Oh No You Didn't

So last night the President gave the State of the Union speech, and trust me I have more to say about that (among other things) and plan to get off my duff and post them (really!). But for this moment I would like to concentrate on the actions of one Samuel Alito last night during the speech.

While I think it is nuts to make the Supreme Court (and for that matter the major military brass) attend the State of the Union since they can't indicate any partisanship that however, is the way it is. Except last night when it wasn't. For Justice Alito decided to add his editorial head shake to President Obama's disapproval for the recent Court ruling that allowed corporations to contribute to political campaigns without limits. In effect the Court gave corporations the right of individual citizens saying that it was a First Amendment issue of free speech. Not only does this reverse a hundred years of Court rulings, but it is just plain bad. Corporations do not always, or even some of the time depending on the business, have the best interests of our citizens or our country at the heart of their enterprises. Rather they are often interested in only what makes them profitable. For every Google who pledges to "Do no evil" (which you can feel free to believe or not) there is an Enron that knowingly fleeces its employees and stock holders for the benefit of a small minority. Or an Exxon who allows a natural catastrophe to occur, decimating an environment and a legion of wildlife.

So when President Obama said the ruling had "opened the floodgates" and would allow special interests and even foreign countries to hold sway in our elections, Alito shook his head and apparently mouthed the words "not true."

Wow. In a world where even which big box store you buy from can be a partisan decision, I had hoped we could cling to the allusion that our Supreme Court still had a veneer of impartiality and could rise above the fray of democrat/republican bickering. Apparently like much these days when it comes to our political leaders, I was disastrously wrong. My bad, but Alito's worst.

37 Candles

I have made no bones about my long and illustrious fascination with Molly Ringwald. From her red locks to her two piercings in one ear to the grunge-era ode to her by the band Sponge, I love me some of the Brat Pack Princess. I thought the closest I would ever come to being like Ms. Ringwald would be a result of a box of Ms. Clairol and my mother not buying me a birthday present when I was 17 until I cried at the local fish restaurant and guilted her into taking me to the video store for a VHS copy of Help! starring the Fab Four (John, Paul George and Ringo, will never, I repeat NEVER let you down).

But alas, as James Bond so helpfully reminds us, Never Say Never Again. Thirty seven years and about 1 hour and 45 minutes ago on a Monday evening I entered the world, if my mother's recollection is to be trusted. Then again, she could have me confused with my brother's birth. Regardless, this birthday I was forgotten. I got calls from my brother, my mother-in-law, my step-daughter, my step-step-son, my grad school friend, and my next door neighbor. That doesn't include the countless greetings from people I barely knew in college who I am friends with on Facebook. But my mother—nothing.

So kiddies, when it comes time for your grown-ass children to hit their 37th, 57th or 87th, if you are still walking the Earth, I prey that you do not forget them. Because whether you are 16 or any age, having your mom forget your birthday SUCKS BALLS.

Word Jumble

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming . . .

I am alternatively amused and fascinated by the different meanings we imbue on a word. God knows that I love and make frequent use of my share of obscenities and profanities.

"I had heard that word at least ten times a day from my old man. He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master."

Someday, perhaps the spawn will speak so lovingly and eloquently of me.

I honestly think I could make some sailors blush if given the opportunity and I managed to snag the spouse largely as a result of my salty tongue, but I digress. Word meanings—isn't it crazy how we decide that "fuck" is a bad word and that "flock" is not. They are merely letters and sounds put together that we put our meaning on.

Then there are those words that mean different things in different places. One favorite of mine is shag. Here in the good 'ole U.S of A it is a rip, roaring dance made popular on the beaches of the southern states back in the 1950s and 60s. But you cross the pond to our intrepid neighbors in the English language and shag is a less than romantic form of copulation. You say toe-may-toe, I say toe-mah-toe . . . that sort of thing, you know?

So I am intrigued by the hullaballoo that the Right has made about President Obama's lack of the use of the word terror. Does it matter what we call it when someone decides that their ideas and opinions are more valuable than the lives of other innocent human beings? Or does the fact that those human beings don't hold those same values or opinions dear, make them somehow guilty? I guess in the eyes of those terrorists or bombers or extremists, those who aren't with them are against them. Gosh, that sounds familiar, doesn't it?

In the end, terror is just a word that tries to contain the horror of one person or one's group decision to cause harm, unexpectedly and without warning, to another person or group. It is the action and meaning behind the word that we need to focus on, not the word itself.

New Year, New Rant

Pardon me gentle readers as I digress from our typical topic of politics, although god knows I haven't exactly been verbose on the topic of late. There has been so much back and forth, most of it mindless about the health care debate for the past several months that I have been only too willing to tune it out. Today's little ditty touches on the healthcare topic, but not quite in the vein that our beloved politicians have been tossing about since before Santa squeezed his fat ass down the chimney.

So, today's post is going to get a bit personal, I promise to not get graphic or icky, after all some of you may be delicate. I am going to talk about my yearly visit to the lady doctor. For those of you who aren't female, we of the xx chromosome persuasion are expected to visit the lady doctor on an annual basis and get our girly bits checked out. While I know you men have to go groped in the giblets, trust me, it ain't the same. But I promised not to be graphic.

When I called several weeks ago, after realizing that my normal time of year for this appointment had come and gone with no note from the lady doctor to remind me, I was told that my doctor of the past five-ish years had left the practice. So I picked someone who I saw once during the rotation during my pregnancy with the spawn. This doctor had seemed pleasant enough and I figured it was no big deal.

I arrived 15 minutes early as requested. I waited. After about half an hour, the nurse called my name and took me back to get my blood pressure, height and weight. Ms. Personality asked me no other questions and took no other information. This took maybe five minutes. She then asked me to wait in another waiting room. Almost 45 minutes go by this time and I am finally escorted to the examination room. I don my lovely little gown and sit beneath my paper sheet, eager to share my private parts with someone new. At least another fifteen minutes go by. Finally the doctor enters, shakes my hand, says nice to meet you. She asks me a brief question or two and then begins the exam. She finishes, asks if there is anything else, hands over my chart and leaves. In all, she saw me for five minutes.

Listen, I get that doctors are busy. And she apologize for keeping me waiting. But when the lady who does my bikini wax spends more time in my nether regions than my gynecologist, something is seriously wrong. I had met this lady only once, she obviously didn't remember me (which is fine and to be expected), but to not take the time to a) meet me with my FREAKIN' clothes on and b) to ask me a bit about me and my medical history is flat wrong.

The spouse asked, "Did you expect her to take you out to dinner, like a date?" Well, no, but back in the day when I was dating, a dude had to do a bit more than just make me wait almost two hours and ask me how my birth control of choice was working for me. Admittedly my standards weren't super high back then, but I had some self-respect.

So I think I will be shopping for a new doctors office. I mean, if you are going to stick your head in my crotch, I at least expect you to make a bit of small talk first. I don't think that is asking too much.