I want a tank. I've always wanted a tank. After all a tank is just a jazzed up SUV. A tank will be very useful when the government comes to get me, the world ends or when my neighbors get cranky. It will do wonders for traffic jams and will keep road rage down to a manageable level. I should be able to have my tank.
I don't care if tanks mess up the road. Half the nation doesn't pay taxes and I do, so I should be able to shop at the local auto and tank show. I won't register my tank because it's no one's business what I own it says so in the constitution, which by the way is not a living document. Nothing has changed since 1775 or whenever.
Because I'm poor I'll settle for an old but usable Bradley.

Relative

Festus mouse arrived. Apparently he's Eberts twin. We told him Ebert had come to a striking end, nonetheless he seems to have taken up house underneath the stove. Grover throws his food around and two nuggets remain out of reach. Festus must think he's landed a good berth. Ha!

Winnie keeps going out after dark. She's digging again and if she's recruiting mice for entertainment I'm going to entertain her. Royally.

food for the discerning

I think I figured it out. I have been allergic to nuts since forever but have not found it a big problem. If people serve nuts I simply don't eat them. I just pick them out or avoid a dish that is filled with them. This is all helped by the fact that I won't die of nuts...well unless I really try and eat myself into a full blown anaphylactic episode. Generally the worst that can happen is a good case of hives.

Nowadays people are seriously allergic or they are seriously avoiding all sorts of foods and they are  determined to keep themselves alive or pure. This means that one may be faced with guests who are avoiding meat and diary, wheat, and anything that ever drew breath, had a shell or needed sunlight. I am so proud to have a means to supply almost all of them.

I can't accommodate folk with allergies to dogs, dust and other people but I can feed lots of the others and this makes me really happy.

Here's the trick.

Instead of trying to make a vegan meal, which isn't really hard at all,( I have had guests who couldn't eat "vegan,") I have come to the conclusion that it's better to simply provide food.

I buy a raw veggie tray from the supermarket. I leave the dressing in the middle in case someone wants it.
I buy nuts.
I buy dried fruit-the kind that is considered the most natural.
I buy mixed olives-the most expensive I can find.
I buy fresh mixed fruit,
I buy wasabi peas-some people can't eat soy so expect to have some left over.
I buy soy milk and almond milk.
I buy stevia sweetener.
I buy natural coffee and untreated coffee filters.
I have herbal teas. (So far no one's been allergic to rooibos)
I buy filtered water which I keep in the store bottle so the contents can be inspected.
I buy lettuce leaves. I avoid the "living lettuce" offered in the supermarket but I make sure to get organic lettuce and run it by my guests.

I decant everything into pretty bowls and scatter them around the table.

My guests are happy and so am I.

I also provide the guests who aren't avoiding "regular" food anything I think I can cook well.
PS. I NEVER say that a person of a different dietary persuasion can't bring a dish for the table. Many such persons are excellent cooks and I may enjoy their food. If someone wants to just bring her own food, that's fine too.

in case you didn't notice...

Bert is right: Any fiscal problem will be revealed and exacerbated by the following behaviors:
Buying a big boat
Getting a new wife or mistress
Putting your affection into writing. Writing on paper may be quite safe but avoid e mail and texting.
I'd add that one should be a tad concerned when one's biographer has a ghost writer.
Generals should take note.
I taught in the ROTC building in a university. The kibblets, baby generals all,  were very clear about the UCMJ. (It's military law and it really frowns on adultery.) Surely they mentioned this at West Point.
********************************************************************************
Daddy said that the Irish problems were caused by their intake of booze. "Get drunk and shoot people" was his description. (The old man was Irish)
********************************************************************************
I can't figure what causes the problems in Israel. The Palestinians bomb Israel ceaselessly, admit it and then announce that the Israelis caused the current ruckus.Both sides make shameless use of the death of the children they've killed.

 Hamas just topped the Israelis. A member of Hamas and the Egyptian gov't. dipped their hands in a dead child's blood and came out of the hospital for a photo op., or maybe they held the press event in hospital... It wasn't clear. (Tell me, has Egypt let any number of Palestinians into their country of late?
Did I miss something? Having started the war against the interlopers in 1948 have the Egyptians finally welcomed their brothers in arms into their land? Or are they still operating the lucrative contracts-complete with kickbacks to the Israelis- on tunnels under the "check points?")

I blame God. More specifically I blame Abraham for being too literal about God's promise" children as numerous as the stars"oh yeah. If he'd kept himself to himself there'd have only been Israel maybe.....but NOOOOOOOOO, he was male so he sent poor Hagar off into the desert to make a life for herself and her son who was his eldest son too. Idiot. Israel and Palestine might have staggered on in some peace if they weren't brothers. Unfortunately the worst fights are between brothers...and the Arab Muslims and the Jews both resemble great grandpa all too much.

What kind of person sends a woman and child off into a desert?  I'll answer. A man with a jealous wife and a very cross mistress or second wife, that kind of person. He ensures that his children will inherit his wife's jealousy, his mistress's anger and his own idiocy.

It occurs to me that MALE MENOPAUSE is a much bigger problem than society has chosen to notice.
Perhaps doctors could specialize. Maybe men could write books. Seminars, speaking engagements, MM groups, MM clinics.... The financial possibilities are endless.

Requiem

Ebert Mouse is dead. His body was properly disposed of yesterday. No kin were present and the household did not invite friends. Ebert's passage into the next life seems to have been peaceful.

Poor, pathetic,wife-or my life as a kennel woman

Before night opens its bleary eye I stock the microwave with filled dog dishes. I put two of the four dishes down and check the water...again. Mickey and Winnie sniff their food to test the ratio of kibble to cheese gratings. If I pass, they eat. I grab their bowls and dump them into the sink.

The door opens and the Great Danes invade. Who'd think Danes invade? I remember that the Danes were once famous for sailing about and pillaging. No doubt the Germans who bred these dogs had a reason for calling them Danes. The Danes floated down the Volga or some such river and slaughtered the inhabitants. That's where we get Kiev. (and no, I'm not going to look it up-something like that happened and the only other river around Russia I remember is the Don. The Don river sprouted Cassocks and yes I know Germany isn't Russia. Tell it to the Germans)

Marguerite does her usual twink out of existence, supposedly to attend to hospitalized children but I suspect she goes to loll around some coffee hell with other people who've conned their loving Mothers into abject slavery. OK I can't PROVE it.

The big dogs find their place on the couches and chair and watch to see if I will serve them straightaway. On some days they fall asleep and I wriggle into a small place on the furniture and pass out.

You may wonder why I put their food in the microwave. There's EbertMouse of course, who I hope has died from starvation as a lonely bachelor. Then there's the Danes. Generally Danes are considered useless. Generally this is a correct opinion . After all, what idiot would cross a diluted mastiff with a greyhound and expect the result to guard the grounds. (See the Germans). When it turned out that Great Danes were useless, the Germans concocted a charming legend claiming these dogs keep out evil spirits. I suspect said Germans had had considerable liquid spirits when they came up with this advertisement. I can see that first German breeder looking over his Great Dane estate, weeping into his spirits and having an "ah hah!" moment. (I'm only grateful he didn't write a memoir filled with notes on business success. I HATE all business improvement books)

So. Read any Great Dane manual (see German advertisement). Under the verbiage you will find assurance that although these are really, really, really big dogs, they're useless and make wonderful pets. Great Danes score in the lowest quatrile  of the canine IQ test.

As usual, the ubiquitous "they" lie. OR my daughter happened to light on the one GD breeder who managed to get some brains into those thick GD skulls.

Her GD's scent. I mean it. They scent the air up high and  low. They can find food anywhere, no matter how concealed. They are also big and this lot is good with it's paws. Granted Grover will batter away at any locked heavy plastic box or dog food, but he will also pull up the corners. It's a matter of time before he pulls down the locking piece. His uncle already worked out the closure on another locked bin of food. I am suspending that box from the ceiling.

What followed

I phoned poison control for dogs and  immediately found I was to pour hydrogen peroxide down doggie throats. According to Marguerite, who arrived in time to join the party, I said on the phone "Oh, the brown dog, uh, she's a bitch and she weighs....um 50 pounds and Mickey, he's the little one and he has diabetes. Er...I give him ten units twice a day. What does he weigh? Well, less than Winnie or the puppy...only the puppy's the youngest of the Great Dane puppies and he weighs a lot more than Mickey. He's a boy dog. So's the Great Dane only we got him fixed. The puppy's too young..."

Marguerite thinks I'm a disgrace, but she started in with the hydrogen peroxide like the pro she is. Mickey refused to disgorge and the nice people on the phone told us to run him around. We were six in the kitchen, three people, three dogs.( Our guest had been withdrawing all night, and who could blame her?) There was damn little room to run a dog around. Earlier we'd put the puppy in a big plastic bin until it'd dawned on us that the vomit would go outside the container. John had gone for absorbent newspaper only to find that newspapers are now a compendium of adverts all of which are printed on glossy paper.

John was running Mickey up and down. Marguerite simply shook him.

Total damage: two brown lumps from Mickey, a forlorn scrape of red foil from Grover, from Winnie-a chocolate fountain.

Back on the phone"Sure, we'll take them to the emergency vet, sure, we're leaving now."

Total damage, dogs all well. We're hoping that the bank will give us a fifth mortgage on the house.
(Emergency vets make out like bandits-rather, -like corporate CEOs)

Woman at home without Great Danes

John is in the kitchen on his computer. He says he's doing his e mail but when I went in a bit ago he was eyeing sweaters in a catalogue. He'd best watch it or I'll buy him one.

It occurs to me that I forgot to mention the acquisition of the second Great Dane. I wandered off to South Africa where my ability to fit into small spaces in cars is sincerely appreciated- blissfully unaware that my daughter was on the road to the dog breeder.

When I arrived home I found not one mantle Great Dane "puppy" but two.
She got another one. This one is called Grover and he's trouble. It's not just that he's younger than Skype, it's his rakish air. One ear seems permanently situated above the other. It's always cocked. He grins, leaps and lopes about the house in search of mischief. He finds it.

Winnie is quite taken with him and has reverted to her old ways. I came home one day to find an empty wrapper. When I left this once full container of chocolates was hidden behind a small fortress of books. Naturally John noticed nothing. He didn't see Winnie slinking around, belly close to the ground, Mickey looking guilty as hell or Grover's glazed over eyes.

What followed wasn't pretty.

Just another day/njght

Halloween.
John sits on half a foot of newspaper with a watch cap pulled down to his eyes. The candy I bought is piled high on the steps to the porch. The children walking by take one look at him and hide behind their parents. The parents snatch some candy and race march on. The damndanes are lined up on the couch. They face the front window. Skype watches intently and gives out a serious dane growl at the bolder approaching child-beggars. Mickey hogs the chair and lends his tenor to the sound event here indoors. Grover stands, one ear sticking up and grins at the passing show. Winnie regards them all with pride.

I face the computer. Slobber covered, half deafened, tormented by the man who keeps loping back into house stirring up the four damndogs I grimly record another night of the woman at home.

Did I mention that a mouse attacked me last night?

This was today

The new mouse is called Ebert. We killed the rest of his clan but he's a survivor. Ebert is graceless vermin. He just stalks across the floor like he owns the place. After all the bank thieveries, he may.  I guess he doesn't know I beat one of his kin to death with a jewelry supply catalogue. If you're reading this Ebert be advised, naked tails and silver prices enrage me.

I just shut down the radio. It's too full of experts and too many of them sport Brit accents. What IS this? I listen to NPR, not the BBC and I notice the Brits are silent only on the subject of health care. Poor babies. Brits are fatally attracted to sunshine and cheap private health care. They also love observing mayhem, naked emotion and people running around. "So Cal" is overrun with Brits and there's no better place for them...esp as it will soon be under water, warm, sunny water.

Still, can't we keep them off the air? All those plummy voices flush with nonsense have their own place. Back on the dank island they can indulge in more traditional avocations: peering into royal thongs, contemplating BBC idols gone pederast, noting their complete lack of privacy and making half hearted pushing gestures at Rupert Murdoch to remind him that home is down under.

Why are they here for our quadrennial train wreck? When did they get to be American political experts? Granted, elections back home are boring compared to ours. They never elected a Black Prime Minister and they never will...and the notion of a Mormon Prime Minister is beyond even their most fervent opium dreams, but come on they have tons of other ex colonies to play in, many are located in warm climates and most are next to a sea.

The other colonies are less effected by the accent which they rightly perceive as affected. Those ex colonies won't let the experts play.

Apple Computer

Nothing stands still. Suddenly the blogspot wants to link with my cell phone only my cell was created in the last ice age. The children and their father got me a neat new apple computer. It's so cool that I'm sure it hates me. The instruction booklet is full of letters arranged in a haphazard manner. I can attach the bmw to the me2 and change the fv to the wtf in a jiffy. Problem is that this thing is designed to be intuitive and apparently I'm not on the same ethernet as the rest of the world. So sad.

I also have figured out that if I want to write something I have to buy an app. Apparently it's called I Work. I guess writing is working only being on the wrong ethernet I thought it was fun. I'm going to see if my clever new machine will reveal the price of this app.

Money, money money money

In an effort to interact with the greater world of finance, I have decided to create a money maker.
I have three dogs. One is a black and white mutt, one is a brown mutt and one is a pure bred Great Dane.
In some world and some future they may produce pups.
I've decided to bundle these future puppies and offer shares in them for sale. I have it on the best authority that the market is running from futures in Greek farthingales. They will be ripe for a less public gamble.
I also have some good friends in various agencies who value such offerings.
I'm offering a billion shares at 60 cents per each.
I will encourage my buddies to sell these futures, and not incidentally offer them a cut of the profit.
The minute the shares are gobbled up by the major banks of the world...the too big to fail ones, the shares will be revalued by said agency (s) say S&P, LIBOR, Moody's, Fitch, Fetch and Sit and Lay Down.
When the shares reach 75 cents per share, as they surely will give the weakness of the Spanish pickle and the softness in Italian moral philosophers, I will sell.
Even after I have donated to my agency friends I will be a billionaire.
I will be a "job creator."
I will be called upon to joke with members of Congress.
I will be important.
The dogs are all fixed.


I wish to thank, not pay, Dr. Ed Yokley for his assistance. He went to Sloan Business School and never forgot it.

Teachers are obselete

Education costs can be reduced sharply. Students would be just as well served by learning via computer.
I realized this when a young friend entered a college where I'd once taught . My friend took English 101-a course designed to impart literacy to freshmen students-on the internet. She was one of 150 students in her class. She wrote an essay a week and had it returned with comments. The "teacher" who may in fact be a computer-taught two classes of 101. The other course also contained 150 students.

Think of the savings! One adjunct professor marked 300 papers a week. (If there was in fact a human involved) The cost was minimal as an adjunct makes about $1,000 dollars per class. No student was unsing the University facilities. No rooms were required, no heating or cooling was demanded and no parking lot was sullied by an influx of cars. Trust me, this is pure profit for the institution.

Another young friend took a full load of course work on computer. She paid full tuition for each instructional hour. She even insisted on staying in the University dorm for that semester. Her father was bewildered but he paid for his daughter's social life without much protest.

The final realization that teachers are obselete came when another young friend told me she was taking "Public Speaking"  via the internet. She'll get full University credit for this course.

Service SECRET

Dear Secret Service People,

I know your leader has made it plain that prostitutes, strippers and alcohol are big no-no's. I'm happy he thought to tell you and I do hope your wives will happy too. As a mother, I think there are some other pitfalls you should avoid .

Always wear clean underwear. Remember not to strip down to it in Rio. Although it may be Mardi Gras, pictures of you cavorting in disarray might give the President pause.

Carry your passport. Try not to have to show it at the local cop shop. The Embassy will not thank you for having to dispatch a flunkey to bail you out.

Smoking dope will stunt your growth and stall your career. You will not advance in the ranks.

Avoid gambling in public places. What goes on in Las Vegas will not stay in Las Vegas now that the press is aware of your new found reputation.

Don't spit. It's unsanitary.

Don't play with your gun. It's undignified.

Don't talk into your chest when there are no ear plugs visible. People will think you are odd.

Take the sunglasses off after dark. No one cares about your image when he knows you can't see.

Think about safety as in the President's...not as in safe sex.

As hard as it is, keep it zipped.  Evolution provided you with a big visible head with which to think. The little one is just a pisser when you are on duty.

Look at the new jewelry!

Dear Two People who read this blog. Look at the new jewelry I'm made. Connie, I may have some really spiff earrings in the next batch of photos.

Poor Rush

A linguist just explained via NPR why the word "slut" is so offensive that Mr. Limbaugh is losing advertisers.
Mr. Limbaugh, a famous radio host, described a young woman who testified before a gov't group about contraception and health care (she's for contraception as a part of a health care plan) as a "slut" "prostitute"
and a person who will do sex acts on camera for the viewing pleasure of others. He slobbered over the last phrase leading me to believe he watches too much porn.

The entire thing is simple. Mr. Limbaugh is a whore, a slut and a prostitute for money, fame and power.
His virulent, hate filled programs are verbal pornography. He incites people to violence. He defames anyone of stature who criticizes him. He's got the Republicans so whipped that none of them protest his verbal abuse as long as they don't suffer it.

Mr. Limbaugh is an admitted "infotainer." He offers information to entertain so he does not have to adhere to any standard of decency. That his information is ofter false means nothing. That he incites violence is nothing.

He's a clever man. He uses language well. He actually does have a valid point of view...once and while. That's all my opinion. As a former listener I do know this. He has prostituted his intelligence in the sevice of lies. He has defamed people for the sheer pleasure it gives him. He is a slut for attention, money and power. The man is a street walker on the public square.

Decrepit, out moded and dated

Time is a mystery. Clocks seem decietful. I am obselete.

For years I navigated time by bells. In ancient academia bells rang when it was time to change class. Then I switched to using the students' time. When it was time for them to go they told me. Retired, I rely on John and the fall of light.

Now I find time can be encapsulated on a telephone. Well telephones don't really exist anymore, but hand held devices can do anything but make ice cream and there will be an app for that soon. John moves  his calendar around at will, his own will and the will of others. He fills in time with colour," blocking it off." (I have just returned from yelling at Winnie in french. It seems to impress her and keeps me in colourful vocabulary.)

Now "blocking off time" isn't hard. I have a clear visual on the calendars. The problem is the nights. Say I plan to go overseas, or rather John does. I will fly here or there and arrive at some odd hour all of which is fine by me. Other people ask me about the time though and I can't find the nights. LOOK at your calender. There's a day block with a number in it but where's the night? Is it the line between blocks ? When I ask John about this he goes nuts and lectures me. The lecture always muddies the waters but do explain why my students were so keen on leaving my class.

I find the "new" use of military time for all of Europe comforting, but not really instructive. If I've got it right, midnight is 0001 or 1000. Then we procede to 1026 which is midnight plus 26. Noon is 1200 or 0012. My question is when do we subtract?

Of course I navigate as I always have without a bell. I stand and count under my breath. I check to see if it's day or night. I use my fingers in a futile effort to sort everything out. A kind person comes up to me and says,"Are you having a problem?" I say I don't have a problem but could this person tell me the time. Generally the person asks where I'm going, takes my hand and leads me to the train, bus, airline or taxi stand. Most of them watch so see that I get on without problems.

If I invest in a fancy phone will it have an app for me?

Scype (new great dane puppy)

Dear Great Sky Dog,

Its me. I'm the black one with white hair on my shoulders. It makes a sort of a Z. What have you done to me? First strange people came and took me away from mom. To tell the truth, she wasn't at all upset about it. She scraped me off her teat and tried to beat my brothers to the door outside. Then a sweet warm person held  me for for about three years in a bouncing running box. When it stopped I was carried around to people boxes and cooed at. I'm 7 and a half weeks old and alreadly I'm tired of the cooing. In my Marguerite box things were pretty cool. Room to run and cats. I like the big girl cat. She sat with me on my Marguerite's lap and let me chew her bum. The boy wasn't so friendly.

I do have my own bed and that's rather more like it. Sharing with all those brothers and sisters was a drag and I didn't have a teat all my own. NOW I haven't a teat at all and when I try to suck the humans' hands they squeek and pull away. Yesterday I learned to climb stairs. Today, before it was even light, my Marguerite attached me to a thick string I'm not supposed to chew, put me in the bouncy box again and delivered me to a house box with two big dogs and another human.

One of the dogs is almost my size and black and white like me. I keep trying to be friendly but he hates me chewing his bum. He gets very cross and barks at me. The big brown dog is a mommy dog but she won't let me suckle her. She doesn't even smell of milk. When I tried to chew her she looked like she'd bite me in two.

The human is good at giving me food but she told me that I weigh twenty five pounds and she's not going to carry me down the outside stairs. She mutters a lot. Anyway, after she shoved me down the stairs twice, I decided to do it my self. She was very proud of me. She also gets excited when I excrete. She shouts in a high voice "Good dog!" I'm not too excited about going on the ground and she has started muttering again about cleaning her bricks. I figure, enough already? How much can one small dog do?

I am quickly learning everything I can but I have a feeling there's a lot to learn.Why won't the big dogs play with me?

Rats! (used as an exclamation)

Twas some months after Christmas
And all through the house
The traps were all baited
Awaiting the mouse.

These traps were all filled
With mousie delights
Peanut butter, bacon
All foods they would bite.

Each evening the husband
completed his rounds
And came back to report
No animal found.

The scurring of mouses
Departed the rooms
And few little poopies
Were found with the brooms.

The husband who worried
About mouses pain
Completely and totally
Wanted their bane.

He wanted and hoped
That the trap and its snack
Would catch our dear mousie
And snap its back.

I have come to believe
Our mice did depart
But not from a trap
From disease of the heart.

They ate and they ate
And they exercised not
Alas modern science
Predicted heart rot.

The bad news.

Marguerite's dog, Nanoq died Thursday. He got the bloat and could not be saved so Marguerite held him and told the vet to put him down.

Marguerite is desolate.

I keep crying.

My last post was about our effort  to have some moments of laughter last night.

I wasn't going to say anything but when I see him on the blog pictures I can't not but explain that the pictures are all we have left of him. He was a gentle spirit.

Today

Yesterday the weather changed. It does a lot of that in the Ohio River Valley. My hands and wrists began to ache, and ache and ache. I went into the kitchen and asked John or Marguerite to open our medicine repository. When we designated those shelves for possibly fatal substances we naturally had the children in mind. The children are grown and I never could reach for the muti. I used a footstool which has disappeared into the nether world. So John opened the cabinent and I pointed at a plastic bottle and said, "Please give me the blue stuff."

John and Marguerite shook with laughter. John was wandering around saying "Yonder sits the blue stuff"
and Marguerite and he were blackening my character, antecedents and mental decline."

It took far too long to direct my brilliant husband to the container with the name "Blue Stuff" blazoned across it. I took it into the living room and started putting it on my aches.

They were still laughing when I picked up a book and blocked them from my mind.

la vie

T'was some nights after Christmas and all though the house,
Nancy was screaming "Go eat that mouse!!"
The children were gone, all prudently fled
While Papa was nicely tucked up  in his bed.

"Dear Nancy" said Papa before he retired
"If you don't do something in mice we'll be mired.
I can't watch tv with those horrible sounds
I think that the mices have bred out of  bounds"

"So out to the store you must speedily go
and find the solution to make the mice flow
Out of the house, out of the yard
And I'd rather the poor pests won't be too scarred.

Make sure that the poison won't hurt the dogs
Make sure the solution won't cause a fog.
The poor cat is aged and blind as you see
She can't really harm as much as a flea."

To store after store Nancy drove all around
To discover a nice way just can't be found
To murder a mouse that came in her house
She even tried sternly to yell a great Raus!

The mice didn't care, they went on with their day
And Nancy considered an alternate way.
Her Louie the terrier never brooked mice
He grabbed them and broke their necks in a trice.

Nature, she thought, should just take it's path
The damndogs must show a terribe wrath,
Knock off a mouse, or two or three
Show them the joys of eternity.

She looked at the damndogs
Who looked back at her
She heard in the distance
A long distinct scur.

A flurry a scrabble and scatching sound
The damndogs didn't  bother to look around.
"Go get it!" she screamed, "Go eat the mouse!"
Together the damdogs departed the house.