Make America Great Again!

Donald Trump is a little (everywhere), lyin’, ugly asshole.

I said it, so it is a fact. According to Mr. Rump, bump, Trump, he “alone”can defeat ISIS, and at the same time build a wall paid for by the people he wants to keep out. Right!?   “I didn’t touch her.”Lewandoski …really?

This photo proves that Teds’ wife is ugly and he can target her because..wait for it…wait for it …”He started it !”

I dedicate this post to my husband, Roger, who passed away November of last year. We all miss his wicked sense of humor.  He would have demolished Donald Trump…

Rules of the Road

Yield. Signal. Obey speed limit. No cell phones or distractions. Merge with traffic. Lane ends. Right now, this very moment, these rules of the road are being blatantly disregarded on the 17 times around equals a mile track at the Fort Collins Senior Center. I am too anal to break the rules myself, and I can read, which gives me a head start. Sometimes I get a workout just holding my tongue. I really want to say things like “Hey stupid! The sign says no cell phones.” but I keep myself in check. I amuse myself with fantasies of ripping the phone out of their hands and throwing it to the gym floor below.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday we circle the track clockwise,(and you guessed it ) on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday we go counterclockwise. This is what the sign says, but rules are made to be broken. Sometimes a wayward soul sees a clear lane and goes against the grain. There is much grumbling and mumbling about this infraction. Even the “they” is used like “They can’t read.” Of course,  no one says anything to the rule breaker, because of the “Be nice.” rule. Walkers or runners in the wrong lane create a “run the gauntlet” or “no forward motion” scenario, which makes passing a slower walker a risky move. Check your rear view mirror, yield to oncoming foot traffic, don’t forget to check both ways, say a Hail Mary and go!

On the bike trail, bikers say “on your right (left)” or ring a bell when passing. Usually this keeps both walker and rider safe. I don’t think this would work for traffic control on the Senior center track. Many walkers have ear buds or headphones on turned up to maximum volume for the hard of hearing. A jet engine doesn’t provoke a response, so a meek “Excuse me” doesn’t cut it. My loud panting as I jog is a mere whisper. If you are lucky, a hard stare or scowl at their back, at close range, often creeps them out enough so they wake up and yield.

The “regulars” on the track know the rules and this is comforting to me. We smile, say hello,and trust that no one will careen out of control because they took the curve too fast. If someone doesn’t show up for awhile, I notice their absence and hope theyare on a cruise and not sick or worse. I worry about the “older” walkers and think of myself as young. It’s all relative, isn’t it?

Tipping Point

I can see the teeter-totter on the playground at St. Francis Desales Grade School, but I feel it more. Remember in the 1950’s, little girls wore dresses to school. My thighs and butt were in direct contact with the sun-warmed, weathered, and gray wood. I carefully fanned out the skirt of my dress to cover my upper thighs and panties. Boys could jump on quickly and not spend time adjusting clothing. Splinters were a hazard, so sliding forward or backward to get in position was ill advised, especially for girls. I remember that being stuck in the air was not the favored position, because it meant you were outweighed and powerless. Up or down, down or up. I didn’t tell anybody, but I actually liked to be up in outer space, the view was better.

The playground hierarchy was simple, number one was God, two was whichever nun was playground supervisor, number three was boys and last were girls dressed in pretty dresses. We were told to be careful not to show too much of ourselves. Every now and then a brave girl would hang by her knees and let it all hang out! ” I see London, I see France , I see ______
underpants.” Then sister would scold the culprit on Gods’ behalf, the boys would smirk and the other girls would cheer silently.

As we grew into young women, we left the playground but took the playground rules with us. Don’t,don’t and don’t. We were guardians of the dark secrets under our skirts, clamping our knees together to stop invaders. The game was “Name that Slut”, and now God was involved, and the faces of the nuns looked like the dried apples we used to make old ladies’ faces in art class.The boys were gamers having a good time, wracking up high scores and leaving “damaged goods” behind them. The girls turned on each other, pointed their fingers and labeled their sisters a slut. Some of us were raped, and felt guilty because our knees were pried apart and we couldn’t stop the invader. The pretty dresses we wore meant we were asking for it….

If we had children, special allowances were made. We lifted up our skirts and exposed ourselves to give birth. Babies entered the world through our vaginas, and lots of people watched. We were asked to spread our legs and push our babies out; totally exposed, we worked the hardest we ever worked. The miracle of birth was celebrated, but we quickly covered ourselves again. The “Birds and the Bees” returned.

We never get to brag about our magnificent vaginas and how well everything works “down there”. At 63, I still have a hard time using the word vagina. The Donald has no hesitation discussing how large his penis is. He used the word “pussy” to denigrate an opponent and all women. Imagine watching children play on a playground, and then picture a little girl in a pretty dress , wearing patent leather shoes and a bow in her hair. She is standing off by herself but suddenly she shrugs her shoulders and runs to climb on the jungle gym, and soon she is hanging by her knees, with a big smile on her face….

Like a Rolling Stone

Fifty years ago, Bob Dylan recorded “Like a Rolling Stone”. The song was an anthem for my generation. Dylans’ angry lyrics celebrated a privileged princess’ fall from grace. He asked ” How does it feel to be on your own , like a complete unknown, no direction home, like a rolling stone?” The sixties were years of protest and anti-establishment rhetoric and Dylan was a spokesman. The “princess” needed to be knocked off her pedestal and pay her dues like the rest of us.

I am 63 and surely I am grown up, right? I miss my youthful certainty and the luxury of black or white thinking. Assigning blame is not so easy now, but my anger is just below the surface. I may not be protesting in the street, but I can still send a raging email to express how right I am and how wrong you are. Why is there no warning with the send button? When my justice meter registers unfairness, my anger pounces . I have this silly notion that once I point out how unfair the world is, it will comply with my wishes. Of course it wasn’t fair that Roger got Lewy Body Dementia. The fat, out of shape guy with a huge beer belly deserved to get dementia. After screaming and raging and sobbing, I was left with….. acceptance. Why not Roger? Why not me?

I still want the good guys to win. I want to raise my fist in the air victorious in the battle between good and evil. John Lennon wrote “Power to the People” and I would like some of that power.Now I know, life guarantees we all experience a fall from grace. We don’t spend much time on a pedestal . We are too busy playing “King of the Mountain”. What would my younger self say about me now? I will let Mr. Dylan tell it like it is, ” Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now”.

A Slice of Heaven

When Roger was still able to walk, he and I ambled slowly around the neighborhood. I created a quiz so that Roger had a focus and engaged in conversation. We played a little game I called “Five of a kind”, and I asked him to name five kinds of cookies, or five different birds, or five kinds of cake, etc….  His favorite cookies were oatmeal raisin cookies, especially the ones his Mom made. We both loved the meadowlarks’ song, and the striking blue of the Mountain bluebird.

When Roger was tired of the five of a kind  game we built new worlds. Heaven was his creation, and he picked the food he wanted, his favorite chair to sit in, and even his pick of tv shows. He always put me in heaven with him, even when I was sure  I didn’t belong there.

Now I play my own version of “five of a kind”. I try to  list my gratefuls daily, especially when my world turns to shit. This reminds me to pay attention to what is good in my world. As for Roger, I know he had butter and sour cream on his baked potatoe and a big slice of cherry pie for dessert, because that is what he ordered for his heavenly meal.