...about the Don't Ask, Don't Tell military policy...

From The Onion, my favorite source for news:
ArchiveNews July 12, 2010 | ISSUE 46•28
http://www.theonion.com/articles/repeal-of-dont-ask-dont-tell-paves-way-for-gay-sex,17698/

Repeal Of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' Paves Way For Gay Sex Right On Battlefield, Opponents Fantasize

Says U.S. Defensive Dept.
10.29.03 WASHINGTON— "As Congress prepares to allow gay individuals to serve openly in the military, those against the proposed change voiced their concerns Monday, warning the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" could soon lead to strong, strapping American soldiers engaging in mind-blowing homosexual intercourse right on the battlefield.

"We're sending our soldiers out there with a mission, and that mission is to protect this country," said Rep. Louie Gohmert (R-TX), one of many conservative politicians who staunchly oppose the change. "If this is repealed, what's to stop all-night sex romps from breaking out while U.S. servicemen are hiding in a bunker, or crawling around an irrigation ditch bathed only by the light of the moon, or, say, the dozens of other situations I've already thought through in elaborate detail?"


"We can't allow this to happen," Gohmert added as beads of sweat collected on his brow. "It's wrong. Sweaty male sex—no matter how erotic and uninhibited—is so wrong and so, so naughty."

Despite its support from the defense secretary and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the repeal has been condemned by many military officers who worry it could disrupt troop cohesion and endanger the lives of the taut young soldiers who have dedicated their lives to serving America with "every rippling muscle in their rock-hard bodies."


Others have argued that allowing gay soldiers to push their lifestyle on others, testing the limits of pleasure a man can take before he erupts in uncontrollable ecstasy, would seriously damage morale.



"The military should not be used to advance some radical, steamy, mouthwatering social agenda," said Rep. Trent Franks (R-AZ). © Copyright 2010, Onion, Inc. All rights reserved.

"Our men need to know they can count on each other in battle, and we can't have them getting distracted by illicit romantic dalliances," said Gen. James T. Conway, commandant of the Marine Corps. "Especially if one's a little blond Adonis farm boy and his buddy's a real tough street kid straight out of Brooklyn. I mean, think about it: What if they lock eyes and abandon their post to start ripping each other's fatigues off, revealing twin sets of glistening washboard abs and at last fulfilling their hidden passions?"

Continued Conway, "Is this the message we want to send to our enemies?"

Many active-duty service members told reporters allowing gay individuals to be open about their sexuality would result in great discomfort among platoons overseas.

"The last thing I need after a 12-hour reconnaissance patrol is to know I'm hitting the showers with some guy who might be checking me out and who might, after seeing what I have to work with, find himself wondering if I too long for the firm yet tender embrace of another man," Army Cpl. Dale Montgomery said. "So, in conclusion, what were we talking about again?"

Earlier efforts to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell have failed, including a notable 2007bill to end the policy that was filibustered by Sen. Ted Stevens (R-AK), who over the course of several days repeatedly screened the gay pornographic film 'Thrill Sergeant' and demanded to know if his colleagues liked that sort of thing.

Repeal opponents argued that future combat missions might slowly begin like this scene from 'Trained To Obey'. This May, Sen. John McCain (R-AZ) promised voters he would do everything in his power to prevent gays from serving openly in the armed forces, and on Thursday, he told reporters that the role of the military is to defend American freedoms, not "the rights of, you know, those people some of us stay up all night thinking about as we toss and turn."

"Imagine you've got a boat full of sailors out cruising the Gulf of Aden when all of a sudden they're attacked. Some of the homosexuals lock themselves below deck and begin touching themselves," said the 73-year-old senator and Vietnam War veteran, his breath quickening. "One of their names is Ricardo. Unbuttoning his pants, he throws his gunner's mate down on the cot and penetrates him, his big, beautiful dick shimmering with power, his dog tags bouncing up and down as he's pounding, and pounding, and pounding."

Added McCain, "What I'm trying to say is: It all boils down to combat effectiveness."

When asked about his views on lesbians serving openly in the military, McCain made no secret of his position on the issue.

"Female soldiers being intimate with one another?" McCain said. "Gross! No, thank you.""

...what the hell?

...two photos that make me happy...

For my dear friend Mohawk Chieftain: I realize this is Navy, not Marines, but I know you will appreciate the theme. I saw this posted on a wall at a National Guard building, and searched until I found a copy on the Internet.






And for me...these Tibetan spaniel babies were born to Chloe in Richmond, VA, on July 5th, 2010. We are hoping to adopt an adorable baby girl. (Chloe went through hours of unproductive labor before having her two sons and two daughters delivered by C-section. As a mother, my heart breaks for her at the knowledge that her children will be taken away from her, and she may never see them again. I will be happy to take her daughter home for visits.

...should I share this news or not?

I have been seriously considering whether or not to write about this next subject, not that I'm afraid to, I just don't know where to start, and I'm not fishing for sympathy. So I'll start at what feels like the beginning.

My mom was born in December 1919, which would make her 90 years old right now...if she had not died when she was 72. Mom started showing symptoms of what I believed to be Alzheimer's disease when she was 59 -- 2 years younger than I am right now. Things she started doing made me think, "Whoa! This is so unlike my mom." From age 59 to 68, those little things seemed to increase in number and severity. My mom before: (1) ironing everything, including my dad's underwear; (2) vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, mopping every day; (3) extreme (almost obsessive/cumpulsive) organization -- she alphabetized canned goods; (4) our appliances looked showroom new; and (5) you could eat out of the toilet using her gardening tools. My mom when I started to get creeped out: (1) fingerprints on the sliding glass door that would have generated an entire window-washing frenzy, were wiped off (and none too well) with a balled-up tissue; (2) not pre-washing dishes before putting them into the dishwasher (something I had long rolled my eyes over). Dad either didn't notice it, or chose to ignore it. As time progressed, however, the symptoms became very apparent to anyone who knew my mom...(1) cobwebs on the chandelier (I pointed it out, and then pointed it out again the following YEAR when we went to visit again); (2) the refrigerator that used to look like a store display, was filled to overflowing, however much of the food was spoiled; (3) items jammed into the linen closet, where they used to be ironed and then folded and stacked with military precision; (4) turning the stove on high and walking out of the room; (5) driving an hour on a hot Arizona summer afternoon with the windows rolled up in her car...she said the AC was broken -- she'd forgotten to turn it on; (6) driving her car and getting lost on a deadend road in the desert; (7) forgetting all of us; and(8) forgetting how to chew, swallow, talk, walk).

There are many more examples of the nightmare of Alzheimer's that my parents lived through for the four years from the first noticeable symptoms, until Mom finally had a stroke and died at age 72. Mom was the baby of nine kids. Her brothers Jim, Henry (or Ben...I can't remember which one), and sister Ada all died of Alzheimer's. As a result, I have been focused on any symptoms I may have...focused, totally focused by examining everything I do, and I do mean everything. I look at my messy underwear drawer...if I realize it is messy, does the messiness count, or the fact that I realize it is messy mean I'm okay and just busy with my little grandson? My garage is a mess...is it Alzheimer's or the fact that my husband still won't build me more shelves for me to put stuff on the problem...and the fact that Matthew still has a ton of stuff here even though he moved out over a year ago? I look at myself in the mirror, and see that as I'm getting older, I am looking more and more like my maternal grandmother, and creepily like my mom did during her Alzheimer's years. Do I just look like my mom and her mom as I am aging? Or is it a sign that I'm done for??

So, as I was busy focusing on my impending doom of Alzheimer's disease, I went in for my annual (at this age, seeing the doctor when one is not sick) checkup, PAP smear, and mammogram. So, while I was peering through my spyglass, binoculars, and microscope at my possible symptoms, I got whacked upside the head with the discovery of a cancerous tumor in my right beebala boobala. First I cried. Not sobs, just feeling my throat constrict and my eyes well up with tears. I apologized to the radiologist for making him feel uncomfortable and hoped a tear wouldn't run down my face and land on his desk. Pam, the technician who has been handling my beebs for the past 20 years, gave me a hug, gave me the name of a surgeon, and sent me on my way to see my regular doctor (office upstairs from the labs) who was expecting me. Dr. Choi, always professional, friendly, and polite, but not the kind to give me a hug and say everything would be alright, said, "You know that you have breast cancer, and I'd like to set you up with a surgeon for a consultation. Do you have a surgeon?" Like I need one for Alzheimer's disease. No I don't have a surgeon...you've been examining my body since 1990...wouldn't YOU know if I had ever had a surgeon? (I thought, not said) So I gave him the name that Pam had given me. This was a week ago last Friday.

The surgeon was able to squeeze me in on Monday, although I did have to sit for 1 1/2hours in the waiting room. I thought, "maybe she was able to squeeze me in because one of her patients died..." As I sat their, I saw some of her post-op patients coming in for their appointments...wearing big gauzey-looking bandages where there used to be a boob... My intestines were in a knot, I was sweating like a racehorse, and my stomach was churning, I felt dizzy, holding back tears--not for me, but for those women who probably started off like I did..."I see something suspicious on your mammogram." And now they are shuffling through the doors like zombies, with bandages and tubes.

The surgeon, I imagined, looked like Kathleen Bates in "Misery." With a personality like Mel Gibson or Bill O'Reilly. However, when I met Dr. Reed, I found that my concern was misplaced. Fear of an evil, slash-happy surgeon was replaced by a different anxiety...Jennifer Reed is young enough to be my daughter. Probably younger than Meeghan. I thought she was a nurse's aid when she bounced into the room, with her petite, but tall body dressed in sandals, skinny black pants, a turquoise blue beaded almost-halter top, and a smile as wide as a billboard. With her long blonde hair in a ponytail. How could she have made it through college, four years of medical school, plus rotations, and surgical residency, AND have practiced medicine for the past three years?? And look like she's still in high school?? Cheating? Not. A prodigy? I think so. And her personality put me immediately at ease. If I'm going to have my boob lopped off, I'd rather have her do the honors...her mom is about my age, and I told her to treat me like she'd treat her own mother...(I hope they have a great relationship).

So, first I underwent another ultrasound session, where she and the technician could get a closeup idea of what they were dealing with, followed by four or five injections of pain-killer (lidacaine--not sure of spelling...felt like novacaine injections from the dentist). After that, she used a scalpel and made an small incision, then using a large-bore needle (which looked almost like a grease-gun, but cleaner...plus I didn't feel a thing), withdrew about four plugs of tumor with surrounding flesh, using the live ultrasound image as a guide. I would love to have watched, but couldn't see the screen from where I was laying. She explained what she was doing and seeing, and after I was bandaged (a little criss-cross piece of surgical tape, covered with a two-inch piece of rolled up gauze, and held in place wih two larger pieces of surgical tape), asked if I wanted to see the tumor before she sent it to the lab. Being addicted to "Life in the ER" and other shows like that (in addition to the news), of course I said yes.

I don't know what I expected...the first mammogram (that Pam, my beebala boobala guardian angel did) and ultrasound showed an irregularly shaped black spot. But what I saw was like a centimeter-long tube-shaped (about 1/8th inch thick) piece of raw chicken meat--my flesh--with an attached piece of tumor that was the color and texture of chicken fat. All I can say is thank goodness for the medical technology that allows doctors to diagnose tumors. The lump itself feels small--Dr. Reed said that it's the size of a peanut (NOT in the shell--my initial thought w/reaction that she was quick to calm). She said, as she suspected, it was cancerous, but needed to send it to pathology for further testing. Testing?? You see it's cancer.

The next day I was back in her office with my good friend Milissa, a nurse, whom I knew would be able to translate medical mumbo-jumbo into words I could comprehend. No waiting this time, we went into her office, where she'd assembled a 1 1/2-inch thick notebook with just about everything I could possibly want to know about breast cancer. She went through the book almost page-by-page. I could ask as many questions as I wanted. My appointment was for 4pm, but we talked until 6:30. I found out things I didn't know about breast cancer, some good, some great, some depressing. From personal knowledge, breast cancer can spread to your brain and kill you, to your bones or internal organs and kill you...not quickly like a bullet to the head, but long, and grotesque like Alzheimer's but without the blessed memory loss, and all the pain of a torture chamber. Why me? I was expecting Alzheimer's, not breast cancer.

Then she showed me pictures of women who had had radical mastectomies...complete amputation of one or both breasts. Would my husband EVER want to get near me again? Even if I stayed dressed from the waist up? Then she showed me those same breasts after reconstruction...some scars (not big gaping, jagged scar tissue, only some lines)...with nip reconstruction. How do they do that? Skin and tissue taken from that little roll of fat--love handles--that I've been trying unsuccessfully to get rid of...they may come in handy afterall. Where the hell did they get pink tissue for the nips? From my twat? NO! (whew!!!). The skin is twisted around in some miraculous way to look like a nip, then tattooed to match the other side. Except for the narrow lines of scar defining where the boob had been pieced together, a great reproduction. That is encouraging. But I won't know until I am asleep in the surgical suite...actually, I won't know until I come out with or without a bandage the size of a loaf of bread. I do know I will have to undergo radiation...15 minutes a day, FIVE days a week, for 6 to 7 weeks. Then hormone therapy for the next five years. IF I am lucky, and the cancer is confined to the tumor and hasn't sent any cancer-cooties to nearby lymph nodes--I will have a "lumpectomy" where the tumor and surrounding tissue will be scooped out, and I will be left with a dent and small scar. With my small boob size, the dent will actually look more like Meteor Crater...scarcely noticeable on someone like Pamela Anderson...followed by the radiation. If it has spread to the lymph nodes under my arm, or if they discover anything in the other boob when I go in for the MRI tomorrow afternoon, I will end up looking like one of the women I saw shuffling down the hall. And then I will end up having to have reconstructive surgery, and following the radiation, I would require chemotherapy.

Not happy about the prospect of undergoing chemo...I can deal with the frigging hair loss...it's falling out already from old age. The good news is I bought a wig a few years ago, but only wore it once...the hair is so thick that my friend/catering partner Vicky knew it was a wig and told me it looked like a small mammal was sitting on my head. So it's in a drawer in my dressing table. Mallory's friend Naja has a bunch of wigs--that's why her hair always looks perfect! That was my motivation for buying it...so in the hair department, I'm good to go. Maybe it was a sign that I missed. It's my barfaphobia that is scaring the shit out of me. Chemo = nausea...my greatest fear. Dr. Reed promises drugs (wish it was "medical" marijuana) to control that.

I know breast cancer won't kill me instantaneously like a good old-fashioned heart attack, so I am grateful that I will have at least a few more years with my family before I croak. As long as Alzheimer's disease doesn't sneak up on me while I'm checking out my titties, and whack me upside the noggin.

...what a good mommy Aunt Mallory will be someday

...about the significance of July 4th in my family...

“’4th of July’ sales“, long weekend , fireworks, barbeques…

I’ll be remembering ancestors Pvt. John Bliss Jr, John Bliss Sr, Adoniram Grant, Capt. Hope Lathrop, John Chamberlain, and Lt. Abner Chamberlain; who (against all likelihood of success) risked their lives, everything they owned and everyone they loved, and won... Independence from the most powerful country the world had ever known.

...I can't stress enough grammar's importance:

Capitalization is the difference between helping your Uncle Jack off a horse & helping your uncle jack off a horse.

...last night I wrote a paper for my sister....

...it was on fetal alcohol syndrome. Very, very depressing...Now I need to go and pour myself a drink.

...this is hilarious...but I didn't write it.

As my youngest daughter would text, LMAO! So I hope you LYAO...

Read this article in "The Onion"

What The Hell Am I Supposed To Do With All These Constitutional Rights?

http://www.theonion.com/articles/what-the-hell-am-i-supposed-to-do-with-all-these-c,11463/

By Bryan Rittgers
April 28, 2009 | ISSUE 46•26 ISSUE 45•18

Too much of one thing can cause a person a lot of stress, and you know what's stressing me out? All these rights guaranteed to me by the U.S. Constitution. There's like—how many—a couple dozen? And they keep adding more! Isn't that a bit much? I'm just a simple man who likes simple things, and I can tell you right now, there's just no way I'm ever gonna need all those constitutional rights.

Did anyone even ask me if I wanted all these rights? No, they did not. And, to be honest, I'm a little chafed about it. It's hard enough keeping up with the bills in my mailbox without some huge Bill of Rights hanging over my head. People are always talking about rights, or protecting them, or trying to get me to exercise them. Enough already!

God, I feel like I'm being suffocated by personal liberties.

I've got rights coming out my ass. Seriously, have you looked at the Constitution lately? It's like a giant to-do list of all these annoying, super-specific rights we're all "entitled" to. And right there at the top is the right to free speech. Great, so now I got to think of something to say? Thanks but no thanks. When I want to say something, I'll let you know. I don't need a right to tell me.

Take the right to bear arms. Yes, there are times when you need a gun, but most of the time you don't. So why go to all the trouble of writing it down and making everyone sign it? Just so I know how many people I'm disappointing when I don't use it? I don't even like guns, but sure enough, I've got three of them, right there in my closet. Where I've been granted the right to keep them.

And another thing, there are way, way too many amendments. They've got so many, they've started protecting me from stuff I might actually like. Like quartering soldiers. Are you kidding me? I can't quarter a soldier? Who doesn't like a houseguest? I've got an extra bed, and my motto is "Mi casa es su casa." Just bring a six-pack and we'll make spaghetti.

Another one that could go is the protection from search and seizure. First off, I got nothing to hide. I know I'm innocent, so you aren't going to find any evidence against me unless you plant it. Second, I don't need someone to protect my stuff. If you start messing with my property, I'll call the police. Plain and simple. Then won't you look stupid.

Right to a speedy trial, right to petition, freedom of religion—on, and on, and on it goes. I'm over 40 now, so there are probably some in there I'm never even going to use. Look at me. Do I really need the right to assemble? I can barely get my ass off the couch to go out to breakfast with my friend Jerry once a week. And Lord knows Jerry isn't going to use his right to assemble anytime soon. He still lives with his mom.

So there's two rights to assemble going to waste already, and I'm supposed to feel all guilty about it.

It would be a lot easier just to split them up, and give some of the people some of the rights and other people other rights. That way they all get used, and nobody's left with a bunch of unused rights, looking like a total idiot. Or maybe we could just have one per-sonal freedom per day. That way you could express your freedom of religion on Monday, and on Tuesday you could move on to your protection from self-incrimination, and so on. At least that would be manageable.

Look, all I really want to do is live my life and pursue a little bit of happiness, but it's almost impossible with all these rights gumming up the works. Why not get rid of the useless ones and replace them with some new rights we can actually do something with? Like the right not to get a million text messages from your insane ex-girlfriend, or the right to a clean bathroom at the gas station, or free Netflix for everyone.

You know, something all Americans can agree on.