"You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays everybody's crazy.". ~Charles Manson

The world seems to be going crazy! I know it makes me sound old, when I can't seem to wrap my head around what the hell is going on around me. I'm one fist shake out the window and "You pesky kids got off my lawn!" from being Mrs. Kravits.

But how else can I feel?

Men on the tv telling me that there is a "nice rape" and a "forcible rape". That my body has ninja warrior secretions that can kill "criminal sperm" when it enters my body. (Where the fuck did these idiots go to school and how did they get elected?)What I can and can't do with my girly bits, cuz they say so.

Tell ya what...if they put you in jail for flipping through your fetish mags, sitting behind the locked door of your senate office, in your secretaries underwear, jerkin your gerkin and spilling millions of possible babies all over the floor...then we'll talk.

Why do old, rich, white men think they can tell women what they have a right to do with their own bodies? It makes my head feel like it's going to split open with insanity.

Last night, the wife and I, had just got done OD'ing the Maddow and the likes, and went up to bed. There was our 15 year old cat, Ringo, falling all over the floor. Usually I'm the first one to react, and dive into the throws, to fix the situation. I stood in the hall, flapped my hands by my sides and repeated like maniac, "Oh my god...what do we do....what do we do?"

A trip to the ER vet, many sheets of itemized potions and screenings, and Ringo is STILL there today. True to her nature, confusing those around her by making them think outside the box.

So I sit at work, going a little out of my mind: can't really do anything, can't get any answers from the vet, can't go see her, can't go home.

"We'll call....."

Ok...I'll be here....going a lil nutty in my four walls. I've waited 10 years for my own office and now I feel like a moth inside a Ball preserves jar, batting around, senseless and without cause.

At the height of my self proclaimed crazy session, I turn to the one place that I can escape, that brings me joy, that makes me smile: HALLOWEEN. Life has been so busy, I'm behind on pumpkinrot.com. There, among the wonder and magic that is the 31st of October, 365 days a year, is the William Sanoma holiday link.

I think a frivolous purchase of cauldron mugs, during a time when my vet bills are choking me, would be just insane enough, to make me feel, a touch, less crazy.

Human nature is above all things lazy. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe

I don't even like most the games they play in the Olympics. But there is something so strong that compels me to get a bowl of ice cream, camp on the couch in my BirkenCrocs and sit like a slob and watch amazing athletes grapple for gold.

What is it about the Olympics?

I saw, for the first time, competitive trampoline. It was the GREATEST thing EVAH! Handball....sucks. It's silly. Handball is for Al Pacino in a prison yard. One rubber ball and the hard concrete of his prison walls. That's handball people.

Dressage. Can't bare to watch it. In no other sport if the athlete breaks a leg, do they take them out and shoot them.

Gymnastics is one of those sports that none of us knows nothing about, but you watch a routine and say, "Oh mah gawd that was perfect!" and we are usually right. I also almost pass out from holding my breath cuz I just know they are going to end up with that wooden beam in their tender girly bits and it's going to H-U-R-T!

OK....volleyball I know a lil about. I'm from California so I'm partial to the beach v-ball, no doubt. We had a sand v-ball court at our high school for bejuzuz sake! And how can you not watch Misty and Kerri play for their last time and 3-pete?!?!

You have to get into it.

Everyday I can barely get out of bed to shower, make my coffee, walk the dog and head to work, again. Over and over, my personal ground hog day. To take the time out to watch beautiful bodies in motion doing one thing so perfectly, it's inspiring.

To compete on the world stage, even without the red menace to push us anymore, is still the drive that makes America great. The tearful movement of the anthem playing, the flag raising it moves us.

Pride and perfection. It's a designer drug that never goes out of style.

Birth and death; we all move between these two unknowns. ~Bryant H. McGill

It's ironic. I can see that. The day that hits me the hardest, since my dad has died, is the day of his birth.

I just spent a week in CA cleaning out 'stuff' in my mom's 'barn'. It's really not a barn. There is not one chicken or cow paying rent. It's really barn shaped garage. One that held the RV they were traveling in when my dad passed.

Now the RV is at a consignment lot, waiting for the winning bid on ebay. A curse and a blessing for my mom, I'm sure. Some of her happiest moments were traveling all over the US with my dad in that rig. But it's where he started feeling ill, suddenly. After a fun day with their traveling group.

Within 24 hours he was gone.

She wouldn't leave the RV until we had someone that would get it back home for her. How could anyone ask her to leave it behind. At that point my mom seemed like a lil girl who had left her favorite stuffed toy and didn't want to go till we found it for her.

Now the space in the barn, that the RV filled, as life continues to move forward, is finding substitutes quickly

My sister's move to England has filled space where the RV bedroom was. A car takes the place of the kitchen and bathroom. A patio set stacked neatly where my mom and dad would sit, side by side, miles of road passing under that 'rock star' size rig.

We cleaned and hauled and stacked stuff up. The Goodwill scheduled to come in two weeks and back a truck up to collect it. Things from before I was born, stashed away by my dad. And now what? Where does it go? Why can't we let it go? Why should WE keep it any longer? What would we ever do with it?

I started thinking about all the crap in my house. Who will sweep out the years of collecting when I'm gone? And they most certainly will look at it and say, "What am I suppose to do with it?" Maybe, just like me, they will feel that pull in their heart that says, "But why can't I throw it out?"

To grasp one last time at the physical, as the mental memories slip away every day. How did he use to smile? That lil chuckle he had....how did it go exactly?

Sand....draining from my hand, one grain at a time. Leaving nothing but the soft, dusty, residue clinging to my moist palms. It reminds, me my fist was filled to capacity, only moments ago.

Happy birthday dad. Your 'presence' are still in the barn.