Bozo Barack

Obama puts on a Fiscal Cliff, "last-second" press conference before a pre-selected, applauding and screeching, politically stacked, worshipping audience, surrounded by a bunch of middle-class mannequins.  John Harwood, true believer, so-called journalist on CNBC says, “This is somewhat of a PR event.”  Harwood better learn how to hold his tongue or he’ll be thrown out of the inner circle.  This is the government you vote for.  This is the government you wanted.  Obama lobbies in his press conference for new investments (i.e., spending, Democrats never spend, they lie) and postponing scheduled spending cuts (which are mostly reduced increases).  Obama clowns around about showing up for New Year's dinner with his mannequins.  You’re getting happy talk, bullshit lies and blame the other guy finger pointing instead of solutions that whittle away the gargantuan debt overhang that will destroy our country.   Best of luck to everyone.  You’ll need it.

Our 12/28 Baby

Today is Bella's 7th birthday. 

Seven years ago, late at night at home in Arlington, Teresa went into sudden late stage labor.  Contractions were frequent and severe.   We called the obstetrician and set off for the hospital, stopping only to drop Blake and Blythe off at a friend’s house.   Every thump over a pavement joint caused Teresa to shriek.  To reduce the jolts, I crawled down I-395 towards Alexandria Hospital at 35 to 45 miles per hour.

Teresa said to drop her at the front door so she could go straight to the delivery wing.   A few minutes later, as I hoofed it back from the parking lot, I saw Teresa had reversed course, edging towards me.  The front entrance was locked tight for the night.   Barely able to stand through another contraction, she stopped and grabbed my arm, holding on for dear life.  We skirted the building until finding an open entrance on the side of the emergency room.  A lone hospital worker in an otherwise empty corridor spied us and directed us towards the maternity wing.

Stopping several times for contractions we worked our way to the elevator.  As the elevator doors opened a delivery nurse grabbed a wheelchair, deposited Teresa, stashed a sheath of forms into her lap and pushed her down to a delivery room.  The nurse asked standard questions about contraction timing and intensity.  She performed a quick exam, upon which she stuck her head out the door and into the hall and screamed at the top of her lungs, “I need help down here.”  It was 11:48 pm.

Four more streamed into the room -- three nurses plus an anesthesiologist.   Packets of dressings and medical devices were ripped open, packaging strewn across the floor.   The head nurse told Teresa NOT to push.  There was no obstetrician.   Teresa said she couldn’t stand the pain; she asked for drugs.  The anesthesiologist whispered to me that I should tell her it is too late.  Thanks for THAT assignment I whispered back.  The head nurse repeated, “Don’t push.”  It was 11:57. 

 

A circle formed around the bed.   The head nurse polled the group.  “Have you ever caught a baby?” she asked.  “No”, “No”, “No” and “No” were the responses.  Then five pairs of eyes moved in my direction.  I returned the most incredulous look imaginable.   The nurse repeated, “Don’t push.”

A minute or two later an unshaven, bleary eyed, barely awake staff obstetrician shuffles into the room.  “Push”, he mumbles.  At 12:04 am Bellamy is born, and thus and forever after her birthday is December 28th.   Happy birthday to our sweet little girl.

 



Bella Prepares to Blow Out 7 Candles



 

 

Don't Need to Be All A’Twitter

Blogging is fun.  It provides ample format for expression.  It is a means for presenting thoughts bigger than a sound-bite, more robust than a slogan or more granular than an assertion.  But if you can say what you mean, and mean what you say, in a few hundred characters or less, don't let me get in the way.

A Little Christmas Shopping

Everyone has to start somewhere.

Here I am, old retired guy, has all the time in the world it would seem.  But I end up today fighting the pre-Christmas weekend crowds at Gallitan Valley Mall and in the big box stores along North 19th Street.  I think it has a lot to do with having tweens whose tastes are evolving so fast that we don't dare lock in their wish list until the week prior. 

In town the roads are clear but parking lots are making like ice rinks.  When exiting the mall, a front wheel drive Chevy immediately ahead of us stopped at exactly the wrong place.  It got hung up with its rear wheels stuck behind a speed bump, front tires whirring away to no effect.  I put the Jeep in park, walked ahead to the Chevy and leaned into its rear bumper with a solid push.   Mission accomplished and off she and we went -- smiles and waves all around.  It feels good to get over the hump.

Bob Wards Gun Counter

We went to Bob Ward's to see (with limited success) if we could find some ski clothing for our 6-year old.  Seems we will be better off waiting for the after Christmas sales.  It also seemed that the crowd in the store's corner wasn't all that willing to wait for their purchases.  There was a good-sized gaggle inspecting semi-automatic weapons. 

You know, we live in a town where there's a bunch of elementary school boys who wear three types of outfits  -- white camo, brown camo and green camo.  I've heard fourth and fifth graders brag on their prowess with a shotgun.   Hunting is called harvesting, hunters are sportsmen, and a lot of hikers explore literally loaded for bear.  You can buy a gun safe at a sporting goods store, a farm supply store or the Costco.  I have a neighbor who shoots varmints on his two acre lot.   I've heard the report of a rifle on the golf course and looked over to see a maintenance worker shouldering a rifle and carrying away a dead badger on a shovel, shot because the worker didn't like where the critter was lurking.   Wasn't safe for the golfers he said.  Yet this is a very safe place to live.   The murder rate is something like one-tenth of what it is in the District of Columbia where virtually no one can legally own a gun.  

A lot of us live in rural areas where the law is far removed and there are no passers by or few potential witnesses to call attention to miscreants.    It is an environment that depends on self-defense and mutual respect for survival.  It works.  The most dangerous weapon in Montana is a Ford F150 pickup barreling too fast around a curve at midnight driven by a guy or a gal who worked too long with too little sleep or drank too hard.    Common sense vehicle control doesn't prevent it.  So pass some feel good gun legislation, if you must, but don't really expect it will accomplish anything.