When it snows, it snows.

I realize that’s a ridiculous title, but I couldn’t necessarily write the hackneyed phrase “when it rains…” as we’re not really in the rainy season here, if there be such a thing in this location.

Rather, it’s January.  And it’s the dead of winter (again, hackneyed phrase meet keyboard) and it’s flipping cold out there.  As in 20 below zero before the windchill. But as an esteemed guest told me, who had been staying here and was able to make it out before the wind started blowing, it really isn’t that cold here because the town down the road was a balmy 40 below, before windchill.  At which point said guest decided the back windshield had needed to be scraped off again and so was able to share in great deal just how flipping cold it was down there.  But that I should be grateful because 20 below is really not that cold compared to 40 below.

Compared to the temperatures noted up at headquarters, while feeding the bovine inhabitants of the place, of 50 below.  Before windchill.

Dang cold.

All of this coupled with three feet of snow over a three-day period.

Which, on any given day, in any given winter, at any given time would have been met with hula dances, huzzahs and hurrahs, and happy, happy, joy, joy.  Because, if any one who reads here knows, the munchikin and I…well…we LIVE for snow.  LOVE the fluffy white stuff.  Dream of it.  Beg for it.  Watch White Christmas over and over and over because it always seems to make it snow.  I guess it’s our equivalent of doing a rain dance.  We pop in the DVD and get to singing and dancing with Bing and Danny and Rosemary and the other one.  I always feel so bad because I simply do not know the name of the actress who plays Judy.  She’s sort of lost in the whole Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney thing.

What evs.  We watch White Christmas a lot.  And it always seems to snow afterwards.  Except this year.  Our magic was haywire and for the entire month of December, we sat at the window and waited, ever so patiently, for the flakes to descend from on high.  We did get some, don’t get me wrong.  Just not an abundance of it.

The irony of the entire last week, in which the three feet of snow dropped from the heavens, is that now, right now, ahora mismo, we don’t really need it.

I know, right?  Really.

You see, the Superman who lives here with the munchikin and I had to have some parts fixed before he can return to doing Superman things and being all Superman-y and such.  I didn’t realize this, but super heroes actually fall apart sometimes.  And need to be put back together, better than before.  Totally going to date myself here, but our  Superman will now be more like the 6 Million Dollar Man.  “We can rebuild him.”  He now has a titanium knee.  Yay!  Yay.  Yay…not so much.  There is simply not a lot of “yaying” going on around here right now.  Ahora mismo, there is A LOT of pain.

Dang pain.  Dang swelling.

And dang if Superman isn’t one of the worst patients I have EVER encountered.  And that’s saying a lot because one time I had a cow in the supplies closet.  She was peeved because I had removed a calf from her uterus and I’m thinking she wasn’t appreciating how pretty the sutures looked in her flank.  Or maybe she was peeved she’d had to stand for the whole thing.  Maybe she was looking for more drugs.  She never said.  And I never asked.  But she was one mean cow.

But she’s got nothing on Superman.  Holy crow but the man can be stubborn.  And irritable.  And just downright a pain in the kister.   Dang men.  Dang superheroes.

Luckily, luckily, Wonder Woman lives here too!!!!

I know, right?  What are the odds?  Because in which comic book did those two EVER get together?

Regardless, Wonder Woman is here and all will be right with the world.  She is handling the dang man just fine…with kid gloves.  And bullet-stopping bracelets.

Only this Wonder Woman has to put on a balaclava, down coat, three pairs of pants, headband and hat with ear flaps before setting out to shovel snow and feed the birds.  Because this Wonder Woman is dang smart and doesn’t parade around in tights and short shorts.   Progress on the feminist front I’d say.

Wish me luck.  The patient needs to be reminded to do his exercises.  Definitely going to need the bullet-stopping bracelets.

Blessings be from this winter wonderland.




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Intentions, resolutions, changes, promises.

I stopped “making resolutions” a long time ago.  Mostly because, as with everyone I expect, I couldn’t stay with them.  I’d start out strong, slow down to a walk, eventually be crawling and finally lay, exhausted, on the floor, staring at THE RESOLUTION off in the distance.  Feeling like a worthless person, a loser, an incompetent lout.

Geez, that’s all rather harsh isn’t it?  Maybe not a lout, per se, but definitely not thinking very highly of myself.

And then the beatings would begin.  The banging up of the insides of my cranium as I failed to live up to my other-worldly expectations of my mortal self.  And then I’d just throw them all, THE RESOLUTIONS, to the wayside, walking past as if they were discarded trash and not worth my time.  I wouldn’t even pick them up and throw them away properly.  I’d just walk on past, pretending not to notice them, ignoring my shortcomings so the internal brain-bashing would cease.

Eventually I decided to simply not put anything like a RESOLUTION out there for the Universe to see.  It only ended up causing me more pain.

Fast forward several years to today.  I’ve been thinking a lot in the last couple of weeks about resolutions and intentions and attempts to live a better way.

This last year, 2016, was a complicated one, to be sure.  I have told the dear husband several times lately that I’ll be so glad for 2016 to be done and gone.  Buried under the ash heap of history.  He looks at me quizzically and says “why?”  I don’t think he’s trying to be intentionally obtuse.  I think he generally doesn’t see it the way I do.  I shake my head and say to him, “The Fire.”  He raises his dang eyebrows.  I then say, “The Election.”  He pauses for a moment, and I’m thinking to myself that maybe he’s seeing my light.  And then he raises his dang eyebrows again.  Shrugging as if to say, “meh.”

I stop there.  If those two catastrophic (in my crazy cranium way of looking at things) aren’t enough proof that 2016 needs to be kicked to the curb, then I’m out.  I can’t waste my precious seconds on this earth attempting to change another individual’s mind about…well…anything, truth be told.  We will simply agree to disagree.  I let him go.  Mostly because I was tired of those dang raised eyebrows.  I actually threatened him the other night that if he kept raising those dang eyebrows at me, I was going to get the tube of SuperGlue and make them permanently raised.

That elicited another raise of those dang eyebrows.

I stomped my foot and walked away.

Childish, yes.  But sometimes my only recourse.

Dang men.

I digress.

Intentions.  Resolutions.  Hope. Change.  Equanimity.  Peace.  Calm.  Serenity.

I have decided this year, 2017, that instead of making some grandiose RESOLUTION, I will try to live with better intentions.  I will try to “be the change I want to see in this world.” (M. Ghandi)

I will try to live with a sense of peace and equanimity of spirit.

May I see the rise and fall of things with equanimity.  (attributed to Buddha, I think)


That’s a big word.  One definition: the ability to see without being caught by what we see.  Or to “see with patience or understanding.”

A second definition:  to stand in the middle of all of this; to remain centered or balanced in the middle of whatever is happening.


I am fairly certain I do not need to spell out for anyone the situation this might refer to, the “whatever is happening” that is now happening.  I don’t even really want to write about it because that seems to give it credence or make it more so, more real than it is.  And the reality is so frightening.

It took me about a month, but I finally, blessedly, peacefully and contentedly turned off the news.  Anyone who knows me knows how addicted I am to news, all news, but mostly the political news.  It simply became too much for my peaceful heart.  Each and every day since The Election brought more angst, more trauma, more anguish.  More powerlessness.   I found myself becoming increasingly upset and tied up in knots.  I was consumed.  And I realized this was no way to live.  Luckily for me (and those around me), we have a very large collection of Christmas/Holiday music which, when supplemented with the Jazz station, began to soothe my troubled mind and heart.

Now that the music is packed away until next holiday season, I find I have no desire to turn the news back on.  I like my quieted cranium.  I am learning to live with equanimity of spirit.  We will become jazz afficionados I expect.  Or connoisseurs of silence.

Another intention will be to stick close to a familiar mantra from over the years:

Goddess (Allah/Great Spirit/Universe/Great Mystery/God) grant me

serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

courage to change the things I can,

and wisdom to know the difference.

I need to focus on those things in my life, immediately around me right here, right now, that need changing, that I can change and that will benefit from me attempting to change.  Everything else is not my business.

This is something I struggle with; knowing what is and is not my business.  Knowing what to make hay out of and what to leave alone.  Knowing how far to take my involvement in something versus sitting back and staying quiet.  I don’t want to be a wallflower.  Wallflowers never get to dance.

I don’t want to be a hermit living in a bubble, because if we all did that, what kind of society would we have?   I don’t want to shirk my civic duties, my responsibility to help others who may need a hand up.

“To those who have been given much, much is expected in return.”  (Joseph Kennedy to his children)

I may not have material wealth to be doled out to those in need, but I have been given so much already.  I tell my precious daughter how fortunate we are, to have been born into a family that acknowledges the importance of education, service to others, and the need to pass it along.  How fortunate we are to live in this country that was fought for by people in our own family so many generations ago.

We have been given much, and much is expected in return.

Finding out just what the return is becomes the question.  What can I do?  What can my little voice accomplish?  I have no money to give, how can I be a productive member of society giving back some of what has been given to me?

Especially in this time, when the highest office in the land, the sacred office of President will now be occupied by a person who makes a mockery of it each and every single second of each day.  (There, the elephant in the room.)

I can be the change I wish to see in this world.

I can live with good intentions.  I can put good out there into the Universe, not bad.  I can start to see the rise and fall of all things with equanimity of spirit.  I can see without being caught by what I see.  I can cultivate patience of spirit.  I can ask for serenity of mind and acceptance of what I cannot change but courage to go forth and change what is in my power to change.

I read something interesting yesterday:

“If I allow myself to be influenced by what the (fill-in-the-bank) says and does, it will make blots and smears on the pages of my year.  This I will try to avoid at all costs.”  (from One Day at a Time in Al Anon)

I don’t think I need to be explicit in who/what goes in my version of “fill-in-the-blank” above.  Anyone who knows me knows who would be center stage there.

We have but precious few seconds on this earth, in this form we are in, right here, right now.  I cannot let the trifles of others consume me and ruin my precious few seconds.

Instead I choose equanimity.  I choose serenity.  I choose hope.  I choose peace and calm.

And those are my intentions for the next year, living it one day at a time.

Blessings be.



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A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

…a little girl sat in a darkened movie theater and watched a beautiful girl in white stand up to the bad guy dressed in black with a respiratory issue, talk back to the skinny-jowled Grand Moff Tarkin, wittily refer to the Wookie as a walking carpet and then go toe-to-toe with the cocky Han Solo.

That little girl then listened, over and over and over, to the cassette tapes of the movie, played the board game and dreamed of being the girl in white–standing up to the bullies in the world, fighting for the little guys, being stronger and smarter than the “rescuing heroes.”

That little girl grew up, went out into the world and made her way, always remembering the beautiful girl in white with the quick tongue and strong character.

The young woman had a loyal Golden Retriever, Sundance, who faithfully sat and watched the movies with her, when they were finally available on VHS tapes, continually marveling at the strengths of the heroine in white.

Along came a new little girl, introduced to the heroine in white by the little girl from long ago, now a mommy.

And the cycle began again.

Today’s little girl is growing up in a world where women are expected to be the heroine, where it’s normal for a woman to cheekily stand up to the bad guy in black and to then figure out how to rescue not just herself, but the band of inept males who came to rescue her in the first place.  Today’s little girl assumes that women are the ones who do the rescuing, lead the Rebellion, command the fleet and save the galaxy.

The world lost a shining light this morning.  The world lost a female heroine who was, yes, so much more than the beautiful woman in white fighting for the Rebellion against the evil Empire, but who will forever be remembered as Princess Leia Organa.

Carrie Fisher was a force unto herself, who enchanted a generation of youngsters, both girls and boys alike, as the fierce, cheeky, bright, beautiful, strong, brave Princess Leia.  That generation went on to share her with their children, whose girls now grow up assuming women just are Princess Leia…fierce, cheeky, bright, beautiful, strong and brave.

My heart is heavy with sadness this night.  I’ve cried many tears this day because this loss is so much more than the death of an actress.  Princess Leia was, is, a phenomenon in her own right.  Yes, Star Wars and all it entails is, well, I’m not sure how exactly to categorize it.  It is a thing.  A phenomenon I suppose.  But Princess Leia aka Carrie Fisher was a phenomenon within the phenomenon.  Enough of that word.  I suppose I should dig out the thesaurus.  Princess Leia just was.  And Carrie Fisher made her so.

Anyone who knows me knows what a Star Wars fanatic I am.  I am incredibly blessed that my dearest, most precious daughter picked up Sundance’s mantle and now shares this obsession with me.  We have “Star Wars weekends” in which we watch all of the movies, in order.  Quoting as we go.  It drives the dear husband bananas.  He doesn’t get it.

But he’s not a girl.  And the heroine, the beautiful girl in white, wasn’t for him.  Or the rest of the boys.  She was for us, the girls.  She was a force of nature, a force to be reckoned with, a force for good in the galaxy.

And now she is no more, except as captured, forever, on the screen.

May the Force be with you, always, Carrie Fisher.  May you find peace and calm wherever you may be this night.  Thank you for all of the wonderful things you’ve done throughout your much too short life–advocating for those with depression, baring your soul regarding your demons, living with the persona of Princess Leia that was larger than your own life.

May the Force be with us all as we venture forth into the coming days.  The scrappy Rebels fighting against the evil Empire once more.



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So “that” happened. Way to go America.

WARNING:  Foul language will be encountered, should you choose to proceed.

Wow.  Just wow.  It’s taken me several days now to try to sort the jumble of words in my brain.  And I’m not really sure I’ve accomplished much more than this: WTF America?

Seriously.  WTflippingF.

I’m having such a difficult time squaring this circle.  I’m fairly certain I’m not alone, but I find no solace in that thought.  I find no comfort knowing that others are sharing this pain.

And pain it is.  I’ve seen this compared to grief, loss, anger, disappointment, disbelief that the unimaginable has occurred, etc, etc, etc.  (And all I have running through my brain is the soundtrack from Hamilton, an American musical: “It’s Quiet Uptown.”  “…he’s dealing with the unimaginable…”)

I’m also fairly certain I’ve been through Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief about 27 times.  Up and back down again, over and over and over.  Like a bad record.

I’ve done everything I know how to do when it comes to taking care of myself and self-helping myself through a difficult, to put it mildly, time.

I’ve been lotus-sitting, deep-breathing and mandala-coloring.  There is nothing I haven’t tried in the last several days.  Well, I haven’t smoked any marijuana.  Nor gone sky-diving.

I’ve burned all of my expensive smelly candles in an attempt at aromatherapy.  I’ve been crossword-puzzling, Sudoku-ing and My Little Pony playing.

I’ve been standing next to my table top water fountain trying to get in tune with the trickling water sounds.  I’ve gone outside to feed the birds, talk to the birds, watch the birds.  I’ve loved on the dogs, thrown balls for the dogs, brushed the dogs, fed the dogs, cleaned up after the dogs.

I’ve cleaned the house.  I’ve let the dirt accumulate on the floor.  I’ve looked at the bathrooms, trying to get up the energy to clean them, then said, “WTF” and walked away.

I’ve read articles on how we need to “understand Trump supporters” and promptly threw up in my mouth a little bit.

I’ve read articles on how we must resist.  And stand up and fight.  How?  What?

I’ve read columns on impending doom, global calamity.  I’ve had friends (Trump-supporting friends mind you) text me and tell me that it’s all going to be just fine.  And don’t I know that? And don’t I know that I’m old enough to know that and wise enough to know that?  (I ended the conversation.)

I’ve cried.  I’ve reassured my daughter while she was crying.  I’ve had my husband reassure me.

I’ve read horrendous posts about the violence being perpetrated against all those people deemed “other” by Trump supporters.

I’ve watched our dear, esteemed President Obama sit grimly in the Oval Office and shake the hand of the man who tried to delegitimize his presidency for years (and then denied doing so).  A man who President O knows, in his heart of hearts, is not just temperamentally unfit, but completely, wholly, undeniably unfit to hold the highest office in the land.  And President Obama had to do this for the sake of this nation.  Can you even imagine how that must have felt?  I cannot.

I’ve listened to jazz music, Hamilton the musical, watched White Christmas (because, Bing Crosby).  All in an attempt to distract myself from the searing, white-hot, gut-wrenching, life-upending pain of this week.

Remember the earthquake and tsunami in Japan?  And how it actually caused the earth’s axis to get all wobbly.

Yeah.  We’re bat-shit crazy wobbly here in America.  And that will soon translate to the rest of the world as well.

I’ve read articles ranging from saying that “all will be well, don’t worry” to articles spelling impending global economic collapse.

I’ve read theories stating that Campaign Trump is so much different from President Trump.  And then theories that he’ll be impeached by his own party cause they only ever wanted Mike Pence (which is a whole other story for another day…another nightmare to try to wake up from…that dude is one bad hombre).  And the final consensus?

Who the fuck knows what is going to happen.

WTflippingF America?

I told you to choose well.  I told you to choose light, not dark.  That meant choosing good not evil, happy thoughts not fear.  That meant choosing to love your neighbor, not rip off their hijabs and beat the crap out of them.  That meant not teaching your middle school children how to chant “build that wall” in the cafeteria at a middle school in Michigan.  That meant not scrawling on a wall in Durham, NC “Black lives don’t matter and neither does your votes.”  (Nice grammar there graffiti dudes.  Learn to speak and write correctly please.)

Choosing well does not mean yelling at someone speaking Spanish, in a personal conversation on her phone, and then when she tells you she speaks four languages, telling her to “fuck off.”

Choosing well does not mean telling a black person they have to sit at the back of the bus because we have a new president now.

All of these things have happened in the few short days since this country elected a racist, misogynistic, anti-Semitic, bullying, narcissistic megalomaniac.

And do you know what his response has been?

A tweet about the protests being “so unfair” because we had “an open election.”

Yet just three short weeks ago (seems like a lifetime ago) this same demagogue was complaining about rigged elections.

Things that make me bat-shit crazy, off-my-rocker, nuts0-insanely mad.

Way to go America.  Nice fucking job.

(No, I’m not signing off here with my usual “Blessings be” because at this moment, I’m in the anger stage.  I expect I’ll get out of it soon, as I’ve been cycling in and out since Tuesday night.  I’ll be compassionate again soon.  I promise.)

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I had the craziest dream last night.

Then I woke up this morning and see that it wasn’t a bad dream at all.  It really happened.

And all I have to say is: “America, do you realize what you’ve done?”

I wrote yesterday that I hoped America chose well.  I hoped that America would choose to embrace the light.  I hoped America would choose inclusivity and hope and love.

Then I watched video feed of Trump supporters jumping up and down and maniacally shouting “lock her up, lock her up” when another state was called for Trump.

That’s not choosing love, people.  That’s not choosing hope.  That’s not choosing inclusivity or tolerance or the higher ground or selflessness or looking out for others or…I am fast running out of words.

And you know it’s bad when I run out of words.

Gracelyn was inconsolable last night.  She’s seen through Donald Trump from the beginning.  I didn’t even have to say anything.  All she did was listen to his words.  And his voice.  She decided early on what she thought of him.  And she learned early on what his plans (if they could be called that) are for the country.

So when it was almost over last night, she began crying and asked me “what are we going to do?”

I decided then and there I needed to be the adult in the room (because, you know, really, who else was it going to be?  Hobbes the tiger that was also there?) and I wiped away her tears, wrapped my arms around her tightly and told her that “we will all be ok, it will all be ok.”

I lied.  To my dearest, most precious daughter.

Because I do not truly believe it will be ok.  I do not think this will end well for us. I do not think America’s best days are coming.  I think we, and I have to say this collectively, have given the keys to the country to a misogynistic, racist, bullying megalomaniac.  And to any Republicans in the supposed checks and balances part of the government, I would wish you luck.  Any thought that you will be able to control Donald Trump is folderol.  Truly.  Simply that.  He is a loose cannon.  You created this.  You will have to deal with it.

More comforting of the daughter this morning as she woke up and started crying when she realized, as I did, that last night was not a bad dream.  I told her we have two choices:

Choice A would be to wallow in the sadness and despair and embrace the dark and the hate


Choice B would be to accept the outcome of last night, pick ourselves up, and head out with our heads held high and putting love out there at every opportunity.  (This being the only real choice.)

I guess I did have some words after all.  Not feeling too much happiness or hopefulness this morning, but we must put the best foot forward and believe that we can carry on, trying to be good examples of all that is right with this country.

Blessings be.

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Absolute distinction: self-love candidate or love thy neighbor candidate? Choose well America.


I couldn’t sleep, so am up early at the computer trying to organize the tumbling words in my cabeza.  I’ve got the jitters.  And unfortunately, not the caffeine-induced kind.  I wish I still got that buzz from the first cup of coffee.  I’m constantly searching for that long diminished kick I used to get.  A testament to the addiction-type characteristics in my lineage.  Yay me.

I read during my morning meditation, as I was trying to soothe my frazzled nerve endings, something that I thought was so appropriate for this morning.  Coincidental?  I’m not sure I believe in coincidences.

I realized I might should share what I read ,and then my thoughts on the words.

The passage began by making a distinction between self-love and love of self.  I thought to myself “Self, those sound like one and the same.  What’s the big diff?”

But then I read further and I began to see the light, shall we say?

Self-love was defined as the source of hostility and arrogance.  Hmmm.  Self-love is a very large ego around which the world, and everything in it, must revolve.  Hmmmm.  I was beginning to think I knew someone that might resemble this description.

I kept reading.  The passage then stated: “ It is the mark of a mind which is closed to real feeling for others.”

Wow.  Just wow.  Do I even need to connect the dots?  I really don’t want to type his name anymore, because of the visceral pain I get inside when I think of the umpteen nasty (yes, nasty) things he has said and done.  But truly, Donald J Trump is full of self-love, if only because truly, what little mind he does have is completely and utterly closed to real feeling for others.

Now, I realize that I cannot know what is inside his mind.  And perhaps he does feel something for others.  Real feelings for someone other than himself.  But.  But.  His actions and his words don’t really parlay that thought into reality.

However, it is not right for me to assume I know what is in anyone’s head.  That is none of my business.

As I read further, the love of self was defined as being reflective of a great wisdom handed down through the ages by several important figures.  It is prevalent in several religions, not just the Christian one, but encompasses the idea of loving your neighbor as yourself.  That could possibly be manipulated around to being full of self-aggrandizement and selfishness, but if one dissects down to the very base layer, one finds that one cannot truly love others until one has come to a place of perfect peace and contentment with oneself.  Whew, that was a lot of “ones and oneselfs.”  Eeks.

What I’m trying to so ineloquently say, or write, is that when we truly love and accept ourselves for who and what we are, then we can pass on to others that same love and care.  We can be aware of the value of others, because we are aware of the value of ourselves.  We can afford others we meet during our journey the dignity and respect they deserve when we operate from a place of “loving others as ourselves.”

Self-love is truly a lack of character.  A final sentence from this passage: “Self-love often wears a mask of false humility behind which we exaggerate our own importance, and justify the wrongs we do to others.”

Sounds just like Choice A above.  Sounds like exactly what he’s been doing for the last two years.  Heck, make that all of his adult life.  And maybe even before that.

This is not the voice of one who will speak for the little people.  This is not the voice to lead this outstanding nation into the future.

Please, America, I am imploring you to make the right choice today.  Our future as a nation depends upon it.  Our future as a humanity depends on it.  The future of this planet depends on it.

Blessings be.

(The above references come from a passage in the One Day At A Time book.)

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What a difference a year makes. Sort of. But not really.

I happened upon a post I wrote last year at this time.  October 30, 2015 to be exact.  I thought it would be interesting to see where exactly I was one year ago, and let me tell you what–it was like a time warp.  Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.  I often feel that way, but here I have written proof.  I actually had to check the date I first wrote the words, and sure enough, it was one year ago.  Craziness.  Pure and utter craziness.

I suggest you read the post.  It’s titled “Well, really.”  Go on and read it now.  Then come back and finish this.  You’re going to pretty much have the gist of what I want to say anyway.  May as well get the CliffsNotes version.  https://madranchwife.com/2015/10/30/well-really/

Alrighty, back?

Let’s dive in.

First, let me tell you in case you don’t follow the zombies and Rick Grimes and the apocalyptic world he and his fellow inhabitants are trying to navigate, Glenn is dead.  Truly dead.  Not “mostly dead” a la the Man in Black in the Princess Bride (H/T to Billy Crystal…https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9tAKLTktY0 ), but really dead.  I didn’t watch it.  I knew it was going to be horrendously violent, beyond belief.  And my sensitive self is so beaten down and up and sideways from this election cycle, that I didn’t have the heart to inflict any more damage on my psyche.  Thus, I read the Twitter feed after the premiere of the season, saw a few still photos and vowed then and there that I was truly done.  I quit TWD before.  Actually twice before.  The first time was when Beth was killed after a season spent building up to reuniting with her and saving her.  The second time was last fall when Glenn was supposedly toast.  But now, I am truly, most sincerely done as he is truly, most sincerely dead.  (Do I need to put in a link to the Munchkin mayor?  Good, I don’t have the time to find it right now.)  To the producers of TWD, here is my statement: you made me care, not once, not twice, but three times.  And not once, not twice, but three times you ripped out my heart and stomped all over it.  And I am done.  Period.  Finished.  Not going to watch anymore.  Now, some might say that the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior expecting different results.  And thus my actions and heartfelt feelings may be construed as insanity, but still.  Still.

OK.  Got that one out of the way.  Done with TWD.  They can all go be wacko birds and I’ve got nothing else to say.

Speaking of WACKO BIRDS.  Holy mother of god, sweet jesus, mary and joseph all rolled into one. I. Can’t. Even.

This election.  The Republican candidate.  Last year I spewed coffee on my keyboard as I contemplated the candidates for the esteemed title of Republican candidate.   I’ve spewed so much coffee in the ensuing year that I’ve had to make a rule to not hold a cup of coffee in my hand nor a swallow in my mouth as I open up my preferred site for news.  The poor spiffy MacBook simply cannot take any more coffee.

(I skipped the present situation regarding Spanish lessons.  We’re sort of in the same place, plodding ahead one new word or phrase at a time.  Someday we might be fluent.  Might be.)

Last year at this time Ben Carson was doing well.  I say that TOTALLY tongue-in-cheek.  Whatever the hell that means.  And Rubio had won a debate.  Jeb! was still in the running. Cruz was making hay.  And there was NO mention of the Trumpster.  At least in my post, so that means he was sort of just there, but not in any really threatening kind of way.

I wrote then: “If you want to be respected by the majority of Americans as being of sane and right mind, then put forth respectable candidates that are of a sane and right mind.”

Which obviously, obviously, noone bothered to listen to.  Not a one.  Instead, we’ve got Donald J. Trump as the stellar example of the GOP.

I. Can’t. Even.

Benghazi was a thing a year ago.  A $20 million thing.  And now we have emails, emails and more emails.  That aren’t even Hillary’s damn emails!  But the gist is the same.  FAKE scandals.  Scandalous, scurrilous, salacious scandals.

I don’t even have a high enough eyeroll anymore.  I have no more words.  I can’t even formulate a coherent sentence about the sheer insanity that is ensuing ONE WEEK OUT from the election.

In some less blood-pressure-raising news, we still don’t have snow.  I was lamenting this to someone last week, saying that we should have had snow by now.  The grass, what little there is left, is SO dry.  I can’t even rake up the leaves as I might permanently damage what little grass is left.  It did snow about an inch or two last week, but it’s long gone.  We did drive to Steamboat last week with a little bit of snow flurries flurrying, but I had the cold weather bag in the car!!!  I had an appointment to get the snow tires on last Friday, but was laid flat by a migraine, so had to cancel.  Thank the Goddess for a compassionate, caring, intelligent, competent little girl who rubbed my neck, packed her lunch, made her breakfast and did her schoolwork as I lay there until I could get vertical.

And finally.  In one more of the I. Can’t. Even. stories of the day.

Paul Ryan again rears his elegantly, perfectly coiffed head with the piercing blue eyes, making you think he’s just the boy next door.  But he’s not.  Do NOT be fooled by those eyes.  The man is a snake.  But then that is slightly disparaging to snakes.  And snakes aren’t all bad.

Well, whatever.  The man is not the saint some would make him out to be.  Catholic or not.  Today he admitted he voted for Donald J. Trump…LAST WEEK.  Smarmy, sleazy little man couldn’t even admit it when he did it.  He was caught and had to give an answer, so he was forced to fess up.  Ha. He hemmed and hawed and gave some cockamamie excuse, knowing full well that he has shown no support of the Republican nominee for the last several months (as well he shouldn’t, given the absolute disgusting nature of the nominee), but caved and voted for him.  Nice morals there, Speaker Ryan.  Yessiree bob.  You are one fine example of a Catholic boy.  Way to support the lying, narcissistic, misogynistic bully that you all have as the fine pillar and example of GOP values.

Whew.  Another rant.

But!  But!  Starting tomorrow afternoon, XM Radio will once again begin with a dedicated Christmas music station.

Praise the heavens.  Thanks be to the Goddess.  Glory on high.  And all the other folderol that one may utter to demonstrate supreme and utter happiness and delight.  Now I can listen to something else besides Andrea Mitchell and her annoying voice about EMAILS.

I go to sleep tonight knowing that tomorrow I have something to look forward to.  Isn’t that special?

Blessings be.


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