Love is blind...

No, Love is kind....

Love lets years go by, and comes forward when needed. 

Love forgives - selfishness, even inertia.

Love remembers - taste, smell, touch, words.

Love will always find a way to know what has to be known.

Love is eternal -  but life isn't.

White Coat Syndrome

I can’t stand going to the doctor; just the thought of the weigh-in makes me sicker than I feel.   And then there’s the BP test, and the heart beat check up and the peering into my eyes and down my throat.  It’s an ordeal before the big ordeal.

 Why are doctors never on time?

Is their time more precious than mine?

Is my job not as important?

 Or is it a universal plot that all doctors subscribe to  – to ensure that we are totally submissive by the time they open the door and stride in – resplendent in starched white coat, shiny skin and gleaming stethoscope ….

 He’s running late and I’m sitting by myself in a little cubicle with the door closed. 

There’s nothing to read but the ubiquitous wall chart depicting, in vivid color, the different stages of spinal degeneration.   

 I feel a twinge in my back and sit up straight in the chair.  Could I be in one of those stages or is it the uncomfortable chair?  I put on my glasses and read up on what kind of pain to look out for.

 I hear himtalking to a patient in the next room.  His voice is muffled but I hear all the ominous stuff, like …..

“well, you have a couple of options”

“after the tests we’ll check again”   

 My blood pressure rises, my heart beats faster and my mind festers – why is my head hurting so much?  I wonder if it could be a tumor. 

Doors bang outside and I hear a nervous cough, the slip slop of the nurse’s sandaled feet:  the doctor’s voice nears and then recedes.  He goes into another room. 

 Crap.

 So I wait some more, breathing deeply to keep my BP under control.

Hopefully he’ll come in, look at my file, tut tut about my weight, and give me something for my sinuses.

The Devolution of the Human Race – how we went from being meat eaters to being the meat – a fantastical trip into the future.

Headline in Sunday’s national newspaper –

“The terrible heat being experienced across the globe is causing serious concern regarding the future of farming.”

A farmer, interviewed on his farm, commented that he had not felt such intense heat since the year outdoor animals had fallen victim to the heat wave and perished – leaving humans to find an alternative protein source.

(This protein source was achieved by a few enterprising people, who corralled a thousand men and women and put them out to pasture on selected farms with the sole purpose of breeding meat which they named ‘pasture humans’.)

Another interviewee said that if the heat wave continued, it could spell disaster for the economy and the extinction of pasture humans could become reality.

The author of this forward-thinking article, Simon Perry, hoped his article would help future generations understand the reason why pasture humans could disappear in the very same way animals had years before; and blames the extinction of all animal species on global warming.

He predicted that in the future, the world would be populated by vegetarians eating off the diminished bounty of Mother Earth – drought and heat-resistant shrubs growing in the wild.  Farming as we knew it will be a thing of the past.

On a culinary note, he discussed how pasture humans are prepped to obtain the optimal results from the different cuts. 

 “The most gastronomically desired cut of pasture human is the butt meat which has good consistency and can be baked, fried, broiled or simply eaten raw as Carpaccio.

An important feature of the butt cut is that it retains its liquids even when cooked.  This is believed to be due to the amount of natural fat (cellulite) that marbles this particular cut of meat.  The fat remains in its individual pocket or “dimple” and has a rich, creamy texture when bitten into.  It requires very little embellishment – a stalk of fresh parsley artistically placed in the natural crevice that occurs at the centre of the meat would be pleasing to the eye and to the palate.

Feet and hands can be cooked like chicken wings; deep fried and drenched in spicy barbecue sauce.  These are called “walkie talkies” and are available either as fast food or in the frozen foods aisle at your local grocery store.

Human ribs are cooked very simply, usually on the grill using a spicy dry rub.  Unlike beef and pig ribs, these have very little meat on them and taste sublime if cooked a little on the rare side.

Offal  – including heart, lung, kidney, bladder, etc. is, according to the health department, very helpful in the treatment of certain ailments.   There’s no tasty way of cooking them, so blend them in a blender and drink it.  Eight ounces a day gives you the full benefits of offal. 

Thigh meat should be cooked like the Sunday roast of yesteryear; prick with a sharp knife every few centimeters, and insert a fresh clove of garlic into the gashes.  Rub with salt and pepper and braise until the juices run clear.   FYI - Female human thighs are less sinewy than their male counterparts, but have more fat deposits which seem to interfere with the even cooking of the thigh.  Using Chef Emeril’s dry rub brings out the flavors and helps mask the slightly unpleasant after-taste.

The neck is usually cut into thick slices, seasoned with salt and pepper,  breaded with Italian-style ground bone meal and pan fried.  Garlicky mashed potatoes are a perfect accompaniment to these neck schnitzels.

Human brain is inedible and scientists believe the reason for this is the type of activity that took place within it.  But not enough research has been done to prove what causes the human brain to release a pungent black inky substance when cut into.

Belly, more commonly known as pasture pork, is the tenderest of all the cuts, due, in part, to the multitude of little fat pockets covering the entire perimeter.  Its dimply texture resembles the skin of a navel orange, and it needs only the slightest hint of aromatics to bring out the flavors of this often forgotten cut of meat.

Arms make perfect jerky.   The process is lengthy, due to the multitude of hair follicles that require individual plucking out before the curing and drying process can begin.  (See directions on duck plucking in your history book).

Breasts can only be used as cooking fat.  Melt in a heavy-bottomed pan and then leave to cool.  Store in glass containers in the refrigerator.

Genitals are chopped and mixed with oats and potash and fed to the human herd.

Although the head is inedible, it’s versatile and can be used either as a football - or if you are a handyman – cut off the top section, fill with a good quality soil and use as an herb container.”

Bon appétit.

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Written tongue in cheek after having heard on the radio that the farms in Texas are struggling with the heat and the drought.

Here's looking at you, hope!

Hope comes into play when our circumstances are dire, when things are not going well . Hope literally opens us up... and removes the blinders of fear and despair and allows us to see the big picture and forces us to become creative and have a belief in a better future.

 If this is indeed true,  then there should be a hope boom going on, because globally our circumstances are dire – the entire world is paddling up that proverbial creek without paddles.

 But hope isn’t something we can build up with vitamins or food – there isn’t any bottled hope water, no 'hope in a jar'.  We have to create it, individually, painstakingly, step by step.

We have to dig deep within ourselves to find it; sifting through all the useless negatives that are strangling us like a sick vine, desiccating and withering our emotions, wringing out the last few drops of positivity that we have….if we let it.

The good news is that there is a new world opening up that's creating that big picture, and hope is alive and well in all of us; it’s just a matter of finding it within ourselves.

In the past, we paid too much attention to physical stuff, like our homes that had to be bigger and better than our neighbor’s.    We spent hours buying and selling stocks, in order to afford the next home upgrade. 

Real estate and the stock market made us feel confident – it was the all American dream and a dream that other nations also believed in and followed.

 But in the blink of an eye, it went “Poof” and the American dream is gone; fractured, yet leaving one great thing of value in its wreckage – the human brain. Our capacity to rethink our situations and solve our problems, and hopefully to see and do things differently in the future.

Jobs are now the most important thing in our lives and we have to rethink what we do and how we can do it better.  Or make a complete change, and step outside of our comfort zone and not worry about a job being below our standards,  or our  being too qualified or underqualified. 

Now’s the time to learn, to study, to open up the channels within ourselves and meet this challenge head on.

We’ve lost our homes, our stock portfolios, our big cars ….  but we’re still standing.

 We’re facing a new world where everything we valued has been devalued,  altered, broken or tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.  We need to ensure that the new world is better, and that this type of catastrophe doesn’t happen again.

We 're seeing the big picture  – we're opening up, becoming more creative, making a better future for the generations to come – and we can thank the current world situation for this positive step into a new world.

Our new world should and will be better, brighter, kinder and self-sustaining.

Timeshare presentations - what you need to know

  "Be prepared", "Beware of the closer," and, of course, "Stick to your guns and lie, lie, lie," are helpful tips often given to future professional timeshare moochers.  Acting on these suggestions will certainly provide the necessary tools needed to combat the deceitful, pressuring sales agent.  Once the 90 minute ordeal has been completed, freedom and the promised bribes are yours, then you can carry on with your well earned vacation … or … sign up for another tour.  That's what vacations are all about, isn't it?

Our reputation as timeshare salespeople is awesome.  No wonder most decent folks run and hide from us, gathering their young 'uns into their protective embrace.   We are, after all, callous bloodsuckers whose parents never got married and most of us probably were spawned by the devil.  Certainly we are uneducated and have no idea how much fun it is to spend the night in a motel mere steps away from the railway tracks.  That's a great playground.  There's always a supermarket nearby, and of course the kids can swim in the pool overlooking the highway and count the trucks and cars driving by.  Also, there's usually a mini fridge snugly fitted between the two single beds to store mom and dad's beer.  The fun part of the vacation is finding everyone a section of the bed to sleep in and not letting any strands of melted cheese trickle off the take-out pizzas and slither onto the bed.  Twenty-four hour entertainment, indeed.

What type of person takes these tours offered by timeshare resorts?  Here are some statistics.

Generally, one out of ten people will buy timeshare.  So, who are the other nine?

Five of those nine probably need the small gift we give them in return for their time.  They need a room for the night and a hot bath as their income can't afford them a night away from home.  Not a profitable scenario for us, but God bless 'em, it's a harmless enough pastime, even if they lied to get in the front door. 

Two of the ten are professional moochers who don't need the gift.  They want it because it's free.  Free is good, right?  Still harmless, but beginning to irritate and annoy.

Numbers nine and ten require a special mention.

These are the ones who will degrade themselves for a free gift.  They range from professionals to blue collar workers, fathers, grandmothers, veterans, and even those who studied for years to redeem our souls. 

They come prepared with sob stories and reasons why they can't buy even though they love it, and if circumstances were different they would.

As timeshare sales professionals we will try and treat you all with respect and understanding.   

We are cordial, polite, interested in your life story and of course, we want to make a sale, just like the doctor wants his fee and the pastor passes around the hat after he's sold the congregation on the benefits of being truthful and kind to each other.   Yes, we want to make money, but we also are interested in upgrading your leisure time, believe it or not.  Most of us own timeshare and we travel to beautiful places and stay in grand resorts.  Our vacations are splendid and we want to pass on some of that splendor to others.  

Please don't look down on us as if we are lowlife drug dealers endeavoring to entice you and yours into a life of drugs and depravity.  Anyway, you probably meet more drug lords in one vacation than we will in our lifetimes.  Drug busts often go down in or near seedy motels near railway lines across the road from supermarkets selling beer and pizzas. At least, that's what I see on TV, so I'm not really missing out on the excitement you folks usually experience first hand.

A lot of us are very well educated, well travelled and have a lot of money.  Many of us don't even need timeshare as we can afford to stay in five-star hotels.  We own timeshare because we're smart.  We own timeshare because ownership lets us spend our money on other things - like first class air tickets, dinners in world-renowned restaurants, front row seats at shows and last, but not least, growing our money.

We travel in five star accommodation with  fully-equipped kitchens… did you say you don't cook on vacation?  Well, neither do I most of the time, but I like having the option.  If we have leftover pizza (which we eat at the table, by the way, with a chair for each of us) we can warm up the leftovers the next day in the oven.  The only thing we miss is the game you guys play when you search for that errant strand of cold cheese hiding somewhere in your single bed.  Oh, well,….

I know, I know, you only pay $70 for the night... for the five of you ….two beds, one frosted-up fridge, perhaps a few four legged friends sharing your bed, and one bathroom.  Bargain, right?

Let's see- I pay $23 a night.  What do I get for that?  I get two bedrooms, two bathrooms, fully equipped kitchen, lots of towels (because that's another sport I don't play -   'find the last dry spot on the tatty towel').  What else… oh, yes, I get TV's in all the bedrooms as well as in the living area, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, a balcony overlooking the ocean or the mountains, drool-free pillows, freshly laundered bedding.  I guess the only things missing in my timeshare condo are the anonymous hairs lingering in the corners of the linoleum flooring and the cracks in the stained bath.  What lurks in those cracks?  Blood? Gore? Spit? Dirt?  Well, I'm not that curious, so don't tell me, please.

You sometimes get a free breakfast?  Really?  I don't want to burst your bubble, so I'll leave that one alone, but think about it for a moment.

Let's get back to that pesky tour you have to take to earn your gift.  

We will offer you something to eat and drink, and judging by how many bagels and cookies you take, I don't think breakfast was too sustaining at your motel.

A common trait among timeshare tours seems to be the lack of memory.  When we ask you what you receive for coming to visit with us, a great percentage of you don't remember.  All you remember is that we forced you to take the tour.  And?  … Oh yes, we gave you a free cruise, plus a dinner voucher… and a free night in our resort. 

It seems that being in our presence sometimes afflicts you with temporary selective memory loss, which is usually a rare side effect of a serious head injury, but seems to be happening more and more in the timeshare world.  Is it time for science to turn their attention to this growing trend?  Silly me, I always thought that you were too embarrassed to tell us that you have a price, and we met that price by giving you a couple of freebies.

Another interesting thing.  When you are with a timeshare person, it's okay to lie to us, but you get very offended if we catch you lying to us.

When you tell me that you never go on vacation, you're lying

Or ..you don't have any money - that's a lie.

Or ..the resort is below your standards - now that's plain funny.

Face it, folks, you are lying.  You're on vacation, spending your cash and staying either in a motel down the road, or somewhere nicer on our dime.

Once in a while some of you will come up with a novel excuse and I appreciate that.  However, don't use the excuse that you are dying of cancer or some other horrific disease if you aren't.   I object to that and I will call you on it, and you won't like what I have to say to you.   Don't get offended or huffy or tell me I don't have the right.  Even if only 50% of you use this terrible excuse and swear it's the truth, then medical science needs to turn its collective efforts to studying the effects of timeshare on people.  Are timeshare presentations contagious, and is the contagion lurking in sales offices?  Could the cure have been there all this time? 

What makes you endure 90 minutes with us if you don't have any interest in changing your lifestyle?   Time really isn't money, you know. 

Time is time and once it's gone, it's gone.

TAKE TIME

Take time
 to know
we’re all different
we feel pain, we bleed the same
happy, sad,  joyous, angry
just moods … phases we navigate through -  together, or alone

Take time

to see
the old man on his verandah
his smile trembles and falters a little
he buried his wife the other day
fifty four years of marriage
not all of it happy but all of it good

Take time

to hear
a bird sing its final note as the eagle swoops in
it would be a pity to
miss life’s melody

Take time
 to talk
why wait till it’s too late
to say
I love you
thanks for believing in me
why did you do that

Take time
to understand
some people need recognition
others a jail sentence
our  individual journeys
changes us
and makes us
who we are now

Take the time
to acknowledge each other

It’s all good

Cavemen Rock!

Should we revert back to being cavemen?

The life of a caveman was a natural one, man and nature in concert with, and respectful of, one another.

Man became hungry, looked for food, ate some and stored the rest for the lean months. Man remained lean.

The cavemen were tough, resilient people, with a healthy respect for Mother Nature. More importantly, they were an intelligent people. Intelligence is about fulfilling needs which, in turn, creates resourcefulness. Resourceful people are ingenious, imaginative, capable and quick-witted.

Living in a cave was a great improvement to living under the stars, at the mercy of Mother Nature’s whims. These cave dwellers struggled with inventing things they could use to fell trees, harness fire, clothe themselves, and feed their family.

They had nothing to begin with, and discovered/invented a lot of known survival techniques that we take for granted today. It was they who first used most laws of physics, too. Modern man merely explained them and gave them fancy names.

Cavemen lived in harsh conditions where “survival of the fittest” meant – if you can’t catch your chow you don’t survive; or, if your neighbor’s weapon of necessity, the club, is bigger than yours, you’ll be the one with massive head trauma, or dead.

Body language and social graces were very important back then. A smile or a frown could be the deciding factor between peace and war.

Modern man is made of the same stuff as our forefathers … still inventing - re-inventing and refining what nature gives to us so freely.

Modern man is ingenious, which is very good, but when it comes to altering nature, this ingeniousness can often be a hindrance and not a help.

Animals are being bred to mature at a much quicker pace, causing them to have thick layers of unnatural, unhealthy fat around their frames; rockets are sent up into the heavens to trigger off lightning. Our excessive greed and use of modern technology are causing greenhouse gases which are speeding up global warming.

Obesity and global warming are just two of the myriad problems afflicting our world today. Could the simple solution be a question of who eats whom?

Do you think if we didn’t breed cows, chickens, lambs and pigs in such large numbers and with so much haste, that perhaps we wouldn’t have so many health and heat problems?

English Cumberland sausage, the German Bratwurst, the South African Boerewors, the Spanish Chorizo, the Breakfast sausage, the Lunch sausage... the list goes on and on, and that's only one variation of a myriad of meat by-products. What happened to eating a simple diet?

Imagine a world where animals roamed free, where cows were like lions or tigers – rare and exotic – to be admired, or hunted, depending upon your clan's needs, a world where humans and animals alike fed off the greens of the earth, the seasonal berries and legumes.

Of course, we can't go back to cavemen days, but surely we can start to take responsibility for our planet? Thriving on human greed is what has brought us to a very sad statistic. About one quarter of the world's adults is overweight. Doesn't that frighten you? It does me.

Kiss

Bobbi Sherlock and Ray Blazina apparently hold the record for the longest kiss.  -  130 hours and 2 minutes between 1-6 May 1978!

Perhaps the greatest evidence of the psychobiosocial theory of kissing lies in the relationships between bonobo monkeys, which share 98.7 percent of their DNA with humans. Baby bonobos get nourishment from their parents, who feed them using a mouth-to-mouth technique. As they grow, the bonobos frequently kiss one another to ease tensions or reconcile after disagreements. They also may kiss as a sign of friendship, or even during the mating process.

A kiss is just a kiss….. or is it?

Kiss of Death
The kiss of Judas, the origin of the term "Kiss of Death", Judas's betrayal of Jesus with a kiss in the Garden of Gethsemane.

 Dinoponera quadriceps ants, known as dinosaur ants, and the Mafia have something in common.
 Both the “Godfather” Mafia boss and the “Godmother ant” use the “kiss of death" as a signal for their "Mob" to punish the offender.

Kiss of Life 

Get stoned!

WORK FROM HOME

I’ve spent hours scanning the Internet for legitimate work from home jobs and it’s a jungle out there!

In today’s market, working from home makes a ton of sense and can be the perfect solution to easing some of the unemployment problems. But how many of those jobs are real?

Being well informed is key to finding legitimate sites that offer real employment and not the ones out to scam you of your hard-earned money.

I was interested in the writing/proofreading sites; but the hoops I had to jump through are outrageous.

I’ve written tests, and answered more questions than the FBI would ask me if I were an international cat burglar, and then, when I finally reach the top rung and I’ve been “accepted” into the haloed inner sanctum, I find out what the reward for my efforts will be.

In one instance, the minimum number of articles I have to proof in a 24 hour period is twenty 500 word articles. And I must also be available to proofread at least 5 days per week.

That doesn’t sound too bad … it will certainly keep me busy for a few hours every day, since the articles need to be 100% correct, and I have to check for plagiarism and also ensure a certain keyword density …. So, what do I get? The princely sum of $0.30 per 500 words!

… if I proofread 20 articles a day I’ll earn $6.00 …..

Well, that won’t work, I realize, so I’ll need to write some articles too. Most sites use a bidding system, where writers bid for a job and the “employer” picks the writer he wants. Payment on completion of an original article can start as low as ….. One Dollar.

Obviously, I’m a newbie on the online writing scene, so I can’t expect much more than $5 an hour, until I get a few articles under my belt, and good reviews.

That’s all well and good, but it won’t pay the bills, so it’s back to the grindstone, and writing will remain a hobby, for the time being.

The Confessions of a Guilty Catholic

When 1960 dawned I had just turned nine the month before. I was in my tenth year someone explained to me, but I was still nine. I didn’t understand that. What was I – 9 or 10? It made a huge difference because I really wanted to be ten.

Now that I’m in my 60th year, I don’t get into a discussion about being in my 61st year, or that I’m in my 7th decade. I get it, ok!

Anyway. Back to the 60’s. I was the middle child. My brother turning 13 was a big deal. His birthdays were special. Apparently because he was a male and the oldest of the three of us. His birthday breakfast was the same every year – a French baguette with all the soft inside bits taken out and stuffed with dark chocolate, baked in the oven till the chocolate melted and then served to the birthday boy on his bed; everyone gathered around and sang “happy birthday, Gerard” then we were shooed out so that he could enjoy his “pain au chocolat” all by himself.

I can’t remember, but hopefully he had the runs.

I loved the chocolate birthday cake my mom would bake for the afternoon. All our uncles and aunts, our cousins and friends would congregate around the kitchen table and we would sing happy birthday again, and eat cake.

Dominique was the youngest so he was spoiled all the time.

I was the hot dog in the middle of the roll and most often overlooked except when I started to resemble a chubby little hot dog. Then all attention was turned on me.

A disapproving tsk from my mother, a disappointed glance from my father, a condescending sneer from my skinny older brother – the attention was all mine.

My hormones were waking up at the same time that my appetite increased and that wasn’t a good pairing for me. I went from petite and cute to short and plump.

That’s also the year that I became a good Catholic – the year my body betrayed me and I learned the concept of GUILT.

I felt guilty when I ate anything. I felt guilty when my body began to tingle “down there”. Actually that was usually a double dose of guilt when both happened at the same time.

Saturdays were confession days. All the good parishioners of Maryvale Parish would line up outside the confessional and wait their turn to confess their deepest, darkest sins to the priest who was hidden inside the box behind a wooden screen. He could see you but you couldn’t see him, and this caused me anxiety which fueled the guilt that all good Catholics have.

When it was my turn to go into the confessional I’d be sweating nervously, again, not an enhancement for a little plump kid.

The confessional was always cool, the light dimmed so that your attention could be focused on your faults, not your surroundings.

How many sins can I amass in 7 days? I’d rack my brains and the stock sins were always there, ready to come out.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession. I swore at my parents four times. I made my mother angry because I ate the rest of the mashed potatoes. I’m a glutton. I used the Lord’s name in vain twice. I didn’t listen at school and I swore at my brother because he laughed at me. For these and all my other sins, I ask forgiveness. Amen.”

Then I waited for the verdict. The silence was stifling. I could hear a few penitents shuffling along outside the box, and I concentrated on those sounds while waiting for my fate. My knees were numb.

“Say 4 Hail Marys, 10 Our Fathers and 5 Glory Be’s. Go in peace, my child.”

The screen separating the guilty party from the holy man clicked closed and I was alone in the wooden box, blessed and temporarily cleansed.

I always felt relief at that time, when my sins were lifted, my slate clean. I tried hard to keep it that way for seven days, but I knew that next week I’d add some more stuff to the list because I had to.

God wouldn’t believe that I had been good. Why else did I have to go to confession once a week if I didn’t sin?

I felt guilty just thinking I could never not be guilty.

Last One Standing

The silence hurts my ears. Warm, sticky blood oozes from my eyes as I survey the devastation around me. Nothing has survived. Not a building, not a cockroach – except me.

I trip and stumble, and burn my hand on the smoldering metal that was once a car. I watch, idly, as my singed fingerprints shrivel off my fingers. There’s no pain. I wonder why.

Bodies around me, dead, lifeless, unblinking, eyes wild and milky-grey gazing into the threshold of the hereafter. What’s on the other side, I wonder?

I hear a noise, a soft groan, and I turn around gratefully, happy to share the world with another beating heart – but, no, it’s an old gutter pipe slowly detaching itself from its wall anchor. I see it, falling, in slow motion, and land on the sidewalk. Then, nothing. Quiet suffocates me again.

A thought screams through my head - happy are those who are called to His supper. Happy are those, happy are those who are called, happy are those who are called to His l supper…happyarethosewhoarecalledtohislastsupper…. Why wasn’t I invited?

Why was I left behind? Was I less worthy than a cockroach? What crime did I commit to deserve such cruel immunity?

How difficult is it to wish myself dead, I wonder. I feel a weak jolt of optimism, a thin line of white hope.

Now I have something to live for – death.

Sweet dreams

I look at his back as he faces the other way his breathing is steady, regular, his hair is gray I inch closer to him and breathe in the smell of his skin he smells like home should smell I touch him gently - he doesn't move I inch closer moulding myself to his sleeping body I hear my heart beating into his back, into his muscles, coursing down his veins I smile sleepily now I know I shall sleep Now I'm happy, I'm content Now I am me