Nope, this isn’t a dozen roses.
Not a box of chocolates (milk — I wouldn’t dream of giving you dark).
Not skimpy underwear.
Just some important information from a fake medical professional and expert patient to ensure you can get those from someone else next year. And the next. And the next.
Know the signs and share this one with your friends.
Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Family, Health and Medicine, Humor
For a while, I’ve kind of wondered why the issue of gun sanity makes me so, well, crazy mad. More than any of the other issue I feel strongly about, this one runs the deepest in my heart.
But thanks to Lisa of Life with the Top Down who commented on my last gun control piece and told the story of her father-in-law leaving a loaded gun in a drawer where her young son found it, I figured it out. (Lisa’s story ended happily, thankfully.)
Yes Lisa reminded me of one of my own stories. One of my earliest memories, in fact. A clear as a bell memory where I am inside my own head as I acted out the events. Remembering it made me wonder if this might explain why I feel so strongly that guns should be handled, well, differently in the U.S. than they are today.
So here is my story.
It was summer, probably 1960, but maybe 1959. I was playing in my backyard with Debbie A who lived next door. I didn’t really like Debbie. Nobody did. She was argumentative and we always fought. Everyone always fought with Debbie. But that day, Debbie said something that made me mad. Really, really mad. And so I went into the house to get my Dad’s gun so I could shoot her. I don’t remember wanting to kill her; I just wanted to shoot her.
I went into the house, past my mother who was doing dishes, watching us out the back window. And I opened the drawer where I knew my dad kept his gun. He had been in the Navy in WWII, and he had kept his gun. I knew that. I was sure of it. And I knew exactly where it was, too. It was in the bottom drawer in the den. And I was gonna get it.
But I couldn’t find it anywhere. I emptied the drawer but couldn’t find it. I asked my brother, Fred, who tried to help me find it. Finally I asked my mother, who told me with a laugh, “there’s no gun in this house!”
I was crushed. Disappointed. I really wanted to shoot Debbie.
Years later I told my Dad the story. His eyes widened when he thought of what might have been. Would I have accidentally shot myself? Would I have mistakenly blown my wonderful brother away? Would my mother have been blasted as I headed out the door to shoot Debbie?
Would I have shot Debbie?
Dad told me that he had kept his navy revolver, but only for a short while. When my mother first got pregnant he got rid of it. “Kids and guns don’t mix,” he said. “That’s a recipe for disaster.” He was right.
I was 3-1/2. What would my life have been like had I found the gun? How many other lives would have been ended or ruined by my action? My really delightful childhood would have been much, much different if I had murdered someone before even starting kindergarten.
So today, on “Gun Appreciation Day” I celebrate my Dad, who was a smart guy. Thanks Dad, for protecting me (and who knows who else) from myself. Because you were right — kids and guns don’t mix. Trouble is, a lot of the adults who have them don’t mix well with guns, either.
This song is about fathers. Not guns. It is beautiful, though. And it makes me think of my Dad and the wise choices he made that helped me navigate life.
Filed under Childhood Traumas, Criminal Activity, Family, Gun control, Neighbors, Stupidity
Before 1986 there were two things in life I was certain about. Things I never got wrong on a pop quiz. Things that I could recite in my sleep.
First my name. Elyse Ellen E….
When I got married I didn’t have to change my name. That was until the woman I worked for at the time announced that I absolutely could not change my name. So naturally the decision was made and I changed it.
Besides, nobody ever pronounced my maiden name correctly; it drove me crazy. Nobody pronounces my married name right either, but it’s John’s name not mine, so I don’t care. Butcher away, folks.
The second thing I always got right was my birthday. January 18, 1957. Simple. Easy. I had a document from the State of Connecticut with a raised seal to prove that I was born on that date around 3 a.m. in the morning (sorry Mom and Dad). But I didn’t know that I would end up changing my birthday when I got married too.
Actually, I can blame this one on the same boss. It was Anna’s fault. Yup.
The summer before we got married, I was working as a high level lobbyist and John was a lowly government employee. OK, actually, I was a lowly lobbying flunky and John was pretty high up in the U.S. government. But still.
One afternoon when I was supposed to meet John for some wedding prep stuff, something earth-shatteringly important happened involving my job. It was so vitally important to the rest of the history of the world that I can’t at this moment quite put my finger on just exactly what it was.
Anyway, we were supposed to go to the DC City Office and get our marriage license. Now stop it, readers. This event was nothing like you see in those old movies, with movie stars in great hats.
Really, there was nothing romantic about it at all. I don’t think. Not so I’ve heard, anyway.
So anyway, John got our marriage license, and we got married a month or so later in a lovely church service in the church where John’s parents had been married 40 years earlier. Family and friends were in attendance.
All was good until my birthday rolled around, when John made a major confession.
“Ummm, Lease,” he said quietly. “When I got the marriage license, I mistakenly put down January 17th not 18th as your birthday.”
“You what?”
“Yeah. Oops. I guess that means that either your birthday is January 17th or we’re not married.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it just means that I married an idiot.”
We would have happily left it at that if it hadn’t been for my family. They betrayed me. Each and every one of them called me on the 17th to wish me a Happy Birthday that year — thinking my new husband would be taking me out to dinner on my actual birthday January 18th.
I have a large family. Even distant cousins nine times removed called on the 17th.
“See,” John said proudly, “I was right. Your birthday is obviously on the 17th because everybody is calling to wish you a happy birthday!”
This scene has been replayed every blippin’ year for 25 years. This year it will be an even 26 birthdays. And never a call on the 18th.
To make matters worse, though, I put the final nail in my own coffin myself last year. You see, I wanted to let all my bloggin’ buddies know it was my birthday. Plus I needed to address the glaring issue of my stupid blog name. And so I wrote this post: People My Age.
And because I didn’t know how to schedule posts in those days, and because a lot of my readers were from Europe and Asia, well, I posted it on January bloody 17th.
So this year I’ve given up. My birthday is January 17th from now on. Or the 18th. Whenever. Gifts will be gracefully received all month long, however.
Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Family, Humor, Stupidity
When I wrote a post on the night of the shootings about the fact that members my family grew up in Newtown and went to Sandy Hook Elementary School, I was touched by the comments of most of you.
One commenter I’d never heard from before, took the opportunity to make my comments section into her platform for how very safe she feels because she packs a gun. I tolerated her for as long as I could, mostly trying not to vomit at the comments. She berated me for my opinions, telling me in bad grammar that I was ignorant.
I am not ignorant. I have done the research. I even put some of it into the comments that she found so ignorant. Here’s the post, although the comments, which were mostly answered in those damn Word Press bubbles, do not appear in the order they were received. And since some of them required me to breathe deeply into a paper bag filled with Xanax, they were answered fairly randomly.
*****
As a news junky I am constantly reading about the incredibly stupid things normal people do with guns. People who mean no harm, who only mean to keep themselves and their families safe.
There was the man I wrote about in my first piece on gun control, Gunsmoke. He shot himself in the femoral artery while unbuckling his seat belt in a grocery store parking lot. His wife was inside shopping, and their four kids watched their father die stupidly.
There was the guy who was hanging out with his friends and demonstrated the infallibility of his gun’s safety by putting the safety on, pointing the gun at his temple, and pulling the trigger. His friends were quite impressed, I’m quite sure. He will never know.
And then along comes this guy, who gives a face and a voice to everything stupid about the crazy gun crowd.
In case you are on the fence on whether or not assault weapons should be banned, take a listen to someone who thinks they should not.
And then see if you can believe badly enough of George W. Bush, that you will go along with Alex Jones’ depiction of what happened on September 11, 2001, and therefore, why, really, we all need assault weapons.
*****
I’ve begun to believe that it is not necessarily mental health that needs to be evaluated before a person can purchase a gun.
We need to test their intelligence. Because there are way too many stupid fuckers out there with weapons.
Related Posts:
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2011/07/11/dont-tread-on-me/
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2012/12/14/newtown/
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2012/08/05/one-more-time/
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2012/07/20/unexpected/
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2012/07/30/run-hide-fight/
https://fiftyfourandahalf.com/2012/06/11/birthday-party-blasts/
Filed under Childhood Traumas, Criminal Activity, Elections, Family, Gun control, Health and Medicine, Hypocrisy, Law, Mental Health, Politics, Stupidity
As you also may know if you’re a long time reader, I have a hard time with technology. Particularly if it talks. I wrote about it here: I can’t get no. You have no doubt heard me screaming from wherever it is you are, when I am asked the same question for the 128th time by the same incredibly patient voice on the other end of the phone. If I could get a hold of the person behind the voice, I would slap her silly. Because those auto-answering voices used by every single company I need to call — they make me crazy.
So naturally, I had to dig myself in deeper.
Yup, recently I got an iPhone4S, with Suri. And within days, I wanted to strangle her, too. Suri makes me crazy, and only partly because her voice is the same one as the voice prompt I named Sybil in I can’t get no. (They are obviously psychotic twins.) I gave Suri several chances to help me and to help herself in the process, but she always lets me down. Once, I was trying to demonstrate to my boss how she can find a phone number for you and dial it:
“Suri, call home,” I commanded.
“You have 16 homes.”
Shit. So much for my raise.
Another time, I tried all day to get her help with finding a nearby restaurant when we were on vacation. I gave up in frustration, and in complete exasperation I said to Siri:
“Oh Fuck Off!”
She finally gave me a reasonable answer:
“What did I do to deserve that?” she said.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh.”
But actually, it isn’t only voice-activated prompts that make me nuts. Real live people do, too. Especially if they have an accents. I cannot emphasize enough just how convenient this difficulty was when I lived in another country where they spoke a language that required the use of an accent.
Still, probably the most difficult accent for me is a Scottish one, which is quite frustrating. You see, they speak English. Sort of.
Actually, Scotland is near and dear to my heart. John went to University there, and we have many friends in and around Edinburgh from those days. Best of all, John asked me to marry him overlooking Edinburgh Castle at sunset after we hiked up the Salisbury Crags. (See why I married him?)
How could I say anything but yes?
(Both Google Images)
But in lots trips to Scotland over the years, umpteen phone calls and reciprocal visits to us, I continue to have trouble understanding our friends. It’s the accent.
I canna understand it.
At first, I thought it was just the heavy Scottish Brogue and that my ear would get attuned to it. Nope. Not all of our friends have a brogue as few are completely Scottish. Some actually hail from Northern Ireland, another was raised for 10 years in Czechoslovakia before moving to Scotland. Others are English. Some of our friends are even mutts and we don’t talk about them much. We really only have two friends who are authentically Scottish. It’s a motley crew. No matter. They are all wonderful, fun, and we have a blast when we visit or when they come here.
Or at least I think we do. You see, since I have such a hard time understanding them, I never know what anyone is talking about or what I’m agreeing to. Nevertheless, I agree to whatever I am asked. I swear, their accents are thick as mud. Thicker, even. And they’re all professional people, doctors, dentists, executives and school teachers. So my way is easier. What sort of trouble could they get me into? Besides, I’m pretty sure I’ve responded appropriately when spoken to over the years. If not, I am hoping that when they laugh at me, that they think kindly of poor John’s wife, that agreeable deaf woman.
But somehow, I expect to have the last laugh.
Filed under Family, Gizmos, Humor, Mental Health, Stupidity
I got TWO!
I recommend Karen Kingsley and Kingsley Ink
The Highest Honor
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FiftyFourandAHalf 