion and ignored me yet again.

What a stupid cat.

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What a hellish week. Any of you with aging parents knows, or will know soon enough, how stressful it is when they become seriously ill. My mother had me late in her life, so I am dealing with this sooner than most people who are usually in their 50s and 60s before these episodes arise. Being 700 miles away and having no other family to depend on made everything even worse. Fortunately, my good friend Michelle, who works in the medical field, intervened on my behalf. I was therefore spared having to drive to New Orleans on short notice with no money. A trip down there is inevitable, I know, but at least I didn't have to go this time, which would have been horrible timing for me.

By all accounts, the hospital stay was disastrous. If you are ever admitted to Touro Infirmary in New Orleans, stay far far away from Dr. Carmen Palazzo, who proved to be an inconsiderate, incompetent and unhelpful bitch. "Effective, efficient and compassionate healthcare services" MY ASS!! My mother, being an obstinate old woman who is clinging as hard as she can to her independence, did not help anything by being uncooperative, noncompliant and refusing any discharge plan, causing the hospital to decide to discharge her to a group home (one step away from a nursing home) instead of back to her established residence. However, I've come to find out that they severely over-medicated her, giving to her once a week a very strong drug which she was only supposed to get once a month. The horrible side effect of this was my mother developed Parkinsons-type symptoms in the form of uncontrollable body tremors, which she has never had in her entire life. So what did the geniuses do? They starting giving her another drug to fight Parkinsons Disease! Now my mother needs to be weaned off of both medications, and hopefully her body tremors will disappear.

What made all of this even worse is that the haughty bitch doctor flat out refused to talk to me to help me understand what was going on and what needed to be done, despite the social workers' attempts to convince her to contact us. And despite the fact that they totally drugged my mother up and considered her "incompetent" to handle her own affairs, they were going to stick my 79-year-old mother in a cab by herself and send her off to this group home located in the Ninth Ward, a very seedy and dangerous inner-city-type neighborhood in New Orleans. The manager of MY mother's apartment complex said she was welcome to return home, BUT the doctor flat out refused to change the discharge plan because, I was told, it would be "too time-consuming" and my mother had already stayed the maximum time allowed at the hospital under her Medicare plan. (In other words, they were pissed because they were no longer being paid for their services). And how's this for hospital policy: despite the fact that they discharged her to a group home, we were told that if we picked her up ourselves instead of them sending her off in a taxi, then we were free to take her wherever we wanted. Shit, my mother could've commandeered the taxi and made it take her to Mississippi or something. I found all of this out Thursday afternoon, which is when I called Michelle and begged her to get involved, in order to save myself having to jump in my car and drive for 12 hours straight in order to get to the hospital before they discharged her the following day.

Because of the tremendous amount of medications my mother will have to take, Michelle decided to drive by the group home and check it out, as it would be a more controlled environment where my mother would be assisted regarding compliance to her prescriptions. Michelle walked in and walked right back out. She said this place was a nasty hell hole with holes in the linoleum and horrible broken beds -- completely unsuitable and not safe for any elderly person. I will be reporting them to the proper authorities this week, and we've already made a formal complaint regarding the psycho bitch doctor.

Having dealt with this all week long, and especially with the bizarre chain of events that occurred Thursday and Friday, my stress level is at an all-time high, to the point where I'm digging through medicine cabinets trying to find remnants of old antidepressants which were prescribed to me during my wonderful dog-bite-to-the-face days. No such luck. So I guess it's kava kava tea, St. John's Wort and Valerian Root for me for a while.

Tomorrow starts another hectic week, in which I will have to attempt to have the uncooperative hospital forward my mother's discharge summary to a different doctor, so that we can get a home health care nurse prescribed, because the bitch doctor wouldn't provide one since we decided not to take her to the nasty ass group home. I have a full page of items I need to take care of within the next two days in order to remedy this situation. I also have been asked by her to start handling her checkbook and paying her bills, as it is understandably too much for her right now.

In addition to everything else, Matthew and I will now begin the process of relocating her to Northwest Arkansas, so we can manage her situation better. This, itself will be a bureacratic nightmare, as we must find her affordable (i.e. subsidized) housing that is not a shithole, have her Medicaid transferred to the State of Arkansas, find her an appropriate doctor, etc., etc. ad nauseum. The Area Agency on Aging said they will help us as much as they can, so at least that's something positive.

This has been quite an eye-opening experience for me, as the only daughter of an aging and ill parent. The responsibilities are extremely time-consuming and overwhelming mentally, emotionally and physically. Despite the fact that my personal financial situation sucks right now, I guess I'm actually glad I'm not currently employed, because I don't know how I could have dealt with this from work without getting fired. My mother has always been in denial regarding issues I could foresee developing, and whenever I tried to talk to her about things such as a Power of Attorney, a living will, etc., she always refused to sign the paperwork, accusing me of wanting to control her life. I think she'll sign it all now, after this (hopefully) last experience.

People with aging parents, learn from me. Be prepared. This will happen to you, I promise. Don't be in denial about anything, and make them sign all of the paperwork you will need to handle these types of situations. Stay on top of the doctors, getting second opinions if necessary. Ask a lot of questions and demand to be treated with respect. Also, prepare yourself mentally and emotionally, because you will be so stressed and so guilt ridden you will feel as if your skin is about to fly off of your face. Damn, I hope I can get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long, long day. One final note:

To Dr. Carmen Palazzo of Touro Infirmary:

YOU ARE A SUPREME BITCH
AND YOU'RE MORE PSYCHO
THAN THE PATIENTS YOU SUPPOSEDLY "TAKE CARE OF."
TAKE YOUR "MORAL AND ETHICAL PRINCIPLES"
AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR ASS!

Aaaahh! That felt good!

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Okay. Got word from back home today. My mother is ill. I'm taking some time off to prepare for the upcoming trip to New Orleans to deal with some very personal family matters. Talk to you soon.

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The other evening I made my requisite run to the liquor store. At the register in front of me was a very dignified looking, well-dressed older man. He wasn't well-dressed in that Arkansas sense -- wrinkled Dockers and (sort of) tucked in shirt with sneakers or otherwise ill-kempt shoes. He was impeccably dressed, with a matching suit, nice tie and expensive shoes. He also had a rather nice face, clean-shaven, with well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair.

Despite the man's respectable appearance, however, the cashier began loading the following purchases into his box: two six packs of Schlitz beer, a box of Franzia wine, some Red Bull and a box of those miniature bottles of Sutter Home White Zinfandel. I was perplexed. My gaze kept darting back and forth from the guy's face to his purchases. It just didn't make sense. Then I realized. He's off to the University of Arkansas campus to seduce sorority girls or perhaps, even, unsuspecting fraternity boys.

That reminds me of this one time -- ages and ages ago -- when my boyfriend and I were buying food and liquor at a grocery store in New Orleans around 3:00 in the morning. The store was pretty desolate, and there was only one lane open. This enormous fat guy in front of us, standing silently with his arms cross and a disgruntled look on his face, had just two items laying on the conveyor belt: a cucumber and a large jar of vaseline! As can be expected, the clerk, my boyfriend and I eyed each other furtively. There was absolute dead silence as he made his way through the check-out, although I could barely keep from laughing. I mean, couldn't he have added a few items just for show, like a pack of gum or a soda, or maybe even a head of iceberg lettuce so we could try to convince ourselves that he was merely going home to eat a lettuce, cucumber and vaseline salad?

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Being a child of the seventies, one of my fondest memories as an elementary school girl was participating in hand clapping games -- coordinated clapping and rhyming routines which were an obsession with girls of my generation. With the disintegration of the "traditional" neighborhood, the advent of computers, video games, and other activities which dissuade modern young people from playing out of doors, and the fact that kids just seem to grow up more quickly these days, I am not sure that school yard activities such as hand clapping, chinese jump rope and other games which involve group rhyming and choreographed body movements are still popular. I assume they still are, but having no children of my own and knowing no young people, I am not certain.

What I remember is that the games provided an intense form of bonding between girls. All the girls seemed to instinctively "know" the rules, the rhymes and the complex, coordinated hand movements required to play the games properly. Many hours were spent sitting cross-legged in the school yard, before class and during recess, practicing hard to increase speed and agility, even perfecting the games with our eyes closed, which took much coordination and required a close bond with your clapping partner. Having speed, accuracy and good rhythm was essential and gave girls status among each other. When the girls broke off into teams of two, four, even six and eight, and began clapping and singing out the rhymes, the school yard atmosphere became highly charged and the competition among girls was fierce.

As this experience brings back such satisfying memories for me, I am trying to compile these rhymes for posterity. I know there are some books out there, but I'm trying to do this in more of a grass roots way. Unfortunately, I remember only a few of them, although I know there are others lurking somewhere in the shadows of my memory. Here is what I remember from my childhood in New Orleans, starting with my all-time favorite:

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What type of screwed up society do we live in?

It's apparently alright for a police officer to point a gun at a nine-year-old boy's head, make him lie on the ground, then handcuff him and arrest him for playing with a toy gun on a city street. But in Iraq a colonel who brandished his weapon during an interrogation and gained information which actually foiled a sniper attack against U.S. troops faces either court martial and imprisonment or resignation without benefits, after 19 years of faithful military service.

This should have played out differently. The police officer should be severely reprimanded and the colonel should be given a promotion and lauded as a hero. For this and many other reasons, I am quickly losing faith with humanity and the world, both of which are pretty well fubar'd.

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Britney Spears proves once again that her brain is as blonde as her hair. While discussing her recent-semi nude publicity shots for her new album, she stated:

I had, like, eight Red Bulls and said, "Okay, let's do it."

Those are truly words to live by. I wonder if that's also what it took for her to actually sleep with Justin Timberlake.

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It appears I may have been mentioned, in a very off-hand manner, on NPR this evening. I didn't listen to it, but Matt phoned me and said they did a story about the William Rehnquist Bobble Head Doll, and whoever they interviewed said something to the effect of "if you google it, the first thing you get is a blog." Well, if you google it, the first thing you get is my blog post about the doll, which is pretty pathetic because it's just a one line post saying "gee, I want one."

Go figure.

At any rate, I hope the googlers at least decide to stick around long enough to read some of my more meaningful posts so that the general NPR listenership doesn't think I'm a complete moron ... AND ... I wonder why it took NPR five whole months to report this story .... AND ... I wonder why the interviewee felt he couldn't mention my blog by name? I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, that I won't sue him.

PS: Matt and I just recently donated $30.00 to our local NPR station, KUAF, so don't hate us, people!

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In an attempt to drive all restaurants out of business except for national or international chains which, in addition to providing bland servers and shitty food, are the only ones who can afford to hire Registered Dieticians, the Food and Drug Administration is proposing to require restaurants to list the caloric values of every item they serve on their menus.

The FDA apparently does not realize that most Americans DO KNOW which foods are healthful and which foods are not, and that their decision to eat a super-sized meal deal from McDonald's or Burger King is a matter of personal choice moreso than ignorance of the negative gastronomical and nutritional consequences. Therefore, attempts to "regulate" one of the most natural of all human functions -- eating -- seems a bit silly to me. Personally, when I go out and eat my ass off, I know exactly what I'm doing. I do it deliberately and I don't want a caloric breakdown shoved in my face to make me feel bad about myself.

Okay, so let the government force all restaurants to put caloric values on their menus. That only means that congressmen and senators who eat every day at their little clubs, or at exclusive restaurants, will be made to feel guilty about the foods they apparently can afford to enjoy which the rest of us cannot -- unless they somehow include an exemption for their own personal meals.

If any senator or congressman votes for this bill and then continues to eat unhealthily after it has been passed, I hope a slew of media maggots is there to record the event.

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Our next-door neighbors (who I think might be Catholic because they are New York Italian) have a Jack o' Lantern with a crucifix carved in it. Wouldn't this be considered heretical in some circles?

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Here's a fitting follow-up to the Ramadan Day massacres:

"Honour Killings" On The Rise

Tehran - Forty-five young women have been murdered in so-called "honour killings" in Iran's majority ethnic Arab southwestern province of Khuzestan in a two-month period this year, press reports said.

So-called "honour killings" are carried out for a variety of reasons, including a girl's refusal to agree to an arranged marriage, not abiding by the strict Islamic dress code or simply having contacts with males who are not family members.

Honor killings and other Islamic "customs" are barbaraic enough, but if it's true that Iran is also seeing a "return of pre-Islamic traditions," then I can only conclude that "devolution" is occurring. It doesn't do much good to be referred to as the "cradle of civilization" if you don't eventually get your ass potty trained and start sleeping in a big person's bed.

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I have to hand it to those Muslims. They sure know how to throw a good holiday. At any rate, they certainly kicked off Ramadan with a bang, killing dozens of people -- mostly Iraqi citizens -- in suicide bombings throughout Baghdad this very morning, the first day of their sacred month of "worship and contemplation."

To make this year's holiday all the more memorable, the Ramabomb Squad targeted that viscious Muslim-hating organization, the International Red Cross, and Iraqi police stations throughout Baghdad, whose officers are deemed traitors and collaborators for actually working to establish order and training to one day take over law enforcement from Coalition forces.

I read here a summary of what a faithful Muslim is not to do during Ramadan fasting:

The tongue must desist from slander and back-biting. The eyes must restrain themselves from any unlawful look. The hand must not touch or take what does not belong to it. The ears must not listen to idle talk, gossip, lyrics and notes that contain obscene and indecent things; the nose must fast also by not sniffing, smelling unlawful things. The feet must fast by not going to places where sinful acts are propagated.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, have no sex. "Refrain from destroying public property and murdering scores of innocent people" is conveniently not listed, unless you assume that another person's life does not belong to you and, therefore, taking that life is tantamount to stealing.

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It's that time of year, when the temperature drops outside, and all the flies come inside. I failed to notice this phenomenom last year, but this year the extended fly community has decided that the Drachenberg household is the place to winter. Sitting on the couch with a halo of flies around my head made me feel like the dumpster behind EZ Mart and, without a fly swatter, I was reduced to chasing them around with rolled up newspaper and writing tablets.

That proved both demeaning and unsuccessful, but I did manage to vacuum up a slew of them that had congregated around the dog food bowl like it was a beach resort. The surviving flies, who apparently didn't appreciate losing their bretheren in such a manner, started regular dive bombing missions on my face, cleverly waiting until I just reached that REM level of sleep that I crave so much. Then, of course, I looked like the neighborhood psycho batting imaginary objects in the air and cursing in my sleep.

After a week of chasing, batting, dodging and cursing, I couldn't take it anymore and bought fly swatters -- 2 for 88 cents. It was one of the happiest purchases I ever made. I smiled as I chose between traditional white and psychedelic pink and placed my selection gingerly into my basket. I smirked as I drove home in anticipation of destroying their little fly bodies. I would never have imagined that such a simple purchase could transform me from a lunatic into a happy smiling person.

There's something so very therapeutic about violently smashing the swatter down on a fly's sorry ass and yelling HA!! at the top of my lungs. I am convinced now that the first step on the road to mental health is dead flies. Lots and lots of dead flies. Watch your butts, you flying marauders. There's a new sheriff in town, and she's packing heat. [play theme from "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly" here].

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