Feline Warrior

National Post

Bill Moyer, 73, wears a “Bullshit Protector” flap over his ear while President George W. Bush addresses the Veterans of Foreign Wars. (AP Photo/Douglas C. Pizac)

Hey, Bill- send me one of those, please!

You absolutely must check this out: Peace Jukebox Further, I insist that you create a shortcut to the jukebox for your desktop so that you will remember to listen to these hap-hap-happenin’ tunes ALL THE TIME.

Here’s what the Peace Jukebox site says about the project:

“The Peace Jukebox plays hours of anti-war music for free. Songs written during the Bush Presidency can be heard as high-quality MP3s, with lyrics, on this ad-free independent website. The Peace Jukebox features anti-war songs by Sonic Youth, Beastie Boys, Jurassic 5, Public Enemy, Jane’s Addiction, The Cure, Ani DiFranco, Black Eyed Peas, Green Day, Faithless, Michael Franti & Spearhead, Lenny Kravitz, Paris, System of a Down, Propagandhi, Banco de Gaia, Zach de la Rocha, Noam Chomsky… hiphop, rock, punk, acoustic, classical and spoken word.

This is the most prolific period of protest song-writing in history, and home-studio technology makes it possible for the world to hear these radical songs. The Peace Not War Music Project has received over 500 anti-war songs from different kinds of musicians, and they will all be going online. Big apologies for all those musicians who have been waiting a long time for their song to get uploaded. We have only now managed to sort out the technical and funding problems, and put the Jukebox online, and there is only a small collective of volunteers running this project. Everyone’s CDs and MP3s are safe, and will be uploaded as soon as possible.

Musicians are invited to submit their songs as MP3s (192kbps, best quality), with full lyrics and credit information included, by email to jukebox@peace-not-war.org. A translation facility is being developed for non-English speakers to read the lyrics in multiple languages (email us if you can help). We prefer that you also post your songs on a CD, with printed lyrics and credit information, to Peace Not War, 39 Constantine Rd, South End Green, London NW3 2LN, UK. If you post your song, it will be included in the official library archive of anti-war songs, and it will be considered for inclusion in another CD (if we do another). Other content also needed: speeches (MP3), visual art (JPG), movies (MOV), contact information for peace groups.

Peace Not War CDs are being sold by local peace groups to raise funds for their campaigns, and the Jukebox is an inspiring resource for everyone involved in the new global peace movement.”

This puts me in my Happy Place. Therefore, you should be in your Happy Place, too.

My STARS! Just how clean does a house have to be to be sellable? A house with a little dust looks lived-in! The potential buyers will be able to picture themselves, comfy and settling nicely among the dust bunnies. Awww… cute little dust bunnies…
So I’ve been toiling away and I’m exhausted. I’m actually looking forward to a 22-hour semester - it has to be more restful than this week has been.

And why do we save everything? I found receipts from 2003 - not receipts from important things, but from pizza delivery, groceries, stuff like that. Scraps of paper with phone numbers… but no names. Magazines from years ago - but no so many years that they’re vintage magazines. (Although I did find a W magazine (a fashion mag, not a Dubya thang) with Winona Ryder on the cover, wearing a t-shirt that says “Free Wynona.” I think I’ll sell it on Ebay and buy myself a pony.

(I’ve been thinking of a pony lately, anyway, because in the long run, it’d be cheaper than gas. It would eat the grass in my backyard, thus saving the lawn mowing dude’s fee; I’d provide fertilizer all over town - a much more environmentally friendly output than the air pollution that autos put out; I could charge neighborhood kids to ride it on the weekends, and just think - I’d look damn cute riding a pony!)

Anyway, all of this cleaning, arranging, and yanking stuff to donate to the Union Mission is exhausting. I still have a storage room to go through - this is the room that scares me the most, and honestly, it’s the smallest room! But there’s the beeyuteeful doorway beads that must go (from back in my bachelorette days - it made for some very dramatic entrances!), a ton of children’s books to give to the women’s shelter, TWO boxes of cassettes (did I mention that I’m a packrat?!), which I’m sure the Union Mission will have no trouble selling… and I must go through my LP’s. Yes, I have records. Vinyl. Back from the good old days. And yes, I have a turntable. Some of these are bona fide collector’s items, but I’m not sellin’ at this point.

You get the picture, right? Too damn much work. Mark wants to go to Ohio to check out houses this weekend and the house goes on the market on Monday. So, um, I will not be here over the weekend to do anything else to it - I must be done by the end of Friday. (So why am I sitting here writing, you ask? Because I’m freakin’ TIRED!) Oh, and yeah, school starts Monday, too. There is either a panic attack or a nervous breakdown (or both! why choose?!) bubbling inside me, I just know it.

I found an apartment today, btw. It’s close enough to school, is less than $500/month, although once you add in the cable, stupidcomputerinternet access, and electric bill, it’ll go over that. Looks like the girl kitties are going to Ohio with Mark and my dear old boy kitty, who just turned 16 on the first of this month, will stay with me… which may not be much longer. (Sadness…) Still, given the fact that I’m taking 22 hours this last semester of my undergraduate life, being alone will be just fine. (Did I mention that there’s a laundry room IN the apartment? Our washer & dryer are going to Ohio, so it’s coins for me -damn!- but the laundry room is the perfect size for a little study!)

How much more can I ramble, you may ask. Well, the honest truth is that I could prolly ramble for hours and hours. I’m too pooped, though, so I’m about to excuse you from this goofy yet somewhat informative post.

Read the post & article about drugs in schools. I’m all for parents actually being… you know… parents. It might have been nice, in the long run of my life, if someone had noticed that starting in my 15th year I was bulimic and a speed freak. But hey, what the hell… I’m all better now. Took long enough, though.

Oh, wait… I’d be remiss if I didn’t bloglically thank my friend Karan (who reminds me of Bridget Bardot) for her help over the last few days. Thanks, Kitten!

Adios!

___________

Survey Finds Fewer Drug-Free Schools - Yahoo! News

Favorite quote: “If this survey does anything, it really shouts to parents: You cannot outsource your responsibility to law enforcement or the schools,” Califano said. “I think when parents feel as strongly about drugs in the schools as they do about asbestos in the schools, we’ll start getting the drugs out of the schools.”

Couldn’t resist. You know how you can get Google to translate stuff into different languages? Well, now you can get translations into… yup… Ewmew Fudd! (That’s Elmer Fudd for those of you who didn’t go the phonetic route when reading.)

Catch it here

I’ve been posting all sorts of stuff, and to borrow from 12-steppy language, I’ve been “stuffing my feelings.” MmHmm. (I love to say that, btw, “stuffing my feelings”)

So we have to move. Our house is going on the market in about a week and our realtor dude has given strict instructions to make the house look roomier. That means that we’ve rented Kenny’s spare bedroom and are going to pay him instead of one of those cold, unfeeling storage places. Furniture is now gone, winter clothes, all manner of crap that we’ve managed to hang on to. Can it be that I somehow inherited my grandmother’s WWII state of mind, and have an unspoken, subconscious need to save? Seems to be so.

Here’s how it gets even more delightfully complicated: My spouse will be moving to the new state before me, because I have to finish my last semester of school. Ain’t no way I’m going to put off ONE semester, wait for a year to get residency in the new state, and then try to finish up at a new school. First of all, I’m on a roll. Second, the new school might have other requirements for my degree (BS Communications), and I am not at all in the mood to take more classes than I’m already planning to take - and I’ve got a 22-hour semester to deal with in a few weeks. Finally, I’m going to graduate with a bunch of honor cords (alpha kappa mu, pinnacle, prssa, and another honor society I was inducted to late in the spring semester) - plus, if I don’t screw up this semester, I’m graduating magna cum laude. So I am staying here, sans spouse, for my last semester.

BUT I am not staying in our house - because it will belong to someone else. As friendly as the West Virginia people are, I just don’t think it’s likely that the new owners will want me living with them. Even for four months.

So next week, I have this huge, fat schedule: Get the Union Mission people to come pick up clothes, a bookcase, an old TV, a rowing machine that will work if someone can get inside to change a battery or something… and I forget what else. A bunch of glass jars. Some old plates and such.

Next, I have to clean this entire house so that it looks like (a) people don’t really live here; (b) cats have NEVER lived here; and (c ) as if my life depends upon it (which it sorta does - at least my marriage does).

After that, or as a break while I’m doing all of that, I have to go look at apartments, because I have to live somewhere for the semester. And it has to allow cats. I need a laundry room (yay, dealing with thousands of quarters again… yippee-skip) and internet access. I’m gonna be a cell phone girl and skip the land line.

These are all the things I have to do - plus continue to throw out stuff. Throw out, donate, pre-pack. There’s a relocation package involved (”relo” they call it), so movers will actually do the major packing, but there’s just some stuff I need to pre-pack. Call me crazy, but I have to. Personal stuff, you know - things we don’t need the movers to be lookin’ at. Target, here I come to pick up yet MORE plastic bins for my stuff.

Oh, and on top of all of this, I have to get started on getting my dad onto Medicaid in Ohio (the new state) - which is kind of irritating, because that’s where he lived when he had the stroke that instigated my moving him here. I’ve gone through most of his stuff and am donating a bunch of his old clothes. I must mention that it’s very sad to get one’s parent down to a suitcase of clothes. There’s a suitcase and a few boxes, plus boxes of paperwork that I have to keep because it’s all that Medicaid/Medicare / Social Security/AARP, etc. paperwork. They all generate WAY too much paperwork. How are old folks supposed to keep up with all that crap?? And I had to unpack one of the bags of Dad’s clothes to pull out a suit, white shirt, and a tie - for his final moment. Since I had to pre-plan (and pay) his funeral as a part of qualifying him for Medicaid, thinking about his death isn’t a new process, but starching and ironing that shirt and hanging the whole thing up in a plastic bag was kind of sad.

This is the state of my life. Did I mention that school starts on the 22nd of August? I keep thinking how a little valium might help things out, but then I think, “Naw.” I’d just sleep, then nothing would get done, Mark would come home from being out of town, and he’d divorce me. Since I haven’t worked in 2 and a half years, me and the cats would be homeless, with piles of crap to drag around. (Eventually we’d get down to one large tattered garbage bag, but it always starts out with a ton of stuff.) And then think - no computer, no blogging, no school so no degree, I’d go insane from a diet of eating from trash cans and living outdoors, and while sure, it’d all make for a great ABC Movie of the Week (get Susan Sarandon to play me, please - I’ve been told numerous times I look like her), I think I’d rather avoid all of that and just do the damn work. So, you know… no valium. Damn!

Back to yanking stuff for Mark and his crew to take to Kenny’s spare room. I hate moving. Hate. Hate. Hate. I hate moving. Moving sucks.

Airline Security Changes Planned

Okay, here it is. Still depressing.

Favorite quote: “The proposal also would allow ice picks, throwing stars and bows and arrows on flights. Allowing those items was suggested after a risk evaluation was conducted about which items posed the most danger.”

I guess the bows & arrows would be okay because everyone would be fully aware that there was a potential weapon on the plane. And wouldn’t be surprised when their neighbor was suddenly pinned to the door of the overhead bin.

Airline Accident and Airline Safety and Security Information for Passengers and Aviation Professionals

Call me crazy, but the words “airsafe” and “fatal…” just don’t belong together at the top of a web page. Well, except mine, in a reference, of course.

I was looking for info about possible loosening airline security and this site came up. Now I’m too depressed to go find out if what our local news reported last night (that airlines may “get” to loosen their security measures) is true.

In true WV fashion, the newscaster said (and I paraphrase), “…so you may be able to take that pocketknife with you when you fly next time!” Yippee! Yay! My pocketknife and I love to travel together. It’s been upset about not being able to fly, and has even resorted, at times, to not being sharp. MmHmm.

Liberal religious groups challenge ‘Justice Sunday’ - Yahoo! News

Can I hear an amen?

Are Men Unqualified to Criticize the Pro-Abortion Movement? - Media Monitors Network (MMN)

Here’s my response to this article:

Hi, Stan-

I think that your article does indeed address a moral issue. It does so in your aside, “yes, they may call themselves pro-choice, but the choice that is most at issue is almost always the choice of ending the life of the unborn.”

Nonetheless, here is what I think about the issue of men’s opinions regarding abortion: This has nothing to do with whether or not men have an opinion on the issue of abortion- everyone has an opinion about something.

The problem is when men’s opinions steer them to support legislation that will remove a woman’s ability to make a choice regarding abortion. Nobody is FOR abortion; people who are pro-choice are not anti-life, although I have to hand it to the “pro-lifers” for coming up with their name. “Pro-life” implies that anyone on the other side is “anti-life,” which is simply not the case. “Pro-choiceâ€? means just that –supporting a woman’s right to make a choice for herself – her life, her body, and her future.

If comprehensive sex education were the norm, many young people wouldn’t find themselves in the position of dealing with unwanted pregnancy. Likewise, if women were not paid less than men for the same jobs, were not historically the ones most often to find themselves as single parents, and if healthcare was available to all people, perhaps abortion wouldn’t be necessary. Regardless of a woman’s place in society, she might be able to raise a child on her own, if necessary, and provide that child with healthcare, a decent education, and proper nutrition.

But take a look at a potentially single mother and tell me what you see, how you envision her future. If she has not attended college, is she doomed to a life of governmental support? Will her child receive prenatal care? Will she ever get “up and out�? This is not the profile of all single mothers, yet it is the profile of many. Perhaps the single mother-to-be is about to start her post-college life, stepping into the world as a professional. How is she to care for this child? If the child’s father is involved, excellent – she won’t be spending huge portions of her lone income on childcare so that she can go to work each day. But this is not always the case.

Perhaps the father of the unborn is involved, present, and interested; of course he deserves a place at the decision-making table. Maybe he is married or engaged to the mother; perhaps he is simply deeply in love with her and intends to stick with her through thick and thin, including an unexpected pregnancy. But this is exactly why we cannot make a decision on this issue across the board – one size does not fit all. The father is not always involved, does not always want to be involved, and sometimes it is inappropriate for him to be involved (in cases of rape and incest, for example).
These are just a few scenarios, but honestly, let’s toss scenarios aside for a moment – let’s look at the “moral issue.� Because that’s at the heart of this discussion, isn’t it? The “moral issue� cannot be defined in a way that meets the standards or belief systems of all Americans. For you, the moral issue may be that a woman is “ending the life of the unborn.� For others, it may mean the chance to create or grow into a life that allows one to one day become a mother who can provide for her children, should she choose to have them.

There is no easy set of answers to this debate. A woman’s right to choose means that she has the right to cry and rant, get upset, question herself, her god, and weigh her options. She will very likely never forget the decision she made. Is one choice better than the other? That can be determined by the woman herself – you cannot skim the story of my life and say, “This woman definitely should not have an abortion,� because you have no idea how a pregnancy may impact my life, my health, or my future. And it is there that our paths separate, Stan, because you are not in a position to tell me whether or not to remain pregnant. You are making the call from a place of morality – it is wrong because it is ending the life of the unborn.

If I am the pregnant woman, the issue is more than just a moral issue – it is my entire life, perhaps my health, lack of economic security, or the potential end of my college (or high school) education. For me, the issue isn’t larger than life, it IS my life. And that is why I value your opinion, and yet I hope to God that you don’t push for legislation to take away my right to make that choice. It’s not an easy choice by any means, but it is mine to make.

Listen up, people! Stop sharing intimate details of your life with people waiting in line with you! More specifically, stop sharing those intimate details with ME!

From now on, I am going to thrust my fingers into my ears and loudly sing, “La-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaa!” It’s just not fair that I should suffer in this way, and my uncomfortable shifting, averted eyes, and heavy sighs are wasted on these public shares of personal stuff.

Picture it: Summer of 2005. I’m standing in the longest line in the history of long lines, with not even that much stuff in my cart (or “buggy” as they call it here), waiting for either my natural death or the damn line to move, when the woman behind me starts in on the group share.

If it was something innocuous, like, say, what a great buy those Gala apples are, who’d care? But the woman behind me is desparate for human contact, and she goes to the supermarket to find it. She starts off innocently enough, to lure me in, commenting on the hellish weather, and sure enough, I bite. It’s the weather, for cryin’ out loud, we’re in the longest line in the history of long lines, so why wouldn’t I?

But she can’t leave it at that level. Oh, no. Next thing I know, I’m hearing about the heat rash she gets directly under her (very large) bosom when the weather’s like this. She’s moving on to tell of the chafing that occurs between her (very large) thighs, when I grab a thought from mid-air, and interrupt, “What about them Redskins, huh?!” (This tactic works best when in the Washington, DC area - it’s rather lost further south.) Despite my interruption, Lonely Lady continues, now with a look of concern as she tells of prickly rashes or some such insanity. (She’s concerned about possible heat damage to my brain, but doesn’t consider that perhaps not talking at all would be the best way to deal with the situation.)

This is but an example - I could quote zillions more. The woman who told me about her husband’s cousin who is in prison for rape, and the actions of the prison avengers; the man who told me about his wife leaving, taking the children, leaving no phone number, but taking his entire beer supply; the woman who wanted to share the details of her hussy stepdaughter’s unfortunate herpes infection… oh, the list goes on.

I’m fully aware (now) of the lack of boundaries here. It might be a southern thing, and/or perhaps it’s because I am in the Bible Belt (giving way to a need to confess…?) and yet I find that my patience for this behavior has not just worn thin, it no longer exists. There are the people who practically sit on my shoulders as I do the self-checkout (the lane where you can ring up your own stuff, presumably for people who (a) know how to scan barcodes and (b) don’t have 147 items in their “buggies”), or the families who have reunions in the middle of the feminine products aisle. (”Uh, ’scuse me, I just need to get to that box of tampons… no, sir, thanks, that’s not my brand… that’s great, yeah, your wife likes the lilac scented ones, but those chemicals… nevermind… if I could just…”)

STOP THE MADNESS, I say! Stop telling me your personal stuff! If you don’t, I will charge you group therapy fees, and I am not cheap! (even though I’m not a licensed therapist, what the hell, my time is valuable!) Plus, really, I do not want to know! Keep the damned prickly heat report to your own damn self!

Image from here

I just love this…