How strongly do you feel about your property rights?

A Roswell man is dead, the victim of a violent explosion in his home yesterday that happened while Roswell, GA officials were serving him with an eviction notice. His name was Andrew Wordes, and many say he was driven to the desperate act because he wanted to keep chickens on his property as pets, and in Roswell, that’s not allowed (at least not the way that Andrew was doing it, it seems).

Of course, there are other factors that contributed to Mr. Wordes’ sad choice Monday. He had been jailed for three months recently for keeping his chickens on his land, in an apparent violation of a city of Roswell ordinance that provides strict guidelines for keeping chickens on property. Wordes had been cited in 2009 and while one judge ruled in his favor, a judge who later heard the matter ruled against the man who had come to be known as the “Chicken Man.”

As a result of his incarceration, Wordes fell behind on his mortgage payment. His house had also recently flooded and was severely damaged, requiring more repairs than he could afford. Wordes was also ill with advanced Crohn’s disease and had been very sick in recent months. Friends and neighbors who knew the man well said he was simply tired, worn down from fighting for something that mattered very much to him.

By all accounts, Andrew Wordes was a kind and generous man, always willing to help others without asking anything in return. I know this personally, because he had helped my elderly father on several occasions of his own volition and without expecting payment. My sister and her children knew him very well; his kind and gentle demeanor seemed to touch those who knew him.

There was even a “Save the Roswell Chicken Man” Facebook page. A lot of people sided with Wordes, and during his incarceration, word spread among other property owners and people throughout Georgia and beyond who wanted to keep chickens either as pets or as a source of healthier eggs than are often found on supermarket shelves.

I understand that laws are laws and that we need them to keep order and peace; we humans are an unruly bunch.  Just a couple of years ago, I reported a story out of Winder in which a pack of rogue chickens (left behind by their former owners) was attacking people who had the misfortune to walk past their hood hangout in the woods. The chickens were attacking passersby, and the city’s solution to the problem was to put a $500 hit on the rooster, which in turn solved the problem. True story. 

In Mr. Wordes’ tragic case, I fear (as I do anytime government encroaches on property rights), that cooler minds did not prevail. Compassion, understanding and common sense did not prevail. The man felt defeated, cornered; his dire circumstances did not matter. And even to the end he remained considerate of others, warning a news reporter and marshalls to back away from the house before the explosion happened.

And now we have this. Over chickens.

How do you feel about chickens being kept – responsibly –  on adequate acreage? Do city officials and staff have any responsibility to understand the person and the “big picture” before mandating incarceration or an eviction?

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times, USA Today and the Christian Science Monitor, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on television and radio shows nationwide.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT: Guys, you have less than a week

That’s right. Valentine’s Day is right around the corner - Tuesday, in fact. I read somewhere the other day that this is the most procrastinated holiday of the year, meaning that many  people (OK men) wait until the last minute to buy their sweetheart a gift. There’s a reason for that, I think. It’s not that the day doesn’t matter to them; they are puzzled by it. It’s also a holiday laced with land mines. One wrong move, and the whole thing’s going to blow up.

Sure, we kid ourselves and say that Valentine’s Day is for couples, sweethearts, lovers, whatever you want to call them. It’s not. It’s a chick holiday. Roses? Dainty chocolates? Jewelry? All chick stuff. And men know this, somewhere deep in their hearts. They fear the day. They dread it. I don’t think they get it. They know that they are supposed to shop or otherwise purchase something their sweetheart will love, but what is it?

As Americans, when in doubt, we spend. Consider these statistics:

According to Business Insider News, the average U.S. consumer will spend about $116 on Valentine’s Day gifts, meals and entertainment. Men will spend double what women will spend ($158.81 compared to $75.79). About 110 million roses, mostly red and produced specifically for the big day, will be delivered during a three-day time period  ($1.7 billion worth). And about 11 percent of couples will get engaged on Valentine’s Day.

Perhaps most interesting of all is the research that concluded that 53 percent of women in American would dump their boyfriends if they did not get them anything for The Big Day.

There’s a lot riding on it, guys.

Why else will a man pay five times retail for 12 roses? No, the price of roses does not increase because of demand. It increases because of fear. It increases because florists know that, at the last minute, they can get whatever price they demand for roses, because a lot hangs in the balance.

I’d like to help if I can, gentlemen. For most women, a gift that reflects thought is much better than a gift for which you got gouged. By “thought,” I mean think about her likes, something she may want but would never purchase for herself, something she may have mentioned in passing. It may even mean you cooking dinner and giving the kids a bath while she soaks in a tub reading the latest issue of People magazine. Whatever matters to her.

Of course, this means you can’t wait until noon on the 14^th  to start thinking about this; thought takes time. Here are a few other pointers that I hope you find helpful:

A big, cheap bottle of perfume is not a bargain. Also, buying her a scent and telling her it reminds you of your mother is not wise.

Do not buy lingerie for a woman you don’t know very, very well. A gas station is not the place to buy roses, even if they are conveniently, individually wrapped in plastic.

Appliances are another no-no, even the pink and red ones.

Two tickets to your favorite basketball team’s next home game is not a good Valentine’s Day gift.

Jewelry is a great gift (I threw that in in case my husband reads this).

Well good luck. And if you do procrastinate and find yourself up a creek without a paddle on Tuesday, call a florist and prepare to pay - dearly. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache in the long run.

Carole Townsend is also a Gwinnett Daily Post staff correspondent and author of the recently-released book, “Southern Fried White Trash.” The book takes a humorous look at families and how we behave when thrown together for weddings, funerals and holidays. She has been quoted on msnbc.com, in the LA Times, USA Today and the Christian Science Monitor, been featured on FOX 5 News and CNN, and is often a guest on radio shows nationwide.

Your baby can read, for three easy payments of $99 (plus S&H)

I saw something yesterday that made me do a double-take. It was a commercial for something called, “Your Baby Can Read.” Apparently it’s a combination of books and recordings and visual software that teaches your infant-to-toddler-age child to read.  Now I’m all for reading to your child and teaching her everything you can. I believe that helps a child appreciate the written word and hunger for learning. But a baby reading? I don’t know.

I have two children. They are 19 and 21 years old, but I still vividly remember what they were like as babies. Like most other kids, I could have easily put them in a bucket and just hosed them off occasionally for the first 12 months of life. They took food in; they gave some back. Yes, they developed skills and awareness and emotional expression during that critical first year, but I can pretty much guarantee you that they were not reading-ready. They are both smart, bright, delightful children, but no way were they going to read to me during that first year of life. As a young mom, I felt lucky not to have done anything that resulted in injury or death to them in that year; I sure wasn’t going to muddy the waters by trying to teach them to read.

As they got a bit older, a day without either of them ingesting discarded cigarette butts or munching on dog food was a good day.

Part of this commercial (an infomercial, really) spotlighted a mother holding her slobbering little prodigy in her lap, regurgitating words that had been hammered into her little head by a robotic male voice. Mom just cooed and giggled in delight as her little “reader” uttered barely understandable words in response to flash cards. What Mom failed to realize is that she could have taught the little girl completely inaccurate words to correspond with each card. “CAT = HULA HOOP” or “TRUCK = SWORD.” A baby has no frame of reference.

True reading requires the ability to both decode a word AND process the meaning simultaneously. Later on, it also requires the ability to comprehend and retain those words, but maybe that’s the next phenomenon to hit the market – “Your Child Can Retain and Comprehend.”

In our society, we are so rushed to push our kids past all the others, to somehow give them an edge over all the other kids with whom they’ll compete throughout their lifetimes. To give the marketing mastermind(s) behind “Your Baby Can Read” credit, they were smart enough to capitalize on this fact. Still, I’m holding out for something really spectacular to come along, like “Your Baby Can Vacuum” or “Your Baby Can Prepare Your Taxes.” When I see either of those, I’m in.

I'm a 30% off woman, myself.

The most outrageous news story broke this week, about The U.S. Department of Justice and their over-the-top snacking habits: namely, serving $16 muffins, $10 cookies, $8.24 cups of coffee and, in another meeting, spending $32 per person for snacks that included Cracker Jack, candy bars and popcorn. And the cost to plan five of these culinary utopian snack-fests disguised as department meetings? $600,000.

In an interview with a U.S. Department of Justice spokeswoman after the story broke, she explained that those expenses were approved before there were suggested limits on food and beverage costs for such events.

What? You need someone to tell you that a $16 muffin may be overpriced? Sometimes, I just have to shake my head in wonder.

Maybe the debt crisis isn’t going to be solved by choking more money out of individual taxpayers and small businesses, or even the super-wealthy. Maybe it will be greatly alleviated by curbing out-of-control spending and program fraud. Just a thought, but I am no expert.

In our household, we are currently in “conserve” mode. My husband and I are both fortunate in that we  have jobs and can meet our obligations. As the primary shopper for our home, I have always actually thought about what I spend, even before the economy tanked a few years ago. I just can’t rationalize paying too much for something using the logic, “Well, we have it to spend, so why not?” I guess being raised by parents who survived the Great Depression has something to do with that.

Looking around at many of our friends and other families in the community, my husband and I understand without a doubt that the situation we enjoy now could change in an instant. To us, that means we need to tread lightly, to be careful. We cut back wherever we can, eliminating spending that seems frivolous now, but that we justified not too long ago.

I am horribly unorganized, so couponing is a tough one for me. Sure, I have fun cutting them out. It’s like a grown-up art project. But then I let them expire, or I pick up the wrong brand or quantity in the store, or I forget to take them with me at all. The old me would just get frustrated and forget the whole thing. But I am really trying now to cut costs wherever possible. I think I’m getting the hang of it, and I am even getting so brave as to combine coupons with other special offers and sales. Even if I just save a little bit, I feel good about it.

Our children get it, although they’re very young adults. They understand that they do not have a limitless supply of money to squander.

And that brings us back to our fearless leaders in Washington, who apparently feel that they do. I would personally volunteer, sacrifice my time, to go up there and teach a 30-Percent-Off class (although 30 percent off a $16 muffin is still no bargain). In other words I’d teach, say, meeting planners that if someone is trying to sell them a muffin for $16, bargain with them! Haggle. Whip out a coupon. Better yet, just run up the street to the closest supermarket and buy as many as you need. With any luck, they’ll be on sale.

Blind, reckless spending is never a good thing and cannot continue indefinitely, and I don’t believe it’s a Democrat vs. Republican problem. I believe it’s an “It’s not my money, so why should I care?” problem.

How can we insist they stop the madness?

Domestic abuse is a social heartbreak

O.K. I thought a lot about whether to address this topic here in Food For Thought. I typically write about topics that invite readers to comment, things that we encounter in our everyday lives. I like to write about things that we can poke fun at and maybe put in perspective. But then I thought that that attitude might be part of a bigger, more shameful problem; domestic violence and abuse are just too unpleasant to talk about. They’re matters that, if not addressed openly, can so easily be swept under the rug.  And since I’m not much for whistling past the graveyard, here goes:

I recently wrote in this blog about divorce and how it changes people’s lives forever. I was surprised and touched, really, to subsequently receive e-mails and comments from readers about the cancer of domestic abuse. “Why didn’t you address that problem?” I was asked repeatedly. “How can you write about divorce and not mention domestic violence?” I did give the issue one line, I believe, and that was to say that in my mind, abuse demands divorce. But the topic deserves more space than that.

Without getting too personal in such a public forum, I have first-hand knowledge of the insidious nature of domestic abuse and violence. It starts out slowly and builds over the years. I’ve heard it said that, if a guy punched a woman in the face on a first date, there likely wouldn’t be a second date, right? But when the incidents start out “small” and grow over time, and when the woman is blamed for the abuse (“You made me do it, you know that, right?), it spreads and takes hold just like cancer. And abuse can be physical and/or emotional. It’s control and manipulation by any means available.

Something else to keep in mind:  Abuse NEVER gets better on its own. If he keeps telling you it’ll never happen again (unless, of course, you provoke him), that’s not true either. Roses don’t make it better. Blame doesn’t make it better. If your family and friends tell you he’s abusive and you defend him, let me share some ancient wisdom with you – “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, odds are it’s a duck.” There is never an excuse for violence against a “loved” one, ever. Get out.

Now that I am on the other side of that nightmare, I can look back and see very clearly how, over a period of years, a well-educated, self-sufficient woman can become so hopeless and feel so helpless that she is literally trapped. I feel passionately about helping women who are stuck, who feel trapped, who feel powerless against a bully and sure that they’ll never get out. And again, without divulging an inappropriate amount of information, I spent several years doing my best to help other women once I got out.

Sadly, I used to look down my nose at women who were in abusive relationships. I thought, “How could anyone with an ounce of self respect tolerate such treatment?” If there’s one thing I learned during my ordeal and in the years of helping other women in similar relationships, it’s this:  Do not become isolated. Isolation is just one tool in the abuser’s toolbox. You will become isolated from family and friends, because those are the people who will help you see him for what he is and help you get out. People who truly care about you are your lifeline, literally.

I know that right now, today, there are hundreds, probably thousands of women in Gwinnett County alone who are in abusive relationships. Some don’t realize it yet. Some get it but feel powerless to change it. Some are trying to change it and are being failed by a system that a) looks away and b) slaps a small Band-Aid on incidents and lets couples “work it out for themselves.” After all, it’s a domestic matter, right?

I remember the day that a judge finally got that my life was in danger. He issued a permanent restraining order against my abuser. I suppose I could have wadded it up and thrown it at him as he repeatedly violated the order. Other than that, there wasn’t much help. You see, an abuser believes he is perfectly within his rights to do what he does. He sees nothing wrong with it; therefore, he is not breaking any laws.

The problem of domestic violence and abuse extend far beyond the property lines of the couple’s house. As horrible as abuse is for a woman, it’s exponentially harder for children. They simply cannot process what they see on a day-in, day-out basis. Left in the volatile, frightening environment of an abusive home, children are terrified and often grow up with a twisted take on relationships; that’s why it’s called a cycle. In fact, many women find their children to be their motivation to get out, even if they can’t do themselves that same favor. I was one of them.

I learned something else too, and this is for you women who are in the middle of the nightmare. It’s not hopeless. That’s just what your abuser wants you to think. As soon as you get out, stop going back, and stop taking him back, you begin to breathe a little easier. You can see it for exactly what it was, but only in the rearview mirror. And you will not believe just how strong you really are.

I have not even begun to scratch the surface of this epidemic. I am not a professional counselor, and I cannot possibly know the specific circumstances of every situation out there. I realize that. But I also know that no one understands the crippling fear and dread of finally stopping the abuser better than someone who’s been through it and come out on the other side. If even one woman who’s enduring abuse at home reads this column today, then hopefully you know you’re not alone.

Gwinnett County has some valuable resources for women who feel trapped in the cycle of abuse. Here are just a few:

 

Battered Women’s Shelter, Council for Women, Partnership Against Domestic Violence:  770-963-9799

Men Stopping Violence: 404-270-9894

Gwinnett County Family Violence Task Force: e-mail info@gwinnettfamilyviolence.org

Churches often have resources to provide women and children the initial help they need, and they can likely get women in touch with county and state resources, as well as critical counseling resources.

Reach out to trusted family and friends. They will fight for you even when you can’t.

If you know of other resources or have something to share that might reach even one abuse victim, please share it with readers.

How on earth did we raise our kids in the stone age?

I have been invited to a baby shower. I haven’t figured out yet whether I’m excited about it or I’m dreading it. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to one and even then, I felt so out-of-touch with what’s going in the baby world these days. Truth: I felt like a dinosaur. How on earth did I raise my children without all the gadgets and contraptions on the market today?




At any rate I need to buy a gift, so I went to the well-advertised baby utopia superstore down in the city. No boring, run-of-the-mill gift for this little one, no way. I may have been out of the baby business for a couple of decades, but that doesn’t mean I have to flaunt that fact.



We didn’t even have a baby superstore twenty-two years ago, when I was patiently awaiting the arrival of my first bundle of joy. I suppose we really didn’t need one. Typical shower gifts back in the old days were clothes, toys, bathing and diapering paraphernalia and – for expectant grandparents and well-to-do-aunts and uncles – strollers, furniture and stuff like that.



This shiny, bright baby superstore in Atlanta is three floors of massive, overwhelming square footage crammed with kid stuff and subdivided by stages of development. Did you know that there is a pre-learning stage? I always assumed that was the nine or so months leading up to the big event (and for some children, a few years after), but apparently there are a few weeks after birth that officially qualify, as well. Go figure.



Primary colors screamed at me as soon as I entered through the sliding doors. Bells tinkled, choo-choos chugged, clowns cackled and stuffed animals hung like old west bank robbers along the entire length of one mile-long wall. I scanned the aisle markers looking for the “newborn” section.



I followed the signs to the area of the store devoted to brand new babies. I always feel a pang of nostalgia and yes, even a little bit of sadness when I think back to those days and my own children. Fortunately, those thoughts are almost always shattered by someone else’s little darling shrieking and snapping me out of it. As I age, the length of my fuse seems to likewise shorten. Anyway, back to my shopping.



The first twenty or so items I came across were completely unfamiliar to me; I had no idea what they’d be used for or how they might help baby or mom. I felt as out of place here as I usually feel in the Home Depot power tool section.



I looked through shelf after shelf of items that, to me anyway, were ridiculous and more of a bother than a help. There was the pee-pee teepee, a little tent sort of contraption that is supposed to prevent baby boys from accidentally spraying mom or dad during a diaper change. Hey, that’s just part of the deal when you have a boy, folks. There was a little inflatable ring that you’re supposed to put around a baby’s neck in a pool – a no-fail way to prevent drowning. It looked inhumane, like a cross between a whiplash brace and the lampshade dogs wear after surgery.



There were fake rubber hands that are supposed to simulate swaddling or cuddling (first thought: yeah, but who holds the hands in place?). Grotesque. There was a baby bottle cover, a stuffed animal-looking thing that has a nipple coming out of its mouth. Picture a mama bird regurgitating in her baby’s mouth.



There were gadgets designed to keep parents from smelling, touching or paying attention to their babies at all, ever. In fact, if you bought one of each item in this section alone, you’d never have to see, hear, smell or talk to your kid until he’s at least two. Where’s the fun in that?



I decided on a few gifts that are probably going to look boring and unimaginative at the shower Saturday. I bought mom a “What to Expect During the First Year” book (they wrote that one way after mine were school-age). I bought a couple of packs of diapers, some monogrammed baby linens (more for keepsakes than anything else – the kid’s initials will be the same no matter the sex), some adorable little newborn clothes for the little one in gender-neutral colors, and a gift card for what will be a much-needed dinner out that the parents can use a couple of weeks after Junior arrives. They’ll appreciate that one the most.



I’m probably just jealous of all the cool stuff out there but still, a lot of what I saw just looked like more of a bother than a help. I will say that those puffy, colorful little fabric high chair liners I see everywhere are awesome; I wish they had those when mine were little. All I used were anti-bacterial wipes when we took our little ones out to eat. Necessary, but not much fun.



No matter what stage of parenting you’re currently in, what was the coolest, most helpful gadget you had for those early years?

The Love-Gov. Very funny.

OK I just watched a brief synopsis of the Schwarzenegger/Shriver/what’s-her-name fiasco. So let me get this straight. A man of means sees a woman with large breasts and creates a love child with her. How refreshing. How original. How new-millenium. Please.

So Arnold Schwarzenegger is a man. What a shock. I had a great conversation with two bright women in the nail salon today, of all places. They had asked me about my FOOD FOR THOUGHT column in the Gwinnett Daily Post, and I answered them honestly. Why the column? Because women need a place to talk. Men, you know it’s true, so stop rolling your eyes. You should thank me. Look how much time and anguish I can potentially spare you if you play your cards right.

OK back to Arnold. I don’t know whether you buy into the “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” mentality, but I have to admit, I tend to agree with it. Let me translate that title for you. Men are motivated by completely different factors than are women. A freakishly large bra size can potentially mean love at first sight to a man. To a woman, it means cosmetic surgery or a shallow gene pool, possibly both. Venus and Mars, honey.

All right so let’s look at what we have in front of us. We have an illegitimate 13-year-old-boy who is already more privileged than most children across the globe could ever imagine. We have a kept woman, thanks to her chest measurements. Spare me your justifications. How much conversation could there have possibly been? If any, I don’t want the details.

I just saw on “E” that the mistress is so obsessed with “being” Maria Shriver that she wore her clothes. Is that right? I’m trying to imagine how many scientists and seamstresses that would have required.

Oh well. Another day, another tough lesson learned. Women, you can be as bright and capable as anyone else on the planet. My advice to you is to line up a really good cosmetic surgeon if you really want to make your mark on the political world. Men, well, try to be discreet. Get top-shelf lawyers who understand family law inside and out. And marry well.

Happy Mother's Day, to moms everywhere.

It's here again, Christmas in May for Moms. I love Mother's Day. My family spoils me rotten, and for at least one day out of the year, they go out of their way to make sure I know that they get it. That they got ALL of it - the teaching, the admonishing, the guiding and most of all the loving.

I've raised a couple of very good kids. Well, my husband and I have. And no, my husband is not their biological father. I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've spent worrying that my divorcing their father would somehow screw up my children for the rest of their lives. It's a tough position to be in, and I will be the first to say, divorce is awful. Horrible. I do not recommend it unless NOT divorcing would be more harmful. In our case that was true, so I made the difficult decision to leave about 15 years ago, and I've never looked back.

I am happy to say that my children (now 19 and 21) are OK. Would I have preferred they be spared that nightmare? Yes, without a doubt. But I am a better mother and (I believe) their father is a better father under these circumstances. And I will also say that bringing my husband into the picture has only benefitted us all, and I mean immensely.

It can be done. It takes at least twice as much work, but raising well-adjusted children out of divorce can be done. My sincerest recommendation, however, is that no one marry until you're 30. What on earth does any of us know before then? And 30 may be cutting it close, but we women are on sort of a tight  schedule with respect to reproducing, so we'll let 30 stand. And if your mama has given you a "marrying material" checklist - and this applies to men as well as women - copy it. Laminate the copies. Stick one on your fridge, one on your car visor and one on your headboard. She knows what she's talking about.

Wow. Raise your hand if you made it through another family holiday!

We did! And I don't say that for the typical reasons about which I often write. We had a whole new experience this year. You see, my Dad stayed at his retirement home and had brunch with my sister and niece. When he comes to my house for a holiday dinner, he no longer enjoys it like he used to. He complains about the cuisine, feeds my dogs from the table, says my house is too busy and noisy and wants to leave pretty much as soon as he eats. It's nerve-wracking.

No, this year my son's girlfriend and two babies stayed the weekend with us. Well, my son lives here anyway. His girlfriend is in the process of moving down here from north Georgia and needed a place to stay until the house was ready. So being the mean grouch that I am, I of course agreed.

The babies are 14 months and 2 1/2 years old. Within 15 minutes of their arrival, I was reminded of why God only gives women a set number of eggs, and they only stay viable for so long. Don't get me wrong; they aren't bad children. They're just little, very young. They don't understand that it's been 15+ years since my house was kid-proof. My dogs don't understand little creatures that run, crawl, clumb, pull, pinch and slobber on them. They were both very patient and never snapped, growled or even sighed too loud, but when they did get a brief break, they collapsed and slept like the dead. My husband periodically disappeared occasionally during their stay. I don't know where he went and I didn't ask. He's a wonderful man, but little little ones perplex him. I think they get on his nerves a bit, too.

The girlfriend and babies are at the new house cleaning, unpacking and preparing to move everything else in and stay there permanently. My dogs are grateful and relieved. I can tell. I am relishing the quiet as I never have before. I think I have scrubbed every little fingerprint, oatmeal blob and slobber trail left in my house, even though I believe they will return  here in just a few hours to spend one last night.

I have learned a few things about myself this weekend, and here goes:

- Yes, I still love holidays. Norman Rockwell would have been  a bit disappointed yet again, but it is what it is.
- I love babies, but only in small doses and when I can leave the room or hand them back when I've reached my limit.
- When the babies are my grandchildren someday, they can do as they please, and I will cherish every minute. Do-overs don't suck.
- Poopy diapers and barf are even more nauseating when your kid doesn't produce them.

Oh, Happy Easter!

Lord help us; the shorts are blooming.

My goodness. Every year I forget, and every year I am reminded all over again. Women over a certain age and a certain weight should not wear certain things. Neither should men, but I think the women bother me more. Maybe because I can relate to the women, I don't know, but the men I just find amusing. Boys and their toys, I guess. But now seriously folks, hear me out and tell me, am I wrong? Just plain mean? Too critical? I don't think so.

I was driving home from my walk this morning, and I stopped at a local convenience/pharmacy store to pick up a few things we need around the house. I always look awful when I work out. I just don't see the point in putting on makeup and fixing my hair just so I can sweat, huff and puff. So I'm being perfectly honest here, and not just about the other woman in the store with me.

I picked up my items - toothpaste, floss and a loaf of bread, and hauled them up to the front of the store. I got in line behind a woman who, so help me, was still under the impression she's 15 and thin. In truth, she looked to be about 45 and, um, not thin. Again, I'm right there with her, so not pointing fingers and laughing. Just observing.

She was wearing short shorts, the ones I describe to my girls as being cheek floss. Her legs were pasty white and dimpled, highlighted by varicose veins here and there. The top she wore was very tight and secured only with spaghetti straps.  Oh my goodness. I took a step back.

Now as I said earlier in this post, I do not get all dolled up to work out. What I do without fail, to the best of my ability, however, is dress appropriately. I do not wear short shorts, I do not wear skin-tight anything, and I do not ever, in any circumstance, go braless. If there's not a city ordinance on the books about that, there should be.

This woman stood there in front of me, popping her gum and tapping her unnaturally long fingernail on the plastic display case of Snickers Bars on the counter. Apparently she had someplace else extremely important to get to, seeing as how she was all dressed up. I just shook my head, inside my head, of course, not outwardly. I have learned a bit of temperance over the years.

When I see a woman that age, that size, dressed as she was, I cringe. It tells me that she is either a) blind or b) oblivious. There is such a thing as aging gracefully and beautifully. It does not involve denying the fact that you're getting older. Not at all.

Now men who dress inappropriately for their age? Oh yes, I just find humor in that. I probably wouldn't if the man in question were my husband, though. I am reminded of a time many Spring breaks ago, when we took all the kids to the beach. I happened to glance up from the book I was reading just in time to see a man of, oh, about 60 or 65 years old walking the beach. He was nearly perfectly round, had a slick bald head, and he was wearing a man's thong bikini with the image of the English flag on it. He was turning heads, that's for sure. He, too, was completely oblivious to the fact that he did not look like Michael Phelps in that get-up. I just had to chuckle.

Of course with men we're more likely to say, "well good for him." With women we typically say, "Tsk tsk. She should know better."

Anyway, like fat chirping robins, blooming dogwoods and pollen, I witnessed yet another harbinger of Spring this morning in line at the neighborhood Walgreen's. My, my.

The new Victoria's Secret Catalog is here! Yippee! Where's my wine?

I went to the mailbox today, finally getting up the chutzpah to make it to the mailbox in the drizzling, cold rain and wind. Ugh. Bills probably. And I was right, of course. Gas bill, electric bill, mortgage statement. Ahhh, here’s the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit catalog. That reminds me; I need to pick up some hemlock for tonight’s chicken casserole.
Why do I do this to myself? Every year, I order something from Victoria’s Secret. Granted, it may be a lipstick or a super-cinching miracle girdle, but I do it just the same. I think it keeps me in touch with my secret seductress. Last time I saw her was in my early 20s, but whatever. She’s still in here under this extra fat and attitude - somewhere. And every year I forget – they send me the swimsuit catalog.

Now I ask you – how many people do you know who look like these models? They are beautiful, stunning, mouth-wateringly gorgeous, and I’m a hetero woman! But please, tell me, how many women do you know who actually look like these chicks without airbrushing? Even THEY don’t look this good without touch-ups!

I brought the mail in and put it all on the kitchen table. I sorted through it, and I left the VS catalog on the table, unopened. I have to be in the right frame of mind to open it. I have to be about 2 glasses into a good Chardonnay to look at it. The last one that came was the day after Halloween. Whose idea is it to send out a catalog for bulimic zippers the day after the nation’s biggest candyfest?

So I’m sitting here, sipping wine and flipping through the pages, looking at these gorgeous women wearing tie-dyed dental floss and acting as though they don’t have a care in the world. Here’s one wearing a black suit, slashed and revealing. She looks like Freddie Kruger got ahold of her after drinking a few Red Bulls. She looks drop-dead gorgeous. My mind wanders to how I might look in that same suit. Yikes. I’d have fat poking out every hole and slash – not pretty. I’d look like one of those speed strips they install in the road before you get to a stop sign. I look at these little suits with the “triangle” tops. Please. Tsunamis have been started with less pressure. I simply can’t wear these things, not without making headlines.

You know what though? I have given birth to two children and raised countless more, one way or the other. I have a kick-a** education. I maintain a beautiful home, keep my husband very happy and do what I love for a living. I have friends who would kill for me and for whom I would do the same. I care for my elderly father, travel when I can, laugh every chance I get and marvel at the strength of real women. I find beauty and ingenuity because I look for it. I spotlight it every chance I get.

There are some days when I’d trade every bit of that for a body that would look great in one of these Spandex bandaids, but then, I dig who I am. I dig my life. And yes, I even dig my curves and, I dunno, whatever you call all this extra. It’s like badges that the scouts earn. “This stretch mark is from my son. This bulge is from my daughter…” And so on, and on…

Man, wonder what the mailman will bring tomorrow.

A whole new chapter

Well, I thought I was finished with the book. The powers that be tell me I need to re-title it. That's OK. I can live with that. At this point, I just want to put it to bed so that I can start the next one.

I have recently been made aware of a situation that prompted the idea for a new chapter, and that's "Births." More specifically, the new chapter is about white trash women and the births and subsequent use of the resulting offspring for barter, for lack of a better word. It's a tough concept to explain, unless of course you've witnessed it firsthand. Then it's very recognizable. Believe it or not, there is humor to be found even there.