Being the youngest of ten children could probably lead to some spoilage (do ya think?), but I do think Bekah has handled her situation rather well. Sure, she can and does play that card when she wants to, but she's civil most of the time. This is about driving, I promise.
A couple of weeks ago the red car died. The poor thing started out as a mission car so who knows what sort of abuse it suffered at the hands of 19 year old missionaries. Scott bought it, sold it to us, bought it back, then sold it back to us once again. It served us well as a car for Dan and Bekah to use but I think it took too many trips to the homestead in Mescal when Scott and Benjamin were commuting from their tent city. Other than the paint, headliner, door handles, headlight covers, battery, engine and transmission, it's in excellent condition. I think the left tail light works. Yes, we are in the market for another car.
Really, this is about driving. A couple of days ago Bekah had gone to the temple in Mesa to help some of her friends with a family photo shoot and, since we were down a car, I had to go pick her up. To save time and gas for both parties we decided to meet at the Carl's Jr at I-10 and Congress as it is the half way point between our domiciles. Good idea. She called just after 10PM so off I went. I made good time and then waited, and waited, and waited. Around 11:30 she called and said "Where the heck are you!" "I"m waiting in the Carl's Jr parking lot." "So am I." We had both been in different areas of the same parking lot with visions of car wrecks dancing in out heads wondering what was taking so long.
Here comes the driving part (at last). As I was driving her home, she asked me to take her driving on the Interstate so she could learn how to drive there and her Mom would let her use I-10 to get to her friend's house. WHAT? "You can't drive on the Interstate?" "No, Mom says it's too dangerous." Holy crap. I drove to San Bleeding Francisco from Idaho when I was 15 years old BY MY SELF! Codling is a terrible thing. I gave her a lesson on how it's pretty much the same as driving in town but easier, faster, but actually easier. I think she's ready to do it and Babs might agree...but I doubt it.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Barber of the Ville
This is a day late because I got all busy with Sarah coming home to visit, tithing settlement and the Wildcats basketball game. Oh well, 'tis the season.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
For Crying Out Loud
Yes, I am in for it. Seriously, I think all adults should be able to just wail away like a three year old who just dropped her ice cream cone. Tilt our head back, fill our lungs and yowl like young banshees.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Six Days Late or One Day Early
Thanksgiving preempted my blog last Thursday and the ASU game will take up tomorrow night so here it is.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Musings from the Muse
Yes, I know this isn't Thursday. I was all set to write then, but at almost 5:00 I found out that Bruce Larson had offered me his tickets to the U of A basketball game at 6:30. Who am I to turn down anything free? Especially tickets to see the Wildcats. I have decided to stop calling them Cats because of my aversion to felines in general. Anyway, I called Benjamin and he said he would like to go but was watching the kiddos since Lovely Lesley had a meeting at 7. "No sweat," says I. "Danny has no life, he can babysit for you."
We got to the game in plenty of time and were even able to eat the fine dinner of cheese ravioli and meat balls that Babs had prepared. The Wildcats did not disappoint, slapping an 83-57 loss on the semi-decent New Mexico State Aggies. It looks like the Wildcats will have some depth for a change as the second string did better than the starters.
Since it was late when we got back and I do so need my beauty rest, I planned to write Friday night instead. I had forgotten that I agreed to let Bekah use my TV in the living room to watch whatever-the-heck teenage girls watch when she had friends over. Alas, I was banished to the bedroom, our bedroom, not even Pete's because Danny was in there getting as much use as possible since Pete comes home tomorrow.
Our bedroom is really Babs' bedroom. It's her TV and decor thanks to our wonderful children who completely redid the bedroom as a surprise for their mother a few years ago. They changed it from a cave (not even a man-cave) into something you would see in "Better Homes and Gardens." I do have a problem with it though. The making of the bed.
It has been our custom for the centuries we have been married for the last one up to make the bed. No sweat for me for many, many years as I usually arose before Babs. Not so much now. She beats me up every day. Pre-redecoration it was no problem. It was just a matter of straightening the ancient comforter that I usually slept on top of anyway. Post-beautification is an entirely different breed of cat altogether. She won't even let me LIE on the new comforter let alone sleep on it. Should anyone desire to watch TV there in the daytime, we have to spread a blanket or sheet so as not to muss the decor. There are also now 87 pillows to deal with.
Babs ALWAYS retires before I do so she has the un-making duty. Occasionally I may be passing through and give her a hand, but it's really her job. Now, I don't know if pillowmania is a woman thing or not, but I do know that she removes three decorative pillows and sleeps with SEVEN non decorative ones. She even keeps two hidden during the day time just in case the inspectors from Better Homes and Bedrooms should happen by. Actually, I hide them for her when I make the bed. I sleep with one, count'em, ONE old, flattened, comfy pillow. Viva la diferance I say. It's one of the many reasons I love her.
I'm not sure if many read my ramblings. I do enjoy reading the comments and figure if nothing else, these musings may serve as my memoirs.
We got to the game in plenty of time and were even able to eat the fine dinner of cheese ravioli and meat balls that Babs had prepared. The Wildcats did not disappoint, slapping an 83-57 loss on the semi-decent New Mexico State Aggies. It looks like the Wildcats will have some depth for a change as the second string did better than the starters.
Since it was late when we got back and I do so need my beauty rest, I planned to write Friday night instead. I had forgotten that I agreed to let Bekah use my TV in the living room to watch whatever-the-heck teenage girls watch when she had friends over. Alas, I was banished to the bedroom, our bedroom, not even Pete's because Danny was in there getting as much use as possible since Pete comes home tomorrow.
Our bedroom is really Babs' bedroom. It's her TV and decor thanks to our wonderful children who completely redid the bedroom as a surprise for their mother a few years ago. They changed it from a cave (not even a man-cave) into something you would see in "Better Homes and Gardens." I do have a problem with it though. The making of the bed.
It has been our custom for the centuries we have been married for the last one up to make the bed. No sweat for me for many, many years as I usually arose before Babs. Not so much now. She beats me up every day. Pre-redecoration it was no problem. It was just a matter of straightening the ancient comforter that I usually slept on top of anyway. Post-beautification is an entirely different breed of cat altogether. She won't even let me LIE on the new comforter let alone sleep on it. Should anyone desire to watch TV there in the daytime, we have to spread a blanket or sheet so as not to muss the decor. There are also now 87 pillows to deal with.
Babs ALWAYS retires before I do so she has the un-making duty. Occasionally I may be passing through and give her a hand, but it's really her job. Now, I don't know if pillowmania is a woman thing or not, but I do know that she removes three decorative pillows and sleeps with SEVEN non decorative ones. She even keeps two hidden during the day time just in case the inspectors from Better Homes and Bedrooms should happen by. Actually, I hide them for her when I make the bed. I sleep with one, count'em, ONE old, flattened, comfy pillow. Viva la diferance I say. It's one of the many reasons I love her.
I'm not sure if many read my ramblings. I do enjoy reading the comments and figure if nothing else, these musings may serve as my memoirs.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Halloween even though it's Veterans Day
First I'll welcome Miss Charlotte Jaymes Howe into our grand clan. We got to go up and see her the day after she was born. It still surprises me how small newborns are. Well, maybe not Isaac. He was dethroned in less than a week from his lofty spot as the newest Howe but I doubt he minds. I figured out that the difference in weight between Charlotte and him was Franklin! How weird is that?
I tried very hard last week to write about growing up "poor." I started over three or four times then gave up and went to bed. It's hard because I'm not looking for sympathy but just trying to describe what it was like. I still haven't figured it out so I will put it off until next week.
Halloween in Atomic City was tons different from what our kids and grandkids know. It was fun but much simpler. First, there were a finite number of places to Trick or Treat. We went to every house, that's right, every house. That's how we knew we were done. It was before the commercial gurus got involved so there was no such thing as mini-candy bars or Buick-sized bags of Halloween candy. Fortunately it was also before sickos putting pins, razor blades, napalm or whatever in the candy.
Most people made their own treats to hand out. Popcorn balls, candy apples, cookies and even fudge were common. Candy bars were full-size and bigger than the normal size now. It wasn't all that expensive since they cost a nickel apiece. One guy would give each of us a dime. His name was Robly Hooper and was very fat so everyone called him Tiny. Mom said he was an "Old Batch" whatever that meant. I thought it was cool because a dime could buy even more candy.
Costumes, for us anyway, were much simpler too. I had absolutely no imagination then (and not much now) so I usually wound up putting on some of my dad's old clothes, smearing some coffee grounds on my face to simulate stubble, and voila, I was a hobo. Face paint consisted of whatever cosmetics my sister LeAnna would part with. I remember she drew a scar on my cheek once when I was a pirate. An old sheet with some eye holes would make me a ghost. I don't remember any vampires, witches yes, but no pasty-faced ghouls. And we went by OURSELVES! No parents, maybe an older sibling, but usually just a bunch of kids. It was great fun.
Veterans Day.
Today, right now, this very minute, you breathe free air because ordinary men and women made, and make, extraordinary sacrifices that you may do so.
Please thank them...
I tried very hard last week to write about growing up "poor." I started over three or four times then gave up and went to bed. It's hard because I'm not looking for sympathy but just trying to describe what it was like. I still haven't figured it out so I will put it off until next week.
Halloween in Atomic City was tons different from what our kids and grandkids know. It was fun but much simpler. First, there were a finite number of places to Trick or Treat. We went to every house, that's right, every house. That's how we knew we were done. It was before the commercial gurus got involved so there was no such thing as mini-candy bars or Buick-sized bags of Halloween candy. Fortunately it was also before sickos putting pins, razor blades, napalm or whatever in the candy.
Most people made their own treats to hand out. Popcorn balls, candy apples, cookies and even fudge were common. Candy bars were full-size and bigger than the normal size now. It wasn't all that expensive since they cost a nickel apiece. One guy would give each of us a dime. His name was Robly Hooper and was very fat so everyone called him Tiny. Mom said he was an "Old Batch" whatever that meant. I thought it was cool because a dime could buy even more candy.
Costumes, for us anyway, were much simpler too. I had absolutely no imagination then (and not much now) so I usually wound up putting on some of my dad's old clothes, smearing some coffee grounds on my face to simulate stubble, and voila, I was a hobo. Face paint consisted of whatever cosmetics my sister LeAnna would part with. I remember she drew a scar on my cheek once when I was a pirate. An old sheet with some eye holes would make me a ghost. I don't remember any vampires, witches yes, but no pasty-faced ghouls. And we went by OURSELVES! No parents, maybe an older sibling, but usually just a bunch of kids. It was great fun.
Veterans Day.
Today, right now, this very minute, you breathe free air because ordinary men and women made, and make, extraordinary sacrifices that you may do so.
Please thank them...
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I Rant, Therefore I Am
So it's not as flowery as Cogito, ergo sum, I feel the need to rant. Before the ranting begins though I want to welcome young Isaac Jacob Howe into the world and our family. You have been born of goodly parents into a very large family that loves you and are glad you are here. Hopefully you were able to say "see ya" to miss Charlotte who will be joining us soon.
Let the ranting begin! Do keep in mind that I'm an old fart.
First off, pants. Now I'm all for them in general because I really don't have the legs for skirts and not even Robin Hood looked good in tights. My complaint is aimed at who-the-heck ever designed dress and "Docker" type pants. Why on this green earth do we need a button tab, a clip thingie, AND another bleeding button tab to secure the pants around our waists? That's not even counting the zipper and belt! I'm old. There are times when I could really use velcro. Then I have to remember the entire sequence in reverse when I'm done. I don't like it. Also, we have put men on the moon and peanut & jelly in the same jar, why in the name of all that is right with the universe can't they standardize the number of belt loops? Light bulbs fit in any old socket. The little pointy things on the end of electrical cords fit into the holes in the wall. Why not the number belt loops so all I need to do is count. It's hard enough just having to do stuff when you can't see what you are doing.
Expiration dates. I noticed the other day that my shampoo has expired. I fully understand it since I have been shaving my head for almost three years now, but an expiration date on shampoo? Really? What does that mean? My hair would still be dirty? No silky shinyness? All my hair would fall out (too late)? I know some things need expiration dates like dairy products and such. In fact I noticed the date of August 10, 2009 on the tub of fake butter I opened this morning. I still put it on my toast. It tasted fine.
Daylight Savings Time. It's a yankee concept that has absolutely no useful purpose in the modern world. China does quite well with only one time zone for crying out Pete's sake. Ben Franklin should have been shot the day before he thought of it.
Pinatas. Don't get me started. Kids, sticks. blindfolds, a moving target? They should just let them run with scissors and play in traffic.
Hair. This has nothing to do with the shampoo one. I am all for hair especially when it would grow spontaneously on my head. Is it fair at all that it should quit doing that just because I have "matured?" I don't think so. But, such are the adversities of life I can live with (without) that. But why, oh why do I need to have it growing out of my nose and EARS? What kind of evolutionary joke is THAT? Isn't it bad enough that us old farts lose our hearing, we should get hair blocking the sound? What? We've smelled enough too? Getting old is not for the faint of heart.
Negative political ads. I want to vomit. If it weren't for that "Freedom of Speech" thingie and I was king of the world, I would institute the Thumper's Mom's law: "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
Ranto, ergo sum.
Let the ranting begin! Do keep in mind that I'm an old fart.
First off, pants. Now I'm all for them in general because I really don't have the legs for skirts and not even Robin Hood looked good in tights. My complaint is aimed at who-the-heck ever designed dress and "Docker" type pants. Why on this green earth do we need a button tab, a clip thingie, AND another bleeding button tab to secure the pants around our waists? That's not even counting the zipper and belt! I'm old. There are times when I could really use velcro. Then I have to remember the entire sequence in reverse when I'm done. I don't like it. Also, we have put men on the moon and peanut & jelly in the same jar, why in the name of all that is right with the universe can't they standardize the number of belt loops? Light bulbs fit in any old socket. The little pointy things on the end of electrical cords fit into the holes in the wall. Why not the number belt loops so all I need to do is count. It's hard enough just having to do stuff when you can't see what you are doing.
Expiration dates. I noticed the other day that my shampoo has expired. I fully understand it since I have been shaving my head for almost three years now, but an expiration date on shampoo? Really? What does that mean? My hair would still be dirty? No silky shinyness? All my hair would fall out (too late)? I know some things need expiration dates like dairy products and such. In fact I noticed the date of August 10, 2009 on the tub of fake butter I opened this morning. I still put it on my toast. It tasted fine.
Daylight Savings Time. It's a yankee concept that has absolutely no useful purpose in the modern world. China does quite well with only one time zone for crying out Pete's sake. Ben Franklin should have been shot the day before he thought of it.
Pinatas. Don't get me started. Kids, sticks. blindfolds, a moving target? They should just let them run with scissors and play in traffic.
Hair. This has nothing to do with the shampoo one. I am all for hair especially when it would grow spontaneously on my head. Is it fair at all that it should quit doing that just because I have "matured?" I don't think so. But, such are the adversities of life I can live with (without) that. But why, oh why do I need to have it growing out of my nose and EARS? What kind of evolutionary joke is THAT? Isn't it bad enough that us old farts lose our hearing, we should get hair blocking the sound? What? We've smelled enough too? Getting old is not for the faint of heart.
Negative political ads. I want to vomit. If it weren't for that "Freedom of Speech" thingie and I was king of the world, I would institute the Thumper's Mom's law: "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
Ranto, ergo sum.
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