I Forgot to Brag...

...about my third daughter, Mallory, who got a 100% on her mid-term exam in Organic Chemistry. She studied long and hard for this exam. Anyhow, she's been walking around alternately whistling the tune and sporting a grin on her face like the guy in the Enzite (spelling??) commercial.

...about my second daughter, Meeghan, who made 12 dozen meat and red chili, and 12 dozen green corn tamales (filled with cheese and green chilis). Without parental supervision. AND chilis rellenos, and chicken flautas. I'd be able to brag a little more if she'd overnighted some to me. I don't know how she found the time to do that plus sew geisha, vampire, and doggie costumes for my three granddaughters.

Okay, I'm done. I know it can be boring to listen to bragging. But tamales...they are a food group all their own. Our family in Arizona has been making them as long as anyone can remember. Not hard to make, but very time-consuming, and more enjoyable to do when you have the whole family gathered around the kitchen table.

Why do THEY keep calling me????

I will be so freaking glad when this election season is over...my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from the Republican party. You already know how I feel about "Macaca" Allen...he hasn't checked in with me since the day he became a Senator. In fact, when he was Governor of Virginia, I didn't hear from him either. But right now, my phone is ringing off the hook because George and Thelma-she-can-kiss-my-keister-too Drake, want to be able to count on MY vote. I don't think so!

The ONE and only encounter I had with him (and John Warner, and Bob McDonnell, and fortunately the FORMER Republican state representative Ed Schrock) was at a public hearing about the effects of jets (and the noise they produce) on the health, living conditions, and homes of residents living around Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia Beach, and Fentress Air Field in Chesapeake, VA. This hearing was held several years ago, and at the time, other effected residents, members of a grassroots organization called Citizens Concerned about Jet Noise, and I tried to speak with these "gentlemen" and have our voices heard by the US Navy, our mayor, our city council, members of the group investigating and making their report on these issues, and the media.

By encounter, I mean that as individuals who ARE effected by jet noise, approached these men who were elected (not by me, though) to represent the citizens' interests, they turned a collective deaf ear. They would not even acknowledge our presence. And coincidently, when the order in which "guests" were called upon to speak, those who were "pro jet noise" were given an opportunity to speak first. (Maybe we just didn't hear them call on us because of our hearing loss due to excessive jet noise!)By the time, those who are actually affected by jet noise were allowed to speak, the media was gone, our elected representatives were gone, and we were "preaching to the choir."

Let me tell you about jet noise. When we bought our home in 1995, we knew it was in the flight path of Navy jets doing their practice landings around Oceana. We knew it was loud. But it was tolerable...most of the time. The jets flew up high enough that we'd have to pause our conversation for a few seconds until the jet passed. That was then...1995.

I'm not sure just when things changed, but the jets began to fly much, much lower, then they stopped varying their path a few blocks in either direction of our neighborhood which had given residents a break, and then they started doing more practice-landings much, much later into the night. More recently the Navy has replaced the F-14 Tomcats (of Top Gun fame, I think) with FA-18 Superhornets, that are a jillion times louder.

Anyone who says they "(heart) jet noise" must be deaf, or else live elsewhere. Noise is noise. Fingers in the ears do not help. When the jets fly over, the windows stay shut and we stay indoors (as if that will help...often times we sit INDOORS with our fingers in our ears). The sound penetrates one's skull. When our kids were in elementary school, they couldn't study or sleep because of the constant racket late into the night (they're now in college and it continues). The jets fly so low that we can see the rivets on the underside of the jets. And during Hurricane Isabel, when we lost electrical power for 10 days and had to open our windows, the practice landings did not stop. It couldn't have been more miserable unless we had simply laid down on the runway. Also, there is a layer of oily something on our car and house windows.

You ask, "why don't you just move??" We have never had a problem living near a jet base; the base can be used to house (and maintain) the jets, and military personnel. But the encroachment by homes (ours is 41 years old) makes it difficult to approximate carrier landings because of all of the lights, for one thing. We have long requested an out-lying practice landing field that can provide the darkness needed for night practices, and cut down on the risk in the event of a crash. There are still plenty of rural areas just south and west of here. Unfortunately for us, the City of Virginia Beach wants the money the jet base brings in in the form of money received from the federal government and taxes at the expense of the hearing and health of at least 35,000 of its citizens, AND have allowed more homes to be built closer to the base, and within the high noise levels of the flight approaches to the base.

Our family has been called UNPATRIOTIC by those who support the noise...mostly Republicans. This really pisses me off, pardon the "French". Because I grew up near an airport in Chicago, because my dad retired after devoting 35 years to the US Air Force, because my husband gave 20 years of his life to the US Navy, because my uncle was in the Army and was responsible for graves registration in Italy during WWII for American soldiers, because my father-in-law served in the Marines, because my brother served in the Navy during the Korean "conflict", because my brother-in-law served in the Army, because my niece is serving in the Air Force, and because my son-in-law is currently a career Navy man...and because every generation of my family has served in the military defending this country since the first of my ancestors stepped foot on this soil before the Revolutionary War. Of the many citizens of this country, I feel that our family has the right to be called Patriots. Members of our family have served patriotically for over 350 years.

I challenge Macaca to demonstrate what he and his ancestors have ever done to demonstrate their patriotism besides run for political office and collect money and privilege. I DARE him and his buddies to do what they do FOR FREE. GEORGE, JOHN, THELMA...DONATE YOUR SALARIES. And open your books so we can see who has donated to YOU, and to whom you've donated (your support, your votes, and your money). Heaven knows you've made enough over the years to live comfortably for the rest of your lives.

I suggest that they wouldn't know how to live life as the rest of us do...paycheck to paycheck. See if THEY could put four kids through college, pay a mortgage and car payments, food and utilities on what the REST OF US DO. Give up that government-privilege retirement check for life, and accept social security and personal retirement accounts as the rest of us are expected to. It seems to me (I'm back in college and studying Western Civilization right now) that there have been "civilizations" in the past, where the common folk got fed up with their representatives and fought back. Why do we accept this bull-dookie from our elected officials? WE are supposed to be the bosses...WE elected them...WE should have the right to determine their salaries...and the right to decide when, if ever, they deserve a pay raise.

If I thought I could get grass-roots support, I'd run for political office myself. The "NO MORE BULLCRAP" platform. I'd be calling people to see what the frig they want, not calling for their vote. If I was doing right by my constituents, I wouldn't have to be calling them begging for votes. I'd donate fully half of the salary to charitable organizations...who couldn't live on half of the $165,000 a year some of these people are earning??? Hell, we've been living on a Wal-Mart salary for the past nine years. Our income would grow by over $60,000, and we'd still have money to donate. I don't believe members of Congress would ever cut their salaries in half. But I DARE them to do their patriotic duty of serving their country for FREE. And to VOTE AGAINST THEIR AUTOMATIC ANNUAL PAY RAISE.

If you'd like to see me run for office, start a petition. I'm a wife, a mom, a grandma, a student, and a volunteer. The last time I lied was when I didn't tell my parents that I was going to see Moose Cholak, Vern Ganya, Wilbur Snyder, Dick the Bruiser, and his cousin, the Crusher at a wrestling match at the Chicago Ampitheatre in about 1965. I got caught in that lie, and it didn't feel good. I don't lie anymore. I have a bunch of stuff jammed under my bed, and my garage is messy, I dusted the top of the piano with my sleeve because I was in a rush. See, I have nothing to hide. I need to comb my hair, brush my teeth and leave for school. NO MORE BULLCRAP.

Sign my petition: I want Cinnabitch to run for political office because she double-dog dares her opponents to cut their salaries and NEVER LIE, and look out for those she represents:

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Rabbit Ramblings Blogspot

For some enjoyable and interesting reading, please check Boo out at: http://rabbitramblings.blogspot.com/

Things have been crazy around here for the past few weeks. The Peter Principle is in effect right now. Whatever can go wrong, has. My husband was involved in an auto accident on his way to work a month ago. He was rear-ended while at a stop light. We are down to one vehicle, and I am the designated driver. Instead of 3/4 of a tank of gas per week, I am now using three full tanks. I am driving my husband to and from work, my son to and from work and to and from classes at the local community college, and myself to and from work, and to and from my own classes.

I am reluctant to point any fingers, but the "executor" of my father's "estate", such as it is, sat on the paperwork for several months. Meanwhile, my father's ashes have been collecting dust at my sister's home for SIX frigging months now, waiting to be buried next to my mother's. This is quite stressful for me and for my family members who are waiting for the word so they can arrange their schedules so we can honor my dad by finally being able to fulfill our promise to him.

My son quit taking the antibiotics he was prescribed for the Lyme disease he contracted. Mr. Know-It-All thinks since the rash has gone away, he's out of the woods.

Our 15 1/2-year-old Pekingese, Pokey, looks like a camel, with his arthritic back. We finally took him to our veterinarian, David Morris, in Virginia Beach, who spent time talking with us, explaining all of Pokey's health problems without once looking at his watch. It is time for us to let our Pokemeister go, and be released from his pain. Now to convince our daughters. I am the custodial grandma, and his "birth mother" -- my #2 daughter wants us to wait until she can be with him during our annual Thankschanumasgiving family gathering. Daughter #3 can't deal with euthanasia while she is trying to concentrate on her hideously difficult classes this semester. My little schmoopies want to be here with him and hold his paws, and then conduct a funeral service. What is a grandma to do, who wants to alleviate his pain and at the same time, ease her children and grandchildren through their painful loss? Illness and death are not always convenient. Even the most loving mom and grandma can't take away the pain, but can only be here to hug, wipe tears, and pass out chocolate brownies. Somehow I am finding this more difficult because I feel guilty that I am discussing his demise in front of him, without him being able to understand. All I can do is hold him and run my hands over his soft, beautiful fur. Maybe he knows something is up because we are giving him more treats, more cookies, more food off our plates in the past few months, than in the previous 15 years. Then again, maybe he thinks he's finally convinced us that he is the king of this castle.

Reprehensible Tom Foley...

Reprehensible. The alcohol made him do it? The clergy made him do it? Pu-leez...
Comments?

And while I'm in a bad mood let me ask this:

If WE pay the salaries of these "representatives", why don't WE get to decide IF, WHEN, and HOW MUCH of a pay raise they get? How do WE get to change the way THEIR pay raises are given, and why don't THEY have to try to make it on social security and their own investments and savings like the rest of us? Why do THEY get so much money upon their retirement? Aren't WE THE PEOPLE supposed to be in charge? Comments?

I'm feeling pissed off this morning...

My parents...

Fifty-one years ago today my parents got married. Dad, a college-educated, multiple-degreed, Army Air Corps officer, raised in New York City, married a rancher's daughter from a little desert town in southern Arizona. An unlikely match. But when they met, it was love at first sight. Constant companions until Mom died on June 8, 1993. Dad passed away on April 18th of this year, two weeks short of his 91st birthday. They will be together again -- buried side-by-side.

And so it is sealed...

If you are Jewish, and grew up in city with a large Jewish population, or are gentile with Jewish friends or associates, the following will invoke heartfelt memories, so read on.........

The Yiddish word for Today is PULKES (PUHL-kees) Translation: THIGHS. Please note: this word has been traced back to the language of one of the original Tribes of Israel, the Cellulites.

The only good advice that your Jewish mother gave you was: "Go! You might meet somebody!"

You grew up thinking it was normal for someone to shout, "Are you okay?" through the bathroom door when you were in there longer than 3 minutes.

Your family dog responded to commands in Yiddish.

Every Saturday morning your father went to the neighborhood deli (called an "appetitizing store") for whitefish salad, whitefish "chubs", lox (nova if you were rich!), herring, corned beef, roast beef, cole slaw, potato salad, a 1/2-dozen huge barrel pickles which you reached into the brine for, a dozen assorted bagels, cream cheese and rye bread (sliced while he waited). All of which would be strictly off-limits until Sunday morning.

Every Sunday afternoon was spent visiting your grandparents and/or other relatives.

You experienced the phenomenon of 50 people fitting into a 10-foot-wide dining room hitting each other with plastic plates trying to get to a deli tray.

You had at least one female relative who penciled on eyebrows which were always asymmetrical.

You thought pasta was stuff used exclusively for Kugel and kasha with bowties.

You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.

You were as tall as your grandfather by age seven and a half.

You never knew anyone whose last name didn't end in one of 5 standard suffixes (berg, baum, man, stein and witz).

You were surprised to discover that wine doesn't always taste like cranberry sauce.

You can look at gefilte fish and not turn green.

When your mother smacked you really hard, she continued to make you feel bad for hurting her hand.

You can understand Yiddish but you can't speak it.

You know how to pronounce numerous Yiddish words and use them correctly in context, yet you don't know exactly what they mean. Kinahurra.

You're still angry at your parents for not speaking both Yiddish and English to you when you were a baby.

You have at least one ancestor who is somehow related to your spouse's ancestor.

Your grandparents' newly washed linoleum floor was covered with the NY Times, which your grandparents couldn't read.

You thought speaking loud was normal.

You considered your Bar or Bat Mitzvah a "Get Out of Hebrew School Free" card.

You think eating half a jar of dill pickles is a wholesome snack.

You're compelled to mention your grandmother's "steel cannonballs" upon seeing fluffy matzo balls served at restaurants.

You buy 3 shopping bags worth of hot bagels on every trip to NYC and ship them home via FedEx. (Or, if you live near NYC or Philadelphia or another Jewish city hub, you drive 3 hours just to buy a dozen "real" bagels.)

Your mother or grandmother took personal pride when a Jew was noted for some accomplishment (showbiz, medicine, politics, etc.) and was ashamed and embarrassed when a Jew was accused of a crime ... as if they were relatives.

You thought only non-Jews went to sleep away colleges.....

Jews went to city schools ... unless they had scholarships or made an Ivy League school.

And finally, you knew that Sunday night and the night after any Jewish holiday was designated for Chinese food.

Zei gezunt!!