My very first blogging buddy, Nancy Roman, of Not Quite Old, has written a book!
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I admit, I was a little nervous to read it. I always am, whenever I pick up a book by someone I know. Because I worry that I might not like it. And then what do I say?
When it’s a book written by a blogging buddy, though, I am being ridiculous. Because I already know that I like them. I already know their writing style. I already know that they can spin a good yarn.
Still, I shouldn’t have worried. Not with Nancy. Because Nancy is that good.
Just What I Always Wanted is the story of a fifty year old woman who changes her life dramatically, in part by adopting a pregnant 14 year old misfit. Nancy’s gift for dialog and understatement, makes the story of the interaction between Cynthia and Shannon, as they try to form a life together, simultaneously poignant and hilarious. It’s a story of hope, of love, of commitment and forgiveness.
After the real-life events we’ve all been living through, this warm-hearted story shined up my innate optimism just a bit.
My husband John believes that the whole reason that the NRA is bat-shit crazy about getting everybody guns is so that bit by bit, everybody will become afraid enough of their own shadows and/or that of their neighbors that they will have no choice but to buy their own gun to protect themselves from everybody else in the US who has one and is likely to come a-callin’. And then, of course, the gun manufacturers would get even more blood money and pay more dues! It’s a win-win for the NRA and the manufacturers! The fact that the country will lose is just collateral damage.
John may be on to something. Because just today I read that there are folks in the NRA who are advocating that non-eagle-eye folks have the right to guns, too. Not only people who need corrective lenses, but folks who cannot see at all. In a less politically correct time we might have called them “Blind Folks.”
Now, now, don’t get all worried. According to Dom Raso, the guy in this video, since blind folks have such good hearing, they don’t need to see what they’re shooting at.
So the logical conclusion is that they will not just randomly start firing their guns around like irresponsible folks. (Not that there are any irresponsible gun owners out there, natch.) That makes me feel much better.
Now I grant you, there is scientific evidence that blind folks can hear better than those with better vision. Still, I’m really not at all comfortable with the idea that one of my neighbors who is vision impaired might have a gun. Well, not if he can put bullets into it and fire it, anyway.
But this discussion led me to a brilliant idea. Now I know how I will protect myself during the apocolypse and/or the rapture and/or when the guvment’s jackbooted thugs come to my house.
When we lived in Switzerland and just across the border in France in the late 1990s and early 2000s, one of the biggest problems was finding healthcare. Now I realize that I worked at the World Health Organization, but the docs there were researchers, primarily, meeting goers-to-ers. They weren’t your every day heal-the-sick kind of doctors.
In addition to not knowing the ropes of a foreign system, there was the language barrier. I mean, frankly, it is difficult to describe illnesses in English — I always feared that I would go in with a sore throat and end up without an important body part. I didn’t realize that that could happen right here in the good old U.S. of A. In fact, that just happened recently when a man went in for a routine procedure and, ummm, had a life changing event. Allegedly.
So in 2002, we moved home to the U.S. where I could communicate and get medical treatment for $197,238.73 per word.
Today, though, I’m rethinking that decision. Maybe we acted in haste. Maybe we should have thought twice or three times. Maybe we should go back.
No, I’m not sick. In fact, with my English-speaking doctors I’m doing quite well.
But there is one thing that I could get in France that I cannot get here: wine.
PARIS – A hospital in the French city of Clermont-Ferrand is to open a wine bar where terminally ill patients will be able to enjoy a “medically-supervised” glass or two with their families.
Vive la France, where the terminally ill can get “medically supervised” alcoholic beverages. I hear the wine is to die for.
UPDATE!!!
If I DO go back to die with wine in my hand/throat/tummy, somebody else needs to pick it out. I have an amazing skill crafted while living inside of or within spitting distance of France.
I can go into any store in France and leave with a bottle of awful wine. It’s a talent. A gift. Not many folks can claim it.
It’s John’s fault. Not long after we started dating, John got me hooked on contests when he won one. A free, all expenses paid trip for two to the UK in 1986! Seriously! It was right after the Lockerby bombing, and nobody was going to England. So British Airways held a contest to give away all tickets to London on one day in June. And John won.
I didn’t win.
I never win.
I always enter, though. No matter what the contest. As soon as I find out about a raffle, a sweepstakes, a lottery, I’m in. Take my money. Please.
So I must admit that I was a little bit miffed when I logged on to one of my favorite news websites — Talking Points Memo today. Because apparently there is a contest I missed.
A contest to see who can be the biggest asshole.
Did you see some of the things that were done to “celebrate” Independence Day?
There was the editorial in the WestView News — a New York newspaper (WTF? — New York?)
Charming. Even if it was meant ironically. Photo credit, West View News. Assholes
Then, there was that parade in Nebraska. Now tell me, what parade is complete without honoring our president:
Nope. No racism here. No disrespect meant, I’m sure. Assholes.
But to me, at least for today, the folks who win the contest for the biggest asshole in the country are these guys: the “Coal Rollers.” Assholes who modify the emission controls on their diesel vehicles to spew huge clouds of exhaust — ON PURPOSE! As it says in one of the articles I read on TPM,
Truckers essentially trick their vehicles into thinking they need to use more gas than it actually needs. The more fuel that’s used up, the more exhaust comes out thus the big plumes of dark emissions from a “rolling coal truck.” According to Daily Digest News, turning a truck into a rolling coal truck can cost as much as $5,000.
Just how much money would you be willing to spend to show just how big an asshole you can be?
They direct their exhaust towards Prius drivers, bicyclists, well, really towards anybody who might not be burning quite as much fossil fuel and/or emitting quite so much CO2 as they are. They’re doing it because they hate Obama and want to demonstrate just how much.
Yup. Today, Coal Rollers win the prize. They are the biggest assholes.
And they’ve cured me of my fascination with contests. Because I’m never going to top these assholes.
Her response usually baffled me. As a kid growing up in what I thought was abject poverty (ummm, not even close), I felt like I never got what I asked for. Or if I did, one of my four siblings had used it first. Or “it” didn’t really live up to my expectations. Or getting “it” not precisely what I expected.
Getting what I asked for always held a surprise.
You know what? Mom was right. And it is just as annoying now as a grownup as it was when she was right when I was a kid.
You guys know that recently I got what I asked for:
A Puppy! !!!!!!
Yup, here is an update on Duncan, that fluffy little guy who gave us such a scare last week when we brought him home.
You know what?
He came with teeth! I knew that he would, but I had forgotten what it felt like to have razor sharp puppy teeth inserted into my arms. Or my legs. Or, during one memorable cuddle, into my nipple.
He came full of energy! I knew that he would. But I had forgotten just how much. And how much energy went into those teeth.
He came determined to destroy my house. I knew he would. But I had forgotten just how many times I can say “no — chew on this” during a single hour. 4,682 times to be exact.
Yes, this is a brief Duncan update — he is doing great. He is full of mischief, sharp teeth and a desire to rule the world — or at least the household. John, Jacob and I are holding our own, but it is only a matter of time before Duncan realizes that he is King Duncan. And while none of us would ever murder him, I’m not sure I want Duncan to know that just yet. At least not until he loses those teeth.
Who you gonna believe? I’m an Angel. (Well, except when I’m a Demon.)
Thank you all for your concern about the cute little guy.
I really did get what I asked for. And Mom? He’s wonderful!
FiftyFourandAHalf 