tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-764140446365361412024-03-05T07:58:39.631-08:00Let me say THIS about THAT!This is a collection of suecassidy (yes, all one word) cerebral ramblings. It ain't easy being The Sue.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-7059851693234136982013-03-27T17:51:00.000-07:002013-03-27T19:52:49.496-07:00Eat a Worm, Save the Planet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkIJoc-1cGIfnJCGLerS_CXxZNZWnqoiWUpGifWMOfSLfesdpzTLOfzaVCZ3kujBBUx8eVMDBFWEvbI4NWyuaVQIP0NV5_KtPnIr5YXYuu7Y7en0c_JUndAdxQJYFOOl6S78iOoBg5A9W/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkIJoc-1cGIfnJCGLerS_CXxZNZWnqoiWUpGifWMOfSLfesdpzTLOfzaVCZ3kujBBUx8eVMDBFWEvbI4NWyuaVQIP0NV5_KtPnIr5YXYuu7Y7en0c_JUndAdxQJYFOOl6S78iOoBg5A9W/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Can we talk about the ORGANIC craze, now that it appears to be waning somewhat? Yes, let's. I have never understood how the marketers managed to get so many people to believe that it's acceptable to be paying way more for what seems to me to be way less. I'm here to call bullshit on the ORGANIC movement, ok? Wait, so many levels of strange here, because bullshit itself is in fact an ORGANIC, chemical free form of fertilizer, but I'm getting off track before I even got ON track.<br />
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Having lived in Nova Scotia, Canada, which is prime apple producing country, we have fond memories associated with apple orchards. We jumped at the chance to go apple picking in California. I had visions of a fun day of picking apples and coming home with a huge cheap supply of fresh apples to make apple pies, and apple sauce, and apple turnovers, all apple everything, all the time. Fresh. Cheap.<br />
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We arrived in Yucaipa, ready to make it happen. The only orchards we could find were "ORGANIC" orchards, which meant we would be paying a bit more, but these were flippin' ORGANIC APPLES, so you type it in all caps and you pay more for them. This is the rule of ORGANIC stuff, and we were ok with that. Paying slightly more for your apples is a small price for saving the planet, HELLO. As we were walked to the orchard, the farm hand explained to us how no pesticides were used on the fruit, and that was why we would be finding worms and other undesirable things in the apples. Apparently, these worms IN NO WAY affected the quality of the apples (??? By whose definition?) and that we could merely eat around the worm holes or cut the worms out. HUH? Well, sure enough, the apples were disgustingly full of worms and it cost about $10 for a small bag of organic apples, that we had to pick ourselves. I didn't make any pies and I didn't eat very many of them because the worm thing was just too gross and I'm only now able to talk about it without becoming annoyed all over again.<br />
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I recalled that story as I walked through Ralph's today and saw the "Crazy Bugs Macaroni and Cheese Dinner." Yes, that's right kids, organic freakin' Mac Cheese. "Back to Nature", it says on the box. It's so completely natural and organic, the pasta is shaped like caterpillars and bees!!!!! I had to take a picture because nobody would believe me if I said they named an actual worm shaped food item "Crazy Bugs Macaroni and Cheese Dinner", but shut up, they absolutely did. My head is about to explode from how ridiculous it is and now I must take to my bed with a martini to make sense of it. That would be a martini with 3 worm free olives. Thank you and good night.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-12976378531786334772012-01-18T09:45:00.001-08:002012-01-18T09:45:20.239-08:00Shared photo book from sue<object width="425" height="425" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000"><param name="movie" value="http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/slideshow-ui.swf"/><param name="flashvars" value="configXMLURL=http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/config/config-share.xml&slideshowModuleURL=http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/slideshow-module.swf&projectGUID=8ActWzlu4btnZYs&swfName=slideshowFlashContent&showReplay=true"/><param name="menu" value="false"/><param name="quality" value="best"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"/><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/><embed width="425" height="425" align="middle" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" name="wrapper" quality="best" menu="false" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" flashvars="configXMLURL=http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/config/config-share.xml&slideshowModuleURL=http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/slideshow-module.swf&projectGUID=8ActWzlu4btnZYs&swfName=slideshowFlashContent&showReplay=true" src="http://images-community.shutterfly.com/flashapps/slideshow/slideshow-ui.swf"></embed></object><p style="width:425px;margin-top:0;text-align:center;"><a href="http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8ActWzlu4btm-G&eid=115">Click here to view this photo book larger</a><div style="margin-top: 10px; width: 425px; text-align: center;">The new way to make a <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/photo-books" style="color: #6666cc;">photo album</a>: photo books by Shutterfly.</div><img width="1" height="1" border="0" style="padding: 0; background: #ffffff; border: none; box-shadow: none;" src="https://os.shutterfly.com/b/ss/sflyshareprod/1/H.15/111?pageName=sharekey&c1=photobook&c2=blogger" /></p>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-23324933832790303512011-02-04T07:36:00.000-08:002011-02-04T08:56:27.013-08:00I am the Lord of the Dance, said She.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQoLEjV4gyVsrVp-KdlrwxRfHgqp_D1YsQ9Le-_cCwcjj8zcrNKn5ZLw5VZJUT33DGqn1gsdWJCBZXzZPVWJNe0FZ4Hrrgol1j4F88re3xqDI5XRM5rQBD99Rbs4f8uLJQerl1BR5zE0h/s1600/malaysianDanceChamps.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQoLEjV4gyVsrVp-KdlrwxRfHgqp_D1YsQ9Le-_cCwcjj8zcrNKn5ZLw5VZJUT33DGqn1gsdWJCBZXzZPVWJNe0FZ4Hrrgol1j4F88re3xqDI5XRM5rQBD99Rbs4f8uLJQerl1BR5zE0h/s320/malaysianDanceChamps.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569879040185545394" /></a><br />My husband and I have a dirty little secret: we can't dance. "HUH?", you say. "But aren't you Malaysian Dance Champions?" Well, yes actually, we are and therein lies the problem. That title has brought such high expectations of us, we feel compelled to live up to the honor. Truth be told, it was a drunken night of dance floor gyrations in Southeast Asia that resulted in the undeserved title, and I need to come clean about that false victory...<div><br /></div><div>We had gone to visit our master franchisee in Kuala Lumpur and it just happened to be during Chinese New Year. They pulled out all the stops for us, including hiring dragon dancers to perform for us, exotic lunches at the KL's finest restaurants, with the trip culminating in a wonderful dinner/dance on our last night there. Our hosts had no idea that Mike and I don't dance, can't dance, hate to dance, so you can imagine my surprise, shock, and horror when they told us that a Dance Contest was going to be the featured "entertainment" at this gala. I almost choked on my Blowfish Soup when I heard, but relaxed somewhat when Mike said that we probably weren't expected to dance, only be judges. </div><div><br /></div><div>We arrived at the dinner and were delighted to find a nicely lit dance floor, a huge disco ball, and as the honored guests, seats at the head table. The Malaysian people are so gracious, even those who couldn't speak English made an effort to welcome us warmly. The evening was off to a great start until the Emcee told us that as the honored guests from "Amelica", WE would be starting off the dance contest. Perhaps they sensed our reluctance because from that point on, our wine glasses were never empty. As soon as our glasses got half empty, they were miraculously filled again, and toast upon toast was made so we were forced to drink. We toasted to the Chinese New Year. We toasted the franchisee and his employees. We toasted the Petrona Towers and the Strait of Malacca. We even toasted Elvis and the disco ball. I understand now that they were merely supply us with liquid courage for when WE became the entertainment.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time the dessert was served, we were ready to boogie. The Emcee announced the beginning of the dance contest. "And NOW, from the Unites States of Amelica, help me welcome our honored guests to the dance floor -- Mike and Sue CASS-I-D-D-YYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!" The applause was thunderous and as we rose to our feet, somewhat unsteadily I will admit, we OWNED that dance floor. I'm not sure if we started off swaying to the music, or swaying from the booze, but how can your feet stay still when the Beegees are wailing "Stayin' Alive." We were so into it. Mike's fists were going in tiny little circles at first, and then he shifted into John Travolta-esque fingers pointing intermittently at the ceiling and the floor. I think I looked like I was doing a modified "limbo", I don't know, but our arms and legs were flailing uncontrollably, and the crowd was going wild. The louder they cheered, the stupider our dance moves became. We did not move to the beat of the Beegees, but to the beat of whatever was in our rythmically challenged brains.</div><div><br /></div><div>We must have made quite an impression because the next thing you know, people got up from their tables and joined us on the dance floor, mimicking our strange moves. They must have thought that our strange gyrations were the latest dance moves from Amelica and they were going to learn this new style, from the Lords of the Dance! As the music ended, we'd felt pretty good about our performance, because copious amounts of alcohol does that for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>The rest of the contest was terrific, and the other contestants were fun to watch because they could actually dance. You can't imagine our suprise and disbelief when the trophies were handled out, that WE HAD WON! I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that Mike owned the franchise system. We had some mad dance skills, clearly. We were presented with a 5 foot tall gift basket of dried seaweed, kelp flavored Pringles, dried and salted sardines, and other gastronomical delights. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning we woke up with hangovers and a title: Malyasian Dance Champions. We've tried to live up to the title ever since, but nothing has ever topped that Cinderella Moment for us. We try to live up the "Dance, dance, wherever you may be..." philosophy. The last dancing we did was at a recent Quinceanera, but we were sober and the only Gringos on the dance floor. The mexican people are very gracious and nobody laughed at our attempts to dance to the latin beat of Banda music. I said all that to say this: That is why we are taking dance lessons. We have a reputation to uphold here, fercryin'outloud. We have to represent. I'll post the videos on youtube. Should you need a good laugh.... </div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-19111398605808180922011-01-28T09:18:00.001-08:002020-02-11T10:43:08.299-08:00Don't Let the Dress Fool Ya, Fucker!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAB7PXACYHZLNLLRypgj0uJQpw8uC5McmnhpGCryH4tY4tn2rUm0Lk0s-iXW9CrjTLLx6nDp1htlQXUP-4iNLVmZjVEipSZ9vIr9eyrxEyLsjH5lBNNB9N1VFQh4k6xrhSChWZO9ZUgkF/s1600/ladyvCOMcard.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567307260950516002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaAB7PXACYHZLNLLRypgj0uJQpw8uC5McmnhpGCryH4tY4tn2rUm0Lk0s-iXW9CrjTLLx6nDp1htlQXUP-4iNLVmZjVEipSZ9vIr9eyrxEyLsjH5lBNNB9N1VFQh4k6xrhSChWZO9ZUgkF/s320/ladyvCOMcard.jpeg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 246px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtWr3p4LyIDZZ0FKeCW9RDlweh4bLseNaR5mJGexuBUhCSobIt-0Pjk39J-mjWsspUNpTQ4OjEUCWuPUxeaBgwkeGtZKMgSJUTu3PH4AD13-uBvHIpiLlIrBdqW4_vsi9xUd3he8WmBwD/s1600/LambToTheSlaughter.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567307252177298530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtWr3p4LyIDZZ0FKeCW9RDlweh4bLseNaR5mJGexuBUhCSobIt-0Pjk39J-mjWsspUNpTQ4OjEUCWuPUxeaBgwkeGtZKMgSJUTu3PH4AD13-uBvHIpiLlIrBdqW4_vsi9xUd3he8WmBwD/s320/LambToTheSlaughter.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 213px;" /></a><br />
A couple of weeks ago, I headed up to Beverly Hills for a photo shoot with Drag Queen Extraordinaire, the fabulous Lady Vajayjay. Our goal was to have some fun on Rodeo Drive, taking pictures and spreading a bit of drag queen fabulosity on the unsuspecting public. It seems we got a little more than we bargained for!<br />
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The first part of our shoot went without a hitch. Dressed in purple satin majesty, she dazzled in diamonds at the Hotel Beverly Wilshire. Recreating the "Pretty Woman" walk up Rodeo Drive, she sashayed to cat calls from tour busses, and received applause from the store owners. "Is that RuPaul???" "Work it, Girl!" The tourists were thrilled to see this elegant LadyBoy, working her purple stilettos with her diva attitude in hyperdrive. Three different Rodeo Drive stores invited us in and allowed her to pose in their store front window displays. The Judith Leiber Store actually gave her a $4000 clutch purse to pose with, and Judith Leiber shopping bag to take home. So many people were clearly thrilled with the theatrics of it all. For a tourist from the mid west, short of a Tom Cruise sighting, this was AWESOME. It got annoying at one point because so many people wanted their pictures taken with her and we were losing light! It was during her second costume change that things went South....</div>
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She had changed into a bright yellow, mid drift showing, Carmen Miranda confection, complete with bright yellow hair, red trimmed ruffles, and red, high heeled ComeF**kMe pumps. Posing beside the lamppost on Via Rodeo, I got ONE shot away when a Russian security guard named "Anatoli" pounced on us and with derision and disgust in his eyes, said "You can't shoot here." HUH? I looked around at the 7 groups of tourists also taking photos and I said "Why not?" Barely able to contain his obvious dislike of a man dressed in women's clothing, he replied "Because this is private property. You have to leave." We calmly and politely pointed out the groups of people doing exactly what we were doing and asked why he was asking US to leave. He simply replied again that Via Rodeo was "private property" and we had to leave. That's when all hell broke loose because hell hath no fury like a drag queen scorned. Lady Vajayjay is part Thai and part Puerto Rican and her Puerto Rico side exploded all over his Russian ass. "ARE YOU DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME? You are seriously discriminating against me?? This is the fucking UNITED STATES OF AMERICA in 2011 and you can't discriminate against me!" To that he replied that a permit is required for a commercial shoot and this was private property and he wanted us to leave immediately. </div>
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As a photographer, I know my rights and obligations, and I happen to know that he was 100% correct. I didn't have a permit and I don't have the right to shoot on private property if they don't want me to. I was ok with that, my objection was with the fact that he didn't even ask if I had a permit before he accosted us so rudely. We certainly didn't look like we were commercial photographers. I wasn't using strobe lights, reflectors, large lenses. I didn't have a stylist with me, make up people, assistants. We looked like every other tourist group taking pictures in Beverly Hills, except that I was taking pictures of a man in a dress. CLEARLY, this homophobic manly man was reacting to that element and his SELECTIVE enforcement of the "rules" were very obviously based on that fact. I still cringe when I recall the way that man looked at Lady V, with so much contempt and THAT is what put the fire in MY belly.</div>
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Needless to say, it wasn't pretty. As we left to move to the public sidewalk (while everyone else was allowed to continue taking photos ), Lady Vajayjay was spitting fire and venom. Her drama queen mouth was flappin' and her hands were flyin', she was PISSED! As she teetered up the cobblestone roadway, spouting off about discrimination and having served in the United States Navy and how she'd like to kick someone's ass, she yelled out, "Don't let the dress fool ya, FUCKER!!" When we got on to the public area of Rodeo Drive, out of site of the Russian Mafia, we waited to see if they would follow us. Sure enough, in the absence of the liquid courage a bottle of Stoli would provide, Russian Security had called for "back up" and TWO guards came to make sure we were not taking pictures on the perimeter. This was the final indignity, as if the fact that Lady Vajayjays false eyelashes falling off in the middle of her tirade against the Russian guard wasn't enough. We marched over to the new Goon, and I said, "I understand that you didn't make the rules and you are only trying to enforce them, but what I DON'T understand is your selective enforcement of the rules. Explain that to me, because it certainly looks like discrimination against this drag queen, disguised as rule enforcement." Refusing to be baited into a discussion, he asked if we would like to talk to the Via Rodeo management and then proceeded to escort us up Rodeo Drive and into the Management Offices.</div>
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The rest of the story doesn't need to be told in so much detail. Lady Vajayjay demanded to only speak to the top person in charge and then asked that we sit in their boardroom because "we need to DISCUSS THIS!!" As we played "good cop/bad cop", I was the voice of reason, and she was full of righteous indignation at her homophobic treatment. After some spirited discussion that involved me being calm and reasonable and Lady Vajayjay being hysterical and offering up an apology every time she said "FUCK", we left. We told them we wanted to file a formal complaint against the Russian security guard because we wanted his behavior noted in his file. Whether this was an "event" or a "pattern" would show up over time, and we just wanted it noted for the record. I found it quite interesting that the second security guard who escorted us to the offices, had a completely different demeanor. He treated Lady Vajayjay with respect during our "lamb to the slaughter" walk up Rodeo Drive, and didn't give off the homophobic vibe that Mr. Moscow Manly Man had. </div>
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By the time we finished registering our complaints, it was too late to take any more photos, so we headed back to the relatively welcoming arms of life behind the Orange Curtain. Who knew that conservative Orange County would be a welcome respite after that experience? Still, I'm glad that we didn't just roll over and take it in the a**, bad pun intended. Sometimes you have to stand between evil and innocent and perhaps our rather loud objections to being treated so shabbily will resonate with that security guard. I doubt he will ever change how he feels when he sees a man in a Carmen Miranda Clown Suit, but he may learn to treat that person with the respect he/she deserves as a human being. Thank you, Lady Vajayjay for taking such a vocal stand. It is the little battles that win the war.</div>
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SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-86243300326985833362010-11-29T10:21:00.000-08:002010-11-29T11:17:06.084-08:00Jingle Bells, Batman Smells, Robin laid an egg.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmO0_kUeT8ze6BMEHcoVMGaY97MD_IO8aix7zjPMzBJuE5uqe5RTg59lwxX1M0n8WLCBQ6uLSSoi4vITlqp9Age8blo_HPVrA4R2Ww9hmBoaCgx3k_beNkYxcmSg-cNk6XuUulAsYhyphenhyphenvZ/s1600/xmas+card.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmO0_kUeT8ze6BMEHcoVMGaY97MD_IO8aix7zjPMzBJuE5uqe5RTg59lwxX1M0n8WLCBQ6uLSSoi4vITlqp9Age8blo_HPVrA4R2Ww9hmBoaCgx3k_beNkYxcmSg-cNk6XuUulAsYhyphenhyphenvZ/s320/xmas+card.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545052369919805330" /></a><br />Now that Thanksgiving is past, I've moved directly into Christmas Music Season. This is the time when any street cred I've built up with my kids, as far as being a "cool Mom", goes directly to hell. I can listen to all the Katie Perry and Lady Gaga that I want, but as soon as I start spinning Dolly Parton and Kenny Roger's Christmas Album, it's all over. "Jesus, Mom. Do you have to play that crap? I want to shoot myself in the head." I'm not cool anymore, the cat is out of the bag. I revert to my snaggle toothed old self, an aging soccer mom who rocks out to Karen Carpenter instead of Lil' Wayne. Discuss: <div><br /></div><div>WHY do we listen to Christmas music anyway? Enquiring young minds want to know. I THINK it is because Christmas is all about traditions, and christmas music brings us back to the fond memories of the past. When I play Jim Reeves, I think of my mother baking her Christmas Scotch cookies and I can almost smell them. When I hear "Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree", I laugh and I dance, badly. I think of all the Christmas office parties of my past. Someone played that song and the vodka kicked in, and before you knew it, my bosses who normally had a stick up their conservative asses, were dancing, badly, with tinsel around their necks. "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" reminds me of how my sister who lived in Bermuda came home one Christmas and insisted we roast chestnuts, because living in a country without snow wasn't Christmasy enough. So many fond memories of my past are evoked from simply listening to cheesy Christmas music.</div><div><br /></div><div>So how come MY kids aren't looking back at the Yuletide seasons of THEIR youth with similar warm and fuzzy feelings? "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" should invoke something pleasant in their minds. In retrospect, perhaps our impulsive, hormonally directed decision to do what we SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE under the Christmas tree. We THOUGHT the kids were in bed, our bad, so maybe that had something to do with their complete aversion to that song? "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" means nothing to kids who have never seen real snow. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your hearts be gay..." That means something different in this day and age. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps I have unrealistic expectations, in hoping that my kids will enjoy the trip down memory lane that these tunes evoke in me. I'll concede the point there. However, why must they try and wreck it for me? "Mom, every time you play 'Silver Bells", I throw up a little in my mouth. Stop it." "Mom, if you make me listen to Karen Carpenter singing "I'll be Home for Christmas", I'll run away, become anorexic and die from it, I swear I will." </div><div><br /></div><div>So, What's a Mama to do? It's so not fair. I've tried to modernize a bit, but it isn't the same. I have the Barenaked Ladies Christmas cd and as clever as the lyrics are, it doesn't move me the way Kenny and Dolly can. Maybe I'll go online and see if Snoop Dog has any Holiday offerings, "Christmas Wrap" bad pun intended. In the meantime, I'll keep blasting my antiquated music and will continue to torture my kids with it. I know what they want for Christmas. They want just one, ONE truly "Silent Night". Word. From yo Mama.</div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-7476333797803447722010-11-24T12:45:00.003-08:002015-10-11T09:41:28.027-07:00Rub a dub dub, Thanks for the Grub....<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As Thanksgiving Day approaches, I was thinking about all the things there are to be thankful for. I decided that this blog would be dedicated to how I THINK a few celebrities might be blessing their Thanksgiving Bird. Here is what I came up with:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From Snoop Dog:</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yo. Big Sky Pimp Daddy, Wuz up Homeslice? Snoop here, keepin' it real, Dawg. Big Props to da Big Dilly for da big mad eats we's about to r-o-o-o-o-ll wit'. Fo sheezy, Gahbless ma mama n' my baby mamma and my peeps, yo. Mo' props for m' life, makin' mad bank, it's all good y'all. It's the shit, the shizzy, coolio, off the chain, off the hizzle, fo' shizzle. Word, to yo Mama. Amen, Bro.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From Miss Teen South Carolina:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Father God, I personally believe that this food should be blessed, because U.S. Americans, Canadians, and like, people such as, don't have food. And our soldiers, like such as, in South Africa and the Iraq, I believe they should have good food too, so we can build up the future, and bring about World Peace. Thank you.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From Sarah Palin:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Heavenly Father, Lord Jesus Christ, Yaweh, Prince of Peace, Son of God, Emmanuel, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Heavenly Redeemer, Lamb of God, Good Shepherd, Our Savior, Light of the World, Firstborn over all creation, Jesus, Mary, and Joesph, Mr. President. I'm sick and tired of Democrats who aren't thankful for what little they got. I'm sick and tired of politicians who think that a simple "thank you, God" is sufficient to show their gratitude. Lipstick on a pig, I'm tellin' ya. I frickin' went out and shot this here big ole' turkey myself, with a big honkin' 22 caliber rifle and I'm thankful that I still got the RIGHT in this flippin' country of ours to bear the arms that I shot 'er with. God, bless this food we are about to receive, and God, Bless, America.... </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From Oprah Winfrey:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Heavenly Father, I not-so-humbly ask that you bless this food we are about to receive. Bless the butter basted turkey, the homemade rolls with the yummy, crispy buttertops, the sour cream filled mash potaters, SWEET JESUS, bless those potaters. Did I mention the marshmellow and sweet potato casserole, God? Bless that to MY body, Lord, and keep Gail's grubby paws away from the string bean casserole with the delicious cream o' mushroom sauce, and crispy deep fried onions. Lord, bless the hands of my 17 servants, 4 personal chefs, 3 personal assistants, 2 make up artists, and my wardrobe people who made it all possible. And thank you Zacky Farms for donating this delicious turkey, which Gail and Stedman are about to partake in, only because of MY generosity and willingnesss to share the bounty of my sponsors. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAmen, PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sue Cassidy:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm thankful for the many blessings in MY life. My terrific family, my health, my gifts and talents, and especially my friends. I'm so glad that I've been able to reconnect with the people from my past. Living in a country where I don't share any past history with anybody has been so ???????? wrong? Unsettling? I don't know the right word, but through the power of the internet, I've been able to talk daily with people I've grown up with, people I used to work with, people I used to play with and even people I've never met, but they still play a role in my life. If only because I get a laugh out of their facebook status, while standing in a long, boring line at the bank. I'm also thankful for the people who support and encourage my writing by forwarding my blogs to their friends, or by urging their people to read "Advice 5 Cents". I have a great life, I know it, and I'm very thankful for it. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">sue</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">copyright sue cassidy 2010</span></span></div>
SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-73241960763452041472010-10-12T19:01:00.001-07:002010-10-12T19:01:56.848-07:00Doo Wah Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWBqTef0kDPgCqHFhY2HusCfamSMu4DjeoquIqlbzIP7ddVajyCkmmhm3cUpBkP1JuB_6mOoAditCsRpR_P0VrSm2xund440GoHKgYJRv3ixJBGxaNQpzW9bKYgf6c8yBDXI0DlHn7MK4/s1600/DanniAtTheIvy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWBqTef0kDPgCqHFhY2HusCfamSMu4DjeoquIqlbzIP7ddVajyCkmmhm3cUpBkP1JuB_6mOoAditCsRpR_P0VrSm2xund440GoHKgYJRv3ixJBGxaNQpzW9bKYgf6c8yBDXI0DlHn7MK4/s200/DanniAtTheIvy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527344749257600434" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;">I was brought up in the 60's and 70's at the height of the feminist movement. I was taught that women can do anything that men can do and that women are NOT to be treated as sex objects. It really wasn't that long ago that women had to tolerate sexual harassment in the workplace. There was no labor board to run to, the only choice was to "put out" or "get out". When I was young and cute, I was proud to be a part of the vocal minority who stood between evil and the innocent. I campaigned for gender equality and pity help the employer who DARED look anywhere below my chin when speaking to me. I pretty much scared the crap out of all of them, and sexual harassment was not an issue I ever had to deal with. </span><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; ">Fast forward 30+ years, I would love to be sexually harassed and can't find anyone who wants to harass me. I no longer have an ass you could crack an egg on, and my beauteous TaTas decided to run for the Southern border years ago. In my mind's eye, I fondly remember the group of construction workers who once sang to 20-year-old me as I walked past in a pair of cut off shorts: "There she was, just a'walkin' down the street--singin' doo wah diddy, diddy dum, diddy do...." I recall smiling at them, until I remembered I was supposed to be offended by that, and I put an appropriately dour expression on my face. That memory is but a delightful hairy dustball amidst the furniture of my mind. If there were a politician who lobbied on a platform of bringing back sexual harassment, I'd vote for them. If there were a fast food place that would promise to sexually harass me at the drive through, I'd drive through and through and through some more. If I could find an employer who would promise to pinch my butt at the copier machine every now and then, I'd freakin' work for free.</div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; ">Oh, yeah, OK. Hear that noise? That is the sound of all my 20 something female readers, cocking their rifles ready to shoot me. THEY don't want to be sexually harassed and an attitude like mine is setting the woman's movement back 50 years, yeah, I hear ya. Easy for THEM to say, they haven't lost "it" yet. I understand though. Now, more than ever in the history of women's fashion, women dress more and more provocatively in the workplace, but expect less <b><i>overt</i></b> attention for it. (Don't miss my point here, if they are dressing that way, they want the attention, they just don't want the drama that could come with it.) On that note, I"m thinking that I should just stop talking now. "Never miss an opportunity to keep your mouth shut", I always say. "A closed mouth gathers no feet", I always say. </div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; ">The truth is, I embrace my inner granny. I realize that I HAD my turn being young and cute, and that not everybody gets a turn at being either of those things. We woman who are over 50 may not have "it" any more, but what we got instead is so much better. We now must take a turn at being wise and wonderful elders of our tribes. Still, a wolf whistle every now and then would be nice.</div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; ">Sue Cassidy, 52 and fabulous.</div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; ">Part 2 in a series.</div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Courier; font-size: medium; "> </div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-46018112434148289992010-10-11T19:32:00.000-07:002010-12-29T14:14:37.835-08:00Be Careful What You Ask For. Part 1 in a series.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxG-5yCQL96JkI-zd3djgyYyT-DnWjNb7eFxVJCDJFxB2SrK9UdsUEEMH4ULQCinSg7fSEF5nOhfRmpYdVPTehyphenhyphenv_9DmrhyphenhyphenAM2_NZERMspdRlRSSqcqR1TOFOAop-FH_B8XRVev-hhyphenhyphencvi/s1600/78BX1210.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxG-5yCQL96JkI-zd3djgyYyT-DnWjNb7eFxVJCDJFxB2SrK9UdsUEEMH4ULQCinSg7fSEF5nOhfRmpYdVPTehyphenhyphenv_9DmrhyphenhyphenAM2_NZERMspdRlRSSqcqR1TOFOAop-FH_B8XRVev-hhyphenhyphencvi/s320/78BX1210.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526982534271696370" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I recently had a bit of a writer's block, so I put out the call on facebook for blog ideas. I was thrown a few and picked the first one that jumped out at me, "Why I Love Drag Queens", and I discarded the rest of the suggestions. Upon reflection, isn't that the literary equivalent of "cherry picking"? Any writer worth his/her ink should be able to write about any topic, however difficult or mundane. The suggested topics:</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">James MacLean: </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"> What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan. I would be most interested in hearing that as California has always been referred to as the most free thinking state. (This from a man who wears a kilt in his profile picture. Who'd a thunk he'd be more than just a pretty face?)</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Sandra Vallez: how cute she is, (her favorite topic)</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Alex Cassidy: Why You Love Drag Queens</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Janice Hansen: Mani/Pedi/Spa experience</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">To that end, I've decided to take each topic and write a separate blog as a series. It doesn't matter if I know nothing about it. If you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, baffle 'em with bullshit, my grandma always said.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I'll start with James MacLean's thought provoking question regarding Iraq.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Blog Title: James MacLean: <b>Talking to Americans</b></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Many of my blog readers are Canadian and are familiar with Rick Mercer, the TV host with the funniest show segment on TV, called "Talking to Americans." It features Mr. Mercer talking to Americans on the street and asking them questions about Canadian history, politics, current events. The answers are priceless. Here is yet another Canadian with a big question for Americans: "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan? </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I took to the streets, armed with a tape recorder. The first person I encountered was Miss South Carolina who recently moved to California to pursue a career in world peace. Knowing she is used to answering the tough questions, I said, "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" Without blinking an eye or missing a beat, she replied, "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I personally believe that U.S. Californians are in Iraq and Afghanistan, and like, places, such as because some people out there in our state don't have maps; and our soldiers, like, such as in South Africa and the Iraq and everywhere like, such as, Afghanistan and i believe they should, our soldiers should, help Iraq and Afghanistan and the Asian countries, so we can build up the future. And bring about world peace. Thank you." I thought, "Wow. Smart. She didn't even have to THINK about that answer." I was off to a great start.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:Courier;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">The next person I ran across, literally because his high heel was caught in a crack in the sidewalk, was Drag Queen Extraordinaire, Lady Vajayjay, a well known drag queen here in Southern California. Lady Vajayjay's male self, Vic Carmona, was discharged from the navy under the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, so his and </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">her political commentary was definitely something I'd like to hear.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"> "Lady Vajayjay, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" "Mother F**kin', spike heels!!!! How can I be my fabulous self when I keep falling in the sidewalk cracks! I'll bet those strong, handsome boys over in Iraq and Afghanistan don't have to deal with cracked sidewalks. Oh, GIRL.....can you IMAGINE walking in heels in the desert? Makeup would SO melt in the desert sun, but I'm SO PROUD of those big strong soldiers over there fighting for democracy and the american way. I just want to french kiss a soldier right now..." Ok. This was going well.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Certain that I saw Lindsey Lohan, I ducked into the 24 hour nightclub and found her starting a fight with the disc jockey. "Excuse me, Miss Lohan, I"m talking to Americans with an important question from James MacLean. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" She looked at me with her hair in knots and her mascara smeared and said, "I am happy to see California's sons and daughters fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. If it weren't for my father, Michael Lohan, they wouldn't be there. My mother voted for George Bush, so it is her fault too. And Samantha Ronson? That Patrone swillin' bitch, it's her fault that I'm not over there fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan myself. I'm too busy fighting HER skank ass self, I don't have time to be fighting there. Now get out of my f**cking face before I f**cking slap you with my oversize f**king Hermes Birkin Bag, Bitch!" This is great and THIS is why our soldiers fight, to defend our right to talk like that and to carry $10,000 purses.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">I decided for my last interview, I'd have to find someone with some political street cred, some gravitas. I needed a political heavyweight. Just as I was about to call Oprah, I spied Barack Obama in front of the local mosque. "Mr. President, what do YOU think is the</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"> overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" He stood tall and looked me straight in the eye (which is how I knew he was telling the truth). He replied, "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">That is the true genius of America, a faith in the simple dreams of its people, the insistence on small miracles. That we can say what we think, write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door. That we can have an idea and start our own business without paying a bribe or hiring somebody's son. That we can participate in the political process without fear of retribution, and that our votes will be counted -- or at least, most of the time." People on the sidewalk started to clap and then I realized that he hadn't answered my question. I tried again, </span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">"Mr. President, with all due respect Sir, you didn't answer my question. What do YOU think is the</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"> overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" Once again, he squared his shoulders, and looked me STRAIGHT IN THE EYE, making me wonder if my eyes look like teleprompters. He replied, "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">America is a land of big dreamers and big hopes. It is this hope that has sustained us through revolution and civil war, depression and world war, a struggle for civil and social rights and the brink of nuclear crisis. And it is because our dreamers dreamed that we have emerged from each challenge more united, more prosperous, and more admired than before... YES. WE. CAN." At this point, the sidewalk assembly has grown and everyone was crying. Unlike our current administration, I know when a fight is over, I know when to leave the ring. Actually, I know better than to climb in the ring in the first place, if it ain't my fight. I put my tape recorder away. I just love talking to Americans. The End.</span></span></span></span></div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-1908674288127760922010-10-10T09:43:00.001-07:002017-10-10T11:59:32.192-07:00Cancer Isn't for Sissies.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"></span><br />
<h2 class="posttitle titlewithinfo" style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Cancer Isn’t For Sissies</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Posted by Breast Cancer Angels on November 16th, 2009</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeIhwcLtw94Ia7Z6FrwwVsrLM3N3W4oEutQqayt4wdgNWEfRkeOrv8TywivRbqt5dMv88A1ifTpzaS9mC4IWv4oyAeKFHcQZU19W9hxHhNnW7oGyWqE7ZJvj0QMFS61Itry9aRFKoKqUr/s1600/breast+cancer+warrior+high+res+Copy+Right+sue+cassidy++2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeIhwcLtw94Ia7Z6FrwwVsrLM3N3W4oEutQqayt4wdgNWEfRkeOrv8TywivRbqt5dMv88A1ifTpzaS9mC4IWv4oyAeKFHcQZU19W9hxHhNnW7oGyWqE7ZJvj0QMFS61Itry9aRFKoKqUr/s320/breast+cancer+warrior+high+res+Copy+Right+sue+cassidy++2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I know this photograph is hard to look at, but cancer isn’t for sissies.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">This photo was taken some years back after my youngest sister’s mastectomy following her diagnosis of inflammatory breast cancer, a more rare and more deadly form of breast cancer. What I love about the photo is what it tells us about HER. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Always a free-spirited sort, the crystal pendant was a symbol of her new-age leanings. The dog tags, which belonged to our deceased uncle, an air force chaplain, symbolized her “foxhole conversion.” Facing possible death, she wasn’t quite sure where the truth lay as far as an afterlife went, but wasn’t taking any chances.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">The crystal heart was her attempt to feminize what was left of her body, having survived the ravages of surgery, chemo and radiation. Most people don’t ever get to see what a chest looks like after a mastectomy, which is why I shot this photo. Well-meaning, they say, “just be grateful you’re alive …” and will not allow the survivor to grieve the loss of their breast. Yet, when people look at this photo, they recoil with horror and when I ask them what they are looking at, will say, “It’s a man’s chest, who has had surgery or an injury…” Think how that makes a young woman feel, she has to look at it every day and be reminded of what she used to look like before the doctors hacked, slashed and burned. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">One of the many lessons I learned from my warrior-sister’s cancer journey was to shut up and just listen and to recognize that they will go through all the stages of grief over this loss, and on their “angry” days, they should be allowed to feel anger without someone minimizing their feelings by saying, “just be grateful you are alive.” Maybe they would understand the anger a bit more, if they could look at this photo.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">A cancer survivor CAN be grateful and angry at the same time. Allow them that if that is what they need.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Really.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><strong style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sue Cassidy, Huntington Beach</strong></span></div>
<div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; color: rgb(0 , 102 , 153); font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 1.33em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102); font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , "lucida sans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Photographer, Sue Cassidy</span></div>
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SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-56701533557173160342010-10-06T21:18:00.000-07:002011-02-04T10:51:27.186-08:00Today I Speak Of Salad Tongs and Salad Bongs.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6UAyC77ygcDnnyM5CtQHBz6AkFV43QSlzGX8wIEMj1i_LVqYAVIKJT0kN51eOrlczKSaHQezxaMtMogRhw1fLUJXlwLiOxskQDK4mojS3dct27exCWc0Z7j8ZJsi2ZhfifUeYM_wKSLs/s1600/prettyGreenPlant.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6UAyC77ygcDnnyM5CtQHBz6AkFV43QSlzGX8wIEMj1i_LVqYAVIKJT0kN51eOrlczKSaHQezxaMtMogRhw1fLUJXlwLiOxskQDK4mojS3dct27exCWc0Z7j8ZJsi2ZhfifUeYM_wKSLs/s320/prettyGreenPlant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525159834514624402" /></a><br />I've always enjoyed being a stay at home mom to my kids. Now that they are grown and have their own lives, I really miss the time I used to spend with them. Never mind this "quality time" bullshit, I miss the "quantity time." The long afternoons spent just hanging out doing not much of anything, but having fun nonetheless. <div><br /></div><div>The two youngest boys, 20 and 22, are still living at home and I approached one of them the other day with an idea. "Scott, we are both busy these days, but I'd like to be more intentional about making time to do things together. What do you think about us finding a hobby that we could share that would take up a couple of hours per week?" He thought about it for a second and said, "What did you have in mind, Mom?" I had already given this a great deal of thought and was ready with an answer. "Well, when I was young, MY mom loved to grow things. We always had beautiful house plants and flowers and a garden. She actually owned a flower shop before she got married. I think it would be fun for you and I to do some gardening together." Scott had a bit of a smirk on his face when I suggested that and I know why. I've NEVER had my mother's green thumb. I've killed every live plant that has ever attempted to live in my house. Even my silk plants die -- of dust. "Gardening? Really, mom. Ok, let's do it. Can I pick out the stuff we'll grow?, asked Scott. Thrilled that he came on board so easily, I agreed and off he went to Home Depot to find some seeds.</div><div><br /></div><div>I must say that this has been one of my better ideas. I found myself running out to our sunroom every morning to see if anything had sprouted and both Scott and I watered and fertilized and composted and tended our little plants like they were babies. Scott was vegan for a while and worked in a raw food restaurant for a bit, so I wasn't surprised when he said he wanted to start out with some fancy varieties of lettuce. I thought that was a great idea, as lettuce is wonderful for salads and sandwiches and garnishes. The best part? Scott says that this variety of lettuce can be dried and smoked! Isn't science wonderful? He says they make beautiful glass salad bongs, just for this stuff. Before long, we had a beautiful garden full of the most beautiful "lettuce". I can't wait for it to be mature enough to eat. Or smoke. Mostly though, I've enjoyed spending time again with my youngest son. Most boys would not think it "cool" to hang out gardening with his mother, but Scott's enthusiasm for this new hobby surprised us all. I would have thought he'd be embarrassed by it, but he's actually brought his friends over and they've actually admired the fruits of our labor.</div><div><br /></div><div>The moral of this story is this: It is never too late to reconnect with your kids in a meaningful way. I often read about how kids these days don't want to do anything unless there is something in it for them. Scott and I are living proof that this is not always the case. Attached is a photo of our first crop of a variety of greens called "Devil's Lettuce." I plan to make a salad from it next week for a dinner party I"m attending. Life is good.</div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-22865129000303844002010-10-06T14:58:00.000-07:002010-10-06T16:37:19.299-07:00Girlz Just Wanna Have Fun.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQk11LTysHwzjzVfWEIvFOjYBbFUQfCpVaKD3i7lyUnM7ZpewBPkvZhzjMTl2uyVRMF0IZSPcZPp78L-1GNtgxmqWhJHGzPry364gWgeEIdpSFYUJz6wIgix8XQo0Th0ydKUFH9ns_ZKrJ/s1600/aaabeachfeetSue.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQk11LTysHwzjzVfWEIvFOjYBbFUQfCpVaKD3i7lyUnM7ZpewBPkvZhzjMTl2uyVRMF0IZSPcZPp78L-1GNtgxmqWhJHGzPry364gWgeEIdpSFYUJz6wIgix8XQo0Th0ydKUFH9ns_ZKrJ/s200/aaabeachfeetSue.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525081234599211634" /></a><br />Today is Wednesday. For some people, that signifies the mid-week hump. For me, it is the day my friend Christina and I hang out and have adventures. Our day usually involves a lot of coffee, a lot of shopping, perhaps a road trip to Beverly Hills, or a redecorating project. Today though, was GIRLZ SPA DAY. Christina loves the whole manicure, pedicure, facial, massage thing, and this day was entirely her brainchild. She always goes along with my hare brained ideas for our Adventure Day, so I decided to be open minded about the spa thing. However, you must know this about The Mama: I hate the very notion of being forced to relax in a spa setting. It is completely against every nerve ending that I have. I did it once -- the facial, the massage, mani/pedi. While the rest of our group came out gushing over how "relaxed and refreshed and 'cooked noodley'" that they were, I was AWWWWWWKKKKK!!!!!! traumatized. How can you feel "cooked noodley" after being tortured naked for two hours? I found nothing even remotely pleasant about the experience and vowed to never repeat it on purpose. I was so conflicted about the whole thing. "Feel the fear and do it anyway," I repeated. We booked a less invasive facial and a paraffin hand treatment, which I felt I could tolerate without the benefit of pharmaceutical bolstering. Of we went for Christina and Sue's Most Excellent Adventure.<div><br /></div><div>My first mistake, I believe, was the seven cups of supreme, high octane coffee that I drank at Christina's before we left the house for our appointment. Her husband, Jason, makes the best cuppa joe in the world and always brews a pot for me on Wednesdays. I'd had a bad coffee experience earlier in the day at my house, which the term "dark crude" would describe, so I wasn't holding back on Jason's primo java. Consequently, as we entered the spa, I was totally freakin' wired. As we entered into the inner sanctum of the spa, we were immediately enveloped into the whispering candlelight and intense silence reminiscent of a Benedictine Monastery. Odd enough, but I was bouncing off the ceiling in a caffeine induced frenzy. I was talking a mile a minute and scratching my skin like a crack whore. What? RELAX? WHO, ME? QUIET, STAY STILL, WHO ME???? I knew right then that I was in big trouble. I knew right then that I was in big trouble. Trouble, trouble, trouble. MyMindWouldn'tStopRacingAndThey'dHaveToStraitJacketMyHyperASSIfTheyThought forOneMinuteI'dBeAbletoLayStill. One and two and three, deep breaths now, you can do this.O-K-E-Y-Y-Y-Y now. That's better. I'm ok....</div><div><br /></div><div>Robe on, slippers on, more deep breathing. It helped that we were immediately directed to the "meditation room." It was something straight out of a Jackie Chan movie. Rice paper walls, bamboo, water trickling, candlelight flickering, chinese antiques every where -- if this wasn't an adrenaline drain, I don't have one. I stretched out on a leather recliner with a heated cashmere blanket, waiting for what was to come next. I was just hoping it didn't involve a SheMale named "Olga". Just as I was beginning to find my Chi, I heard a soft voice whisper, "Sue?" "AWWWWWWKKK!! WHAT THE F@#*!! I shot out of the chair like I was blasted out of a cannon. With heart palpitations threatening to end my life immediately, I sized up the Zen Master who was hovering over me. She was just a tiny little thing, not threatening at all. I like to think that I relaxed and didn't feel quite so "lamb-to-the-slaughter." Silently, she led me down a long, dark, candle lined hallway into the Zen Cave. I believe that Buddha himself was birthed there; silently birthed underwater by an appropriately mute chinese midwife. Hand motions indicated that I was to take off my robe and slippers and get under the heated blankets. HUH? I was thinking, "And you need me naked because WHY? for a facial and hand thingAmaBob?" That must have been when the mind control took hold, because I obediently did as I was commanded.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything was fine at first. She slathered smelly Peppermint goop on my face and then wiped it off. Then it was yummy Butterscotch goop, which I had only half licked off before she wiped the rest off with a hot, wet towel. Then she started rubbing my face with sugar, and I was SO diggin' this. I wondered, "what's next, ice cream and a cherry?" She still hadn't spoken a word up to this point, but I was beginning to relax when I felt something blowing on my face. DON'T TELL ME THERE'S A WHIPPED CREAM MACHINE!!! I opened my eyes briefly and was horrified by what I saw. There were two scary looking wands on metal stands, blowing steam or SHUT UP, maybe poison gas, towards my face! How could she be making me dessert one minute, and gassing me the next? I waited to be overcome by the fumes, and when I didn't die, I finally figured out that it was just a steam machine. How silly was I, thinking she was trying to snuff me out? That was so ridiculous of me. I have SUCH a fertile imagination at times. Sigh...relax, relax, relaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure which is worse, eyes opened or closed in such a situation. Figuring that ignorance is bliss, I opted for the oblivion that darkness might bring. A false sense of security is better than none at all. Next thing I knew, a bright light was eating through my closed eyelids. OMG. I'D READ ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING! They shine a bright light in your eyes and squeeze out all your secrets. No freakin' WAY was I opening my eyes. I was seeing red spots through my eyelids and was planning my escape route when Little Olga finally broke the silence: "You vont I perform exTRACTshuns?" HUH? She was straight out of central casting with this german accent. I wasn't quite sure what extractions she had in mind, since I don't have pimples, but I got brave and opened one eye. There she was, hovering overhead, staring into my eyeball. In my mind's eye, I had pictured a surgical mask under a set of devious eyes. I had pictured a large hypodermic needle glistening in her gloved hand, maniacal laughter in the background. In reality, it was just Little Olga, silently waiting, with a cotton ball in each hand. I managed to squeak out a "yeah, sure, whatever you vont..." The next thing I know she was squeezing my nose with all her strength. I couldn't breathe! Jesus. She was was trying to suffocate me! No way was I going to open my mouth to breathe, I'm not stupid. That is how they get prisoners to open their mouths for the water boarding torture -- they squeeze their noses! Just as I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, she loosened her grip. She probably thought I was dead. Round One to The Mama. "You vont, I should do hydration treatment?" I KNEW IT! HYDRATION TREATMENT IS CODE FOR WATER TORTURE!! I remained calm. "No, " I squeaked. "just the the facial and the paraffin hand thing."</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me say this about the "paraffin hand thing". I have never heard of such a thing, but Christina told me I should do it, and I trust her. Isn't a paraffin a large nosed bird that lives in Newfoundland? Maybe this hand treatment involved meditation and soft paraffin feathers massaging your skin. After Little Olga seared my face with flaming hot towels, (another failed attempt to kill me) she announced, "I vill prepare zee hond tleetment now, Da?" I heard the rustling of plastic and felt her approach, lifting my hand up and then it happened -- she plunged my hand into a bag of hot wax! I swear to you now, I jolted three inches off the goddamned table. She was freakin' trying to boil me in hot oil, one body part at a time. I felt my other hand being plunged into the second bag, and that is when I knew I had to make my escape. I bolted upright, and pulled my hands from the boiling oil. I threw the hot towel onto Olga's face (how do you like THAT, Nazi Bitch?) and grabbed for my robe. I ran down the darkened hall towards the meditation room with hardened wax hanging off my fingertips.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I entered the Meditation/Survivor's lounge, I found Christina blissfully lounging in the leather recliner, sipping cucumber flavored water. "Wasn't that amazing?" she said sleepily. "I wish I could come here every day...how'd it go for you?" Feeling victorious over death, I said, "I can honestly say I've never had an experience like that. I just feel all cooked noodley."</div><div><br /></div><div>On the way out, Christina booked us both appointments for next Wednesday, and then we went to Starbucks.</div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-14610083174023527722010-10-05T20:33:00.000-07:002010-10-06T10:15:33.957-07:00Squeeze My Freckle. Musings of a Desperate Housewife.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4SKRLUdJVDAZOC51rH1SK5D7N2CkwVi4fhuPFqKKKMscRNfkiLeB9olQ0m8dvw1UgKYj-aoaeKNcWioO0TFFiu7FlmuvIsBiqIVJSMuwztQrYJzWDNSDFGbCQecbrtBMV9PLrNepeW_a/s1600/IMG_2485.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV4SKRLUdJVDAZOC51rH1SK5D7N2CkwVi4fhuPFqKKKMscRNfkiLeB9olQ0m8dvw1UgKYj-aoaeKNcWioO0TFFiu7FlmuvIsBiqIVJSMuwztQrYJzWDNSDFGbCQecbrtBMV9PLrNepeW_a/s200/IMG_2485.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524982504489024658" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Tahoma;font-size:medium;">I just got back </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Tahoma;font-size:medium;">from the gym. As I was approaching the front door and was</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> watching all the activity inside, I couldn't help but wonder<br />what our ancestors would think about all this. It used to be<br />that people toiled from sun up to sun down, constant physical<br />activity just to grow their food, tend their animals, just to<br />sustain their lives. The concept of going to a building to<br />climb on machines that will force us to get exercise for 45<br />minutes, was an alien concept. That it would be the ONLY significant exercise we might get all day, would be somewhat amusing to them, I would think. Nonetheless, there I am with my Ipod in hand.The <i>Gym Show</i> is always worth<br />watching. The cast of characters which I encounter every day<br />is worth the price of admission alone. There is never a lack<br />of Mr and Mrs. Olympia types there, of course, with their<br />oiled bodies, sculpted abs, energy drinks and workout clothes<br />designed to show off the lean, sinewy muscle that they work so<br />hard to attain. There are just as many fat people working<br />out, which is good because fat people are the ones who SHOULD<br />be at the gym, not the skinny ones. (Just like churches.<br />Shouldn't churches be a haven of sinners, rather than a<br />museum of saints? I digress.) There is one old lady who I<br />see there every morning. Cute, cute, cute, in a Betty White sort of way. She is in her early 80's for sure, and every morning she is there at 6 am. She comes dressed to<br />the nines in stretchy slacks, a cashmere sweater, a lovely<br />scarf with a jewelled brooch and pearls. I am not making this<br />up. GodLuv'Er, she works out in freakin' pearls. She needs help<br />climbing on to the treadmill, but once she is on it, she just<br />jams. Two machines over poses the Nike Godess. Tall,<br />beautiful and blond, tanned and toned, I just hate her<br />gorgeous guts. She has that cute ponytail that sticks out<br />of the back of her baseball hat and it </span><swishes left="" and="" right="" in="" rhythm="" to="" her=""><her sweat="" glows="" and="" smells="" like="" strawberries="" n="" every="" woman="" the="" place="" hates="" her="" man="" in="" is="" scared="" of="" so="" there="" always="" an="" empty="" machine="" on="" either="" side="" would="" you="" want="" to="" be="" next="" invading="" being="" compared="" not="" said=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">swishes left and right,<br />and right and left, in rhythm to her run. Her sweat glows and<br />smells like strawberries 'n cream. Every woman in the place<br />hates her. Every man in the place is scared of her. Consequently,<br />there is always an empty machine on either side of her. Would<br />YOU want to be next to her, invading her aura, being compared<br />to her? " Not I," said the pig, "not I,"<br />said the cow, "not I," said the fat, red hen. Contrast that with Mr. High Cholesteral on the machine just in front of me. He scares the hell out of me because I know he is going to have a heart attack right in front of me and I'm going to have to do CPR on his slimy, gelatinous bulk and the thought of my<br />lips having to force life-saving oxygen into his sweaty, unshaven<br />face is more than I can bear. Maybe he'll puke up the 8 scrambled eggs and plate of<br />bacon that he had before working out. Maybe he'll puke it up into<br />my mouth as I try to save his sorry life. I think about that.<br /><br />GASP. Somebody shoot me, but there he is, wearing what appears to be<br />a woolen sweat jacket and long sweat pants and he is walking with the<br />machine on a steep incline, but he keeps slipping on his own sweat and groaning with each step. I want to speak to him about gastric bypass or methamphetamines, both better alternatives to diet and exercise, if you want my honest opinion. (I'm<br />not fat enough for gastric bypass and too broke for a drug habit, or else I'd practice what I preach.) In any event, I'm certain that one of these mornings, he is going to die on that machine. I hate watching him, but he is directly in<br />front of me, so whattygonna do? He does provide some entertainment though because every now and then in true, Real Man fashion, he will pause his machine to rearrange his"package". Now you KNOW what package I'm talking about. He is so overweight that sometimes he really has to fish around for a time to find it, but when he does, herearranges "things" and seems to be so much happier for it. He always looks around to see if anyone is watching<br />him do it, and of course, EVERYONE is watching him do it. I think that makes his day complete, in a perverse way. There was a new guy at the gym today. I looked up and saw him across the crowded room walking between a row of machines. Fabio, Fabio.<br />My heart skipped a beat. He was like a Greek God. Time stood still and I watched him stride in slow motion towards me: shoulder length, blond, wavy hair, denim blue eyes, perfect cheekbones, a chisled square jaw. He belonged on the cover of a romance novel and every damsel in that gym was inhaling his testosterone, wanting to have his baby, and sending him with <i>come hither</i> looks . He was too perfect, even here in<br />Orange County, the land of physical perfection. But I knew as soon as he stepped<br />into full view, <b><i>I knew</i></b>. It was his footwear that gave him away. He<br />was wearing the latest in avant garde Prada workout shoes. HELLO? RED Prada workout shoes! He was gay as a handbag and I knew it. Gay as 18 red balloons. KAPOWIE, WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!! Did you hear that? The<br />sound of a dozen bubbles bursting as the other girls figured out what I had already discerned. Life lesson number one, learned at the gym:<br />if it looks too good to be true, it probably isn't. Mr. High Cholesterol was the only person who contined to stare.: ) Yes, it takes all kinds to make</span></her></swishes></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><swishes left="" and="" right="" in="" rhythm="" to="" her=""><her sweat="" glows="" and="" smells="" like="" strawberries="" n="" every="" woman="" the="" place="" hates="" her="" man="" in="" is="" scared="" of="" so="" there="" always="" an="" empty="" machine="" on="" either="" side="" would="" you="" want="" to="" be="" next="" invading="" being="" compared="" not="" said=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> this world turn, doesn't it?</span></her></swishes></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><swishes left="" and="" right="" in="" rhythm="" to="" her=""><her sweat="" glows="" and="" smells="" like="" strawberries="" n="" every="" woman="" the="" place="" hates="" her="" man="" in="" is="" scared="" of="" so="" there="" always="" an="" empty="" machine="" on="" either="" side="" would="" you="" want="" to="" be="" next="" invading="" being="" compared="" not="" said=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></her></swishes></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Tahoma;"><swishes left="" and="" right="" in="" rhythm="" to="" her=""><her sweat="" glows="" and="" smells="" like="" strawberries="" n="" every="" woman="" the="" place="" hates="" her="" man="" in="" is="" scared="" of="" so="" there="" always="" an="" empty="" machine="" on="" either="" side="" would="" you="" want="" to="" be="" next="" invading="" being="" compared="" not="" said=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Did I tell you about Miss Matchy Matchy? I swear to God, EVERYTHING about her matches or coordinates. I'm sorry, but matching is SO<br />very "80's". Today she had on a black adidas track suit with mauve satin stripes. Mauve SATIN. I know many people would say that satin, as a fabric, has no place in a sweaty gym environment, but there 'twas. Not that she actually had any intention of actually SWEATING, eewww, yuck, puke. Of course, a mauve t-shirt peeked out from beneath her matching, satin trimmed jacket, and matching black and mauve baseball hat. Did I tell you that she had on cutesy little socks with mauve balls on them, and coordinating NewBalance sneakers. Did I tell you that her bedazzled Ipod cover coordinated ever-so-nicely with her ensemble? Did I tell you that I just described me? I am Miss Matchy Matchy. I'm not proud of it and I swear I"m going to get help for that fashion failing. Soon. Maybe tomorrow, or next week or <i>whatever</i>. So what else is there to do while one is sweating to the oldies, at the gym. Even people watching gets old quickly. I can't stand to watch the girl on the stair stepper ahead of me for one more minute. Whose bright idea was it to put the stair steppers anywhere but in the very back row. Don't they KNOW that we don't want to see gym rats bent over with their stinky butts stuck up in the air as they lean forward climbing the stairs? I don't want to see the line of sweat that goes down the butt crack and shouldn't somebody tell them that you can completely see through spandex? Somebody shoot me, immediately, if not sooner. So I look up and watch tv for a bit. That is not as easy as the Nike Godess over there makes it look. I would have to do too many things at once. I would have to listen to my Ipod, walk with my arms swinging, (ARM singular, I"m a one-armed gimp these days,<br />remember?) I would have to read the words as they scroll across the screen, AND<br />let my eyes leave the words on the screen to see what is actually<br />happening on the tv, all the while trying to not walk off the<br />end of the treadmill and not bang my injured arm against<br />the rail. Whoa. All this before 7 am? Nope. So I concentrate on the poster on the wall. It is from a company called "OCsunscreens.com"<br />and it depicts a piece of mottled, cancerous skin with the phrase, "Squeeze My Freckle" HUH? Squeeze My Freckle? Sorry, I don't get it. I<br />think about it a while and decide that I should entertain<br />more worthwhile cerebral pursuits, like should my earrings match my purse or my shoes? <i>WhatEVER. </i>Later, Bitches. I'm off to Lady Foot Locker. They are having a sale on matching workout clothes.<br /><br /><br />> ></span></her></swishes></span></div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-25715041606282643772010-10-05T14:31:00.000-07:002010-10-05T16:58:38.531-07:00Life's a Bitch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDvGUFDnBCmNfIFAxLYRPQkUnfonT18kax5wkAzNRRSNRnqC5ljYgnJA7LXWVB4hAZmPiEMqytCfr_cXEZz6o2sTvAmrTRysRQWjvHtB5ojjb09Nhu45vf7eWQMMlMF0pjak8zffs-bFd/s1600/ladyvayjayrw.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDvGUFDnBCmNfIFAxLYRPQkUnfonT18kax5wkAzNRRSNRnqC5ljYgnJA7LXWVB4hAZmPiEMqytCfr_cXEZz6o2sTvAmrTRysRQWjvHtB5ojjb09Nhu45vf7eWQMMlMF0pjak8zffs-bFd/s200/ladyvayjayrw.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524711943716051458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk0_C_blGVQN7XSuk2veBOKbxb9UFV9xurSkbM4fx3hIQoDWVmCR30EBjkIttMoeVf0KYpcxXYD-6UqkB1Lx_BhIWf5kt0ZqY2QHiB3RPPA8mdrDuqv_sFXsJ8gGybzbw4xVajzMAF127/s1600/smashdraft.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGk0_C_blGVQN7XSuk2veBOKbxb9UFV9xurSkbM4fx3hIQoDWVmCR30EBjkIttMoeVf0KYpcxXYD-6UqkB1Lx_BhIWf5kt0ZqY2QHiB3RPPA8mdrDuqv_sFXsJ8gGybzbw4xVajzMAF127/s200/smashdraft.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524711460802758482" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-HxXWKarBYPVrfsYGMUGsqZMDPu2bJdSbey6JygP6kps40ZayuvOUjtkqCy1Ho7m2qh9iXwTGobqMupSTpe6D8C7FPfhtHczbUjAvZSv72NJk-99cDkp3EHfg7RVlHOMh5JsT8MO8HJU/s1600/whitedressLadyV.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-HxXWKarBYPVrfsYGMUGsqZMDPu2bJdSbey6JygP6kps40ZayuvOUjtkqCy1Ho7m2qh9iXwTGobqMupSTpe6D8C7FPfhtHczbUjAvZSv72NJk-99cDkp3EHfg7RVlHOMh5JsT8MO8HJU/s200/whitedressLadyV.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524710978665646306" /></a><br />Anybody who knows me well knows that I have a hard time relating to some other women. Without exception, the women I have in my life are strong, independent, smart and witty. There is no time for that sub-segment of the female caste that I refer to as "The Silly Bitches." You know the ones. They are the ones who never grew out of their high school personalities. They are weepy, dramatic, clingy, gossipy, and catty. The unvarnished truth is this though: I miss that sometimes. I don't know if it is my XX chromosomes rebelling, but I have found that there is a piece of me that secretly finds Silly Bitch behavior to be amusing. I often thought, "Too bad that there wasn't a hybrid personality of someone who can be all those silly things, but at the same time, I could enjoy them." Then I met my first Drag Queen....<br /><br />Let me first of all say this: I only know 4 drag queens personally and I've hung out with them both in and out of drag. I realize that does not a scientific sample make, but it is good enough for me to want to announce to the world: I LOVE DRAG QUEENS!! I do, really. Like the female characteristics I am drawn to, they are strong, independent, smart and witty. You have to be strong to have the balls, literally and figuratively speaking, to go into a CVS Pharmacy looking for fingernail adhesive when you are dressed like a Philadelphia hooker. You have to be independent to go against society's norms about how men are SUPPOSED to dress in their spare time. You have to be smart to figure out how to "tuck" What God Gave Ya into a discreet n' neat little package, until it looks like He Didn't Give It To Ya. You don't have to be witty, but I'll be damned if I've ever met a drag queen that wasn't. You have to have a keen sense of humor to make up names like Lady Vajayjay, Jizzona Straynger, Mozie Pornwood. My Drag Queen friends make me laugh out loud, and my most frequent, "laugh till ya tinkle" moments have involved 6 ft tall men in frothy white and pink wigs and kitten heels. While catty, bitchy behavior in women infuriates me, I find it incredibly entertaining and hilarious when I see the same behavior in men, dressed like women. It's showmanship at its bitchy finest. Perhaps in my twisted little brain, I see drama queen bitch behavior coming out of women to be letting our gender down in some way. But these are not women, nor do they WANT to be, so it is ok. I don't know. I don't have to know. I'll just enjoy my hypocrisy for now.<br /><br /><br />I've learned a lot from my Drag friends. I'll never forget sitting down with a Queen and discussing the pros and cons of press on nails as opposed to acrylic nails. She learned that lesson the day she had to call in sick to her corporate job on a Monday because she couldn't figure out how to get her zebra striped nails off.<br /><br />Another time, I got tips on where to shop for fashionable shoes in large & wide sizes, from a queen dressed in a pink and lime green pucci dress, and white patent leather, pointy toed high boots. (As a tragic side note: I've been cursed with large, wide feet, so I was thrilled. Perhaps I was a Queen in another life.)<br /><br />Some of my favorite make up tips have been taught to me by a queen. These guys are masters of illusion because they have so much to compensate for: conspicuous crotch bulges, whiskers, uni-brow, the pronounced adam's apple. These are all things that must be dealt with if the illusion is to be successful. I've been instructed in the power of contour powder and a good push up bra. I now know how to sculpt cheekbones out of nothing, using the same contour powder. If I ever felt the need, I could even give Dolly Parton some competition, using nothing but a pair of rolled up tube socks and double sided adhesive tape.<br /><br />Sidetracking a bit, I remember once on a trip to Australia, my husband and I went into a Thai restaurant in the Kings Cross district of Sydney. If you've never been, King's Cross is the heart of the gay district of Sydney, although we didn't know that at the time. We were met at the door by a beautiful Thai female hostess. She was tall and slender, wearing a white leather mini skirt, flashing toned legs that had no end. Not that anyone would notice her legs, as she had the most perfect, perky breasts that nature could afford. Long silky hair, almond eyes, perfect skin, perfect teeth, she was a stunningly beautiful woman and my husband was drooling and not hiding it so well. She was giving my man the "come hither" look and I wasn't real happy with that, but then she said, in the deepest of male voices: "You can just seat yourself anywhere you'd like..." Somewhere in the middle of dinner I was still laughing until my pina colada was coming out of my nose. My first clue SHOULD HAVE BEEN "her" pronounced adam's apple, because as my drag friends tell me, "If she has an apple, she has a banana."<br /><br />Another thing I've learned from having Drag Queen Fabulosity in my life is the ability to say "Fuck you if you don't like what I am." We should all wish to not care what other people think. I was doing a photo shoot last spring with Lady Vajayjay, for a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" campaign she was pushing. We had already started shooting when she decided she needed something in her car, which was parked out on the street. There is a pack of feral adolescent boys who roam our neighborhood on bicycles. My worst nightmare was realized when 6 of them flew around our corner on bicycles just as Lady Vajayjay was teeter tottering on 6 inch stilletos down my driveway, enroute to her car. "Whoa, guys! Is that a DUDE?", yelled the pack leader. They all jammed on their brakes and did a double take as Lady V gave them his biggest smile, and shook his leopard clad mini skirted booty at them. I had a camera in my hands, I don't know why I didn't take the shot. The kids just laughed and kept going, it was no big deal.<div><div><br /><br />Not all of my drag life lessons involve the shallowness of the pursuit of physical perfection. I love to hear about life in the drag community. A Drag mother will take a drag daughter under her wing and teach her the ins and outs of the business. Many of the Queens I know are kind hearted, caring men, who do this to raise money for charity. Absolutely Fabulous, a local gift boutique that I am affiliated with is very generous with time and money and Absolutely FABULOUS sparkly things. The owner likes to do her bit to help local Drag Queens and their charities. I have volunteered my photography talent to my adopted Drag Queen, because as I've always said, "It takes a village to raise a Queen." It is just nice to see people, gay, straight, bi, transgendered WHATEVER, pull together to make this world a better place. I look forward to the day when we can all see our similarities more sharply then our differences. </div></div>SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-69216700701174229342010-10-04T09:05:00.000-07:002010-10-04T09:06:24.056-07:00Dearest ME.I read a magazine article yesterday that urged us to "Get in touch with your inner self." That lead me to thinking less abstractly and more concretely about our "inner selves." I decided it was time for me to do just that. Here is what I came up with:<br /><br />Dear Pancreas,<br /><br />We've been together now for 52 years, and most of those years were wonderful. I remember when we first started out, young and in love. I would drink my formula and eat my Gerber's cereal, and you would do your part by delivering all the insulin a metabolic system would want. It was like we knew what each other needed and we lived only to serve each other. It was a beautiful thing. What happened to us? How did things go so wrong? I know diabetes is genetic, my father had it. Must biology be destiny? I swore I'd be nothing like him, but look how history repeats itself. I hate that it has to be this way, but sometimes you have to look out for yourself. You might not like it, but if sticking needles into myself daily or taking Metformin is what I need to do to hold this volatile, pancreatic relationship together, then you are just going to have to deal with it. You failed ME, remember. Not the other way around.<br /><br /><br />Dear Brain,<br /><br />I'm taking time today to talk to my inner self, and you are top of mind, bad pun intended. I'd like to thank you for all the years of somewhat reliable service you've given me. It wasn't always smooth sailing with you, but we worked it out. Those seizures you sent my way in my 20's were problematic, but I only bit my tongue once and it was in my sleep, so I don't think my tongue even knew about it. I know the anti-seizure meds were hard on you, but you got through it. Never mind that Dilantin and Tegretol slowed you down to the point where people I met considered me a pleasant idiot. I'm better now, the quick wit is back, and if pushed, I can calculate Pi to the 33rd digit. Now that I think about it, you could have been a bit more forthcoming in high school also, I really could have used some scholarship money. However, you kicked into gear in university and I appreciate that. I never did mind altering drugs in my youth, but I'm not ruling it out for when I retire. Don't take that as a threat, I"m just sayin'.<br /><br /><br />Dearest Liver:<br /><br />I don't deserve you, I know that. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and yet, I abuse you. Lemon drop martinis, bathtubs full of gin, American beer -- the abuse is endless. Still, despite this, you stay. "Love means never having to say you're sorry." I don't believe that, so I'm here to say, "Liver, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I know not what I've done." Don't miss my point here, it doesn't mean I'm going to change, I'm just apologizing for past and future behavior. When our days on earth are over, dearest liver, I plan to be cremated and then you will get your chance to really "shine" because I seriously doubt that frickin' flame will ever burn out.<br /><br />Dear Bladder:<br /><br />You are probably my favorite organ. You never complained when I drank till overflowing in the farmer's fields of Prince Edward Island. You never once leaked, as I traveled the world refusing to use airplane bathrooms because I'm a freak. 17-18 hour flights and not a peep out of you. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that you and my kidneys had such a great relationship. I may have not said the words, but I really did love that you worked so well together. All those years working in the photo studio where I refused to use their stinky bathroom, but waited until I got home. Did you ever once punish me for that? No, never. Now that I'm a snaggle toothed old hag, my friends tell me about their misbehaving bladders, and I feel so superior. I can sneeze and laugh all I want, and know that you are there for me. Thank you. Words are not enough.<br /><br />Hey. Feet:<br /><br />Fuck you. I never liked you. You were always way to big and wide and you disgust me still. My mother always said, "Oh Suzy, you'll grow into them, stop complaining." Well, she was WRONG. I tried putting on a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos once, and I looked like Dustin Hoffman in "Tootsie." My drag queen friends look better in heels than I do, so go straight to hell, FEET, do not pass "Go", do not collect $200. By the way, that foot surgery I had two years ago? That was just a taste of what I can do to you if you make me. DARE to give me bunions and see what will happen. I'm not a vindictive person, but I can only be pushed so far. Don't say I haven't warned you.<br /><br />Dear Butt:<br /><br />You've always been my favorite body part, I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I love sitting on you, you are comfortable to be around, like a comfortable, fluffy pillow. As a young girl, I played hockey and skated and that is probably what turned you into such a well rounded butt, so to speak. My brother always said you were so hard that "you could crack an egg on it." I hope you don't mind that I call you a "butt" now. I know that growing up in Canada, you preferred to be called a "bum", but that means something different here, and "when in Rome" -- well. You know.<br /><br />Dear Hair:<br /><br />I don't know what to say about you. We've always had such a conflicted love/hate thing going on. I curled up and dyed for you. I permed you, I straightened you, I bobbed you. I've given you highlights, lowlights, gloss treatments, deep oil conditioners. All I ever wanted was to grow enough hair to make a ponytail. I would have felt like a real girl then, like the ones in high school who could just pull their hair back and stick a ribbon on it. Or the ones I see jogging on the beach with their ponytail sticking out of the hole in the back of the baseball cap. The kind of ponytail that would swish as you move. I wanted that but you never gave it to me. I tried. I tried so hard to grow you, but you wouldn't let me. I always ended up so frustrated and looking like I tried to fix the toaster or had stuck my finger in a light socket. I could never get you started in the morning, so I cut you short. Damn you. I hope you feel good about that. I'll never be a "real girl" now. Oh I try to compensate. I buy clothing with sparkly crystals all over it, but that is a facade. I wear adorable shoes, hoping people will overlook the fact that I have man feet. I drink Girl Drinks with cutesy umbrellas and sugar on the rim (sorry pancreas, my bad), but still, I have short hair because YOU won't grow fast enough. At 52 years old, I have come to grips with the fact that the only way I will ever truly be a girly girl with a pony tail is if I get hair extensions. I live in Orange County, fercryin'outloud, the hair extension capital of the world, what am I waiting for? I have this conversation with myself way too often, there has to be some resolution here. For now, I guess I'll just choose to be grateful to have hair at all. Oh, and by the way, hair? It could be much worse. You could belong to Lady Gaga or Britney Spears.<br /><br />SueSueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-72405743449548145922010-03-31T10:33:00.000-07:002010-03-31T10:48:53.134-07:00Climb Every Mountain<span style="font-style:italic;">This is a story I wrote for a wedding photo book I made for our friends, Jill and Grant. They were married in a mountaintop resort in Washington and the story is allegorical of how a married life together is like climbing a mountain. It is long, but worth a read! Sue.</span> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_O-EdFKxo49B8_5fdvoeM8QViWqeY3jUteFy-k8Z7M6goe3u3Yw7xfmB-Ilw4hVlNS-HilWDeYb5u-A1MJwtIP_q21u6nkJdiHBenUvaBufPRn7GJvhCipR_ZNavMHfP6RMvgP9s4F06/s1600/IMG_5021.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_O-EdFKxo49B8_5fdvoeM8QViWqeY3jUteFy-k8Z7M6goe3u3Yw7xfmB-Ilw4hVlNS-HilWDeYb5u-A1MJwtIP_q21u6nkJdiHBenUvaBufPRn7GJvhCipR_ZNavMHfP6RMvgP9s4F06/s320/IMG_5021.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454854955594168594" /></a><br /><br />Marriage is like climbing a mountain. You think about it for a long time, you decide you really want to do it if you can find the right climbing partner. You assemble all the gear you will need for your climb and with a kiss for good luck, the pair of mountaineers are on their way. At first the climb is easy, the slope gentle and the weather is perfect. All your equipment is new and shiny and you love the novelty of seeing the sunrise from your brand new sleeping bags. After a while, you notice that the incline is a bit steeper, but still manageable, and the zipper on your sleeping bag is sticking a bit, but if you rub soap on it, it works better. Life is good and there is no doubt that you will make it to the top of the summit.<br /><br />After climbing for a while, you and your climbing partner realize that however fun it is to climb together, wouldn't it be nice to have some companionship along the way? So you adopt a pair of bear cubs, and the climb becomes way more difficult, but at the same time, WAY more fun. Now you not only have to worry about getting yourself to the top of the mountain, but you have the responsibility of two other little lives. Years pass, you climb and climb and climb, and your cubs grow and grow and grow. At some point, you may even wonder, is this all there is? It seems that all you do is walk and sweat and climb and you wake up in the morning in a now dirty sleeping bag and do it all over again. But then you think about your climbing partner and your cubs and how much joy they bring to your journey, and you bounce out of the sleeping bag a bit quicker because you remember there is another gorgeous sunrise outside the tent waiting for you.<br /><br />Once you've been climbing long enough and you get into a routine, things get a bit easier. You plant flowers along the path, hoping to make the climb nicer for the generations of climbers that might come after you on their own life quest to the top. You meet up with other climbers along the way and you share your evening campfire with some of them, even your food. A few special climbers become like family as you realize that sharing DNA with someone is no guarantee of closeness in a relationship. Those special climbers you meet and "adopt" would drop their gear in a second to help you if you needed help, and you would do the same to them. You realize that you can never have enough people to love you, and the climb is too long (or too short?) to waste your energy on high maintenance relationships that only bring negativity to the journey, Your years of climbing experience has taught you that and surrounding yourself with the good people in your life will sustain you and support you when the climbing gets really tough, as all mountain climbs eventually do.<br /><br />You will learn many things on your ascent to the top. You will learn that NO journey is without peril and bad luck. EVERY climber thinks that the others have smoother trips than they, but you'll learn that is an illusion. Their base camp may look more organized than yours, and they have flowers growing near their outhouse, but if you look closer, you'll see that there are holes in their tents too, and while you may have a mosquito problem, they are covered with black fly bites the size of M&M's. And those flowers? They are plastic! Totally fake. They just have DIFFERENT climbing challenges than yours, but they don't have a clean slate, no matter HOW MUCH IT APPEARS TO BE SO. Remember that.<br /><br />You will learn that when bad things happen to your fellow climbers and you learn about it, you won't just ask "what can I do?" You will just FIND SOMETHING to do and just do it. It may only be that you will carry their backpacks for the next mile, or clean out their campsite when they are too sick with Traveller's Revenge to do it themselves. Your new maturity will help you to realize that even when you "don't know what to say to them...." you will just "shut up and show up" and that simple gesture will mean everything to them. You will understand that if you wait to be able to do some huge thing for them, you will never do anything, because there rarely is anything big that you CAN do. You will never be able to build a helicopter from tree branches that will bring your unfortunate friends to safety. You will never be able to Just a bunch of little things that will make them feel cared about and not forgotten. Your mountain climb will teach you that lesson if you are astute enough to learn it.<br /><br />A painful lesson that many climbers learn too late is what a wonderful instrument God has blessed you with in giving you a healthy body. Often people learn too late that they should have taken better care of it. A mountain climb will tax your body like no other and if you haven't looked after it, every step can be painful. Your knees will hurt, your back will creak, your neck will be stiff when you climb out of your sleeping bag in the morning. You would still enjoy the sunrise if you could just see it better, but you neglected your eyes by refusing to wear sunglasses. Hopefully it won't be too late by the time you learn that lesson and you can begin to treat your body better by only putting good fuel into it and by listening to your knees when you can clearly "hear" them shouting, 'Enough climbing for today. Build a fire and relax now...."<br /><br />Somewhere in the middle of the climb, somewhere around the second base camp, you will notice something about your baby cubs. You will notice that they are not so little any more. Hopefully, you will have stopped to play with them when they were little and wanted nothing more from you than to splash in the stream, or to go fishing with you. You notice that they now tower over you and weigh about 700 lbs. They could EAT YOU ALIVE if they wanted to, and you have to have patience during those times of adolescence when they threaten to do just that. They don't need your help any more to fish. One swipe of that big paw and they have a 20 pound salmon to munch on for a snack. If you've done your job correctly, the saddest thing in the world will inevitably happen -- the day will come when they tell you that they are leaving. If you haven't done your job correctly, however well meaning you are, they will be living in your tent forever, taking up ALL the free space and you will be catching salmon for them forever because you didn't teach them how to sharpen their claws so they could catch their own. As sad as it will be to watch them venture off and start their own climb, be happy that you taught them how to be self sufficient and know that you will reap the benefits some day when they have cubs of their own and you watch them teach THEM the lessons that you worked so hard to teach. <br /><br />It will seem strange at first, after the cubs have left, to have just you and your climbing partner to share a tent once more. It many even be scary. You may even be susceptible to the many traps that befall climbers who are trying to adjust to a new routine of "empty nesters." Perhaps you will spend all your time polishing your camping equipment. Checking and rechecking your cllimbing lines. Collecting firewood and mapping routes and having no time with your climbing partner to just be together. You will need to find a new routine TOGETHER, because if you don't, another climber might come along and sensing your emptiness say "Come climb with me for a while...." While the illusion of a nicer base camp may be a tempting thought, it is just an illusion. You have a whole journal full of life stories of snow storms on the trip, raging waters and rivers you've crossed, predators you've slain together....as flattering as it is to have another camper tempt you to join his/her climb, you don't have a HISTORY and a journal with them. It just isn't worth it. It's an illusion. Remember that. No matter how good it appears, it is just an illusion.<br /><br />As you approach the summit, you need to look back periodically and see how far you have come. Why, it just seemed like yesterday and you and your climbing partner were just starting out with a shiny coffee pot and new hiking boots. Now your boots have the tread worn off and your sleeping bag is held together with duct tape. Your tent had to be patched with your worn out long johns and the tent pegs have long been replaced by pegs made out of trees you've encountered on your journey. At this point, you don't have to tell your partner where to set up camp. You know EXACTLY what each other is thinking and you work in sync together. There are times when you still feel like either signaling a distress call to a passing aircraft with the shiny part of a soup can, but that too shall pass, and you know that your life partner is your soul mate, no matter what. <br /><br />Finally the big day arrives. As you approach the spot where you are ready to plant your Life Flag and claim victory over the mountain, you look to your left and see your cubs approaching. What is that walking behind them? They have cubs of their own, rolling around and wrestling with each other. You look down below and you see the path you have climbed together. It is full of flowers that you have planted along the way. On your right are all your "people", the climbers that you have adopted as family and they are cheering and clapping, reveling in your success in completing your life journey. Tears are shed for the climbers who didn't make it, through climbing errors, or dysentry, or who just plain 'ole gave up the climb. You look back into your mind's eye and you remembered the day that you stood on the top of the mountain on your wedding day with your people surrounding you , vowing to make the climb to the top together again one day. You've made it. You look up and thank God for all the lessons and blessings. You have completed the journey. Life is good.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-71270836690527666642010-03-05T11:00:00.000-08:002010-03-05T11:58:45.940-08:00SURPRISE!!!Anybody who knows me well, knows that I hate surprises. When my kids were born, I didn't know the gender of any of them, which drove me nuts. Consequently, they had to wear green or yellow clothing until the supply of neutral colored baby shower gift clothing was used up, while visions of pink or blue danced in my Mommy head. How FUN it would have been to be able to paint the nursery pink or to KNOW that splurging on the BLUE Dior diaper bag was ok, because I was having a boy. Expectant parents have the option of knowing the gender now, and that makes so much more sense.<br /><br />Then there is the issue of surprise parties. DON'T EVEN GO THERE WITH ME ON THAT ONE. Here's typically how it goes: They plan a surprise party for you. They have the date booked weeks in advance, they sneak around and tell you lies, and go to great lengths to hide all the pending fun from you. For WHAT PURPOSE? So you'll be pissed off that the plans YOU made are cancelled, and they get to surprise you for 5 seconds? Doesn't make any sense to me. You are the only one who didn't get to anticipate the event, maybe buy a new outfit, get a great haircut, take time to do your make up just right. <br /><br />A bunch of girls threw me a surprise party years ago. Since I didn't KNOW about the party, I had made a dentist appointment for the time and didn't mention it to anyone. When the friend, Martha, showed up to pick me up "for coffee", she had to track me down at the dentist's office. I was flat on my back, wearing a paper bib with spit on it, drooling like a hyena over a sheep's corpse, and she comes rolling into the dentist office. The dentist was a mutual friend, so he didn't mind. "Hey, Sue, do you want to go for coffee??" HUH? It was 6:30 pm and I would normally be going home to feed my husband and kids after my appointment. I said, "arrggh. msfft ung froo." (She probably took that to mean, "sure, when I'm finished here." What I was really saying with my mouth full of spit and dental instruments was "Are you fucking crazy? What are you doing here?" Whatever. When I was finished getting my tooth filled, I told her that I'd have to call Mike and tell him I'd be home later and I went off with her to a Mexican restaurant. That should have been my first clue right there. We have Starbucks, Gloria Jean's, Daily Grind, Natalie's, Seattle's Best....trust me, there is NO SHORTAGE of coffee joints in Orange County and she was bringing me to a Mexican Restaurant??? My so stupid. I remember thinking, "that's ok. At least nobody will know me here." I don't know what YOU wear to get a tooth filled, but I was wearing dirty sweat pants that I"d probably slept in, a well worn Root's tee shirt with dental spit and filling shavings all over the front of it. I had no make up on, and my mouth was still so frozen that I could only mumble my words, and I was drooling all over myself without even realizing it. My hair looked like I'd tried to fix the toaster, and failed, so I grabbed a baseball hat from under the seat of my car and stuck it on my head in an effort to at least hide the bed head. The hat said, "Beer Bitch" on the front of it and unbeknownst to me, had a hunk of hair-filled bubble gum stuck to the back of it, but I figured I wouldn't know anyone there, so whatever. I'd was as exhausted as the mom of three young kids would be and caffeine was looking pretty tempting right then.<br /><br />Imagine my surprise when we walked in to the restaurant and 10 of the women from our church were sitting there like the cats who ate the canary, "SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!" Now you have to understand women in the OC. Public outings are a time to pull out all the Girl Stops. Their hair was perfect, Dior and Gucci and Chanel sunglasses perched effortlessly on the tops of their uber coiffed heads. Their make up was impeccable, everyone was wearing their favorite Tiffany jewellry and designer purses matched their Jimmy Choo shoes. "Surprise!" said Jenna, with freshly done manicure. "Surprise!" said Denise, with her fabulous sundress with the sweet heart neckline encrusted with Swarovski magic. "Surprise!", said Lorena, just back from her vacation home in Hawaii and looking refreshed and youthful and perfect -- everything that I wasn't. I thought to myself, "Surprise? SURPRISE????????????? Fucking right I"m surprised...." I was horrified. Here's the rub though: you aren't supposed to get mad when that sort of thing happens. You are supposed to be grateful to your friends for being so thoughtful as to throw a surprise party for your birthday. Well, I wrote the book on passive-aggressive behavior, so I'm not sure if I recognize it when I see it, OR, if I recognize it when it really isn't there, but I was ready to choke the bunch of them. I didn't have the option of picking out what to wear, doing my hair, looking forward to a dinner I didn''t have to cook myself. The reality was that I had eaten already, in anticipation of having a frozen mouth, and since I wasn't in any shape to be actually talking with swollen lips incapable of forming sensible words, I could only sit at the head of the table, feeling like a skunk at a fucking garden party, listening to all these beautiful people talking about how "they almost let it slip -- remember when I said...." To add insult to injury, Martha told everyone at the table how stupid I must be to not have realized what was going on when she showed up in the dentist's office. Right? Not only am I sitting there swollen, frozen, and ugly -- a pimple on the face of Orange County's most fabulous female humanity, I was stupid too! Needless to say, that was the event that solidified my feelings about surprise parties and my refusal to ever throw one for anybody. Ever. No matter what.<br /><br />I said all of that to say this: Just say "no" to suprise parties. The next time you have to urge to "surprise" someone, at least consider the words of a fellow suprise hater who said this: I"m not much for surprises. Anticipation is more my thing. Anticipation lets you stretch things, build them up, shower properly in advance. Anticipation is a turkey in the oven, long pregnancies, the 12 days of Christmas, spring training. A surprise is one juicy bite, anticipation is a long, splendid feast.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-20586798937166176382010-01-22T08:17:00.000-08:002010-01-22T08:53:32.290-08:00Voodoo for Dummies, an introduction.Like much of the rest of the world, I have been horrified at the recent events that have taken place after the Haitian earthquake. It is amazing to me that this devastated culture hasn't completely broken down and rioted full force, in an effort to get help after so long. Clearly, the world has responded to their pleas for help, but it has been slow coming, and the number of preventable deaths that are occurring every day now, is staggering. I did a bit of research into the culture to try and understand a bit of the mindset of the people of Haiti, and found some fascinating things, most of which relate to the dominant religion there, Voodoo, and how it manifests itself in the behavior of the people.<br /><br />When most people think of Voodoo, they think of sticking pins into people to cause harm to them. This is such a fallacy about the religion, which, in Haiti, is now intertwined with the Catholic church, which actually combines elements of voodoo rituals into the mass. There is an element of "cursing" people in Voodoo, but that represents only about 5 per cent of the religion. 95% of voodooism involves healing, not cursing people. (New Orlean's voodoo is a bit different, and tries to capitalize monetarily on the Western Worlds misconceptions about spells and voodoo dolls.) <br /><br />We think of people who practice voodoo as poor, uneducated, lower class people. This may be true only because that class of people constitutes the vast majority of Haitians, but very intelligent, well educated and well to do people in Haiti also embrace this religion, so don't judge a book by its cover.<br /><br />Attached here is an excellent article that I've found that is an easy read and explains modern voodoo in a way that will give you great insight into the people of modern Haiti. The "Reader's Digest Condensed Version, a-la-Sue-Cassidy, is this:<br /><br />Treatment of the dead is such an important concept of voodoo. As we watch tractors pushing dead bodies into mass graves, we think how horrible that is, but to a Haitian, it goes MUCH deeper than that. Families that don't bury their dead properly, believe that their restless souls will wander the earth unhappy and will cause very bad things to happen. Conversely, a proper burial will please the dead and ease the transition to the other side, and good things will happen. They TRULY believe this, so it is bad enough that they have to watch their families suffer from the earthquake damage, but knowing that they can't bury their dead properly is emotionally just as bad. Before all this devastation, it was not uncommon for poor families to go without food in order to buy a casket for a family death. With that in mind, it leads me once again to wonder why they aren't rioting in the streets en masse, over this ultimate tragedy as they see bodies piled up in ditches. <br /><br />Well, there is a reason for that too, and it involves one of the basic tenets of their religion: fatalism. They believe that Lwa, the earthly god, is ultimately in control of everything that happens in their lives, and they can't do anything about what will happen, so why bother trying? You can see this attitude manifested in generations of Haitians who have lived lives of abject poverty. Why don't they try to rise above it? Get an education, leave for a better life? Some do, of course, I'm not saying that all Haitians subscribe to that fatalistic mindset, but just look at the numbers who DO. Like those on the lowest caste in India, they believe that this is their lot in life and there is no point in trying to do anything about it, it is in control of the Lwa, who they will TRY to gain favor with through animal sacrifice and pleasing ritual, but...Que sera, sera. What will be, will be.<br /><br />I urge you to take the time to read the attached article and hope you find it as fascinating as I have, and you can draw your own conclusions from it. Before you go judging people who deeply believe in a religion that is different from your own, think about Christianity and its own beliefs. A virgin birth? Rising from the dead? To each his own. Have a read and tell me what you think....<br /><br /><br /><br />Voodoo for Dummies, an introduction.<br /><br />Bob Corbett<br />March 1988<br /><br />(Important Note)<br /><br />First and foremost Voodoo is a religion. It is the dominant religion of Haiti. Many of the practices and descriptions of Voodoo belief may sound to us like rank superstition, but then, imagine the beliefs of Christianity to people who know nothing about it. Tell them about the trinity or the resurrection, or the presence of Jesus in the eucharist. Any of these practices which very intelligent Christians believe in the fullest would seem no less superstitious to someone unfamiliar with Christianity.<br /><br />Thus I urge you to recognize that Voodoo is Haiti's religion, it is taken very seriously not merely by unlettered peasants, but many intelligent and learned members of the Haitian society believe as sincerely in Voodoo as do German theology professors in their Christianity. In no way do I expect you to believe in Voodoo; no more than I would expect you to convert to Islam if I taught a course on that religion. But, please do recognize that it is every bit as real a religion as the major religions of the world.<br /><br />The most basic concepts of Voodoo.<br />There is one God, Bondye. This God is very similar to the God of Islam, Judaism and Christianity. There is only one God.<br />There are three important categories of other spiritual beings:<br />lwa. These are the various spirits of family members; the spirits of the major forces of the universe--good, evil, reproduction, health, all aspects of daily life.<br />lwa interact with the people of earth.<br />They "mount" people now and again during religious ceremonies and they give messages, and even cause various good and bad things to happen to people.<br />The twins. A curious and rather mysterious set of forces of contradictories: good and evil, happy and sad etc. If honored now and again in religious services they will tend to help you have the better side of life.<br />The dead. Mainly the souls of one's own family members who have died but have not yet been "reclaimed" by the family. Ignored family dead are dangerous. Honored and cared for family dead are helpful.<br />The central and key aspect of Voodoo is healing people from illness. Such healing activities probably constitute 60% of all Voodoo activity. Healers heal with herbs, faith healing (with the help of lwa and other spirits) and, today, even with western medicine!<br />The priesthood of Voodoo contains both men (houngan) and women (mambo). Their functions are:<br />healing.<br />perform religious ceremonies to call or pacify the spirits.<br />to hold initiations for new priests(tesses) (kanzo service and taking the ason).<br />Telling the future and reading dreams.<br />casting spells and creating protections.<br />creating potions for various purposes. (From love spells to death spells.)<br />For any of these they may receive fees. But, they may not too. This differs from one houngan and mambo to another. (Note his is similar to fees paid to rabbis, mullahs, priests and ministers.)<br /><br />Another central feature of Voodoo is the "service," the religious rites of the religion.<br />These are usually held outside, under a rough roof and around the "poto mitan," the center pole. A houngan or mambo almost always directs these.<br />Drums are used extensively to provide music and dancing is absolutely essential to the whole service.<br />Services are fully participatory. Not only the houngan and mambo participate but nearly everyone present.<br />A master of ceremonies (La Place) is often present.<br />A hounganikon directs the music and motion.<br />Hounsi (women only) are serving ladies, usually dressed in white.<br />Those in attendance are nearly all participants and most can be "mounted" by lwa.<br />In most services the lwa "mount" people. That is, they come and take over a person's body for a time. When the lwa come the person is gone. (It's not clear where the person goes.) The body is the body of the person, but it is really the lwa. If a male lwa mounts a female person, he is referred to as "he," not she, during the mounting.<br />Nearly every Voodoo service has animal sacrifice. By killing the animal one releases life. The lwa are exhausted by the taxing task of running the universe. Thus they can receive this life sacrificed to them and are re-juvenated. They are usually quite happy about this.<br />There are two primary sorts of Voodoo.<br />Rada. This is a family spirit Voodoo and the Voodoo of the relatively peaceful and happy lwa.<br />Petro. (In some areas called Congo.) This is a black magic Voodoo and the Voodoo of angry, mean and nasty lwa. Dangerous things happen in Petro including death curses, the making of zombi and wild sexual orgies SPECIAL NOTE By virtually all scholarly estimates one can find, Rada accounts for about 95% of Voodoo, if not more. Thus the spectacular tales of black magic, while very real, are extremely limited. Petro is not the typical Voodoo, but it does exist.<br />The analysis of humans. Humans have two spirits and a body.<br />ti-bon-ange (little good angel). This is similar to the conscience in the Western understanding of people.<br />gros-bon-ange (big good angel). This is similar to the soul in Western theories of person, except the soul is much more separate from the person than is a western soul. For example, when the person goes before God for judgment it is the gros-bon-ange which presents "the person" to God and makes the person's case.<br />Key terms in Voodoo<br />hounfo--the parish or region of a houngan or mambo's influence.<br />govi--a small earthen bottle into which the gros-bon-ange of dead ancestors can "rescued." After a person dies the gros-bon-ange goes to the underwater place. A year and a day after he or she goes their the relatives can recall the gros-bon-ange. Unfortunately this is a very expensive service, requiring a significant animal sacrifice, often an ox. Thus it is often considerable time before the service can be done. If too much time passes the ancestor may get a bit restless and cause trouble-- illness etc.<br />serviteurs--serious practitioners of Voodoo.<br />ason--the magic rattle of the houngan or mambo.<br />lave tet--(washing of the head) an initiation ceremony held for serviteurs after they have been mounted for the first time.<br />kanzo--the initiation ceremonies for those moving into a very serious level of Voodoo practice.<br />taking of the ason--the final initiation into being a houngan or mambo. NOTE: Both kanzo and the taking of the ason are very secret services. However, in Alfred Metraux's book (VOODOO IN HAITI), through observation and talking with people who were not too careful about the secrecy of kanzo, he has pieced together a detailed account of the ceremony.<br />verve--ceremonial drawings done in flour, of the various lwa.<br />peristyle--the Voodoo temple. A tiny tiny place.<br />poto mitan--the center pole in a Voodoo peristyle. It represents the center of the universe and all dancing revolves around the poto mitan.<br />Les Invisibles--all spirits.<br />Les Mysteries--<br />the lwa themselves.<br />sacred knowledge. Also called "konesans."<br />The crossroads. A central image in Voodoo. This is the place where the two worlds (earth and spirit world) meet. Virtually all Voodoo acts, even healing, begin with the acknowledgment of the crossroads.<br />Some of the central lwa in the Voodoo pantheon.<br />Legba. An old man who is the gatekeeper between the two worlds, world of earth and the world of the Invisibles. He is the origin of life. The sun is one of his symbols, but he is also the source of regeneration and uses the symbol of the phallus.<br />Kalfu (crossroads) is the Petro counterpart to Legba. He is the spirit of the night, the origins of darkness. The moon is his symbol. He can be placated, but is a dangerous lwa.<br />Papa Ghede. lwa of death and resurrection. A total clown. Very erotic and comic. He is the lord of eroticism.<br />Dumballah. The father figure. He is the good snake. The source of peace and tranquillity. The egg is offered to him when he comes to mount a person. He is much loved and sought after. His wife Aida-wedo attends him.<br />Agwe. The sovereign of the seas. Especially honored, as one might well expect, by people who live near the sea.<br />Ogoun. The warrior. Today, too, the force of politics. Violent.<br />Erzulie. The earth mother. Spirit of the goddess of love. The muse of beauty. (Strongly identified with the Virgin Mary.) Her appearance (when she mounts someone) is one of cleansing, dressing, delicate foods daintily eaten. She can read the future in dreams. A much loved lwa.<br />The FATALISM of Voodoo.<br />Voodoo is much criticized by foreigners in Haiti. Sometimes it is simply because they profess a competing religion and don't want the people to stay with Voodoo. At other times they charge that it is devil worship. This claim is sheer nonsense when speaking of Rada Voodoo, the numerically primary form. It is less clear how to describe Petro. There are no "devils" in Voodoo, but Petro cultivates the evil or at least angry spirits.<br /><br />However, many of the non-religious aspects of Voodoo which people often criticize really seem to me to be more the result of Voodoo's overwhelming fatalism. The view is that to an astonishing degree the lwa determine out lives. The Haitian serviteur has little use for anything like the Western idea of free will and personal responsibility. Rather, whatever has happened it is the lwa who have caused it.<br /><br />If one would like to change anything in one's life, from a current illness to the fundaments of the social system, one must ask the lwa. One does not ACT on one's own. This would be counter-productive since it is the lwa who decide these things anyway.<br /><br />Further, the lwa are not very changeable. Things are the way they are because the lwa have decided it. This fatalism contributes significantly to the peasants' unwillingness to struggle for liberation.<br /><br />However, one can must the hard question: Is it Voodoo that has caused Haitian fatalism, or is it the history of the African/Haitian experience that has created Voodoo's fatalism?<br /><br />Voodoo's relationship to Christianity.<br />The Catholic experience.<br />Under the French slaves were forbidden from practicing Voodoo. Nonetheless Voodoo survived. The colonists did allow occasional dances on the weekends. These dances were actually Voodoo services!<br />After the liberation of 1804 all white people were kicked out of Haiti and many were killed. This included Roman Catholic priests. Thus in 1804 the Vatican broke with Haiti and did not establish relations with her again until 1860.<br />During this 56 year period houngans and mambos built up the public religion of Haiti, Voodoo, in a weird amalgamation of African spirit religion and Catholicism. Virtually all lwa became associated with Catholic saints (Dumballah the snake lwa is St. Patrick; Erzulie, the earth mother is the Virgin Mary). The most important consequence of this is that Haitians see nothing odd at all with practicing Voodoo and Catholicism side by side and are often very devout about each of them.<br />I can't explain this, I only describe it.<br /><br />From time to time from 1860 until the late 1940s the Catholic Church waged campaigns against Voodoo. They never came to anything.<br />In 1941-42 some elements of the Catholic Church waged an all out physical, holy war against Voodoo. They burned peristyle, Voodoo shrines, beat (some say even killed) houngans and mambo, demanded their ostracism from society and shot things up. But, they lost. Voodoo went under-ground to some extent, but it grew in popularity, in large measure because of the oppression.<br />By the early 1950s the Catholic hierarchy halted this war, got rid of these priest warriors and made their peace with Voodoo. Voodoo drums and melodies were incorporated into Catholic church services. The Catholics took the position, if you can't defeat them, co-opt them. Relative peace has held between the Catholics and serviteurs ever since.<br />The Protestants.<br />Until the 1970s Haiti was nearly 100% Catholic.<br />In the 1970s evangelical Protestantism came to Haiti. After Reagan came to power evangelization mushroomed.<br />Evangelical Protestants are bitter enemies of Voodoo and denounce it all the time as devil worship. Many of these people claim that Haiti's misery is because she is being punished by God for the sins of her Voodoo serviteurs.<br />Protestantism has come to Haiti as a serious business. Evangelical Protestants groups own 7 of Haiti's 11 radio stations and have made significant gains in conversions.<br />Today most observers believe that at least 15% of the Christians in Haiti are Protestant evangelicals.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-41692650739779537292010-01-02T14:25:00.000-08:002010-01-03T19:36:22.225-08:00Later, Old Dog.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8u0QXq2bJZSGisEaEXOoW-6UOZTOz5kGrfi3ZPMq7vgwod4dwR4gGeyaGq7Sf-NHn9DwjPI7qbZ67dYjCe19lfRQ2knbJr774UITJUpxhE2TroMs8PgrRJZIxNAYt8HZsrGb1OdzYuXG/s1600-h/000-bestschnoze.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8u0QXq2bJZSGisEaEXOoW-6UOZTOz5kGrfi3ZPMq7vgwod4dwR4gGeyaGq7Sf-NHn9DwjPI7qbZ67dYjCe19lfRQ2knbJr774UITJUpxhE2TroMs8PgrRJZIxNAYt8HZsrGb1OdzYuXG/s320/000-bestschnoze.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422275123362656898" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uvucvt0zMNbSTu4ythQwSVkwsjJxEH5SjqXZoZ7vJlu2dH5abJVtNpsoqoZfTVyf_-dsqUuSjLKU9BHWOwuu02U2hSmdYotAONsEa9OA3lSOHWuIe1Hpcah1w6x3tAkJ0kk6ffTB0Zr2/s1600-h/pepperteabath.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uvucvt0zMNbSTu4ythQwSVkwsjJxEH5SjqXZoZ7vJlu2dH5abJVtNpsoqoZfTVyf_-dsqUuSjLKU9BHWOwuu02U2hSmdYotAONsEa9OA3lSOHWuIe1Hpcah1w6x3tAkJ0kk6ffTB0Zr2/s320/pepperteabath.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422275114757165346" /></a><br />She waited until the hustle and bustle of the holidays were over, but on January 1, 2010, our old dog, High Tea, decided that her time had come. We arrived home from the New Year festivities to find that her back end was paralysed and she had stopped eating and drinking. Being a holiday, we couldn't get a vet to come out and see her, so the next day, we scooped her up and brought her in and stayed with her as she passed. <br /><br />Born Melita High Tea of Simi, bred by Jean Richland, she was a beautiful show dog, and became a champion Bearded Collie before she was two years old. She came to live with us when she turned two and bore two litters of 10 puppies each during the next few years. Many of her puppies became AKC Champions as well, which earned her the title of ROMX. <br /><br />She was a great dog, and had a long, great life. She tolerated my taking embarassing pictures of her, like the Schnooze photo above. The other one is her and Pepper getting ready for a bath. She would have been 13 years old in March. Cheers, High Tea. You will be missed by your partner in crime, Pepper, and the rest of your family!SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-40161425845303611872009-12-28T10:37:00.001-08:002009-12-28T11:25:26.406-08:00When I Am Boss of the World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsimBQymwHaIhuc2Lqj98BSBBrbXREiCneujchm6artD257sZPjzqoCMkCp0w4cC_1kuIcmUdfQZ70hUhYnjNKafWKGIH9_1ZCKMyoKdcw8W_eYp4to-tmc1pf_ICFSwuKQNTRzV2rZWz/s1600-h/Gerard+50th+bday+009.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAsimBQymwHaIhuc2Lqj98BSBBrbXREiCneujchm6artD257sZPjzqoCMkCp0w4cC_1kuIcmUdfQZ70hUhYnjNKafWKGIH9_1ZCKMyoKdcw8W_eYp4to-tmc1pf_ICFSwuKQNTRzV2rZWz/s320/Gerard+50th+bday+009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420370126398842210" /></a><br />I think I must be a "hater". I hate to think that, ironically, but it's the only conclusion I have come to when I think about all the little things that bug me to the point of exhaustion. In the new year, I've resolved to only hate things one at a time, so today I'm concentrating on WORDS. I have decided that when I am The Boss of the World, people who misuse and mispronounce common words will be punished in cruel and unusual ways. In no particular order, allow me outline some of the most agregious errors which we tragically all encounter in our everyday communications...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Are You Smarter Than a Fith Grader? </span> Shoot me now. This is one of the worst because it is so unnecessary. It is not difficult to pronounce the second "f" in fiFth, so just do it, would you? You sound like a firth grader when you mispronounce that word.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">My grandmother has altimers disease. </span> What is THAT? This insidious, most terrible geriatric disease of <span style="font-style:italic;">all time</span> is not "altimers", it is Alzheimers. There is no "t" in Alzheimers. Repeat that. There is no "t" in Alzheimers. Alzheimers, Alzheimers, Alzheimers. Yeah, I know your memory isn't very good any more, and you could hide your own Easter Eggs, but you do NOT have Alzheimers yet, so remember how to pronounce it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Irregardless of what you think, I am a smart person.</span> People! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! Do you realize that when you misuse words to the the point that everyone accepts it, it will show up in the latest dictionary as an acceptable variant usage, and then when the NEXT dictionary edition after that comes out, it will be the primary usage, and so it goes. I'ved studied linguistics and etymology, so I know that of which I speak. UGH. I am old and a bit of a curmudgeon and don't tolerate change very well, so please help me out here. Irregardless of whether you think I'm smart or stupid.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Unfortunately, air travel in the USA has changed since 911.</span> Get with the program, kids. Since September 11, 2001, it has been generally accepted that the correct pronunciation for that fateful day is "nine-eleven", OK? "Nine-one-one" is the number you call when some snaggle toothed old bitch is trying to pummel you with a sock full of rocks, just because of some perceived semantic error you may have made while talking to yourself in the shower.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">To you, The American People who are in harm's way....</span>The final bug up my etymological ass is especially appropriate for when I Am The Boss of The World. I pledge to you, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, to stop using the phrases, "The American People" and "in harm's way" when I make my State of the Union addresses. Why, oh why, must politicians grab on to a phrase and then, like a dog on a bone, refuse to let it go? Really, all you verbose politicians, you CAN say "Americans", or "people", or get a thesaurus and learn a new word, but stop saying "The American People" this and "The American People" that. Stop it. When I am The Boss of The World, I spit on your mother's moustache! You will be "in harm's way", or how about just regular old "danger", if you continue to overuse words and phrases in this manner.<br /><br />Those are just a few of the linguistic travesties that send my blood pressure into orbit. There are many more, but "I literally died" the last time I tried to write them all down, it was so overwhelming. I"m feeling faint from all the hate, so I'm going to take a bath now and then I'm taking to my bed. I shall use this time of reflection to conjure up goodness and light and proper pronunciation for when I Am The Boss of The World. Alex, my adorable, little munchkin, would you fill the bathtub up with gin for Mommy, and hold the olives....<br /><br />Sue CassidySueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-24501204710812564142009-12-16T09:39:00.000-08:002009-12-16T10:30:22.284-08:00Jesus Laughing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyfZYoZMPXvbu94tZViYoxnj__fkfoRammWaGBSCwWER1zbVanciAvoVUWx6wsXtKgDt6CngszpT0R4ju_v6NsiAwpjGrR5lFqAaSJ6BcDm0qYfQ9mvQyIKTIe-Met1YkqSuKT6E4b9b-/s1600-h/jesuslaughing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 389px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyfZYoZMPXvbu94tZViYoxnj__fkfoRammWaGBSCwWER1zbVanciAvoVUWx6wsXtKgDt6CngszpT0R4ju_v6NsiAwpjGrR5lFqAaSJ6BcDm0qYfQ9mvQyIKTIe-Met1YkqSuKT6E4b9b-/s400/jesuslaughing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415901787202358818" /></a> WARNING!! THIS BLOG IS IRREVERENT TO THE HIGHEST DEGREE POSSIBLE. If you are at all sensitive to my satirizing about religious events, grab your Gideon and giddy up, cuz this ain't the blog for you. I personally think that God had a great sense of humor because he created aardvarks, didn't he? I think he would appreciate satire and hyperbole in His name, so take off, eh, Hosers, if you don't like it. : )<br /><br />Jesus Laughing. By Sue Cassidy<br /><br />As the countdown to the Christmas Gift Exchange begins, I'm hearing all kinds of media controversy about whether or not gift cards are the answer to all our gift giving problems, or if they are the Spawn of Satan. The problem is, it seems that the media is the only venue where this Devil Incarnate seems to reside. I have never heard a real, live Gift Card recipient EVER complain, "Oh, dear. Another gift card that I can use to buy whatever I want, when I was really hoping for another crocheted doily from Grandma...." HELLO!!!!!!! How could anyone not WANT a Gift Card? Not only are they great for the recipient and oh-so-convenient for the giver, they are actually BIBLICAL. Huh? You say? Biblical? How so? Well. I know it is a thin line between brilliant theory and stupid rationalization, but let me say this about that:<br /><br />Picture poor Baby Jesus being born in a manger. It had to be some freakin' cold and here is this poor little son of a bitch -- oh wait. Did I just call the VIRGIN Mary, a bitch? How irreverent of me, she wasn't a female dog. A pregnant and unmarried, teenaged tart, but she was no bitch. So here is this poor little Bastard, who doesn't even get His own crocheted quilt from Grandma to snuggle up in. It is so cold you can see His breath, right next to the breath of the pigs in the barn. Pigs!!! Bad enough He is freezing to death, but this poor little yet-to-be-circumcised Jewish baby is forced to share his frigid oxygen with NOT KOSHER pigs, and the dairy is not even separated from the NOT KOSHER live pork bellies in the barn. I think this is what they refer to when the bible talks about "Original Sin." But I digress.<br /><br />Along come the three Wise Men. They came bearing gifts for the newborn baby. What did they bring him? They brought him gold, frankincense and Myrhh. Great. Just want a freezing baby living in an unkosher, freezing manger needs. He could have been better served with a nice, warm, woolen blanket, made from kosher sheep. But NOOo-o-o-o-o-o-o, the Wise Men brought what was meaningful to THEM. Let's discuss one by one:<br /><br />Gold. It's precious, valuable and worthy across all cultures and times. Gold is <span style="font-style:italic;">money</span>.<br /><br />Frankincense. This came from a milky sap tapped from the Boswellia tree. Frankincense has been touted for its medicinal and soothing properties. Ancient people burned frankincense, believing it to carry their prayers to heaven. This was a tradable commodity in biblical times, so it was essentially <span style="font-style:italic;">money</span>.<br /><br />Myrrh. Myrrh's most notable use in biblical times was that of an embalming material, used in Egyptian mummies. In fact, how very prophetic of the Wise Men as Myrrh was one of the burial spices of Jesus, 33 years later. Like Shakespeare would say, Jesus was "hoist on his own petard." Like Frankincense, Myrrh was also a valuable trading commodity and for 3 chickens and a goat, you could get enough Myrrh to keep you from decomposing until you got to the other side of "Da River", if yas know what I'm sayin', Tony. So, it too was essentially <span style="font-style:italic;">money.</span><br /><br />Do you see where I'm going with this? The Wise Men went to a lot of trouble to give Baby Jesus a gift card!!!!!! Something he could trade for something he wanted. A Gift Card is the modern day equivalent of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh! So pat my head and call me brilliant, right? Think how much easier it would have been if the Wise Men had itty bitty little gift cards to carry across the desert, instead of all that heavy, hard to carry Gold. Trying to keep the shepherds from smoking the Frankincense must have been a bitch of a job. Maybe the bright star in the East was an hallucination because the Wise Men themselves smoked some of it, I don't know. And the camels eating the sticky tar-like Myrrh! I think that is why camels appear to chewing a cud to this day. Yes, indeed. Gift Cards would have been the ticket, but as it happened, they really DID give the biblical equivalent thereof. <br /><br />So this year, when you are thinking about gift options for your loved ones, think back to where the tradition of gift giving started. It started with a baby in a manger who received Biblical Gift Cards, for which he probably traded for a warm blankie. Merry Christmas, folks.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-53451196986394363972009-12-07T09:50:00.000-08:002009-12-13T20:02:24.117-08:00The Grinch Stole ChristmasThe Grinch is alive and well and working at CBS this year!!!! I know this for a fact because we were watching "The Amazing Race" last night and saw him doing a commercial. "...With The Mama in her 'kerchief, and Mike in his cap, we had just settled down for a long winter's nap..." This commercial was a public service announcement and it showed a handsome, serious, young man, looking intently into the camera, telling the masses that the best thing you could get for your woman for Christmas this year is: drum roll here -- a Pap Test!!! HUH? Like THAT will get ya laid. Are you fucking kidding me? I had a mammogram for my birthday and now they are advertising pap tests for Christmas? I'm not making this up. This was an Honest-Ta-Gawd commercial on primetime network television.<br /><br />I can see it all now. Men everywhere are scrambling to return the Tiffany Jewellry and the Hermes Birkin bags that they bought for their ladies. Can you hear the conversation now between Buddy Dude and the Mercedes salesman, "Yeah, this is Buddy Dude in Huntington Beach. I ordered the white Mercedes 500 "S" Class Coupe for my wife for Christmas and you were going to deliver it to the driveway with a giant red bow on top? Yeah, well, cancel that. I got her a Pap Test instead...." Can you spell "hand me the clever, Beaver, I'm going to cut my husband's nuts off!" I'm sure the Dr. Georgios Papanikolaou, for whom the test was named, is rollin' in his grave over this one. This type of marital discord was most certainly not his intention when he developed this most violating of "female type stuff" tests. <br /><br />So for all you men who saw the commercial last night and thought, "Why yes, that is exactly what my wife needs. She has enough 3+ carat, GIA certified FI-IF flawless diamonds. She can't take THOSE with her when she dies a painful death from Cervical Cancer. I'm going to give her THE GIFT OF LIFE!!!, I'M GOING TO GIVE HER A PAP TEST FOR CHRISTMAS" Shoot me now. Spoken like a man who has never been forced to lay down naked on a cold steel table with his legs in stirrups. Do you actually KNOW what they do to you in a Pap Test, clueless husband of mine? Once they have you strapped down to said cold table with legs in stirrups, they remove a large metal object from the freezer and shove it up your Hootie! Without buying you dinner first! Yup. Swear-Ta-Gawd. Then they reach inside with a 16 inch barbecue skewer and scratch your inner Girly Bits with it. My inner Girly Bits don't GET itchy, thankYouVeryFuckingMuch, and if they ever do, the Kama Sutra lists dozens of ways to get your "itch" scratched, none of which involve a barbecue skewer shoved up the Lady HOO HAW.<br /><br />Don't miss my point here. I think Cervical Cancer is a serious matter and I'm thrilled that there is a government agency out there that stays awake at night worrying about it. So much so that they would release a prime time, network commercial touting the importance of it all, but really? REALLY? Let me state publicly now: I'd better wake up Christmas morning and find a nicely wrapped Canon lens under my tree: 14mm, Wide Angle, L Series optics, with an ultra sonic motor and 2.8 aperature. If instead I find an appointment with Dr. MagicFingers, OBGYN, M.D., I won't be responsible for my actions and my Big Ass cleaver was just sharpened for when we killed the fatted turkey for Thanksgiving, so I'm just sayin'.<br /><br />Anyhoo, that's all I have to say about that. I'm outta here. I have to call Mike's doctor. I'm giving him a Colonoscopy for Father's Day. <br /><br />Pap Test for the Wife: $250<br />Tiffany Silver Key Necklace for the Wife: $500<br />Canon 14mm lens for the Wife: $2199<br /><br />A good nights sleep with no cleaver in sight: PricelessSueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-56336312761471608892009-12-01T17:26:00.000-08:002009-12-01T18:50:24.518-08:00When I Am The Boss of The WorldSuzie Crankypants here. I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more. Why do I have sand in my vagina, you ask? I wish I could say it was just one thing, but it is many little things. So many frick frackin' little things annoy me and it builds up and builds up and then KABOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I explode. I have tried to deal with these petty annoyances by taking a pharmacological route, better living through chemistry, but that didn't work out so well, and I'm now blacklisted at every pharmacy in the OC. So I think the better way to fix this is to become Boss of the World. I know I'm not smart enough to right all the large wrongs of the planet, so it is my solemn promise as Boss of the World, to try to fix the little ones. This blog is the first of the "When I Am The Boss of The World" series.<br /><br />When I Am The Boss of the World. Part One.<br /><br />First on my list of stuff to fix as BOTW, is bagless vacuum cleaners. This is one of the biggest little offenders on my list. Do you remember the old vacuum cleaners that came with disposable bags? I didn't have an issue with those, but apparently there was a better way. The brainy engineers at Hoover must have all been hungover or coming down off "shrooms" or something, because out of their drafting tables came the plan to revolutionize the world of house cleaning by coming up with the "bagless" vacuum cleaner. "No more running out of bags" they said. "No more expense of having to BUY those bags, " they said. "No more chopping down perfectly good trees to make those expensive paper bags that you always run out of, " they said. And it was so. Everyone worshipped at the altar of "green" and here was a way to save a paper bag and the gas it took to drive to the store to buy them. "What an exciting time to be a housewife," I thought. "This is home maker history," I thought. I still remember the darling shoes I was wearing the day I bought my first bagless vacuum, my Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters....it was all to good to be true.<br /><br />Oh, at first I was happy. I had on my little black dress and my pearls and Jimmy Choo shoes and I was makin' tracks in the carpet, baby. Marvin Gaye is on the Ipod and I'm more than aware that I'm wearing my best Victorias Secret Silks undies. Back and forth. Up and down. Oh, how it sucked. Oh my, how it moved. A little to the left, Sweetheart. Ohhhhh, that's it, suck some more. The honeymoon was short lived though because before I had finished vacuuming the first flea infested room of wall-to-wall, I noticed that the "Wind Tunnel" was made of clear, see through plastic. Now wait a minute, here. I did NOT bargain for that. I don't want to watch dust, and dirt and dog hair whirling around in a dirty ass vortex of scum. When my Hoover had a disposable bag, I didn't get to see the shit that was stuck to my carpets and if you don't see it , it ain't there. So this was NOT a happy for The Sue. Denial is a highly underrated coping mechanism, so I decided that I would turn a blind eye and pretend I couldn't see through to the dirt. There. That was better.<br /><br />The next time I pulled out my Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters, I remembered to not look at the filter, and not look into the wind tunnel and things went much better. It wasn't an occasion to wear Jimmy Choo, but I did still make the effort to wear a dress and pearls. I was listening to Hootie and the Blow Fish through the tv music channel and was wearing my Jockey for Her Thong. Not quite as fancy as last time, but still, keepin' the flag flyin'... I got through the cleaning process without once glancing down at "it" and all was right with my world and it was good.<br /><br />It was the third run through that things started to go bad. Still wearing a dress, I wore Payless Pumps, and I had ditched the pearls AND the underwear, but I still looked faboo. Anne Murray was singing on the radio. The problem started when I realized that the canister was full. Already, after only two cleanings. "Alors! Mais, non. How could this be?" I asked myself. A HAH!!!! I see what happened. The hard plastic canister doesn't expand like the paper bags do. I used to be able to not change a bag for 6 months, back in the antiquated days of disposable, not eco-friendly paper bags. The bags would be bulging like a pregnant sow at the County Fair by the time I got around to changing them, but NO-o-o-o-o-o-o, now I had to empty this after using it twice. "It ain't fit," I thought. It just didn't seem right.<br /><br />So I take the vacuum canister and pull it out of the 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters. I opened the lid to empty it into the trash and before I could say "for fuck sakes", the dust and dirt and dog hair was swirling around in a cloud and I was inhaling it. YUCK. COUGH, COUGH, GASP. I remember back in biology class when we learned about germs and microbes how the reason poop smells bad is because honest-ta-gawd, actual POOP PARTICLES are hitting your olfactory receptors on their way to your lungs!!! No frick frackin' way was dust and dirt and dog hair going in to my lungs. I started holding my breath, desperate to get the canister emptied before I passed out. I had to bang it against the side of the trash can. When I couldn't get the clump of dog hair unstuck from the 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic fucking air filters, I had to reach in with my bare fingers, Lord preserve us. Where was my velvet fainting couch when I needed it most. I could feel myself getting weak from lack of oxygen, so I dropped the canister and ran to the patio door to get a mouth full of clean, life sustaining clean air. I'm sure I looked like the fireman in the movies who crawls on the floor below the layer of black smoke, to get one last breath of fresh air before he selflessly returns to Dante's inferno to rescue the crippled baby from a certain death. <br /><br />By this time, I had dust in my hair and on my profusely perspiring face , dog hair glued to my lipstick, and my darling little dress was now hiked up around my waist in all the excitement. My hands were GROSS, ICK, PUKE and I had run out of fucking patience with this piece of shit Hoover Whatever. Unlike the aforementioned selfless fireman, no way in hell was I returning to that dust bowl. Girlie bits to the wind, commando if you will, I took a running leap at the back fence and headed straight for the neighbor's house, when I took refuge in a Lemondrop Martini, shaken, not stirred, with extra sugar on the rim. I know that I am a role model for children, but I drank to forget. And drank, and drank, and drank.<br /><br />It wasn't long after that we ripped up all our carpets and had hardwood installed throughout the house. The Super Duper 6.2 amp, Big Ass Hoover BAGLESS Wind Tunnel with hypoallergenic air filters got sold in a garage sale soon after and I vowed "never again" would I fall for the old "bagless is better" bullshit. Today I speak out to all who will listen about the evil inherent it that flawed design.<br /><br />I said all that to say this: When I am the boss of the world, there will be no more bagless vacuum cleaners. I can't imagine I'm the only person who feels this way about this technological "improvement" to vacuum cleaning. I will issue an executive order to the Hoover engineers. Perhaps they could have figured it out themselves, but I have waited long enough for them to have an epiphany, and say "Eureeka! I have an idea. Let's develop reusable paper bags. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, you just pull out the entire bag and throw it in the trash! No muss, no fuss...." Yeah, that's the first thing I"m gonna do when I'm the boss of the world. <br /><br />To be Continued.... next: People who can't talk right will be banished to the Seventh Circle of Hell. People who say "altimers disease" instead of "Alzheimers". Folks who pronounce "fifth" like "fith". I "literally died" when I heard that for the first time. ARGGHH!!! Shoot me now, but do Tune in again, for Sue Cassidy's Blog Series: When I am Boss of the World.SueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-4533838412668089452009-12-01T17:00:00.002-08:002009-12-01T17:02:35.136-08:00Hi, My Name is Sue, but you can call me StellaI encountered someone named Brittney the other day. Except she didn't spell it that way. N-O-O-O-O-O...that would be "so totally already done, like..." She spelled it (I am not making this up) "Brytnii". Swear t'GAWD. Brytnii. Now living in Southern California brings me face to face with all kinds of unconventional conventions, for lack of a better term. Tupperware parties hosted by latino drag queens is one thing, (one wonderful, delightful thing actually), and botox parties are another. But I want to bitch slap anyone who tortures words and names like that. In order to combat this frustration, I've decided that if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. To that end, I'm changing the spelling of my name and that of my husband. It won't be easy, we'll have to keep reminding people that we don't spell our names the traditional way, and people will probably mispronounce them all the time, but at least we will be different, like everybody else here in Orange County. Sincerely, Myk and Sioux CassidySueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-67483060005007575422009-12-01T17:00:00.001-08:002009-12-01T17:00:46.151-08:00Just Call me BabelfishSo we are taking down our Christmas tree and am groovin' to the latin beat of "Gypsy Kings". I love to sing along to spanish songs and i'm in my prime today. Never mind that I can't speak a lick o' the language. I just make shit up. "Yo quiero Taco Bell....fajita burrito, chimichanga-a-a-a-a-a.....feliz navidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"""""" and here comes the chorus, "Guacamole, guacmole, guacamole, cha cha cha, carnitas, burritas, fajitas, GUACAMOLE.......CHA CHA CHA" Never mind that there is no such thing as a "burrita", unless it is a female burrito, I just don't want stuff to rhyme. I sing pretty much the same words to every spanish song, and I'm a really fly girl to be able to sing in spanish like that. I throw in a little flamenco move here and there, and you would NEVER freakin' know that I'm not singing the right words. I amaze myself sometimes, at the diversity and depths of my talents.<br /><br />Not nearly humble enough, in Huntington Beach, I remain, The SueSueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76414044636536141.post-6198067245610668282009-12-01T16:59:00.000-08:002009-12-01T17:00:05.905-08:00HO HO HO2008 has not been a banner year in the Cassidy household. Everyone has their "stuff" and everyone has their own methods of dealing with it. Personally, as I have lived a long, long, long fifty years, I have endured many trials and tribulations and have figured out a variety of coping mechanisms that have worked for me. For example, denial. Denial is underrated as a coping mechanism and i'd highly recommend it to anyone. I know some rely on the "power of prayer" to cope with their stuff. Novenas to St. Jude were never quite my thing, but I did pick up some Holy Water on a recent trip to the Middle East where at the Jordan River they were selling water taken from the river where Jesus was baptized. I tried it, but it didn't really work. Perhaps I should have mixed it with Gin instead of vodka, I don't know, but the religious route clearly wasn't for the heathen likes o' me.<br /><br />Friends who believe in "better living through chemistry", have suggested that I take a more pharmaceutical approach to coping with life's stressful times. Well that IS a thought, but I can't see me making the rounds of the Pharmacies in town, with prescriptions bought over the internet, or obtained from a fleet of local doctors whom I've blackmailed with illicit photos from their company Christmas parties. Seems like too much work to me, just to score a bit of valium.<br /><br />So I've finally decided how on a multi dimensional coping mechanism that has the potential for lots of positive spin off. I'm going to start smoking crack. I never thought of it before because I've never done illegal drugs before, not even marijuanna, and I think it is brilliant. I'll find me a cocaine dealer through my local Mother's Club and I can cook my own crack. Martha Stewart has a recipe on her website for crack that she colors with red dye no. 4 and shapes into snowflakes. In preparation for smoking homegrown crack, I've started smoking Marlborough Lights, but some days I forget to smoke, so I'll have to work on that. Smoking crack will make me forget all my "stuff", my "issues." It will make me skinny. Living in Orange County, the land of scrawny Social X-rays, that is a benefit not to be laughed at. It will give me tons of energy. I will go to work at 6 am, work till 10 pm and still have the mojo to clean my toilet with a toothbrush at 4 am. It might make me scratch a lot and have the wizened, snaggle toothed, wild eyed look of a rode-hard-and-put-away-wet crack ho, that sure beats the baggy eyed, tired look of a soccer mom with a misspent youth and sun spots on her face.<br /><br />As for the potential spin offs I spoke about? I'm seeing a t-shirt line, bejewelled with things like "I heart my Crack Whore", or "Will work for Crack" "Crack Princess", or for my husband, "I'm with the Crack Whore" with an arrow pointing left. Bumper stickers might be a great add on to the line, "I brake for Crack Whores" or "Honk if you love Crack Whores."<br /><br />So that's my idea. What do you think? I'm going to give it some serious consideration and in the meantime, I'm off to Home Depot for poppy seeds. I hear there's serenity to be found in the opium trade.<br /><br />Your friendly neighborhood Crack Whore in training, sueSueCassidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06030937892465354904noreply@blogger.com0