injaynesworld it's the "Sunday Recap..."

President Obama began a historic second term as the first black president of the United States, only to be nearly upstaged by buzz about Michelle’s bangs.    And yes, I like them.   



Photo: Larry Downing, AP

We all know the President is a helluva orator, but he hit it out of the proverbial park this time with his inclusion of the LGBT community in his pledge to make “We the People” a meaningful statement of equality for all, as well as his rebuke of Paul Ryan’s oft-stated belief that we of the Social Security generation are a bunch of “takers.”

The 21-gun salute following could have easily been the sound of right-wing heads exploding as they called his speech combative and chastised him for not using it as an opportunity to “reach across the aisle.”  Okay, look.  The President, much to the frustration of progressives like me, just spent four damn years reaching across the aisle and all he got was a handful of spit.  The only reaching across the aisle I want to see from him in the next four years is his foot strategically placed up the GOP’s collective posterior. 

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The Pentagon announced it was lifting its ban on women in combat. 

This would be news to the women who have been killed and injured in combat for the last 10 years, but now it’s official.  We can risk our lives in service to this country right alongside the guys, while continuing to earn approximately 77 cents for every dollar a man earns when we get back home.  Yay for us!

Photo: Paula Bonstein, Getty

Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton, no stranger to combat, gave testimony on Benghazi and beat back a bevy of stupid white men eager to hear themselves talk.   To their credit, many right-wing pundits had the same opinion of the Committee selected to question the Secretary, especially doddering old fool, John McCain, who would suck at the tit of Honey Boo Boo’s mother if it would get his face on TV.   As for Hillary, she came, she saw, she kicked butt.   Hillary ’16! 

 

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Filibuster reform gets its balls busted…

We had a chance of real filibuster reform this week, but instead got the equivalent of J-ello, coincidentally of the same consistency as Harry Reid’s spine.

It used to be that if a senator wanted to filibuster a bill he or she had to stand their asses up there and talk till they dropped or till they felt their point had been made like the great James Stewart in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” but in 1975 that all changed with the advent of the “virtual filibuster.”  Swear to God.  That’s what it’s called.  

Sure, Reid got some concessions from Republicans, who pinky-swore they’d be good from now on, but his reason for seeking compromise, “to preserve the health of the institution,” is flawed as hell.   While not yet the pus-pool known as the House of Representatives, the Senate’s need for a good colon cleanse is no secret.   There are certain things that simply must be expelled in order for a body to function and in the case of the body of the Senate, the power of the minority party to hold up the elected majority’s ability to do the People’s business is one of them.

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Speaking of Congress, this guy should fit right in…

When a Florida couple heard footsteps on their roof, the husband went out to investigate and found this guy, buck naked, looking down at him.  Gregory Matthew Bruni  then leaped from the roof, knocking said hubby to the ground, and ran into the house where he pulled the TV from the wall, sucked out the contents of a vacuum bag, defecated on their floor and, when the wife pulled a gun on him, began masturbating.

And still I would vote for him over Michelle Bachmann.

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Oh, yeah.  And some dumb jock’s fake girlfriend died. 

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Finally, Happy Birthday Ellen!

…who turned 55 on Saturday.   A little walk down history-making TV lane...

injaynesworld "Resurrection..."

The floorboards of the old farm house protested loudly under her feet as if they could not bear one more moment of neglect.  It saddened Maggie to see her childhood home in such disrepair, but she refused to be discouraged.  

Memories – some long forgotten – rose up from every corner; the piano against the far wall where she first discovered her love for music; her father in his favorite old chair reading to her by the fireplace; the window that looked out onto the tree her brother would climb to get away from his pesty little sister till she would cry and Mother would make him come down. 

Maggie could see it all now and turning to her new husband with tears of joy in her eyes, she said, “This is home.”

Withering at the prospect, he nevertheless put on his best face, “Then you shall have it, my love.”

Based on the Five Sentence Fiction prompt, "Forgotten" and the photo above.

 

injaynesworld "In Praise of What Persists..."

It’s really quite amazing what a living thing can accomplish when no one tells it that it can’t.  It’s January here in California and while it is normally one of our most pleasant months with temperatures averaging in the seventies and rain light, if at all, this January has been most unlike herself.  Last night was among many that have brought wind, rain, ice and temperatures below 30 with a hail storm thrown in for good measure.  Exhibit A:  The ice-covered ground in front of my porch this morning.

While nothing to you hardier folks in the north and east, we here in the golden state normally travel elsewhere and pay big bucks to freeze our trim, fit, tiny asses off.  Even more unusual at this time of year and under these conditions however is this:

It’s a tomato plant and it lives on my deck where, as you can see, no one has told it that every other tomato plant in its right mind stopped producing back in September.  I have no idea what to make of it except that it saw its dead brethren torn out by their roots and tossed away and made some decision deep in its DNA that it would be the decider of its own fate.   It was planted in April so, like me, it is a Taurus and perhaps just as stubborn.  Regardless, there it is with its promise of, if not life everlasting, at least good things to come.

All summer long, it provided my salads with color and sweetness.  In November, with plump green tomatoes still on its vine, on the advice of some Internet authority that said they would never ripen, I stripped the plant and made fried green tomatoes – a first for me and quite tasty.   Then in early December, I found one lone ripe red tomato hidden deep in the plant and realized that they all would have ripened if just left alone.  So much for the opinions of others, however authoritative they may sound.

The frost of just a couple of hours ago has melted away and my little tomato plant is now basking in the rays of the sun.  No doubt the temperatures will drop again and ice will come to challenge its resolve, but I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to tell it what it can and can’t do.  

"In Praise of What Persists" is the title of a collection of short fiction by the late writer, Joyce Renwick.

injaynesworld it’s “The Round-Up…”

Black as midnight, bold and strong, the stallion stood upon the hilltop watching over his family grazing peacefully on the valley floor below. 

Soon it would be time to cast out the young males, some of which had already begun to challenge his rule, but for now there was a greater threat. 

His keen ears picked up the sound of their approach, though still several canyons away.  It would not be long before the sky monsters would be upon them. 

 

At his warning cry, the herd raised their heads in his direction, alert and ready to once again run for their freedom.

From the Five Sentence Fiction prompt "Midnight."

On January 5th, a federal judge in Nevada issued an order halting the Bureau of Land Management's current roundup of wild horses pending a lawsuit by the Wild Horse Education organization.   


 

injaynesworld "A New Year Is Upon Us..."

As the last page of the calendar drifts slowly to the floor, I marvel once again at how quickly one year turns into another these days, though it was not always so.  Mother Nature was a free-wheeling gal until Father Time came along to crimp her style.  It would have been nice to have lived before such constraints – to know only the sun and the moon and not worry about much beyond that.

In 2012, we managed to dodge the Mayan’s prediction of the end of the world, although when I look at the current state of things, it occurs to me that they may have been speaking metaphorically.  As a species, we continue to kill each other at an astounding rate, pollute the planet beyond what future generations may be able to survive, and worship at the altars of fear and lack.  Frankly, it’s a wonder to me that we’ve lasted this long.  I often question if we are not just a grand failed experiment and somewhere in the Universe is another planet much like ours where “God” got it right.  Then I turn off the news...

Many will be happy to see 2012 go.  I am not one of them.  Exhausting as it was, I’m not happy to see any year go.  It only means I have fewer left.  You start to notice those things at a certain age.  But I embrace the New Year and, like you, I eagerly infuse it with dreams and goals, promises and pledges, determined to make it even better than the last, hoping to hold onto its newness for a little longer this time around and to ward off the self-flogging when resolutions fall by the side of the road, as most inevitably do.

We might all be better off to just promise that we’ll do the best we can, forgive ourselves when we fall below our goals, and recognize the chance to start fresh with the dawn of each new day.  After all, there was a time when each new day was all we knew. 

Wishing you all an abundance of love, health, and good fortune in the coming year. 

Jayne, Dixie, Mason, Bubba & Levi

injaynesworld “The North Pole’s Got Nothin’ On Me…”

It didn’t grow wild in the forest or come from a Christmas tree farm, but it won’t drop needles all over the floor as its dying carcass is sadly dragged from the house sometime in late January because I can’t bear to part with it any sooner.  In fact, I needn’t part with it at all.  I could just hang hearts on it in February, Easter eggs in spring, and little American flags in July, but I won’t because I’m not yet quite that demented. 

True, it doesn’t fill my home with the smell of fresh pine, but that’s why God created Glade. 

If life has taught me anything it’s the importance of improvising.  Gone now are the Christmas parties of years past where my large home was packed with friends decorating my eight-foot tree and feasting on freshly-made tomato bisque soup.  The soup is still here, but the gatherings are smaller, two or three friends at a time as my tiny new abode will allow, and not a bit of the festivity has been lost.

It’s hard for me to believe that I was once a “Bah-humbug” about this time of year.  Unhappy with my own life, I felt mocked by the gaiety I saw everywhere around me, and tried my best to shut Christmas out.  Like a raging river, however, it would not be denied, and ultimately I always broke down, unpacked my tiny fake tree and carefully positioned the lights.  “You win, Christmas,” I would say with a smile.   

There are many people feeling that Christmas is lost to them, but it’s never lost to anyone.  It continues to live in our hearts, maybe only as a tiny ember of Christmases past, but make just the smallest effort to meet it halfway and see how quickly its flame ignites to lift your spirits.  

Go on.  Improvise. 

Wishing you all the blessings and joy of the holiday season.

injaynesworld “The Universe Calls My Bluff…”

This is Bubba.  He’s 27 and yes, that’s old for a horse.  I retired him in 1999 due to some soundness issues never dreaming he’d still be on the payroll all these many years later.  In fact, I’ve often complained about just that, wondering when the old coot was going to stop draining my dwindling funds to pay for a retirement that is far better than anything I’ll ever be able to afford for myself.  Not long ago, in a moment of fiscal frustration, I even uttered the words, “When is that damn horse going to die?”  I was ashamed the moment they spewed from my lips and I took them back immediately, but it was too late.  The Universe had heard. 

When it comes to my animals, end-of-life decisions have rarely been clear-cut.  More often than not, I’ve allowed more time to pass than I should have and regretted it in hindsight.  Hindsight sucks.  As Bubba grew older, I swore that when his time came I would not put him, myself or my bank account through needless suffering by prolonging the inevitable. I’d given him the best quality of life a horse could want and there would be no regrets.  My prayer, of course, was that one warm, sunny day he would simply lie down in his green pasture to nap and peacefully drift away, saving me from the difficult duty of having to play God.  Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s in His job description.  It sure as hell isn’t in mine.

Bubba first took ill on Thanksgiving.  (Note:  Horses have the uncanny ability to know when it’s a holiday and veterinarian calls double in rate.)   The signs were subtle.  He was off his feed a bit.  Probably a mild colic and was treated for such. But by the weekend, his temperature was 103.6, over four degrees above normal, and it was clear something else was going on.  A full blood panel was ordered.   Expensive, yes, but at least I’d know something definitive and a decision – the decision – could be made if need be. 

And here’s where the Universe steps in… The blood work came back clean.  Yep.  All systems go.  And yet he’s clearly sick.  But how sick?   Is it his time or isn’t it?  What do I do?

As I write this, it’s been a week of taking his temperature three times a day in the “exit only” region, inspecting his stall for the blessed sight of fresh manure, and walking him out to graze. (Oh, yeah – he quickly figured out that I will, in fact, stand out in the pouring rain with him so he can have his much-preferred fresh grass.)  There have been antibiotics that must be dissolved in water and squirted into his mouth every 12 hours via a large syringe.   As you might guess, Bubba is none too fond of this and so the amount I actually get down his throat as opposed to the amount of the pricey brew that he spits in my face just adds to the merriment.  His water intake must be monitored and the large, heavy bucket cleaned out twice daily to keep the water fresh and inviting to his picky palate.  My lower back is crying “Uncle” and it’s not alone.

Bubba has four more days to go on the antibiotics.  I can tell that he feels like crap, but no more than you or I with a bad case of the flu.  Can he rally?  I don’t know.  The definitive answer I need in order to make that end-of-life decision continues to elude me.  Meanwhile, he still shows an interest in eating and if he’s not ready to give up, then neither am I.  I want him to live.  I want him to still have that chance to check out on his own in his beloved sunny pasture, and I swear I’ll never again complain about a single buck I spend on his care.  You hear that, Universe?

The moral of the story is this:  Guard your words, my friends, because the Universe is always standing by and eager to test your resolve.