I thought I was ready for shock, anger, disappointment and fear

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Gutinue! (Jeeze Louise!) WTF What is going on? Last week, here, in the good ol’ U. S. of A., the Republican National Convention officially nominated the ill-equipped, narcissistic, racist, sexist, violence provoking, psychopathic, tax evading, reality TV star Donald Trump and his poisonous partner in conservatism and hate, Mike Pence. Please forgive me if I may have left off an adjective, or ten. Gonifs (thieves, dishonest people), the two of them are.

Donny and Mike do not think (I could end the sentence perfectly well here):

  • That the Mrs. and I should be married (How do I tell that to Big and Little?)
  • That #BlackLivesMatter
  • That borders should be open for Muslims, and that every Muslim here, needs to go
  • That Mexicans should live in our country, so we need to build a great big wall
  • That any country should send us their tired, their poor, their hungry, especially if there is a history of terrorism
  • That anyone with a uterus should have a choice over their own body
  • That guns are a problem
  • That climate change exists
  • That debt can be fixed with the Art of the Deal

Mr. Trump, he ended his goliath gathering with throngs chanting, “lock her up” and “build the wall.” Nice. I’m certain their mothers are all very pleased. This Yiddisher Momma is having all sorts of ‘Hitleresque’ feelings and will steer clear of any showers built or ‘camps’ created in the terrifying event of a Trump win.

Today, Hillary and Tim are here, in my city, for their big soiree, the Democratic National Convention. Admittedly, she is flawed. Server-gate was not a good move, and I can get past that. Email-gate? Trump will no doubt thank the Russians and his pal Putin for this latest wiki-leak.

The main reason people HATE (yes hate) Hillary, is blatant sexism. She is held to a standard that those who stand up to pee are not. While by no means perfect (as if such a thing exists), she is smart, aggressive, influential and well equipped to seek the highest ‘glass-ceiling shattering’ power office in this country. If a man with her same qualifications, experiences and credentials were running for the very oval office she is running for, they would have been applauded from sea to shining sea. Even by Bernie.

And for those of you who are still feeling the Bern, whether he is an atheist or a Jew, GET THE FUCK OVER IT! He didn’t make it. There was no great big conspiracy.

Nu? So you’re united in your unhappiness about whose left?

To quote Ted Cruz, “Vote your conscience.” Vey iz mere (holy shit!), I just quoted a very hateful man as he spoke live from the RNC floor. And he is right. On the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November, get the hell up and VOTE. Hold your nose, stuff a sock in your mouth if you have to, but vote you must.

And if you don’t vote, voo den (what the fuck heck) do you expect to happen? Madness. Chaos. Anarchy. And a power-hungry man with his finger on ‘the red button.’

If you don’t get out and vote, than we all will be no better than vi a fortz in rossel (a fart in a barrel).

VOTE please. I was with her in the primary. And #ImWithHer now. #ImWithHer

 

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The simple truth about my guilt packing a pistol

Anyone who knows me knows that I despise guns. I believe the right to bare arms has been totally misconstrued from a constitutional amendment that stands for a well-armed militia, hundreds of years ago, vs. ‘I’m scared of you and your pack of skittles,’ or, ‘your tail light is out; get me your license and registration.’ ‘Nuf said. You can read many of my other posts pontificating on the excessive violence, racism and hate in our world.

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I feel quite the hypocrite. I have a puppy. His name is Gatsby. Yes, after the Great Gatsby. He is the first real dog we have had. He chews on the wood trim and doors. He buries and hides his bones throughout the apartment. He digs holes outside in the common areas. He climbs the sofa and leaps to the kitchen counter (really) to eat the scraps of a peanut butter sandwiches left over from Big. He puppy-nips at Little for, well, being Little. He scavenges for food as we walk around the neighborhood.

Enter this pistol packing, gun-toting, and charlatan of a Yiddisher Momma. To clarify, the arms I carry is a water pistol / squirt gun. It is used purely for correctional puppy purposes. It shoots sprays a stream of water from afar, alerting my dear, loveable mutt that he is acting less than the stellar boychik (little boy) we need him to become.

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A happy puppy is a well-exercised puppy. This also fits in with the lifestyle of this Yiddisher Momma. As we gad about the ‘hood, Gatsby is an incessant barker when he spies another pup. He is fantastically friendly, yet simply desperate to meet a new buddy. The yapping, more like a geshrei (quite loud and piercing), ceases the moment he is nose to nose with a new canine comrade. Where their noses go after, they should live and be well. But until that point, vey iz mer (OMG!)…

I hadn’t yet mentioned that he is a rescue. Here, the term is dual in nature. We rescued him because he was in need of a loving family and a home, and he rescued us, as our family was in dire need of an affectionate and playful pooch. We all make a nice family.

The boychik (little boy) of the family!

As a rescue, he rummages for food, no matter how many times we fill his bowl with healthy, raw, canine cuisine. If left to his own devices, he will eat pure dreck (trash, poo, bugs, vomit, grass, and dead things), along with anything else in reach. Just last week, I pulled from his mouth, a small dead bird, 4 chicken (oh my, I hope so at least) bones, many wood chips, and did I mention the deceased fowl?

After much reading, and searching our memories of pugs past (Atticus and Elijah), we remembered the squirt tactic. I searched high and low for an affordable ‘squirter’ that did not resemble a G-U-N. Fifteen years ago we had an alligator and a snail, or a flower… that delivered the same watery lesson. But the lifeless, leathery bird was too much mishegas (craziness) for me to bear. This frugalista had to do something fast and furious. I entered the Family Dollar, and found 3 shiny, colorful water guns: red, green and yellow. They were small enough to carry, big enough to do the job. All for one dollar.

We can now walk for an hour or more, and have maybe, 2 squirts, mostly related to over-barking. We can walk right past that mummified mouse, covered in ants. Newfound wisdom allows him to dodge the remains from the Colonel’s chicken bucket. It’s a remarkable transformation for which we are all kvelling (bursting with joy)!

But I am still packing. So if any of you are aware of some affordable arms that hold no resemblance to those ghastly items I loathe, do tell! Gatsby and me, we are a work in progress.

 

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Repetition is the Mother of Mastery; And sometimes it’s not

Yoga guru Baron Baptiste always says (at least when I did his DVD over and over again, that  “Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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“Repetition is the Mother of Mastery.”

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And sometimes it’s just not.

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And sometimes it’s just not.

And sometimes it’s just not. We have to change it up. We have to stop it.

We just have to stop this horrible behavior.

 

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I can fry a couple of eggs on my abdomen, can you?

sizzle, shmizzle
sizzle, shmizzle

I can also pop corn on my face. Pretty impressive you’re thinking, ha?

Warning to all male readers: I am about to delve into the anatomy of a hot flash. This may mean talk of lady parts (though doubtful), cycles that coincide with the moon, and all things related to estrogen, and the natural biological process of what I call, estrogen-not.

You’re still here. Nice. After all, you have wives, moms, and daughters. You’re a real mensch (good-hearted person) for staying! So, as I was saying, my body has run cold my entire life. Blue fingers and lips when it’s 89 degrees in the shade…no joke! I wear many layers of clothing all year round. And yes, I’m at that age where that mysterious metamorphosis  materializes.

I remember back in the day, getting happy when I got carded before entering a bar. It’s the exact same feeling now when the doctor or lab technician says, “Do you still get your period honey?” Go Girrrrrrrrrrrl!

It’s crazy, from the moment that first red dot appeared, I despised it. My parents, they made such a taka mitziah (big fucking deal) out of it – took me out to dinner? My mother, she told the waitress. Attention Judy Blume: you, God and Margaret did not help me to prep me for a scenario like that. “I’ll have the nova platter with an everything bagel, toasted lightly, cream cheese on the side; Morty, he’ll have the stuffed cabbage, and my daughter, she got her period today!” That was a long time ago, but the memory is etched in my brain.

And now, look at me, saving energy by cooking on my sizzling body parts! I’m finally one hot momma! At first, I had maybe 3 hot flashes, and that was it. I thought, well that was easy! Today, I get my schvitz (a deep, heavy sweat) on maybe 8, 9, 23 times a day (and night). This schvitz emanates from the subterranean parts of my core and rises both up and out simultaneously. Toxins and impurities run scared from every molecule of my being.

While this little body convection oven starts cooking, my heart, she races. Archetypal fight or flight heart palpitations, like the saber-toothed tiger is running after me, mittendrinnen (in the middle of ) every fucking thing. My fingers, they tingle (which is good, because I have to flip the eggs to cook evenly). And a perfect coating of sweat covers every single square inch of my person, from the waist up. I’m lichticheh (lit-up) and radiant. They don’t call this a flash for nothing! As quickly as she starts, she’s over. After, I get a little bit chilly. Oy vey iz mer.

Does this mean I’m an alta kocker (literally, the term means an old shit, but over the years, pleasantries have reduced the term to more akin with, ‘old fart’)? Hell no! I think age is a just a state of mind. My Little and my Big, they keep me young. I’m reliving the childhood I missed get with them, and loving almost every minute of it. And, I gotta stay young to take care of my Mrs.

For now, I’ll make eggs, or pop popcorn, and take solace in knowing that I am still being responsible and frugal for my family. Spa, shmah! For a schvitz like THIS, it would cost an arm and a leg.

Note: no eggs were harmed during the writing of this post. And Alannis, isn’t it a bissel (little bit) ironic that when my eggs cease to produce, I can scramble, poach, sunny-side up and over-easy like a pro right atop those ovaries? Next up, omelets. 

Nu?

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