Sheep and Stereotypes

My last entry, which even the most humor-challenged amongst us could have surely understood was a tongue in cheek pontification of a single, liberal nation-state on the “Left Coast,” brought upon me an avalanche — or storm from snowflakes — that I had not quite anticipated. I had, of course, observed that the election had brought out the worst of behavior on both sides, but even in taking several steps back, it did seem quite clear that the left had behaved in a manner far less tolerant than the right, and when they did attack, did so with far greater vitriol. Indeed if we learned one new fact about liberals with any degree of certainty during what I think we all agree was silly season, it would be that they collectively possess zero sense of irony. The great tolerators would not tolerate; the love, peace, and potcicle brigade would protest, shout expletives and damage property to emphasize their moral superiority. Some of their most prominent mouthpieces are millionaire performers or media figures of one ilk or another who preach about higher taxes, non-engagement, the AAC, open borders and more, yet some of whom were revealed in the Panama Papers to have made use themselves of elaborate tax avoidance schemes offshore. They’ll fly their G6 to the grocery store, but lecture the rest of us on climate change. They want us to accept refugees but argue against applying even the most basic of common sense checks and balances to that system in order to secure our country because they are afraid of offending strangers, but expect the U.S. citizenry to continue to buy their music and movies. They do not even understand or make an effort to comprehend that a large part of the reason for the now historic refugee crisis is our non-engagement in Syria, whether in supporting regime change or in committing real force to combating ISIS.

But yesterday in receiving the first of my mean tweets — my new badge of honor – I realized that I’ve seen these people before. I see them almost daily in the research that I do for my work. These are the women who are anti-GMO, but want us to feed children in Africa, not understanding the correlation between the two. They give vaccines to their children and would accept life-saving cancer treatment if they needed it, but do not understand that the same biotech that creates those cutting edge drugs is the same that is used in GMO seeds. These are the people who venerate a movie star who produced a documentary called “Cowspiracy” about how agriculture is causing climate change, but who himself likely cannot remember they last time he flew on a commercial plane.

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Service in a Saucer


I wrote this originally in 2088 while still living abroad, and am doing so now for a number of reasons which range from serious to facetious.

First, I’ve always been more than just mildly annoyed at the difficulties I’ve had entering the UK over the years, despite having lived there for eight. I’ve lived in China and Russia, and never faced the same sort of scrutiny that I have there, strawberry blonde, green-eyed, American passport toting Southern girl that I am. To be sure, it is nowhere nearly as bad as it used to be, and hasn’t happened in a very long time – mostly because now when they ask why I’m there, I simply say “because I can,”  list my address as The Dorchester and stare – but it used to border on absurd. Once, when my son was still a very small toddler, I was stopped at customs at Gatwick and challenged on whether or not I had the right to bring my child abroad with me. It was about 2 a.m. in our home in the U.S., but the customs officials pulled me aside and insisted on calling my ex-husband, despite the fact that I had a notarized letter from my lawyer ex-husband stating that my son was in my sole custody,  as well as a copy of our custody agreement which clearly stated the same, in addition to my by then well worn UK work visa.

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Celebrity Disparity

What’s that you say, my fragile snowflake?
Upset no one cares, though your outrage is fake?

You’re not different, hun, it’s a thing called life.
You’re bad hair day doesn’t qualify as strife.

Is your father in jail or your mother on crack?
Are you afraid of your partner because you think they might snap?

Do you wander all day just looking for clean water,
Or loathe your “one child” because, oops, it’s a daughter?

Were you born in the slums and raised by strangers?
Would you not recognize life if it weren’t filled with danger?

Do your hear a noise, drop to your knees and cower?
Was your worst ever shower comprised of gun-powder?

If your answer is “no” to all of these questions,
Then I hope you’ll take my only suggestion.

Give up on the pout and stop all the whining,
And get over yourself, Miss Hollywood & Vining.

Fundamentalist Barbie

Or “The Regime has changed but the crazy remains the same.”


Something I wrote a number of years ago before Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – or MockMoodyMadJihad, as I called him – fell from power. Yet it seems relevant still today  – to me at least – because of the ongoing media obsession with PEOTUS Trump’s perceived coziness with Putin and Russia. Some of us studied, have degrees in, and read voraciously still today about Russian & Soviet Politics – past and present – and likewise generally stay apprised of world events on the whole.

I was gobsmacked and disgusted over the Iran deal that was done under the Obama administration; just yesterday morning, our Navy ships in the Straits of Hormuz were forced to fire warning shots on Iranian boats.  I will not go into the chapter and verse detailed criticism to which my entire family and close circle of friends have been repeatedly subjected, but suffice it to say that it has more gaps than the London Tube system. But converse to the daily scrutiny, which borders on hysteria, by most of the U.S. press regarding Trump/Putin, the mainstream media’s critical or objective commentary on the Iran deal is remarkable only in the absence of it. Yet that government is batcrap on a cracker crazy. And – most importantly of all – hugely influenced by Russia.

So this begs the question – again, to me at least – of why it’s so wrong to have a cordial, if not cooperative, relationship with Russia, as they are the head of this proverbial snake; a snake which also is comprised largely of the clusterfuck that is Syria.

In the case of many of the kerfuffles which exist in the most problematic parts of this world in which we live, Russia is at the seat at the top of the table of dysfunction. So why not pull up a chair. How much worse can it get.


Fundamentalist Barbie – 2008

Several weeks ago I was watching CNN and the crawl across the bottom of the screen said “Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran says that Barbie is a severe threat to national security.”

Well, duh. Does he think this is some sort of revelation (not a biblical reference, Mr. Mockmoodymadjihad)? Seriously. I want to know one little girl who was ever made to feel SECURE by Barbie. Her make-up is always perfect, even after sleeping 12 hours or 12 weeks, being thrown in the dirt, flushed down the toilet or carried off in the mouth of a dog. Her hair always shines without any apparent use of conditioner or treatment. Her stomach is so flat it is concave. Her boobs so spherical and upright that even surface-to-air missiles are envious of them. And, of course, she has the Dream House, pink Corvette, and (sexually questionable) Ken. She is clearly the plastic embodiment of every unachievable goal that women my age now set for themselves. Indeed, it may even be the very reason that so many women my age now inject and look like plastic – they are only trying to emulate their heroine. But somehow Mr. Mockmoodymadjihad thinks that it’s only his country whose security is threatened by her increasing omnipresence, and members of his cabinet have even gone so far as to suggest that this is some sort of covert effort by the Western World to smuggle our ideals into their otherwise Ziploc tight Islamic regime.

Indeed at full rant it seems as though they are setting the stage to argue that there is a serious underground movement that operates in and profits from…..doll trafficking.

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Check Your Ho Before You Go

Have you ever heard of Common Sense? It was written by one of the American founding fathers named Thomas Paine and first published anonymously during the American Revolution in 1776. Not because he was afraid of the USE of Common Sense – as we seem to be today – but because of the political sensitivity of the article’s contents. And what the inside of that man’s grave must look like today. Imagine a turbo-charged weenie roaster trapped inside a bunny hutch – the man is spinning in disgust and disbelief at what has become of his nation and of society at large.

Now for those of you expecting me to launch into a tirade about the recent elections, or who are expecting me to wax poetic about matters of philosophy and intellect, I am sorry to disappoint.

Invariably there are at least 100 different paths down which I could travel in my attempt to prove the complete demise of common sense in our society. But as I have already had a couple of cocktails, I am thusly inclined to take the path of least resistance; to go for the low-hanging fruit. Yes, I’m talking about airports.

For whatever reason, I am considered by the TSA and by extension the wonderfully omnipotent government of the USA to be an SSSS. A quadruple small? Clearly these people no not from whence they speak as I am a 36-D with a booty Beyonce couldn’t touch. Human intelligence my fanny. If they can’t see that then it’s no wonder that the world is in such a state. But I’m told that in fact this is not a reference to my non-existent impossibly petite stature, but to the fact that I am a perpetual “selectee.” Despite the fact that I have flown more than two million miles with one airline alliance without a single incident (unless, of course, you count the way I lob peanuts of people who snore after too many martinis halfway through a 13 hour flight), I am still somehow deemed one of the single greatest threats to national security since Bill and Hillary Clinton consummated their marriage and he thus decided he preferred women instead.

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On Fear of Change

Thursday of last week, I was on a conference call regarding a change – a fairly fundamental one – that needed to be made in order for a client to move their marketing efforts forward, or even into 2016. But this conversation involved another, third-party vendor of this same client. This third party supplies something that is out of date and that is very much holding back said client and is in urgent need of being replaced. But rather than being a good partner to the client (long-term view), they quickly became combative, protective and launched into a litany of negative “you can’t” preceded by comments on how and why this change would be detrimental. But not to the client; to them (short-term view).

When the call was finished, I was speaking with a colleague with whom I have now had the joy of working at four different companies. We have a similar work ethic, thought process and skill set, so our take on this conversation was likewise the same. Except that from amongst the thorny, more than fifty-minute call, he had extracted one observation that not only succinctly summed this particular situation, but also another parallel conundrum we currently face. He essentially said that it’s companies such as this third party supplier, who made their money on one single attribute that has long since been outdated, which go out of their way to hold back their clients from progress because they have failed to – or refused to – make progress themselves. They have one last piece of leverage they hold onto and over their clients’ heads in order to ensure they remain – if not relevant – at least necessary to the client. Like the clingy ex who would rather be needed for what they have (required and resented) than loved for who they are (chosen of free will). Not attractive.

Ironically, also on Thursday, late in the day as I was cleaning out my inbox from the emails I had skipped over in preference of those more pertinent, I came across an all company chain that had been sent earlier, but which I had not opened. When I did, I quickly realized that this very thinly veiled snark that had been sent to the entire company was aimed at me and that three other people had piled on to help the originator of the first in the thread. The most surprising aspect of this being that I do not know and have never even met the person who originated the email, yet he somehow seems to think that he knows me – or at the very least has somehow, via what I am sure is most reliable fourth party information – got the measure of me.

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I’m a 4


I’m finally a number 4. Not a pencil – is that even a thing? No, I’ve finally reached number 4 on the scale of evolution according to my former, formidable and frightening 4’5″, septo/octo(?)genarian Russian professor, Evgenia Khukharenko.

Dr. Khukharenko came as a visiting oral Russian instructor my senior year of college, and I had class with her 5 days a week, as you did if you were a Russian language major in your final year. During that same time, I had also mysteriously contracted the hiccups, but not just occasional, almost unnoticeable hiccups; no, I had them every day, convulsively and painfully. I saw any number of doctors and specialists and was finally at the end of my tether when the last doctor I visited told me to start keeping a diary of when they began and ended each day – something that should have been common sense from the outset and which inevitably solved the riddle: I developed the hiccups each day before I went into her class out of stress, they  intensified during class, and then stuck with me until well after dinner each evening. So it’s hardly any wonder that when she was one of two professors chosen to review and grade my senior thesis, I quickly descended into fits of what could almost be described as rhythmic hiccups.

I actually received my final, graded thesis back from my senior seminar professor, who was also my advisor and the other one to judge it, and who proudly awarded me an A-. The subject was my theory that the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and our subsequent funding of rebels to fight against them in perhaps the last of our actual proxy wars would end up creating and arming a new generation of jihadis who would eventually turn against us. This was in 1994. Anyway, usually known for his verbose and direct criticism, in this case he made only two comments: 1) please use your intelligence for purposes of good, not evil and 2) go see Dr. Khukharenko as she has something she wishes to share with you.

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T.A.T. (Turkey Assed Time)

Wrote this years ago, but I never learn, so it remains apropos.


Every year we sing about the 12 days of Christmas
But no one ever praises the next days of listlessness.

When you’ve gained five pounds and can’t fit in your jeans,
And you have more zits than you did in your teens.

Why don’t we ever remember the squeeze,
That was brought on by that last bite of cheese?

Or the arrival of bills for presents galore,
And things we “Just couldn’t leave in the store!”

It’s because of the hormones contained in the turkey,
It shrinks the brain and makes you feel quirky!

And ensures you forget the suffering that results,
Or the drunken family dinners with hurled insults.

Instead you remember the kids with their gifts,
Uncle Fred’s toupee and his shoes with the lifts.

So this is my tribute to the 30 days thereafter.
The turkey may be dead, but we’re the butt of his laughter.