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Posts Tagged ‘California’

 

 

The excerpt below was sent to me by a friend.  I share for 5 reasons:

 

  1. I live in California.
  2. I am a SMART woman, at least in my not-so-humble opinion.
  3. I have never voted for Dianne Frankenstein and never will.
  4. Yes, California seems to have a penchant for electing obnoxious and totally foolish women.
  5. My husband is from Maine (note the reference to Maine below).

 

Therefore … I offer the below idiocy.

 
*~*~*

 

 

Quote of the day by “Dianne Feinstein”:

 

Dianne Feinstein:  “All vets are mentally “ill” in some way and government should prevent them from owning firearms.”

 

Yep, she really said it in a meeting in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee … and the quote below from the LA Times is priceless.  Sometimes even the L.A. Times gets it right.

 

Kurt Nimmo:  “Senator Feinstein insults all U.S. Veterans as she flays about in a vain attempt to save her anti-firearms bill.”

 

Quote of the Day from the Los Angeles Times:

 

“Frankly, I don’t know what it is about California , but we seem to have a strange urge to elect really obnoxious women to high office.  I’m not bragging, you understand, but no other state, including  Maine, even comes close.  When it comes to sending left-wing dingbats to Washington, we’re Number One.  There’s no getting around the fact that the last time anyone saw the likes of Barbara Boxer, Dianne Feinstein, Maxine Waters, and Nancy Pelosi, they were stirring a cauldron when the curtain went up on ‘Macbeth’.  The four of them are like jackasses who happen to possess the gift of blab.

You don’t know if you should condemn them for their stupidity or simply marvel at their ability to form words.”

Columnist Burt Prelutsky, Los Angeles Times

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

I actually agree with the LA Times for a change.  That’s all I have to offer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Traveling by airplane in today’s cultural climate can be stressful at best without other issues being thrown in there that are harmless and out of the traveler’s control.  

Recently, Roy and I went to Southern California (Ontario, CA, to be exact) for a business conference.  We flew from Sacramento to Ontario because it’s quicker, cheaper, and less stressful on our relationship than trying to drive.  Gas as well as wear and tear on our vehicles coupled with the sheer time saved all play a factor.

Anyway, it was cool and rainy out, so I wore jeans and a sweater with a tank top underneath to the airport so I could keep warm without having to carry unnecessary items.  Little did I know that my sweater would cause the machines to go nuts and me to get a total and complete pat-down.  I mean really now … I don’t even come CLOSE to looking or acting like a terrorist … and couldn’t pull it off if I tried.  I’m tall, fair-skinned, red-haired, bold, and outspoken as well as in my early 60s.  I guess, however, since I don’t fit any profiles, I am safe to target.  

In any event, my sweater had glittery threads sewn throughout, which caused the entire group of TSA agents to almost have a melt-down.  Really, now … a damn SPARKLY SWEATER?  Come on now.  Get a grip!   A sparkly sweater.  

I volunteered to take the sweater off and go through the scanner machine again, but they weren’t having it.  Oh no … let’s pat her down COMPLETELY right out in the open.  When I say “completely” … I mean completely.  

“Well, ma-am we’re only using the backs of our gloved hand in the ‘sensitive areas’.”

Really, now … would *they* want that done to THEM out in the open?  

Fine.  I’ll work hard at keeping my non-PC mouth shut.

Anyway, while they were doing this, I told Roy … “Remind me to *NEVER* wear this sweater while travelling again. Sparkles are apparently dangerous.”

Then, on the way home, there was another dumb issue.  I guess I attract it.  As I said … since I don’t fit the standard terrorist profile, I’m one of the first ones targeted.  You know how it works … get the children (my daughter who, at the time was 12 years old, was pulled out of line due to a box of AAA batteries that they thought were “bullets”); get the tall red-haired Caucasian women (like me); get the elderly (they pulled my very frail 87 year old white haired mother out of line to pat down and go through all of her luggage once also), etc.  You get the picture. 

A couple of years ago, it was because I had lost a bunch of weight but hadn’t bought an entirely new wardrobe yet, so I was patted down “because your pants are too baggy”.  (That blog post is back in my historical posts.)  

Ok … uhhh … I’m sorry … (I guess) … that I was working to be healthy but couldn’t afford an entirely new wardrobe, because my income is taxed excessively by the goons in Washington DC.  

Next it was about a sparkly sweater.  

So … coming home after the sparkly sweater incident (believe me … I packed it under the plane this time) … I was eyeballed closely because the State of California DMV does not know how to put hyphenated names on their driver licenses, but my passport, my Social Security card, my legal name, my airline ticket, whatever, all have a hyphenated name shown.  Generally, the TSA agent can see past this idiosyncrasy with California and understand that both names are listed there, but they are not listed the way everyone else lists them.  Basically, I have NEVER had TSA have an issue in the past.

Until this time …

TSA (snotty): “Next time, ma’am, make sure the ticket matches the driver license.” 

Uhhh … then it won’t match my PASSPORT … which is by far and away more important to match.   The State of California can’t seem to do it right. 

TSA (confuzzled): “uhhhhh …”

Yes, that’s a word.   I made it up.  It’s a cross between confused and puzzled. So there. 

I want to ask this question however.  Has TSA ever actually caught a terrorist before anything happened?  I sincerely doubt it.  I wonder if, in their training manuals, it states “your job is to harass anyone that doesn’t look or act like they’ll be a problem, particularly if they’ve lost weight or are wearing sparkly sweaters because that way you won’t be accused of profiling.”

Anyway, when travelling, along with not carrying all the things they say you can’t carry (fingernail clippers, tweezers, bazookas, bottles of water, hand grenades, shampoo, hand lotion, etc), I offer you my additional list of “don’t do these things”.

1. No baggy pants

2. No sparkly sweaters

3. No AAA batteries

4. No California driver licenses

  
 

Carry on, everyone.  Happy travels … if possible.

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Glenn B Crowley; 1943

In My Daughter’s Eyes

Martina McBride

 

In my daughter’s eyes, I am a hero.

I am strong and wise, and I know no fear,

But the truth is plain to see.

She was sent to rescue me.

I see who I want to be

In my daughter’s eyes.

In my daughter’s eyes,

Everyone is equal.

Darkness turns to light,

And the world is at peace.

This miracle God gave to me,

Gives me strength

When I am weak.

I find reason to believe

In my daughter’s eyes,

And when she wraps her hand around my finger,

Oh, it puts a smile in my heart.

Everything becomes a little clearer.

I realize what life is all about.

It’s hanging on when your heart has had enough.

It’s giving more when you feel like giving up.

I’ve seen the light.

It’s in my daughter’s eyes.

In my daughter’s eyes,

I can see the future,

A reflection of who I am and what we’ll be,

And though she’ll grow and someday leave,

Maybe raise a family,

When I’m gone, I hope you see how happy she made me.

For I’ll be there,

In my daughter’s eyes.

 

I’ve used this song before to describe how I feel about my own daughter.  Our relationship is strong and solid, something for which I worked hard and something for which I will be forever grateful.  However, it also describes my father and me.  I remember when I was roughly 15, hearing my grandmother describe me as “daddy’s little girl”.  It embarrassed me at the time, but now that I’m older, I admit … I like it.  He and I had a unique relationship.  I’ve described it before a little, but suffice it to say that both of our personalities are hard-headed and that neither one of us was ever willing to back down in a disagreement.  However, our off-beat sense of humor matched … and our willingness to outwork anyone that attempted to put us down … and our sense of determination … among other things … made us understand each other, even when things may have been strained or when we were not near each other.  He was one of the strongest men I ever have known, and he would do anything for his family if he could.  When you read the words above and look in my eyes, you will see the reflection of who he was and what he was and still is.

My daddy’s middle name was “B”.  Yes, that’s right.  “B”.  It didn’t stand for anything.  It was simply “B”.  That always fascinated me as a child, because, I mean, doesn’t EVERYONE have a middle name (at least in the simple-minded thinking of a child)?  There’s a story behind that which makes me laugh every time I remember him telling it to me.  Apparently, he was supposed to have the middle name of “Brooks” but when my grandfather, a Kansas farmer born in 1901, recorded the birth certificate, he didn’t realize it was an “official document”.  He wrote in the name with just an initial, figuring that this was how most people would refer to him as he grew up, even though he had a middle name that his family would know.  My daddy always thought that his middle name was “Brooks” … until he was inducted into the United States Navy during World War 2.  They required his birth certificate.  When he received it, he found the truth … and decided not to bother changing it, because (1) he was going into the Navy and didn’t have that kind of time; (2) it cost money to do which he didn’t have; and (3) he liked it because it was unique.  I know that I have needed to explain it to people my entire life when asked for my father’s full name … that “B” was in fact his official middle name.  Hell, even on my own birth certificate, next to the area where they put in your father’s name, someone put “ok” next to it and initialed it, which makes me laugh that it even showed up as something in question on my OWN birth certificate.

He was born August 25, 1924.  He was 30 years older than me, so his age was always easy for me to remember: take mine and add 30 years.  Since I just turned 60 years old in July (which very few people realized), he’d be 90 today.  However, he died August 28, 1992 (3 days after his 68th birthday).  To me, that’s mind-boggling, as that was 22 years ago.  It’s also only 8 years older than I am right now.  The thing is: his face, his voice, even his aroma are still vivid in my brain.  I miss him still.  My mother, who turned 86 on August 17th, misses him still also.

My mother came from a completely different background than he did.  I have mentioned that previously, but I’ll go into that in more detail in another blog-post at some point in time.  My main point right now is that she came from a solid family and never had to worry about the simple things while growing up.  My father, on the other hand, was raised, as he always said “on the other side of the tracks”.  My mother and he met in college, which he was attending after World War 2 on the GI Bill.  I have always admired that drive in him to better himself.  I think that’s where I get a lot of my drive and my entrepreneurial spirit … but I will admit that both sides of the family have strong-willed entrepreneurial ancestors, so I come by it quite naturally.  In any event, I’ve mentioned before that he was raised mostly by a divorced woman in the 30s that moved to California with him and his younger sister out of the Dust Bowl.  Have any of you read “The Grapes of Wrath”?  Well, then, there you have it.

Anyway, growing up, it was my sister and me with my mother and him raising us.  We were suburban kids born smack dab in the middle of the Baby Boom Generation.  I remember him telling me specifically that part of what he admired so much about my mother is that she was an intelligent college-educated woman who could fend for herself if need be.  I also remember him telling me that he wanted to make sure that both of his daughters could handle being on their own if it ever came down to it, because he didn’t want to ever see us struggle as much as his mother did.  I remember him telling me that, while he hoped we’d never have to worry about being on our own, he wanted to make sure his daughters could survive alone if ever it was necessary.  My sister’s beloved husband died unexpectedly a few years ago.  While it was a major shock and a very sad day, she has been quite able to take care of herself since.  I have been divorced.  I have had a child die.  I have been through major financial set-backs and job layoffs.  I have survived and taken care of myself and those that I love.  I have, as he would have said, landed on all 4’s like a cat.  My daddy, along with my mother, helped instill that in me. 

My mother has always wanted the same for us.  She was a college-educated lady in the 1940s when that was rare, and she taught school while I was growing up.  She also became a trainer at a major national department store chain and retired as a store manager many years later.  She has always been quite adept at handling herself.  However, from her background, she also always tried very, very hard to raise us to be “ladies” and to be able to fit into any society event there might be.  I learned very young how to function in formal society, how to handle formal banquets (for example, what plates, silverware, glasses, bowls, etc were to be used for each course), how to dress “properly” for whatever the occasion might be, how to do and/or be however was required.  I may not always choose to be in those situations or to even do what I’m “supposed” to do, but I know how (at least generally) if I so choose and if the occasion arises.

So, while I love the fact that I can fit in anywhere when I need to (which is another reason why I think I can handle the political/government environment in which I work), this is where my daddy would say he “won” … because I prefer the country … out of “formal society” … away from the cities … out where I can run barefoot if I want to … out with my dog and cats … out where I can just be me.

 

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 I guess from their diverse backgrounds and from the fact that we moved so much when I was a kid, I learned how to fit in anywhere any time with anyone.  My father was a corporate transferee in the 60s and early 70s as a credit manager.  While I was born in Southern California, I have lived in California, Ohio, Texas, and Illinois, and I have travelled to approximately 45 out of the 50 states.  I love this background quite honestly as it makes me very versatile.  I will also state unequivocally … while I know how to fit into high-society if I need to … I’m much more of a “down home” and “tell it like it is” kind of personality.  I don’t like playing societal games, trying to fit in with the neighbors, keeping up with the Jones, putting across a social façade.  What can I say?  That was my father’s doing.

“Don’t be fake, Jill.”

“Go for broke, Jill.”

“Don’t let anyone ever put you down, Jill.”

“Never feel inferior, Jill.”

“Stand tall, Jill.”

“Have an opinion, Jill.”

“Stand up for yourself, Jill.”

“Tell people what you think and who you are, Jill.”

“Believe in yourself, Jill.”

 

Red Neck Woman

Gretchen Wilson

 

Well, I ain’t never been no Barbie Doll type.

No, I can’t swig that sweet champagne.

I’d rather drink beer all night

In a tavern or in a honkytonk or on a 4-wheel drive tailgate.

… You might think I’m trashy,

A little too hard core,

But in my neck of the woods, I’m just the girl next door.

Hey I’m a red neck woman.

I ain’t no high class broad.

I’m just a product of my raisin’.

I say, “Hey, y’all!” and “Yee Hah!”,

And I keep my Christmas lights on on my front porch all year long,

And I know all the words to every Tanya Tucker song.

So here’s to all my sisters out there keepin’ it country!

Let me get a big “Hell Yeah!” from the red neck girls like me!

HELL YEAH!

 

 IMG_1522

 

My father definitely knew that I didn’t fit into the “sugar and spice and everything nice” sort of mold of which little girls are supposedly made (at least as per the old rhyme).  While I have a very unique sense of style and love to dress up in my own manner, I am not one that is the typical frills and lace kind of woman.  My father always knew that I was made more out of gunpowder and lead instead of sugar & spice (or lace & satin … or whatever).

What can I say?  If it’s true, well, then, it’s true.

We’ll just put it this way:  he made sure that I can quite clearly hold my own no matter what.

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Essentially, I was taught to have my independence if need be but to have a partner in life if I also so desired; to have my own sense of style (because I’m taller than average [he was 6’5”], he taught me to carry my height proudly and not be like a lot of women that try to be something they aren’t); to have the ability to fit in however, whenever, wherever, and with whomever as necessary.  So I do …

 

IMG_1687  IMG_1033

 

He taught me to expect to be treated like a lady by the man in my life but to be an equal partner like my mother was with him.

Oh … and by the way … Roy agrees … I am an equal partner … I am treated like a lady … and I most definitely do deserve bigger diamonds …

 

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… but then again … I digress … as that’s not the point of this blog-post …

 🙂

 I have a lot of great memories of my father, even though it’s been 22 years since he died.  I remember him teaching me to ride a bike.  I remember him teaching me to sled down a hill when we lived in Ohio. I remember him quizzing us so that we’d memorize all the state capitols.  I remember him taking us to places like New Orleans and Big Bend National Park and New York City and Monterey and Balboa Island.  I remember him teaching me how to pour beer and champagne so that it wouldn’t bubble over the top of a glass … when I was 10.  (No, he didn’t let me DRINK IT … he just taught me how to pour it properly at that age.)  I remember him building snow men with us.  I remember him trying to teach me to drive, with me returning in tears and him swearing and yelling … so my mother took over that job.  I also remember him yelling at us (quite loudly I might add) when we did something wrong, but I more clearly remember the twinkle in his eye when my mother was mad at us and he didn’t want to interfere, but he wanted to let us know that they still loved us.

I remember him walking me down the aisle at my first wedding and seeing his eyes tear up.  I remember he used to check on me even while I was married to make sure I was ok.  (I was.  That marriage collapse is not part of anything I’m willing to discuss here ever as it’s between my ex-husband and me.  Suffice it to say that he and I are good friends, and he’s a good friend to Roy also.  We all sat side-by-side in the front row at our daughter’s wedding and joked between us the entire time.)  In any event, I wish my father could have met my second husband too.  I wish he could have been at my second wedding.  He’d have loved Roy too.  He supported me in whatever decision I needed to make for my own life.  I wish he could have been at my daughter’s recent wedding.  At least his picture was on the memorial table along with my 2nd son’s picture.  (Keegan died 13 years ago.)

Again, however, I digress. 

I think one of the fondest memories I have is how much my mother and he loved to dance.  I grew up watching them dance to Big Band music and loved it.  He would dance with my sister and me around the living room … or wherever.  I have a clear memory of being about 8 or 10 and out to dinner with the family at a nice restaurant.  I remember standing on his feet while he moved around the dance floor with me to a jazz ensemble playing.  He had a major love of music … but didn’t love any particular kind.  He loved hearing my mother play the piano.  You also might just as well hear him listening to Big Band as you would Rock or Classical or Jazz or Country, and even though his singing was not something anyone with a normal ear would classify as “singing”, he would “sing” anyway, and it would always make me feel happy inside.  I miss dancing with my father.  I still miss it.  I know my mother does also.  It was part of who he was, which makes it part of who I am.  Like I have said above, he’s a reflection in his daughter’s eyes.

 

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Dance with My Father

Luther Vandross

 

Back when I was a child,

Before life removed all the innocence,

My father would lift me up

And dance with my mother and me and then

Spin me around till I fell asleep.

Then up the stairs he would carry me,

And I knew for sure

I was loved.

If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him,

I’d play a song that would never ever end.

How I’d love, love, love

To dance with my father again.

When I and my mother would disagree,

To get my way I would run from her to him.

He’d make me laugh just to comfort me

Then finally make me do just what my mama said.

Later that night when I was asleep,

He left a dollar under my sheet,

Never dreamed that he would be gone from me.

If I could steal one final glance, one final step, one final dance with him,

I’d play a song that would never ever end,

Because I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again.

Sometimes I’d listen outside her door,

And I’d hear how my mother cried for him.

I pray for her even more than me.

I pray for her even more than me.

I know I’m praying for much too much,

But could you send back the only man she loved?

I know you don’t do it usually,

But, Dear Lord, she’s dying to dance with my father again.

Every night I fall asleep and this is all I ever dream.

 

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I have other great memories of my father, but I’ll just focus on a couple more.  I have said this often, but we moved a lot when I was a kid, which means that we weren’t always near family at holidays.  I love that on holidays we would find other “strays” as my father would call them (as well as us) that also had no family nearby and would get together with them.  We really learned a lot about other people that way.  I love that I can fit in anywhere.  I love that I met all sorts of people. 

However, it also made it so that we learned to depend on each other very strongly, because we were all we had that was “constant”.  The last time I moved with my family was when I was a sophomore in high school.  My mother was a school teacher and needed to finish her contract through the semester.  My sister was a senior in high school and wanted to graduate with her friends there.  Along with my parents, we decided that it was best for me to move mid-year at Christmas break, as that way I’d be starting back to school with everyone else, and I’d be able to make some friends throughout the rest of the year at my new high school.  My father had started his new job in Northern California, and my mother and sister were still in Southern California.  I moved the beginning of January to live with my father until my mother finished her contract a little after that.  My sister stayed with friends after my mother left until she graduated from high school in the spring.  My point in this, however, is the time frame that it was just my father and me.

No matter how many times you move, it’s still very difficult moving when you are 15 years old and in the middle of high school.  I left behind my very first “boyfriend”, which was, of course, my massively major heartbreak of the century to my tender teenage heart.  As most long distance relationships at that age go, it didn’t last.  I was a disaster case.  My father did everything in his power to cheer me up.  We even took little weekend trips.  I remember one in particular where we drove to Oregon on the spur of the moment to visit long-time family friends.  That was probably one of the most fun times and one of my best memories of things that he and I did together ever.  I remember him telling me each and every time I got teenage weepy or teenage weird that we’d “make it through together” as it was “him and me against the world”.  This man even let me try to make dinner for us most nights when he came home from work.  I had never cooked meals in my life.  Suffice it to say that I learned fast … and any man I’ve ever cooked for since was the beneficiary of him smiling through clenched teeth and telling me that my cooking was WONDERFUL.  It wasn’t … but it was “him and me against the world”.

 

You And Me Against The World

Helen Reddy

 

You and me against the world!

Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world!

When all the others turn their backs and walk away,

You can count on me to stay!

Remember when the circus came to town,

And you were frightened by the clown?

Wasn’t it nice to be around

Someone that you knew,

Someone who was big and strong

And looking out for you?

You and me against the world!

Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world!

And for all the times we’ve cried,

I always felt that God was on our side,

And when one of us is gone,

And one of us is left to carry on,

Then remembering will have to do.

Our memories alone will get us through.

Think about the days of me and you.

You and me against the world!

Daddy, my memories of you supporting me NO MATTER WHAT have gotten me through things that I wasn’t sure how I’d get through.  I have always known … that if you could do it through the Great Depression with a divorced mother … through World War 2 … through supporting yourself through college with the help of the GI Bill … through numerous moves around the country … through your health issues … through your financial issues … through whatever you had to go through … well, then so could I.

So I’ll end with this.  I remember the day I heard that you were dying.  I remember my mother calling me and telling me to come to the hospital.  You had been in and out with all sorts of issues relating to your heart, your lungs, and your diabetes.  Your strength of character and iron-will brought you through so much.  However, as you always told me to do, you had played the cards you were dealt in life, you had never ever folded, and you had enjoyed the game while you were in it.  You had also said, “When the game ends, leave gracefully with a smile on your face.”

I left home an hour away and brought my children, then almost 10, 8½, and 3½, to their cousin’s house to be watched by older cousins.  I arrived at the hospital and came up next to your bed.  Your health was tenuous at best.  I could tell that you were hanging on for us … particularly for Mom.  I put my hand in yours, and you gripped it.  I saw you smile.  You were still fighting a valiant battle, but it was time for your game to be done, and you knew it.  You even had that smile on your face.

Up until that point, this became one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do.  I lay my head down next to you on your hospital bed while I sat in the chair.  I told you, “It’s ok, Dad.  It’s ok to let go.  We’ll be ok.  Mom will be ok.  We’ll all make sure each other are ok.  You helped make us strong.  Go be with your God.  You can let go now, Daddy.”

The first time I heard this song, I remember crying myself to sleep.

 

You Can Let Go

Crystal Shawanda

 

Wind blowin’ on my face

Sidewalk flyin’ beneath my bike

A five year-old’s first taste

Of what freedom’s really like

He was runnin’ right beside me

His hand holdin’ on the seat

I took a deep breath and hollered

As I headed for the street

You can let go now, Daddy

You can let go

Oh, I think I’m ready

To do this on my own

It’s still a little bit scary

But I want you to know

I’ll be ok now, Daddy

You can let go

I was standin’ at the altar

Between the two loves of my life

To one I’ve been a daughter

To one I soon would be a wife

When the preacher asked,

‘Who gives this woman?’

Daddy’s eyes filled up with tears

He kept holdin’ tightly to my arm

‘Till I whispered in his ear

You can let go now, Daddy

You can let go

Oh, I think I’m ready

To do this on my own

It still feels a little bit scary

But I want you to know

I’ll be ok now, Daddy

You can let go

It was killin’ me to see

The strongest man I ever knew

Wastin’ away to nothin’

In that hospital room

‘You know he’s only hangin’ on for you’

That’s what the night nurse said

My voice and heart were breakin’

As I crawled up in his bed, and said

You can let go now, Daddy

You can let go

Your little girl is ready

To do this on my own

It’s gonna be a little bit scary

But I want you to know

I’ll be ok now, Daddy

You can let go

You can let go

 

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Most people I know hate going to the dentist. Roy and I are no exception, but we both do it when we have to and can pay some of the hefty costs, because we’d like to have teeth as opposed to lose them all. However, we’ve not had good luck with our dentist since we moved up to Placerville in the Sierra foothills from Pleasanton in the San Francisco area.

Now, we’re fortunate in that we have dental insurance so our costs are generally fairly low, except for certain issues we both have with our own particular health that cause some of the copays to sometimes be a bit high. That’s ok. We generally will budget it in and work it out, because, like I say, we’d rather have teeth than the alternative.

Here’s a new one for us, particularly with the current medical insurance and health care climate the way it is. I had to cancel a dentist appointment the other day because of a conflict in my schedule. I had moved it previously … once when I was out of town at the last minute and once when our truck transmission went out and I couldn’t pay for the cleaning copay (~$430 for a “deep cleaning”). Anyway, I had to cancel again, this time due to a time and date conflict. I was going to reschedule as soon as I knew my calendar as I had the money budgeted in, but they pre-empted that and essentially “fired me” as a patient, because I “don’t respect their time”. LOL … ok … I contacted them a week and a half in advance to let them know so that they had plenty of time to schedule someone else. I suppose their dental business must be *BOOMING* right now … or not.

Anyway, they sent me a letter in the mail. They couldn’t even tell me when I cancelled this appointment … and they told my dental insurance carrier without my knowledge to change me “immediately” … because I don’t “respect them” … so the carrier DID change me … without contacting me, may I add … to a new provider … IN PLEASANTON, CA. Uhhhh … no … that won’t work. That is approximately 150 miles away from where I currently live. So I put in an online change request for a new provider in Placerville … and was advised that it won’t be effective until MARCH. Uhhhhh … no … wrong again, Slick. What am I supposed to do if there’s an emergency *NOW* … particularly since *I* am not the one that made the incorrect change in providers and I was not contacted directly about this? Expecting me to go 150 miles away to an area I do not live is completely unacceptable, don’t you think?

Like I’ve said before, Hollywood can’t make this stuff up.

This is laughable … and pathetic … all at the same time.

Only Roy and I can be “fired” by the dentist.

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Baby, it’s cold outside

While I have major sympathy for the people in the middle and northeastern parts of the United States since I’ve lived in those parts in the past (the late 1970s to be exact, one of the last times they had this type of horrendous weather), I will readily admit that I am glad not to be there now. Roy, having grown up in Maine, feels the same. I’d rather deal with the drought we are experiencing in California currently than the frigid temperatures there. So … on this warm and sunny Friday afternoon in Sacramento … I offer my favorite part of winter:

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Carry on, all!

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I work for the State of California Employment Development Department in the Unemployment Insurance Division on Capitol Mall in Sacramento, 2 blocks from the Capitol Building. I know I’ve said this before, but I am reiterating it for a reason.

I am quite well aware of what most people think of government workers and, in particular, state workers and, even more so, those of us blessed with working in Unemployment Insurance. You can’t fool me. I *know* what most of you think … that we are all lazy, stupid, overpaid, do-nothing’s, sucking off the taxpayers. (No, that would be people like BO, the current occupier of the White House, and his gang of crooks.).

Anyway!

Hold that thought close to your hearts and think about that throughout the Christmas season as you go to your parties.

Yesterday (Thursday) I worked from 7am to 6pm. I worked 7am to 5pm today (Friday). Tomorrow (Saturday) I’ll work 7am to 5pm yet again. Then on Sunday, I’ll work 9am to 4pm, just to get up on Monday and work 7am to 6pm (yes, that’s right … you read all of those hours correctly). Tuesday … Christmas Eve … I’ll work 7am to noon, taking the afternoon off, wanting to spend *some* Christmas time with my family. I have Christmas Day off since I hold that day to be a holy celebration. I’ll be at work the day after Christmas from 7am to 6pm yet again, as well as on Friday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I get Saturday off (woo) to attend my beloved daughter’s wedding shower (gee, we actually do have families and lives too). Then I get New Years Day off, when I’ll probably sleep all day, just to be back at it the day after. How many of you are willing to do that?

There may be some government workers that are lazy but there are many private industry workers that are too. My point is …. the vast majority of the government workers put their hearts and souls into what they do.

I get tired of the clichés.

Oh, hell, I just get TIRED.

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The once Great State of California, for whom I currently work, is truly on the brink of disaster.  It is overly taxed and overly regulated and not friendly to business or to entrepreneurs.  Is it any wonder so many people are now moving out of the once Golden State?  I am a 3rd generation California Girl … and I am truly ashamed of how it has turned into a welfare state.  It’s embarrassing as a citizen of this state and as an employee of this state.  People moved here for freedom and the chance of entrepreneurship.  It is being destroyed by regulation-happy liberals.  If this state is not to go to the same fate as the City of Detroit, people must stand up and do something rather than sit idly by.  My ancestors who gave so much to move here would be appalled by the “gimme gimme gimme” attitude of so many of the people living here now.  Oh, heck, Roy and I are appalled by the “gimme gimme gimme” mentality of today.

What ever happened to good old fashioned hard work and personal responsibility rather than depending on handouts?

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