Category Archives: Iowa

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Here is Why Republicans Suck

goodlatteNever heard of him?

Lucky you.

He’s the chairman of the Judiciary Committee in the House. He’s from Virginia. He’s an asshole.

Big time.

I mean really big time.

He’s the point man for the GOP on immigration reform in the House.

Did I mention he’s an asshole?

He spoke with NPR recently, and gave his views on how he plans to shape the House response to the bill created in the Senate.

Did I mention he’s an asshole?

He’s made it clear. There will be no path to citizenship on his watch. No sirree bob.

But he has a plan. It’s called guest worker. See, he wants all the undocumented workers to be given guest worker status with no hope of citizenship. There is a reason he wants it done this way.

“You’re going to have to have a program that assures those farms and those processing plants that there will be workers,” he says. “Because if you give them legal status, they can work anywhere in the United States — they’re not going to necessarily work at the hardest, toughest, dirtiest jobs.”

Ya see, Bob wants a permanent slave labor pool. And the only way to insure that is to never give them citizenship. No, they are here to do the dirty jobs that Americans can’t be expected to do, being superior in every way, you know.

Bob is a superior in every way too. Superior in being an asshole. He’s the best at that job I’ve seen this week.

His name? Forgettable: Bob Goodlatte.

Good luck with that piece of work Johnny B. of Orange.

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My good old friend Chucky the Farmer, Grassley, is probably learning that those town hall meetings are not as much fun as he expected (as Johnny McCain learned too!).

If you were unaware, Chuck, is an old curmudgeon who is the perfect conservative foil to Tom Harkin, both senators from Iowa. Except of course that Chucky is not quite the bright light that Harkin is.

At his town meeting, some yahoo from wacko land, asked if it was true that the government was about to microchip all children under the ruse that they were just tracking their medical files. Grassley unlike Mitch the Turtle McConnell was asked about a similar urban myth (in McConnell’s case the claim was that Gitmo prisoners were getting the benefits of the GI Bill), Grassley knew the answer. “No truth to that” he muttered and then went on to say:

No. First of all, nothing can be done to your body without your permission. It’d be a violation of the constitutional right to privacy if that were to happen.

Now, I do agree with Grassley on this statement. But I doubt Grassley believes in it, for you see, the basis of Roe v. Wade is based on the implicit right to privacy that all the amendments imply. So held the Roe Court.

This is not the meme of the GOP, which through its ally Antonin Scalia, completely rejects. Scalia and other Republicans have steadfastly said that Roe is unconstitutional precisely because there is no constitutional right to privacy.

I am most sure that Grassley will retract that statement. I think sometimes a man needs a push to get him to retire. It’s time Chuck. You’re losing your edge.

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Republicans continue under the delusion that if they can find a black man to glom onto, they can win an election.

It goes something like this:

  • Black people vote for other black people because their black.
  • If the GOP can put up a black candidate, they will surely split the vote, presumably African-Americans will just play a game of eenie-meenie, or rock, paper, scissors to decide which to vote for.

Of course they don’t get that such a belief is in itself racist as all get out.

Anyway, the new latest GOP savior is Ben Carson, neurosurgeon in pediatric care. Carson has a compelling story, coming from humble means. He has risen to being director of pediatric neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins.

But his ideas are decidedly ultra conservative. Combining the usual GOP mishmash of biblical literalism and individualism, Carson argues for the usual laundry list of Republican talking points on taxes, and smaller government and so forth.

Foxy Noise and the WSJ are all in a tither hyping Carson as the new Herm Cain/Alan West/Alan Keyes/ blah blah blah black man to prove the GOP en mass is still not a largely white organization with no clue about its own racism.

HINT: Black folks vote for issues just like white people do. Color plays at best a tangential role, the same role it played for me when I voted for the Black guy occupying the WHITE House right now. It was really nice to be part of a historic event made possible by the fact that the candidate in question WAS A COMPETENT AND WORTHY CANDIDATE TO BE HEAD OF STATE.

Got it now?

No, I suspect you don’t. But I tried.

I leave you with this, because I thought it was really cool. From Don in Massachusetts.

eyeglasses

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Thanks Dear Friends

Please accept our heartfelt thanks for all your kind words regarding the loss of Bear. It was so wonderful to read your soothing words at such a time, especially when we are so busy with all the last-minute doing of “things”. The list seems ever to grow.

Yet, we are almost there. The last of the major packing was done yesterday, and the POD is fairly brimming. We have just enough room for the last few things that we must leave until the morning of the leave-taking.

Yesterday was the big push and were we exhausted, running pretty hard from about 7 am until about 5. We literally fell into bed, which was not a nice fall, since the bed frame is gone and we are down to the box springs and mattress. We have a couple of plates and I baked up a ton of chicken to munch on over today.

We’re ready to be on our way, and at the same time, there is a decidedly melancholy afoot. We are in that “doing X for the last time,” whether it be feeding the birds, or something as mundane as doing a load of wash. I’m not sure how universal that kind of thing is, but it’s a staple of my “going”, though never a part of my “coming”.

We are taking our cats to their new home later today. We were blessed in finding a perfect place, on a dead-end road with almost no traffic, along the Wapsie, with lots of  places to hunt their mousies, and enjoy playing in woodpiles. Our friend Steve will take good care of them, and they can live out their remaining years much the same as here, albeit not with the “house time” they usually enjoy as they desire.

We looked at many options including boarding and having them shipped, and it was simply too expensive for us to do. The kennel fees alone were upwards of $1000 per month. And that life would be no life for them at all. So this is vastly better, though we will miss them so much.

So we leave Iowa,  just the two of us, and that is hard to accept. We are so used to our menagerie. It is decidedly quiet without the dogs and now there will be no more feline antics to make us laugh. On the other hand, there will be no more shrieks of anger as one comes prancing in with a beautiful chickadee in its mouth, nor the headless mice that Spencer was noted for.

Again, thanks for all your kindness during this exciting, sad, trying time. Everything seems set for a ETL of Tuesday morning. Bless ya all until the next time I have a moment and a connection!

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They Run the Meadow Forever

Sometime during the night Wednesday into Thursday, our beloved Bear passed. We heard nothing and trust that he died peacefully in his sleep. I am not one to grant an animal an inordinate amount of human understanding, but in this case, it seems apropos.

Bear was scheduled to go to the vet on Thursday for an “assessment”. He clearly knew that something around here was afoot, as strangers entered his home and began carting off the contents last weekend. He was distressed, something very unlike him. Perhaps he sought to save us from the decision. And there is no question in our minds that he much prefers to stay here at his home in the meadow.

We buried him next to his sister, the girlie, Brandy. It all seems surreal in a way, for earlier on Wednesday, the Contrarian put new batteries in a camera and found that we had one picture of her sleeping on her couch. He determined to take a number of Bear “in case”. How fortuitous that turned out to be.

We have talked often since of so many memories of the two of them. So much laughter, and happiness those two had. They went on wild and long journeys throughout their domain which was large, and chased dozens of deer, turkey, pheasants, rabbits, raccoons, hedgehogs, coyotes, and well, if it moved, they chased it. They caught some, ate some, and carried around much as trophy.

They were always together, always teamed in the hunt, in the napping. Her death was so hard on him. At first he seemed unaffected, but his health deteriorated so quickly after he realized she was not returning. He went up to her grave and took the chew bones we left there and brought them back, dropping them at the Contrarian’s feet. He knew she was there.

We have a profound peace knowing they will have this meadow to themselves for all time. We have so many memories. We shall miss them both. They both left us in style and dignity and on their own terms. Would that humans could do as well.

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On the moving front, we are nearly all packed up. The movers are returning on Sunday, the only rain-free day we are getting over the next week it seems. There is surprisingly not as much as I expected remaining to go in the POD.  We are expecting to take off on Tuesday morning. It’s been a long journey to this point, and we are ready to begin this new adventure. I’ll try to post again on Monday before we leave.

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When You are 62 and Moving. . . .

Well it’s at something like 5 days and counting. It’s getting creepy really. You do stuff and find yourself staring off, and then you have no idea why you are standing there, what you were intent upon doing.

I’ve packed up more than a dozen times. I should have this crap down by now.

It occurred to me that age has changed things. I urge you to pay attention.

Here are the new rules:

  • When packing anything of any importance, make sure you tell your significant other where you are putting it. This is by far the most significant rule. You will forget where you put it. You will remember it’s “somewhere” which is a pretty illusive and useless truth. Exactly where will elude you. So do tell, or write it down. So far I have forgotten where I put the Dodge registration, the Toshiba instruction booklet, the Direct TV bill–and that’s just today.
  • Write everything down. Even your name. By the end of the day you will have forgotten even that.
  • Plan on only getting 2 hours of effective packing done per day. The rest will spend in wandering from room to room, looking for anything that is shaped 3″ x 5″ x 6″ that will fit in that little spot left in the box.
  • Give up on labeling the outside of any box with anything remotely explaining what is inside. Two ancient pistols that my dad had that I have carried from state to state, now are in a box labeled bathroom. Go figure.
  • Check off items on your to-do list as they are completed. By minus-2 days, you will start doing them all over again. The electric company gets mighty cranky when you call again. They accused me of playing a prank and threatened to track me to the gates of hell to collect the 31¢ owing from our last bill.
  • When people ask you why you’re moving, don’t tell them the truth. People born in a state who have lived there all their lives take it rather badly when you tell them their state sucks, especially its weather, and that its inhabitants are pedestrian, ill-educated, crazy evangelical know-nothings. They tend not to want to complete whatever transaction you were engaged with them in. Tell then you are being forced to relocate to care for a sick aunt in an awful state. No need to rub it in that you are escaping.
  • Do make a note of every phone number in the old state if they are obligated to do something. They won’t, and you won’t find their names or phone numbers listed in the phone book in the new state. This will make you very angry.
  • Any cord that has anything on the end of it, save. It goes to something. When you die, people will buy your cords at auction and it will become their cord problem. Cords do this on purpose. Trust me.
  • Live dangerously. Throw out all bills that are dated before the century. Also all receipts. Feel free to discard user manuals for anything you are not taking with you, like the old fridge. It can figure out how to run itself.
  • Save all yarn, pieces of cloth, and interesting looking pieces of wood. From these are born centerpieces and door decorations. And for God’s sake, save pinecones and stones. Geologists need to find stones from Iowa in New Mexico to have something new to do. New theories are born of such anomalies.
  • Oh and when you move into your new house, let your husband go out to the mailbox in a dress and heels just once. Trust me, the neighbors will leave you alone, and you can decide which of them is worth getting to know on YOUR terms.

Okay, back to the salt mines. I’ve had my therapy break. We are gettin’ there. We are still speaking to one another. That is about all one can expect.

Party on!

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T – Eight and Counting

Or thereabouts.

We got the POD about 90% packed on Saturday. We picked up more boxes today (the final haul hopefully). The moving kids are returning on Saturday or Sunday for the final pack.

We expect to hit the road on Tuesday if everything continues to go this smoothly. Off to the bank and post office tomorrow. Making all kinds of arrangements regarding stuff that needs to be sold off the farm.

All seems on schedule and I just hope I don’t forget anything major.

Today we got boxes and I sorted and started packing our “take along” clothes. Tomorrow the printers and office stuff. Then the final two rounds of kitchen packing, reducing my cooking to the bare minimum.

Hey, we are moving!

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If You See a Chicken With Its Head Cut Off–It’s ME

And if you see my brain, (it’s gray and fluffy and smacks little kisses if you wink at it), please pick it up and put it in a bucket of Coke Zero until I can pick it up.

I have dreamed of this move for at least two years now, and it’s coming down to crunch time. And I’m going out of my freakin’ little bean-counter. I mean seriously. I can barely remember my name.

Knock on wood, and twirl three times in place, click your heels, and shout Johnny Depp, they are coming to haul boxes and pack up most of the POD tomorrow. I got a knot in my tummy the size of the Grandest Canyon and the Mohave, Sahara and Gobi thrown in for interest.

The standard answer to the question “when are ya moving?” was “three weeks to a month” (since February at least). It is now, “umm a week and a half to two weeks?” I am gettin’ crazy.

So, let me be the first, middle and last to apologize for not being a good blogging friend. I shall no doubt either not comment, or babble nonsense if I do, and that sporadically. I can barely think of a topic to write about, as you can obviously tell. I’m busy with  trying to sort through houses on a ReMax site when half of the pics time-out on me due to the slow upload. But at least that will improve as we get on the road.

I’ll forget 3 million things and remember another half million on the way there. I’ll curse and invent words of invective to suggest that I or the Contrarian has developed early onset Alzheimer’s and we will probably end up on Sri Lanka instead of New Mexico.

I’m getting hopefully the last pile of boxes at the local grocery on Monday. That is to finish off the kitchen (I have already packed things I am looking to use now) and we are sending the kitchen chairs into the POD tomorrow and eating off tray tables in the kitchen from now on.

It sounds much like we are moving!!!!!!!

Off to the bank next week to talk about money transfers and direct deposit stuff, and a drop by the local Post office, where everyone knows your name, and tell them to get ready to hold all our mail until we get a post office box. And then calling lights and so on and so forth.

Aren’t you glad you’re not me?

The Contrarian sits back and thinks this is all gonna be a cake walk. Men do that. Did I tell you about my uncle who came home one afternoon and told his wife he had sold the house? Now they were planning on doing that and moving up north, which they did (this was in Michigan). So that was fine. She asked when they needed to be out by, and he said, “5 pm tomorrow.” Now that woman should have been ripe for a sanitarium doncha think? And guess what? They were out by 5 pm the next day. Nothing stopped my Uncle Harry from doing what he wanted.

So again, my apologies for all the nonsense going on here. I know this is boring, but I find it therapeutic to type, and I’m typing almost at light-speed which tells you just how frenetic I have become.

So.

I’ll keep blogging as long as I can, about what I can. Is there an election coming up? Or was there an election? Who won? Are we a communist country? Do I need a passport? Should I take oranges? I have no dairy creamer in those little packets. My snow boots are packed in an ice chest. My chest is packed in a pair of wine glasses. I’m nuts.

But so are you. No? You are reading this no?

I rest my case.

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To Hell and Back in One Life Time

How stupid was I?

I thought it would be a fun day.

Oh, was I wrong.

Let me ‘splain Lucy.

We had to go to town. We had a long list which included titling the new car, getting a registration and plates (so we wouldn’t be arrested as felons in New Mexico), getting a spare key for the car, (cuz we lose everything at least once), getting a padlock (for the POD so our stuff stays in), getting a thermos (must have already packed it), getting a GPS (to find our way to New Mexico), getting a cell phone (for when nothing else works), getting luggage (for our undies), getting a new purse (cuz I wanted one), getting potassium (cuz the Contrarian was getting leg cramps), getting another travel cup (cuz we only had one), getting food (so we won’t starve and never be found in the woods), and well, anything else that came to mind.

There is a DMV located near to where the Wal-Mart and grocery are, and the lock smith was not too far away, so I figured hey, we can have a rather fun time once the car business is concluded. So that morning as we are readying ourselves (takes time to get old people oiled up), he starts commenting about how to get from the “Courthouse” to the locksmith.

“Whoa there partner, what is all this talk about the courthouse?”

“To get the title and registration and plates.”

“Hey, the DMV is on Collins?”

“You get your license renewed there, not the title and registration. Don’t you know that by now?”

“Uh, no, that makes no sense. It’s the DMV DE-part-Ment of MOTOR V-Hickle see? Stuff to do with motorized contraptions is handled there.”

“Not in Iowa it’s not.”

“It is in Michigan and Connecticut–that’s the norm!”

” ‘Fraid not, sweets.”

Now the courthouse is in the mall in the southwest quadrant of Cedar Rapids. It’s in the mall because nearly 4 years after the flood, they still haven’t dried out something and moved back. So they are in a MALL.

Now let me ‘splain further.

Cedar Rapids is (I might add they are rather proud of this fact), laid out in a grid, which is split by a river called “the Cedar”. (catchy huh)?  So there is the northeast, northwest, etcetera. So when you take down an address, such as 215 Candle Street, you are offering nothing worth a damn if it runs through more than one quadrant unless you have the appellation SW or NE attached.

And because it’s bifurcated by a river, it’s a migraine because not all streets cross the river, because of course would be prohibitively expensive to build all those bridges. Now numbered avenues run north and south, or as close to that as the blind man who surveyed the land could get it. Numbered streets run east and west, with the same proviso. Memorize those that cross the river, and those that don’t.

So we shop mostly in the northeast quadrant, which I’m familiar with to a degree. I stay away from the river. Now as far as I can remember, I’ve never even been in the Southeast quadrant, and I doubt it really exists. The northwest quadrant has a few things of minor interest such as a garden center (the plants usually die within a month of bringing them home, so don’t go there), and Wal Marts in a strip of giganto stores like Sam’s Club and Lowe’s.

So the southwest quadrant is no-human’s land. The blind surveyor became schizophrenic by then, and things went to hell. Streets and highways bifurcate each other at angles that you didn’t know were possible, and there is barely and up from down. Roads suddenly change into others and even massive stop light arrays are canted at angles to the roadway, serving three roads instead of two, and all in all it reminds one of trying to drive in Hong Kong. The only people who frequent the area regularly are geeks with protractors and slide rules who get off on all the geometry.

Needless to say, every time we go over to the event horizon, we get sucked into a loop of unending wrong turns, and hopeless entanglements of parking lots, and turn lanes that could not be achieved even if your car had a hovering capacity. Of course we have to go there regularly, for the courthouse thing, the Social Security office (they lose a lot of old people who simply die on the way) and the VA regional office. We get lost every time, every time.

No worse place can contain the Contrarian and I than in a car when we are lost. We  disagree on which way to go. It’s awful. It’s simply awful.

 But we found it, we did it. And finishing the car business,  we proceeded to the lock smith. That only took roaming the side streets and finding it finally, after four turns,  not on the street address but around the corner on another street, which runs perpendicular to it, but hey, they liked the other street’s name better, I guess.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how to set the clock in the new car. Why does every car company have its own unique series of voodoo machinations to set the clock? Push the volume, and push the set button at the same time, then cross your eyes, and punch AM with your nose until the desired number arrives.

After giving up in frustration, the Contrarian offers this sage piece of advice.

“It’s easy babe (he’s not calling me babe actually because he’s still steamed from my last piece of advice of where he can put the last stop sign he almost missed which craning his neck to locate the lock man), just get a post-it note. How many hours is the clock off?”

“Three,” I eye him suspiciously.

“Okay, write  subtract 3 on the post-it note and tape it just below the clock. Easy to know the time then,” he smirked.

“We’re returning to civilization dude, no more farmer-functional for me!”

And somehow we got the rest of the crap we set out to buy, and got home. Today we programmed all this stuff. That’s a whole ‘nother level of insanity.