Surfing the net can be, ah, enlightening

As I wait to straighten out my stomach problems—pretty sure it’s a medication problem now, but fixing it involves going from one doctor to the other, always tricky—I’ve found myself spending way too much time on Facebook. I have friends who say to me loftily that they don’t “do” Facebook, their tone implying a sort of addiction for the weak-minded. But I have always maintained that it is good for my career and, besides, it generally interests me. You really must learn to separate the junk from the good stuff, but even the junk can give you a laugh.

Like the piece I read today where a Fox newscaster proposed that the reason America is so great today is that “we defeated communist Japan.” Oops. Someone needs some lessons in world history, particularly WWII.

And along the line of blindness, Steve Scalise wrote me upset that I have not yet sent my donation to the RNCC. Hope he’s holding his breath until he turns blue, because it will be a long, cold day before I donate to the Republican anything. Scalise, like Nunes, pleads that the Republicans might lose control of the House—not my worst nightmare by a long shot. Honest, I thought surviving that life-threatening gunshot would have “shot” some remorse or self-examination into him, but apparently not.

On an encouraging note, I read a buried post that the Pentagon has decided to postpone trump’s extravagant military parade, first scheduled for Veteran’s Day this year. They are now looking at dates in 2019. Pray God this is true, and trump is out of office before the parade can cost us much. [Update: this is apparently now, two days later, a done deal, and the parade is toast—a big of common sense lingers on the horizon, thank heaven!]

On a light note, a friend posted the “recipe” for coca-cola syrup, dating back to who-knows-when. But I was surprised it called for a quarter of lime juice—that’s a lot of limes to squeeze, back when I’m not sure margaritas or guac were that central to our diet. Add a lot of water, a quart of alcohol (type unspecified—suppose it was Everclear?), 30 lbs. of sugar (and run to the dentist), and several flavorings including neroli oil, which sounds deadly. No wonder I don’t drink it. Unfortunately, it didn’t say how much you end up with, but I get it’s enough for Coxie’s Army. Thanks, Chrissy Armstrong for a chuckle.

And thanks to another old friend from Park Hill days, Kathy Jackson, for a reminder of the days when I had a good-sized floor loom set up in my bedroom. I suspect I was never a peaceful enough soul to get into the rhythm of weaving. I consider that my loss.

Most of this blog post was written two days ago and, as happens these days, got set aside. Part of my new resolve is to blog daily, beginning today, but I just can’t waste already-written copy. So here it is, for whatever it’s worth. More to come.

My Beautiful Black Dog

I missed Black Dog Day a couple of days ago. Can’t remember what was on my mind Sunday—probably not much. But last night, like all our nation, my mind was on the massacre in Las Vegas. I haven’t put that tragedy aside, but first I want to pay tribute to Sophie, my black Bordoodle (deliberate cross of a miniature poodle and a border collie). Why she came out of that cross black, or really black tipped with gray, I’ll never know.

At six, Sophie is into middle age but has lost none of her enthusiasm for chasing squirrels and other creatures that might invade her yard. She’s also enthusiastic about visitors, making her welcome plain. Woe betide the occasional strange she doesn’t take to—I am immediately suspicious of that person. In short, Soph has a zest for life that is a joy to see. And affection? She demands to be first in line, in front of the other two dogs.

Sophie has gotten more protective as she ages. If I go in the main house for dinner, she goes for a bit but then wants to come outside, where she stands guard at the cottage door until I return. Generally, she starts out the night by my bed, though during the night she migrates to the couch or her favorite chair. She’s had a little problem the last two nights. Colin has slept on her couch. When I got up in the middle of the night last night, she quickly appropriated the spot in the bed I’d vacated and expected to return to. It took a little coaxing to move her, and at that I had barely enough space to keep from thinking I would momentarily fall out of bed. But I had a warm body pressing against my legs.

Tonight, Jordan and I sat outside with the three dogs. Lovely evening, but every time Sophie chased a squirrel, Cricket, the older of the two Cavaliers, tagged along with a look on her face that said, “What? What should I do now?” June Bug, the one who’s been under the weather, just ignored them both.

A bonus to our evening happy hour—two blue jays flitted back and forth from the edge of the roof to branches of the oak tree above them. I know they don’t have a nest this time of year, so we were curious. And, oh rare occasion, we saw a hummingbird flitting about the hibiscus. Now if only the cardinal would come back.

I cannot get Las Vegas out of my mind—nor should any of us. I was appalled today to read that this was the 273^rd shooting this year, albeit much more spectacular (sorry, can’t verify the statistic, but it sounds reasonable).. Stephen Paddock earned himself the dubious distinction of being responsible for the largest mass shooting in American history, even surpassing the slaughter of Lakota Sioux at Wounded Knee. I worry now about who will set out to beat that record—a grisly thought.

Republicans have uniformly deflected calls for tighter gun control by saying, “Not now. This is not the time. This is a time for mourning.” My indignation knows no bounds. If not now, when? It’s appalling to me that these men and women callously ignore the rate of gun deaths in this country compared to other developed (and most undeveloped) countries. It is beyond acceptance with a shrug. We must vote these people out of office, make gun control a major issue in the upcoming congressional elections. The callousness of the Republican response baffles me. They seem, as a collective group, to be totally without compassion.

Even Stephen Scalise did not come forward, he who was critically wounded by an out-of-control gunman last spring. It’s like they never learn, they never sense the mood of the public. Makes me think more about where I want to live next—Canada? All those health benefits, tight gun control (no machine guns). Looks increasingly attractive.

Hmmm. Do you think I could get my family to go with me?