Source: Not My Business. Seriously.
Dear Idiots in Government (This means you Michigan):
Can you please just get the hell over yourself? Believe it or not, in spite of the mistakes we make in this country there are some things you, in your lack of infinite wisdom, should not be allowed to dictate to us. One of them is who we have sex with, or how we have it. It’s not your business, or mine or the nosy neighbor across the alley, it’s whoever’s having at it. That’s not to say I approve of child porn or bestiality by any stretch of the imagination. That is saying, that what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their own bedroom is NOT YOUR BUSINESS. Or mine. (Hear that paparazzi?)
And while I’m at, what makes you so interested in it in the first place? Is your life so boring, that you can’t get enough pizzazz in your own bedroom that you feel the need to legislate your constituents’ bedroom?
Pssst. Here’s a tip: there are people you can pay for that.
It is now punishable by 15 years in prison if anal sex is practiced in Michigan. While it doesn’t specifically target the gay community can we be honest and just admit that it is specifically does?
It reads, specifically:
“A person who commits the abominable and detestable crime against nature with mankind or with any animal is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment for no more than 15 years.”
Gee can’t imagine who they might be talking about.
What I don’t understand is why this is a concern. Don’t we have enough to worry about? More than 100 people die from prescription overdose every year. Steroid use among athletes and body builders is staggering. Women are killed by their boyfriend/husband/father/brother every. Single. Day. Our prisons are overflowing, criminals come out those locked gates only to re-offend and then head back inside. Children sit in orphanages and shelters, trying to make it to the next day.
My humble (and yet completely right) opinion? We should be working on those problems and letting people choose who they want to sleep (or not sleep) with and mind what matters.
What say we work on unemployment or hire more therapists for criminals. We could go ahead and get rid of the pedophiles and murderers. Or how about people who do things like tape animals’ feet and mouths together and dump them in a field on the side of the road?
Personally, I have enough issues going on in my life without having to worry about idiots like the Michigan Senate or Donald Trump making it impossible for people to have a little sex because, did I mention, NOT MY BUSINESS?
I find that it defies what little common sense I might have left to try to legislate these things. We don’tactually have a great track record as a country, for that common sense. Prohibition, slavery, segregation, banning bi-racial marriage. Can I just ask how those worked out for ya? They didn’t, and there’s a reason for that.
You cannot legislate human behavior. If they passed a law tomorrow that said people can’t help little old ladies across the street, there would be (I hope) a riot. If you tried to bring back segregation, there would be a riot. Those things are our business. We should look after one another, evoke the better angels at every opportunity.
But what Lucy and Ricky or Ricky and Fred do in their bedrooms?
NOT MY BUSINESS.
Or the Michigan Senate.
And just a head’s up, Michigan government, the Supreme Court as already ruled crap like that unconstitutional.
Wouldn’t want to go to jail, would you?
Source: 50 Shades of Twilight
Somehow, I knew it was coming. It was in my news feed yesterday and I just wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. That purveyor of teenage angst, Stephanie Meyer is ‘re-imagining’ her Twilight series. Bella is becoming Beau and Edward is becoming Edythe. So now, instead of a 250 year old male vampire stalking a sullen female teenager, we get the 250 year old female vampire stalking male sullen teenager. I suppose next we’ll be hearing about E.L. James writing a gender reversal of 50 Shades as well.Perhaps she’ll call it 50 Shades of Gemima. It’s stuff like this that makes me
James and Meyer seem to be feeding off of each other here, James reimagining 50 Shades from Christian’s POV, something Meyer has already done with Midnight Sun. I’m not sure what came of that, since the manuscript was leaked, but I can see E.L. James now. Surfing the net, she sees an old article about Meyer’s Twilight from Edward’s POV, arms going up and shouting “Eureka! I can recycle 50 Shades from Christian’s POV and no one will ever know I don’t have an idea in my head. I’ll claim my fans have been clamoring for this all along!”
It is my fervent wish that these two would take their bazillions of dollars, go and sin no more, but I guess fame and fortune are too addictive to give up.
Am I too picky (yes I am) to want these people, who have the attention of the world and readers who hang onto every morsel published, to do better? Granted, I don’t expect Austen or duMaurier or even Rosemary Rogers, but come on. I see a picture on facebook and a new idea pops into my head for at the very least a short story. I know there’s nothing new under the sun, but rewriting Twilight is recycling of the lowest form. If you can’t come up with something original (or at least a twist on it) do you really want to rehash old material? And here’s the thing. You can re-write things, but you should at least have the wherewithal to make it sort of new and steal from the greats. Re-write Rebecca or For Whom the Bell Tolls, not your own mediocre mind-numbing tripe that makes me want to
Just a thought.
If I worked at, say, Harry’s Hamburger Hut and you came in wanting a double cheeseburger with bacon, I wouldn’t say “That’s bad for you, it’ll clog your arteries, here, have some cauliflower instead,” you’d call the manager and tell him I was interfering with your right to a bacon cheeseburger and that you don’t like cauliflower. Unless you do, in which case, I think you need to rethink your priorities.
That little analogy is the introduction to my opinion on the whole Kim David thing. What I think is really happening has nothing to do with her desire to convert LGBT people to Jesus’ path. My humble opinion, they’re already there.
Being behind the curve on this whole Kim Davis kerfuffle has kept me from making the mistake other bloggers have, (the letter is a fraud, like the Twitter account of her coworker) and for that I say (npi) Thank You Jesus. But I digress already. I’m not going to condemn Kim Davis or call her names or quote scripture (even though all that time spent in Bible study is now paying off handsomely) or tell her that I think she’s a bigot and a hypocrite.
Yes, she is all that, but more to the point, I think she’s a fraud. Yup, that what I said. Having followed the story from her first refusal all the way to the memes that are apparently endless, I have come to the conclusion that this is a ploy. Why? Because I think she’s seen the results of all the Go Fund Me pages where hundreds of thousands of dollars have been donated to other “Christians”. Those who “stand up for their beliefs” and then made a boat load of money because those opposing them are so quick to spew hate and threaten. I also think she wants her fifteen minutes of fame but soon will realize that sitting in a jail cell, even if the family brings you your bunny pajamas and fluffy slippers, isn’t the same as being at home wearing them while sitting on the sofa watching Pat Robertson make a bigger fool of himself.
Is this cynical of me? Why, yes it is. Yet it’s also valid, I believe, because I’ve watched other so called Christians enjoying the lime light. Oh, look, those pizza people now have almost a million dollars to plow through. They’ll never have to get pizza sauce under their fingernails again, thanks to the well meaning (if misguided) people that donated for them. Again, there’s nothing wrong with that, per se. That’s called freedom and if you want to give money to people who want to infringe on the rights of others because it conflicts with what they believe, it’s also your right.
What isn’t your right is this: to bully people who believe differently than you do because it interferes with YOUR belief system. I say that whether you’re gay or straight, Wiccan or Jew, black or white. Worship who you want, believe what you want, (there are of course exceptions to this rule, like pedophiles) but when that belief gets between me and my beliefs, we’re going to have a problem.
If I love bacon and you don’t, fine. Don’t eat bacon. But don’t break into my house and try to steal my bacon to keep me from eating it. That’s wrong. Why? Because I won’t break into your house and steal your cauliflower just because I don’t like things that look like brains. A simplistic analogy, true, (and don’t get your knickers in a twist because I’m comparing religion to bacon), but I think we’re over complicating the issues here.
Kim Davis might honestly believe that she’s doing the right thing. But instead of refusing to grant marriage licenses to people who want to do that crazy thing called marriage, she should resign. She was elected to do a job and she’s not doing it. She could be impeached, though knowing Kentucky, I doubt that will happen. Yes, you should stand up for what you believe in. On your own time, not the company you work for (i.e. the government that has declared same sex marriage legal). No private sector business would allow her to not do her job, and that’s how it should be.
I believe in rules. The good ones, not the stupid ones like no selling booze on Sundays, or paying inheritance taxes. Kim Davis has had her fifteen minutes. Let’s not give her anymore of our time or money. I would be willing to wager that by the end of the first day no one pays any attention to her, she’ll slink away, tripping over hair that is way too long for a woman of her advanced years.
So, this is PART 2 of my grand cross country adventure. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it, were horrified by it or wonder why American Airlines is even allowed to exist under the law.
When last we saw our heroine, she was being bullied by two flight attendants. We now continue with Part 2.
RFA and BFA glare at me and RFA take Moof’s carrier. That problem solved, I now having nothing to focus on my but my claustrophobia. My eyes dart around looking for a window. As long as I can see outside, I’m okay. All the windows have the shades pulled down but one. That one is blocked by the biggest head I’ve seen since A Charlie Brown Christmas. Still if he moves a little, I can get a glimpse outside. Doesn’t happen, so I pull out my book and hope for the best.
The flight is uneventful. Yeah, I know, hard for me to believe too. We land in Dallas and I notice on my ticket that nowhere does it say what gate I’m supposed to be at and I seek out the nearest desk person and ask, he looks it up and tells me B 48. I, being the polite Southern woman I am, say thank you and look for an exit. If I’m going to have to wait for two hours, I’m going to let Moof out and smoke and hopefully regain some of my calm. I stop in the ladies room first though and make a half-hearted effort to freshen up (an utter waste of time), then start digging in my purse for her leash.
No leash. But, being resourceful, I take out my favorite pair of sleep pants and cut out the drawstring and make one myself and then go find someone who can tell me the way out of purgatory. This of course means I’ll have to go through security again, but I don’t really care, I just want fresh air and sky and I mean to have it. It’s a five minute walk to semi-freedom and then I’m outside and digging out my phone as I sit on a stone pillar by the window. First, I call my friend Sherron and tell her to save herself, leave me til the morning, I’m sure I can find someplace to hang out. She refuses and says she’s coming for me anyway. I thank her and heaven that I have such friends on this earth.
Second call is my friend Hula, and she enjoys the story. I too will enjoy the story, at least by the end of the year, right now, I’m inhaling my cigarette and being grateful that I get another day of no jail time. I call Rook, who so selflessly did her best to get me on that airplane. Through no fault of her own and because of her diligence, I did make it to Dallas and I say it here and now,
THANK YOU ROOK, YOU’RE THE BEST!
She too, had a good laugh and now I’m thinking, it’s 7:3o and I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but the Dallas/Fort Worth airport is just as ritzy as LAX though about ten cents cheaper. I stuff poor Moof back into the carrier and spy one of those carts that you can put stuff on and wheel it around. Now, I’ve been to DFW. It is huge, a labyrinth of unparalleled proportions and my hands are swollen and aching. Just a shout out/warning to the younger people: appreciate the young, it won’t last forever. I dig through the purse and find the $5.00 it will take to get a cart and then we’re off again.
I find AA, check in, and head to security, where Moof is a big hit again, after I take her out of the carrier. Everyone wants to pet her and by now, she’s as tired as I am, and allows it and I’m thankful that she’s being sweet. Again, I get to keep on my shoes and again they swab my hands, and test my saline and I ask one of the TSA guys where I can find something to eat. Something simple, something that I won’t have to sell Moof for medical experimentation to get. I find a little place and ask for a quesadilla, a plain one so Moof can eat too. The woman behind the counter nods, but won’t look me in the eye. This is cause for some concern, but I figure the other people I see eating haven’t keeled over, so it’s most likely safe. I get my food, stow it away and set out to find a diet coke to go with it, as well as gate B 48.
I should have known. This is Pepsi territory and not a Coke in sight. That’s okay. I have food and I have a bottle of water. It’s all good and I start walking after asking another AA worker bee which way to gate B 48. I get that look you see on people’s faces who have no idea what’s going on, but he points me further down the causeway and I see the numbers going down.
B’s got to be close, right?
I make it to the B’s through sheer strength of will and collapse in a chair, pulling out my now cold quesadilla. I open it up and take out a piece of chicken but Moof’s not having it. She has reached her tolerance level. She’s been dragged from her soft bed, shoved in a crate and dragged half way across the country and her not eating is her way of saying, “fuck you mom, I’m done.” Who can blame her? So I eat her portion and mine, and drain the water, then rest for a minute. Okay, fine, more than a minute, and then haul my body out of the chair, toddling along. I now feel like I know how anyone trying to find the promised land feels. I keep looking for a clock because I want to be sure I make this flight. And I’m going to make this flight, even if I have to take hostages.
I reach the escalator with the arrow that tells me gate B 48 is but an escalator and Skydrive ride away. I can’t find an elevator and say a sad farewell to my little cart. I will miss him and his silent assistance. I enjoy a short, swift ride on Skydrive and escape when it lurches to a halt and starting looking for signs again. I see arrows, arrows that point toward Gate B 48 and keep going. I am nothing if not persistent. I go past
There’s just one problem. When I go the lady at the desk, she grimaces. “You’re at the wrong gate, it’s down there, Gate 45, not 48.”
My grip tightens on my purse and carrier and I push out a “thank you” between my teeth and walk back down to Gate 45 where I sit next to these two teenage girls. I say again, teenage girls. It’s now 9:25. We haven’t begun boarding yet, but at long last, I’m starting to believe that I’m going to make it. The keepers of the gate aren’t wonderful, but neither are they overtly hostile, which is a plus in my opinion. We get on, and I find my seat, by the window, and I just slide Moof’s carrier in. I know it won’t fit under the seat but I’m hoping.
False hope, even though it’s false, is still hope. When the male flight attendant comes and asks me if Moof is a pet or a service animal, I, having learned my lesson on the flight to Dallas promptly answer, without blinking, “Service.” MFA leaves and returns with Amazon Flight Attendant, who gets into my personal space with “If it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fly, but since it’s a service animal, you can strap her into the seat,” and turns to the gentleman next to me and says, “We’ll just move you up one seat.” He kindly moves and I switch seats and strap Moof in. You’d think that would be a good sign, yeah?
Nope. The pilot comes on the PA and starts apologizing for the delay. Delay, there’s a delay? Well, yes because the sub-contractors AA hired are apparently lazy, slothful, and downright stupid. It’s their fault we have no a/c or gas, so, the pilot says, he apologizes for them and for AA. I’m thinking, Man that ship sailed long about 7:46 when I missed my second flight to Dallas. Unless they’re going to give me free life time air miles, there will be no accepting of the apology. And even then, I’m not sure I’d accept, as this has been the longest day of my life and I’ve had some doozies. But they continue on and when all the instructions are given as to what to do in case there’s an emergency, they MFA stands at the front of the plane, feed spread apart, arms over his chest, chin down and eyes roaming the cabin. At first I assumed it was his super hero stance, then I realized, no, he’s a serial killer looking for his next victim. So, of course, I grab my notebook and start making notes for book three of my Nobles Island series. Let’s see Sawyer figure this one out.
At last we take off and I say yet another short prayer, thanking God for any and all good things that might happen and blaming the bad on karma I’m still paying off from the last couple of lives. All goes well and I can feel my shoulders start to relax as we begin our descent. The wheels hit the tarmac and my stomach flips because I swear I felt us bounce and lay a hand over Moof’s carrier. This close to the ground, hopefully the fire won’t be too bad and we’ll be able to walk away with very little damage. He hits the brakes and I’m thinking, he should have been apologizing for his poor landing tactics instead of their sub-contractors lack of a/c stuff. I can hear the tires squeal on the runway and close my eyes. I’ve made it all this way only to crash and it feels almost perfect. Yet when I open my eyes, it’s to the sound of the pilot thanking me and my fellow travelers for flying AA. I thought, how perfect are those initials.
We de-plane and when I reach the potted plant, I sit my purse and Moof down and flex my hands that are now ridiculously swollen. I can’t hear anything thanks to the up and down of cabin pressure but there’s a lady there who’s just dropped another person and she has a wheel chair.
Oh, how I wanted to just sink into it and beg her to push me to the baggage claim. However, having some small semblance of dignity left, I instead thank her for offering it, put Moof in the seat and we take off, following the signs. I’m almost there when I spot Sherron. I want to collapse but again, I do have my pride and we meet up and head to the baggage claim together, wheelchair and all. I’m afraid that my luggage won’t be there and there will come another adventure of tracking down two suitcases at one in the morning. The carousels spun in tandem with each other and I stood there, staring, praying, and then out pops the first suitcase. Not mine, but someones so I hold out hope. More suitcases, and then I breathe a sigh of relief. My suitcase,which used to be so pretty once upon a time, came rolling out. One corner is ripped open, yet I’m thankful because my cotton granny panties aren’t showing. Then the second miracle. Suitcase number two comes out. Say what you will, I believe the power of prayer is a strong thing. We gather all the things and make for the door. I fear if we do not make our exit swiftly and silently that the airport demons will reach out and suck us back in, where we will never be heard from again. You laugh. Ask Stephen King, he knows.
I can only thank Sherron and Mark for being there in spite of the heinous hour and pushing my brain dead body to a place to lay my head. I might not have the best family, but I damn sure have the best friends.
P.S. I’m forward this to American Airlines, so if you never hear from me again, they got me.