Green Card Soldiers

We've been hearing statistics regarding the war in Iraq officially for 5 years now. That sad anniversary was noted recently with many news stories and marches of protest.

Occasionally, when an in depth story is done about the life and death of a soldier; that soldier will be an immigrant and not a citizen. Many people myself included, wondered how a person not a citizen of this country can be in the military, but the answer is they can. From Der Spiegel (The Mirror) Online International: "In July 2002, US President George W. Bush issued an executive order to expand existing legislation to offer a fast track to citizenship to foreigners who agree to fight for the US Armed Forces. About 8,000 non-Americans have joined the US military every year since then". There is even a name that has been coined to describe this portion of our armed forces: "Green Card Soldiers".

As I was in the post office today my eyes fell on a brightly colored brochure on the counter. The brochure appealed to "Men, 18 through 25, Do The Right Thing. Register. It's Quick - It's Easy - It's The Law". Hmmm....well clearly I wasn't the target audience for this advertising, but I wanted to know what it said. I picked it up and began to read, when I got to the "Who Must Register" section I was just perplexed. "Male U.S. citizens, documented and undocumented, residing in the U.S. and its territories must register if they are between 18 and 25".

I wondered how that happened. Aren't undocumented people otherwise known as Illegal immigrants? Assuming the degree of fear and tension associated with that status is someone really going to announce that status for the purpose of registering for the draft? I just don't know.

One thing I do know: that if someone chooses to risk their lives for this country no matter their country of origin, then I am deeply respectful of and grateful to them for that.

The Power Of Pretty-Part 2

The girl was over 6 ft. tall, though whether it was the 5 in. heels she was wearing or the long, wild, streaked, "just F'd" hair that contributed more to her height, I couldn't say.

The girl wasn't wearing anything particularly revealing: tight jeans, but not so tight you'd wonder about her ability to breath, and a black animal print halter. No, it was the over all effect; the hair, lots of makeup, the heels, just that slight whiff of "dirty girl" that rendered every male in the gas station this afternoon speechless.

Her new, black, Jeep was on the other side of the pump island and we both had to go into the station. She was ahead of me and I had the opportunity to notice both the girl and the effect she had on the men. Her walk was quick, the heels clicking on the cement, her head down, surrounded by a curtain of hair. I recognized the walk, it said: "notice me, but I'm not going to notice you".

I recognized that walk because it was exactly my walk in my twenties. It's the walk of a girl who knows she has the power of pretty but clearly doesn't know what to do with it or what it can do to you. It's the walk of a girl who constructed her appearance to be noticed because she's looking for something, but she's unclear what that something is.

As she began to pump her gas she made eye contact with me and gave me a little half smile.

I know I was the only person in that station she made eye contact with. I was no threat to her. I'm not that girl anymore.

What Kind Of Husband Will Gary Coleman Make?

Last week the news broke that Gary Coleman was secretly married, and had been since August 2007 to 22-year-old Shannon Price. At the risk of using the obvious quip: "watchu talkin 'bout?" I know that there's a lid for every pot, but I had a hard time wrapping my mind around this.

I've heard news stories and seen reality shows with Gary Coleman featured and my impression has been that he's an unrelentingly bitter and angry man. The Cashcall commercials I've seen him in had a whiff of desperation that just made me sad for him. And while I don't deny Coleman may have gotten a few hard knocks in life but really, who hasn't? As Don Henley sings in, "The Heart Of The Matter", "you keep carrying that anger, it'll each you up inside baby".

The thing I really keep wondering about is: what kind of husband will Gary Coleman make? Coleman's new bride sells his clothing and other items on ebay and they claim that they kept their marriage secret because Shannon didn't want to be known as "Gary Coleman's wife". Whoa! Isn't that what most new brides DO want, to be known as the wife of the man they love? Gary says he "wouldn't want that in a million years" and hopes she becomes famous for selling on ebay. Watching these two on Inside Edition was one of the most painful things I've seen since the Mike Tyson/Robin Givens interview some years back with Barbara Walters.

Still, the first year of marriage is a tough one for lots of people and maybe they'll make it. I'd like to see a Gary with the albatross of anger lifted from his shoulders.

That would be something to talk about Willis.

Benazir Bhutto - Rest In Peace, Pinky

December 27, 2007, Benazir Bhutto was assassinated. I was saddened by the news, even though I don’t personally have much knowledge of the woman or the politics and country for which she gave her life.

I remember the first time I became aware of Benazir Bhutto; I had read an article in a magazine, the name of which escapes me now, written by a Harvard classmate of Bhutto’s. The classmate remembered how everyone called her “Pinky”, what a sweet and sheltered girl she was.

Something about this article struck me and stuck with me; whenever I would hear Benazir Bhutto’s name over the years this article would always be my reference point. Bhutto was not much older than I and in my imagination she shared some of the qualities that most girls do in college; young, somewhat innocent, still years away from what would be truly life changing experiences.

I don’t know if anyone really knows why he or she is impacted by the death of a person they’ve never met. Millions cried for Princess Diana though she wasn’t a close friend or family member; if I had to speculate on the reason I’d say it’s because people saw some aspect of themselves in her, so that when she died it was like losing a piece of themselves.

I again found myself reading an article about Benazir Bhutto shortly before her assassination, this one also written by a former classmate. The writer wrote about Benazir’s troubled marriage, her aging mother who was ill with Alzheimer’s and whom Bhutto took care of, about Bhutto’s loneliness and her children. I realized that I saw aspects of myself in Bhutto; I too had been very lonely in my lifetime and had entered into unfortunate relationships for what seemed like good reasons at the time.

I think the loneliness is what resonated most for me. Bhutto was a woman who would never really be able to live her life because her life was meant for so much more. She could never have the luxury of selfishness, she must be concerned with the needs of her people at all times; it seemed like such a weight…and I guess it was; one that she gave her life for.

Rest in peace Pinky.

Sunday Scribblings:Holiday Memories

Picture this: Los Angeles, 1963, an adorable little girl stands looking at the Christmas tree, her mouth quivering. Why is this little darling standing there with one large wet tear running down her cheek?

Because, there was one gift she wanted more than anything; more than the pony she asked for and didn't get the previous Christmas, what would make her tender young heart swell to overflowing with joy?

BARBIE!!!!

What did she get? This:




Nuff Said!

This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: Dance, You Tube and Me

So the prompt for this week's Sunday Scribblings is "Dance". At first I thought, "I got nothin". I used to love to dance but unfortunately these days, certain health concerns preclude my dancing, unless it's in a chair. I'll set a chair on fire with my moves I tell ya!

So dance, what about dance? I was hopping around on Entrecard this morning and I came across a blog that had the following clip on it and that was my aha! moment. I went over to my favorite, You Tube, and sure enough there was the same clip! If you've got some time to kill you must go over to You Tube and enter "funny wedding dance" into the search; there's some clips that are not to be believed!

Anyway, I chose these two clips because dance is all about being joyful, funny, happy, moving free and these two really did it for me. I hope you enjoy them too.

This first clip well, I do believe it's "The Routine" that Monica and Ross did together on Friends, isn't it?






Watch the following clip and tell me Shaq is not "Lord of the Dance".





This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: MP's Theory Of Gift Giving

Well the holidays are upon us, it seems like only yesterday it was 102 degree heat (at least here in the LV), where does the time go?

One of the elements that exists about the holidays, and this is true regardless of which holiday you're celebrating, holidays involve gift giving. For some people the very idea of having to figure out what gift to give is enough to inspire hives; for others the thought of the gifts they'll be receiving has the same effect. Competing with loved ones or friends to see who can give the better gift is one of the least fun things about a holiday.

I'm here to tell you that if you employ my theory of gift giving and receiving, things will go a lot more smoothly with no competition involved.

This theory came into being one year while talking to my friend Tricia* who was lamenting the fact that her husband John just didn't "get her" when it came to gift giving. "He gives me gifts that just seem like they're for someone else", she held up a bright pink skirt as a means of illustration. Tricia is not a pink girl, she has worn nothing but black for the past 15 years, and a bright pink skirt? Who was that skirt for?

I started thinking about the many times I'd received those types of gifts, not tacky gifts, perfectly nice presents that clearly were meant for someone else, items not my taste, style, just not me and the thought occurred to me that I was actually care taking these things until the real owners came along.

Now, my theory is different from the what you know as re-gifting. In re-gifting, you get a gift that may be a bit funky, or you get two of something and you try to figure out who you can pass that item off to. In the MP theory, you may have to hold onto that item for awhile, you may not even know the person it belongs to-yet. It is almost a guarantee that at some point the person that item belongs to will show up in your environment and you can give them the gift you've been holding for them. I have had that experience many times.

One of the best things about MP's theory of gift giving is that it is a gift in itself. When I relate my theory to someone and they take it as their own it frees them; frees them from disappointment when they get that seemingly strange present; or they give one.

*names changed

This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: Sorry--I'm Not!

On my visit to obtain the prompt for the week, there was this note on the Sunday Scribblings door:
Sorry, folks. Meg and I are both out of town this weekend and will not be able to put up links -- I think this is the first time in 80 weeks that we've both been traveling on the same weekend! We will be back next week with a great prompt. Hope you all have a fabulous weekend and we'll see you soon!
[Update -- It's 5 am and I'm heading to the airport & saw your comments -- aw, you guys, I feel bad! If you want to use "Sorry" as a prompt, I promise to post the links on Monday!]

My first thought was: "okay, see ya next week", because there's still that 8 year old with the potato inside of me, and there was a "getting out of homework" feel to it that was cool. Then the adult part of me piped up that no one is making me do this every week, I do it for me, and to some extent for you, my fabulous readers. I went back to Sunday Scribblings and noticed that lots of other people had reached the same conclusion; they were writing anyway, and later on there was indeed, a prompt-"Sorry".

What usually happens for me with Sunday Scribblings is something immediately pops into my head, all wordy and wanting to be written, so I sleep on it and the next day something else pops up, something not quite so full of itself and that's what gets into print. But, "Sorry?", I couldn't get anything positive with that, and for some reason I feel like I need to be positive. Not need to be really, but am...so I need to be.

So...I wake up today thinking about "Sorry", and I'm in a good mood just because I'm me and I realized that Sorry--I'm not.

• -I'm not sorry for any of the choices I have made in my life. Alcoholics Anonymous says in a portion of the Big Book: "we will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it". I think that is so eloquent and on point, because all roads led to now, and now is pretty cool.
• -I'm not sorry for the relationships I've had. I may have been plenty sorry when I was in them, but they were training grounds for the two real relationships I have now; with my SO and with myself.
• -I'm not sorry for having days when I just don't care what I look like, or who sees it. You don't like it, don't look.
• -I'm not sorry for being loud, I don't want to live like I'm in a library. I don't know if I'm really loud but SO occasionally tells me I am.
• -I'm not sorry for not wanting to be around people who are overly negative. We all have down times or periods in our lives, but if people only see the world through poop-colored glasses I'll send them good energy-from afar.

• I'm not sorry that I have a pretty open mind. If what you like and believe don't involve harming children or animals--have at it. I'll respect your right to like and believe it, I may even let you tell me about it, at length.
  

As I sit here writing this, I can't say I can think of anything I'm sorry about. I'm all full of my "I'm not that girl anymore"-ness today, and that's a good place to be.



This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: Powerful, The Power of Pretty

The other day it was time to take the car for an oil change, so down to the local Jiffy Lube I go.

As anyone knows, taking the car to have any type of mechanical work done is a pretty casual affair and I was dressed appropriately. Once arriving at Jiffy Lube I pulled my car into the bay; a young man approached, informed me that it would be about 25 minutes and invited me to have a seat in the waiting room.

When I entered the waiting room, there were three other patrons already present: another woman probably in her late thirties who appeared as if she were on her way to work, a man reading the paper, and a young woman, in her early twenties, with long blond hair and a skirt that was probably a foot long - seriously.

I took a seat and began to read the book that I'd brought, "Oh The Places You'll Go" by Dr. Seuss. I am at an age where I can feel rebellious enough to read a Dr. Seuss book with no child in sight. I was happily reading when my peripheral vision detected movement to my left, I angled my head so that I could actually see what the movement was: the young woman tugging at her skirt.

I can remember wearing skirts that were short enough to "take your picture" as my mother would have said, and I smiled inwardly. The young woman rose to walk to the trash can and deposit her coffee cup, a movement that required tugging of the skirt upon rising and prior to sitting. Gracious! I thought, just like some one's grandmother, what is the point if you have to do that much work to keep the thing in place? You could get another, longer, short skirt that wouldn't put you in danger of catching the flu in your nether regions and still look cute.

Because really isn't that what it's about, especially at that age? The desire to look cute, be hot, the power of pretty? The idea that when you stand up, someone is going to be looking at you and maybe for that moment at least, you're special?

One of the technicians came to the door and asked, "who owns the Toyota?" The man arose and went with the technician into the work area. This is how they decipher one car owner from the next eh? Well I guess that's a good system since they don't take info from you when you arrive. I resumed reading my book.

"Amanda?" I looked up as the blond arose, tugged and went into the work area. It was all I could do not to laugh because I'd look like an asylum escapee. The power of pretty and a really short skirt had given that girl an identity. No other name in that room was known.

As I wrote earlier, I can remember wearing those skirts short enough to "take your picture" but I am no longer a photographer. I don't want to be rearranging my clothing all the time.

I'm not that girl anymore.


This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: Hello My Name Is...Menopauseprincess

For years I have had an acrimonious relationship with paper name tags; specifically the ones that are in bright colors with the words: "Hello My Name Is......."

Now when I was younger, a teenager to be exact, I hated these things. I was a girl that was fiercely independent. One of my teachers opined that if everyone in the class were wearing a hat I'd feel duty bound not to, just to be different; and she was right.

Whenever I attended workshops or events where these monuments to convention were used, I'd pretend that I didn't see them, they were not meant for me. I would sit proudly in whatever group feigning indifference and forcing individual attention if I was to be addressed, because I had no insipid piece of paper saying "Hello My Name Is..."

As the years have gone by I've relaxed my stand on these badges; probably another sign of encroaching maturity, but I don't mind. I find that I've become a woman who is more often than not, happy to let others know me. When I see others, mostly always younger people, without name badges or with them applied in places that are improper to stare at, I have to smile.

Hello my name is Menopauseprincess and I'm Not That Girl Anymore.


This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings: Collecting For My Cesspool

Cesspool- A covered pit with a perforated lining in the bottom into which raw sewage is discharged: the liquid portion of the sewage is disposed of by seeping or leaching into the surrounding porous soil; the solids, or sludge, are retained in the pit to undergo partial decomposition before occasional or intermittent removal. Cesspools are no longer permitted for waste disposal. www.buzzardsbay.org/glossary.htm


One day it dawned on me that I knew all of the names of the Spice Girls. I am not a fan or follower of their music, why do I know this useless information? When did I learn it? Unfortunately I didn't have the answer to either one of those questions but one thing I did know: my brain is a cesspool of knowledge.

Like the somewhat graphic definition above illustrates, information that has no relevance to my day -to-day life is collected in the pit of my brain...before occasional or intermittent removal by spewing up to the surface of my consciousness when prompted.

I am the person you want on your "Phone a friend" list for "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire", and it pretty much doesn't matter which subject. I am sometimes a whiz on Trivial Pursuit, knowing things I have no reason to know and, I believe I could probably hold my own on "Jeopardy".

I am not political in any way, yet today while speaking to a friend, I was able to pull out of the murky depths the fact that former President Jimmy Carter brokered a peace deal between Egypt's Anwar Sadat and Israel's Menahim Begin. The aforementioned freakish Spice Girl knowledge was another example of information that came up when someone asked a question. I can't just access this information however, instead it jumps out of my mouth almost without my awareness or consent.

I have known about the cesspool for quite some time yet it still surprises me when something is ejected from it. Because the thing is, I don't know what's in the cesspool. SO knows about the cesspool and has witnessed it in action. "Is it in your cesspool?" comes the query when some obscure tidbit is needed.

Unfortunately, if I have to ask, it usually isn't.


This post was done as part of the Sunday Scribblings