‘Merica, not what our forefathers intended….

Lately, I have a problematically low tolerance for assholes.  We all deal with these people on a daily basis and usually it’s fine.  Maybe the asshole song soundtracks in your head, or that could possibly just be me.  This week, I am way way over my quota for dealing pleasantly with assholes.  In the last ten days, I have had a couple of blessings so enormous that I can’t even describe it.  Karma needs to balance things out, so I have also had every asshole in a fifty-mile radius have a need to interact with me.  Now, I have it on good authority, from my ex-husband, most family members and a few friends, that everything is my fault, up to and including the war in the Persian Gulf.  Please know, my shoulders are a whole lot broader than I wish they were so feel free to place all blame right here… whether it’s that you can’t make your bills, or your spouse is cheating or you maybe need your meds upped,  Miss Shannon had a nefarious plot that made that happen.  Nothing you choose has any bearing on your situation whatsoever, because you have a Miss Shannon to blame.

Just to make things a little more entertaining, my never-ending plumbing issues dropped by to say hello.  Forget tires and testicles, if water runs through it, it’s a matter of time until it’s causing some sort of catastrophic damage.  What that really means, at least if you live at Casa Gypsy, is that the freaking bathroom is about to become a dangerous war zone for a number of days.  There will be issues and problems and delays because this is my world and it’s just the way of things.  Send in the clowns, because my house is about to become a three-ring circus.  The kind you get into with free tickets, not a good circus.  At the end of the day, this is going to be a big one with carpet removal, pipes and tiles involved.  Also, just for shits and giggles, my washing machine seems to have died.

Since my monkeys are getting raucous, blowing up the pipes and all, I thought I’d share my thoughts on the current monkey business in politics.  I have great sympathy for people seeking a better life.  I hate that kids are being taken from their parents… I also hate that kids are being sold by human traffickers to degenerates.  Guys who help you illegally enter countries are not nice people and you are not safe.  With all my heart, I want none of these things to happen to babies who have done nothing except commit the horrible crime of being brown.  I would like that with a side order of human decency and kindness, please and thank you.  I have no clue what’s right here… I want those kids safe, in a comfy bed with parents who love them to bits and pieces.  I do not give a flying fuck how either the left or the right thinks about this… We’re talking about wee little kids who need their moms, who are also in no position to protect them from anything.  There is no right answer.  It also does not matter which idiot president in the last twenty years is responsible.  We should just not be putting kids in fucking cages.  Seriously, you need someone to say that to you?

At the end of the day, first world problems like plumbing are not really so important.  It might matter a hell of a lot at Casa Gypsy, but we’re not going to die or be raped or sold into servitude.  We’re going to be inconvenienced and cost a lot of money.  Almost all the crap that gives me stress is actually a privilege… because I am white enough and was born this side of the border in Texarkana, Texas.  No one is going to put my kids in a cage.  No kid should be in a cage, no matter what.  I appreciate the inability to place a child in a jail cell next to their parent,  but find a foster home or a family member.   It hurts my very soul to hear some idiot say that it’s biblical.  Eye for an eye, and all that jazz, but really?  It has to be said… the only thing people are debating is whose fault it is.    Who cares????  Fix it.

Priorities

At some point, in recent years, I got old.  Like… I have less righteous indignation, which is probably a good thing.  I also got resigned to the current state of affairs… which is actually the trouble with the world today… We are tolerant of the mediocre, voting in the lesser of the evils for as long as I’ve been voting and dammit, we need a hero.  Surely there’s a Kennedy somewhere who is ready to take one for the team???  A Roosevelt?  Miss Shannon is looking for a dynasty here, people.  Our country needs a person who has been groomed to rule the Earth, knows that we don’t sell out our own troops and that twitter is not an appropriate medium.  While I write up this dream list, I would like to add that they are in no way connected to the sexual abuse of women and children and are not orange, nor do they negotiate with terrorists.  In case you weren’t sure… I just wiped out pretty much everybody that has hung out in the Oval Office for decades.

It pains me to say this, because the chief Cheeto in charge is such an icky human being, but he’s not doing half bad.  I’m fairly dissatisfied with the changes to the tax code, but I’ll live.  At this point, I think we’re going to survive 45 and we’re doing as well as can be expected.  If Miss Shannon had her way, this guy would be entirely banned from even thinking about education.  Friendly reminder, these tiny humans will someday take over our country.  They are being taught such ass backward stuff that they will be unable to run a cash register, but the answer isn’t to deny a free public education.  IMHO the answer is to step up our game and actually teach them how to maneuver in the America we’re leaving them.  The actual problem is that we stopped teaching our kids to think.  Preschool 101: without an imagination you truly cannot think.  In order to stimulate their imagination, they need art and music.  They’d also benefit from accurate information, the knowledge that 5+8 doesn’t make 10, and lunch that doesn’t look like it came out of a garbage can.

I’m going to post this and hear what an evil, liberal snowflake I am because I am daring say this is a place we should be spending money.  The same people who will be calling me snowflake (probably today) would never in a million years look at a hungry kid and not feed them.  They need it to be personal.  In Miss Shannon’s world, still a sparkly shade of misty mountain mauve, I don’t have to personally know a child to want them educated and fed because… ok, I don’t know how to teach someone to be a nice person once they are all grown up.  Some things you do because it’s the right thing.  I have this wild and crazy idea that we’re the good guys.

Back to my point… politics are a cesspool of depraved indifference to human life.  It’s all about the almighty dollar.   We can’t regulate Monsanto, the corporation poisoning our food supply, but we can regulate a vagina.  I guess we all need a little work on our imaginations, because clearly we cannot think.

 

Thunder

Miss Shannon went to Rolling Thunder in Washington DC over Memorial Day weekend.  Due to a court date that refused to be adjourned, I did not be set off in the wee hours of the morning with Dozer.  Despite my champagne taste, I have a beer budget so I intended to take a bus down later in the day.  Miss Shannon isn’t really alarmed by the great unwashed, as evidenced by her first husband, and was not especially concerned by the idea of hanging out in bus stations.  Miss Shannon’s men folk had a very big problem with it, however, and she flew down instead, curtesy of Dozer.  My oldest boy said, “Momma, anything could happen… you could be raped!!”  Oh, my sweet son, I am so glad I raised you right.  I’m also glad you are most familiar with the momma who makes your brownies and cupcakes, rather than the one who takes names.

This run is a demonstration to bring awareness to POWs and MIAs left behind.  I enjoyed myself immensely, saw the monuments… especially the Wall, which has special meaning for me, and met my new friend, Drunk Gino, who looked like the lipstick guy from Billy Madison and I even lost seven pounds.  That does not detract from the men and women just…lost in war… There is still some likelihood that there’s a guy in a cage, reciting his number. There are 1300 Americans unaccounted for, just from Viet Nam.  All I know is that one kid left to suffer there is one kid too many.  There isn’t a whole lot we can do, as citizens… but I hope they feel the Thunder…. It matters to me, personally, what has happened to these boys, mostly between the ages of sixteen and nineteen.  I have kids that age and believe me when I say that not one is totally grown up.  I cannot fathom being a gold star mother…Instead, I will be grateful to the powers that be that none of mine are inclined to be soldiers.

I need to tell you about the flock of little girls wearing Property Of “Billy Bob” vests that I wanted to take home, wash their faces and feed a sandwich or two.  On behalf of your mommas, ladies, I want you to know that you are beautiful, all by yourself and you don’t need some boy in shiny Jax Teller sneakers to make you matter.  When we first saw them, my Dozer wouldn’t let me approach because MCs are different… Miss Shannon has been known to kick it with some rather undesirable folks, kind of like the bus station people.  Anyway, I have nice manners and can approach the Queen of England or the Queen of any MC in exactly the same way.  Remember, friends, when you are dealing with an edgy MC, the patched in guys are rarely your problem.  Worry about the probies and the girls. (also, to the probie wearing pleather, you need to step up your game, son.)  Anyhoo… after much hiking about the Pentagon parking lot, I found these girls who were the ages of my daughters and talked Property Of Dozer into letting me take a picture of her vest.

We went all that way to protest for freedom for people who are most likely not in this world anymore and Miss Shannon was gritting her teeth to avoid a feminist altercation.  Generations of women have fought to make women equal.  The battle isn’t entirely won, but it’s pretty close.  Know this:  you are fabulous, all by yourself.  A friend once told me, “You have the vagina, you have all the power.  Do I have to teach you everything???” She was right.  Women have been both reviled and revered throughout the centuries because we have a wee bit of magic in our very souls.  Initially, I wanted to crack some skulls seeing these kids (I could be their mother) objectified and reduced.  Then I thought… maybe they don’t feel reduced.  Maybe, Miss Shannon is channeling the Queen Mother, and projecting her feelings.  Maybe, this is exactly the same as the time the Queen Mother stared disdainfully at my tats and told me only gypsy whores get tattoos.  I was born in the wagon of a traveling show… I gather my strength in my differences.  I hope every one of those little girls is getting what she needs right now by being the Property of Billy Bob.  Miss Shannon doesn’t have to understand… she can just support you, one woman to another.  For my fabulous daughters, Fiona and American Honey, your momma will fuck up your day if you allow the words property of anyone to appear on your person.

What a Week!!!!!

Holy Fuckballs, Batman…. I realized in the last couple of days that I lost the entire contents of my beloved blog.  Seriously, the whole damn thing.  I experienced this like losing one of my kids, it was a bad bad day and there were tantrums and pouting involved.  Like a phoenix, Miss Shannon will rise from the ashes and rebuild. Really, what would people do without my random theories and recipes?  Surely the world would end.  Do not disabuse me of this notion, please, it makes me happy in my heart.



It’s been an odd couple of weeks at Casa Gypsy.  For starters, my daughter tried to make gluten free cookies without ever having checked on the difference between wheat flour and other varieties… I have tons of different kinds of flour and my cabinets sport things that you pause to wonder about when you read it in ingredients lists.  Gluten free baking is kind of like a science experiment and in this case, it was apparently mimicking the eruption of a volcano during a category 5 hurricane inside of my oven.  Considering that every flat surface in my kitchen was covered in cookie dough, it never occurred to me that there was enough left over to be inside the oven, but here we are.  I turned it on to preheat and visited Mount Washmore, returning only after whatever the hell combusted in there was a charred mass of what appeared to be lava rock adhered to pretty much the interior of the oven and all three racks.  The moral to this story is that it can always, always be worse.



There are things in life that defy explanation.  Very, very high on my list is why does my daughter hate me and throw cookie dough (with sugar and eggs, like freaking glue) all over my kitchen??  This chick is 22, not a kid anymore.  Did I not hug her enough?  I don’t know.  Why, oh, why does Dozer yell at me when the pizza delivery man is late?  It defies explanation.  Why do we need so many warning labels? What the hell is wrong with you that you don’t just know you shouldn’t operate an iron in the bathtub??  Why the fuck don’t you people know what a yield sign means??  Or that the posted speed limit is a minimum suggestion? The mind boggles.  This is a picture of my fabulous daughters:



Here's what I know:  There is a rare species of turtle with a towel strapped to his back running through my house.  My little cupcake Brenna is my mini-me… she comes from a long line of contrary women.  Brenna is no exception.  She’s learning when to release the flying monkeys and wear the bitch hat.  Someday, Fiona, (which is what we call our little Brenna) you will take your rightful place as a matriarch of our gypsy clan.  It’s not a lucrative gig, but these people know how to circle the wagons.  Meanwhile, men are like buses… there’s another one around the corner.  On Mother’s Day, I will make a stupid amount of Majestic hotdog sauce (Which is from Jesus, Dozer.  It really, really is.) and call it a day.  Dozer will continue to yell at me for things that are outside of my control and take excellent care of me for the rest of my life.



What I’m getting at is that you have to take your joy where you can find it, while also taking your knocks.  I would rather, a thousand times, have my grumpalupagus grousing because I moved his mail, while he has my back 10,000% than listen to the sugared dialogue from the boys I’ve known before.  Life isn’t pretty, tied up with bows.  It only took me forty years, but the answer was a dirty biker in scruffy leather.  I’m going weigh in with two thumbs up for dirty bikers, but maybe your prince charming is a guy in a suit or a farm hand wearing dirty work boots.  Doesn’t matter… wait for the one who will rescue you.  Aspire never to need rescuing, but he should at least want to make it all better.  Don’t settle.  Forever is the guy who thinks the sun shines out of your ass, even as he makes colossal messes and denigrates your hotdog sauce.  You still need to be an I before you can be a We, you need your own bank account and your dignity.  If you lose your shoes at midnight, Cinderella, you should have stopped three drinks ago… but you want Peter Peter the Pumpkin Eater to take you home.  It’s about priorities, people.