I can explain....

KISS from a stranger

2006-10-23T13:20:00.000Z

While I have read a trio of books by writers on writing this past month while soaking in the tub a couple times a week, ( the only place I aalow myself to induldge myself lately), trying to keep at least my head in the game. One reminded me to basically --- Keep it simple stupid.

“How about if you concentrate
on simply putting one word
after the next until you finish your story.”

Janet Evanovich ~ How I Write

Yep, that about sums it up. Thanks for the smack to the back of my head Ms. Evanovich, point very much taken.

*sigh*

The weekend's food recap will be posted soon along with an interesting recent developement.

If it’s Monday …

2006-10-16T14:04:00.000Z

It must be food! (Thanks to everyone for NOT pointing out that last Monday’s food pics were a bit on the, erm, lite? side. Long story short – no comment.)

So I tried something a little different this past week, I planned a bit ahead in the meals department. I normally do, but this time I took it one step further and did some of the cooking and prep work ahead of time on Friday.

It worked out pretty well, allowing me more time to be relaxed in the short space that is our weekends.

And a beautiful weekend it was, frosty nights and fairly warm, very sunny days, just the way I like them.

Saturday morning Hubster arrived after stopping downtown to pick up bagels for our breakfast. He and I had ours toasted with my homemade roasted garlic hummus, Swiss, tomatoes, arugala and red onion. Boy Wonder had both of his toasted, one with cream cheese blended with chopped jalapenos and black olives and the other with just the chopped black olives and jalapenos, tomatoes and Swiss.

Boy Wonder worked until nine PM so Hubster and I had a late lunch. Me; leftover carrot, potato, ginger cream soup and Hubster had some skinless chicken thighs that I grilled and seasoned along with the boneless chicken breasts I grilled for the chicken pot pie. They are seasoned quite simply with a drizzle of olive oil, kosher salt, cracked pepper and curry powder. Simple and tasty.

I usually load up the whole grill to have it on hand in the fridge for snacks, sandwiches and to put on salads.

After we were shocked by the appearance of Charlie Parker who had been MIA for three weeks, (he ate and then slept for three hours!) we had chicken potpie when Boy Wonder returned from work and watched the movie, Thank You for Smoking, terribly politically incorrect and VERY funny.

I start by following the recipe in the Betty Crocker cookbook and tweak it to my liking. My mother always added a small jar of pimentos so I added some chopped bits of the yellow, red and orange peepers I had roasted as well as some roasted garlic. Because what doesn’t taste better with roasted garlic? I made BW his own smaller pie because he likes his with broccoli and chicken only and the Hubster and I had the traditional, carrots and baby peas in ours.

We skipped dessert because it was so late and we were so full but that turned out okay as we had Saturday’s dessert for Sunday breakfast! I had made a bread and butter pudding on Friday from a recipe that I got from, The Take Home Chef, ‘s website.

It was made using croissants, which I bought from Dunkin Donuts, and I tweaked the custard by adding cinnamon, nutmeg and orange extract. I also used dried cranberries instead of raisins. I knew as I was following his recipe that there was way too much custard in comparison to the bread and ended up with baking a dish of plain custard in the oven alongside the bread pudding --- but who’s going cry over extra custard? Um, NOT me.

The bread pudding was topped with a rich brandy sauce to which I added fresh ground nutmeg and it tasted quite like this elusive sauce my Great grandmother use to serve on her apple dumplings. Thanks Grandma Nelson!

This bread pudding should come with a health warning. (Or as William H. Macy would prefer; a skull and crossbones! See that movie.) It uses nine whole eggs and nine additional egg yolks along with 3 cups of heavy cream and three cups of whole milk.

The brandy sauce only used four egg yolks.

But just in case we were not taxing our arteries and heart enough, I cooked up a pound of bacon to go with it!

To counter the effects of breakfast, at least psychologically, BW and I had salads with feta, and tuna. Hubster ran efficiently on nothing but bread pudding until dinnertime.

Dinner was the New England Pot-Roast I made on Friday and it hit all the right comfort zones on the way down. Betty Crocker got that one right and needs no further tweaking at all. If you haven’t made a pot-roast which includes rubbing the roast with an entire jar of good horseradish after browning it and before roasting --- you must try it.

After dinner we watched some television and found the most amazing thing by accident. On HBO they were broadcasting a boxing match that had been fought earlier in the day in Manchester England. Joe Calzaghe vs. Sakio Bika.

I haven’t had this much fun watching boxing in forever. We were shouting, laughing and the twelve rounds just flew by.

Calzaghe is a ballsy, showman with hands like lightning. As BW says, American boxing right now is like watching junior high kids slow dance. Lots of hugging and rocking that never leads anywhere. Bika was a bit of a dirty fighter but it just added to the excitement and Calzaghe took it in stride and adjusted his fight instead of going for the sympathy and whining we often see.

Calzaghe has been fighting for nine years and at 35, holds a record of 42 wins, (31 by KO) no losses and the World Super Middleweight Championship Belt.

He is looking to fight Bernard Hopkins who is currently retired but considering fighting again. He said he would gladly travel to the states for the fight and we would gladly cheer him on. BW and I will be following closely and if that fight happens we are so there!

2006 Dawn Marie Kelly all rights reserved

Is her head supposed to spin around like that?

2006-10-06T14:14:00.001Z

Packing up a house that you’ve lived in for eleven years, really makes you confront all manner of demons.

Especially if you spent some of those years going through the break-up of a marriage, a divorce, re-finding yourself, a new partner and marriage.

It’s too late for me but might I suggest for anyone else out there who might do this sort of thing at a later date, do not do this without the aid of a trained professional!

I know I tend to exaggerate on occasion. Right. Fine. At every opportunity, but I am dead on serious with this bit of advice, trust me.

Sixty-four years from now when I leave this earth, the Boy Wonder will need the help of an exorcist to go through all my crap because I am NEVER moving again.

Another observation.

Over these last six years since the Hubster arrived we have rented dumpsters/skips at least four times and filled them to capacity and had them hauled away.

The amount of crap that I am hauling to the dump during this process is astounding. Add to that the bags of clothes I’ve donated and the bins of stuff going into a yard sale and I have only one thought --- why the fuck do we have so much stuff?

I am now convinced that attics, garages and basements are the devils work. You don’t have to actually deal with anything. Just shove it into a box and put it aside to be promptly forgotten.

On a sunny note, I found an Amazon Rewards Certificate for $25 that hasn’t expired yet.

Yay for me!

And just so you know that I haven’t completely lost touch with the outside world --- Damn, this whole Foley fiasco is pissing me right the hell off!

2006 ~ Dawn Marie Kelly~ all rights reserved

Sawdust, cooking, sex and dancing in the dark

2006-10-02T15:13:00.000Z

We are all so painfully aware of the constant whinging I do about the stress of this relocation business, but please also understand that I fully get that I put the stress on myself.

Hi, I’m Dawn and I have totally surrendered my power over to the situational black comedy that is my life. Now where are the damn donuts?

While awaiting delivery of said, (evil but delicious) donuts let’s go over a couple of my latest self-crazy observations shall we?

Oh please, stop rolling your eyes; you know you enjoy every bloody minute of the irrational chaos I create for myself. If for no other reason, it makes you feel better about yourself. And I’m okay with that, we all have our special gifts and this one is mine, so relax and enjoy the show.

And have a donut, that way you can at least smugly say that you are saving me from my inner obese self.

As if it hasn’t been hard enough these past two years with The Hubster living and working in NY six days a week and trying to fit in all our intimacy and coupling in a brief 38 hours --- eight to ten of those spent sleeping, now we have all this, packing, tossing, painting, sanding, windows out, windows in, shutters on, flowers out, flowers in, business on top of it.

So with all we are doing to prepare to put the house on market, that pretty much gives us two hours on Saturday night for dinner and, erm, um, stuff and two hours Sunday morning over bagels, coffee and e-mail, to confirm our couple ness.

My awkward contribution revolves around food and making sure the house is spotless and ready for the next step of the teardown, rebuild assault project on the list.

Yes, I fully get how idiotic it is to clean on Friday before the assault and then spend Monday cleaning the remains of the assault’s mess, but I digress as this is supposed to be about the mess I create in between.

So there I am doing my best impression of the perfect wife while I have The Hubster in audience; cooking, bringing tea and snacks, cooking, folding laundry, cooking and cleaning the kitchen every two minutes because of All THE BLOODY COOKING! All while wearing some flattering outfit for Hubster’s benefit and trying not to cover it in food and sludge.

When we finally sit down to dinner on Saturday night I am ready to talk about all those things that have been ruminating inside my blonde head all week and are now ready to be released with the help of the requisite bottle of red wine.

I am sure it would be better served if they didn’t all run together in a hyper escalated blur, but there you have it and major props to The Hubster for at least trying to keep up.

But in the middle of the madness sometimes for no apparent reason like this week, we end up dancing and I cannot for the life of me allow myself to be led. So again, major props go to The Hubster for allowing me to lead, (I know no real dancing with stars dances) and again, for at least trying to keep up.

And woman friends, let it be said --- Never underestimate the worth of a man who finds your silliness as equally as attractive as the rest of you. It the most liberating thing I know.

Since cooking really is the most Zen-full thing I do, as it only comes out right if I completely surrender myself over to it, kind of like sex, I’ve decided that I will share the weekend’s efforts --- the cooking, not the sex you pervs! --- with you all on Mondays.

And since this just came to me today – starting next week, I’ll include pictures.

Saturday’s dinner was clam sauce over pasta --- simple, yet incredibly yummy and satisfying.

Sunday morning, bagels brought in and piled with my homemade roasted garlic hummus, red onion, arugula, tomatoes and Swiss cheese.

All day Saturday and night, I had 5 lbs of sweet onions caramelizing in the crock-pot and made a batch of French Onion soup for lunch on Sunday. I did cheat and have The Hubster bring in a bakery loaf of rye to float on top of the soup and beneath the bubbling Swiss cheese. Still --- Very yum!

Of course, sometimes, like this weekend, I run out of steam, call a pass and order in Sunday night.

It had been a while since we had ordered in from our fab fave Thai place and somewhere between the steamed dumplings and red curry I let the guilt of not cooking slip away.

Happy Monday everyone!

2006 Dawn Marie Kelly all rights reserved

Photo Credits go to The Boy Wonder this week!

Sometimes the Mourning Comes before the Death

2006-09-28T22:24:00.000Z

Is it me, or is the world more loony tunes than usual lately?

What happened in Colorado yesterday gets scarier the more the facts emerge and then today in Florida, more madness and a gunman still on the loose.

Then there’s good old Keene.

I’ve have become even more loathe to venture outside my own doors. I only go out maybe twice a week to run a couple errands and I try to be sure to write them all down and organize the trip for maximum efficiency and least amount of travel.

Seriously, this town has become a nightmare to be out and about in so I stay home.

When I first moved to Keene it was undergoing a makeover on its main street. They added a tree lined center meridian, wide sidewalks and renovated and celebrated the old brick storefronts. They lowered rents in order to attract privately owned clothing boutiques, coffee houses and the like. Restaurants could get permits to have small tables outside.

New annual events were nurtured to bring families down at every chance. The art on main festival, Pumpkin Fest, First Night and music festival as well as the tree lighting ceremony every year the day after Thanksgiving. They renovated the old Colonial Theatre and have a full roster of events to choose from starting in September through April.

It was lovely and focused and flourishing. Until the last four years. Somehow, the good old boys on the council lost their focus and added the Home Depot, Target, Price Chopper, Olive Garden, Longhorn Steak House, Chili’s, Party Palace, Michael’s Crafts, Pier One, Bed, Bath and Beyond and the Border’s Book Store.

The Pumpkin and music fest live on and the shows at the Colonial haven’t changed in three years.

While they had us distracted with all that hoopla in the middle of the wetlands that is just beyond my neighborhood, they were moving in three new corporations on the outskirts of town just to the north.

The traffic in town has exploded and people are angry. It seems everyone driving in this town are pissed off and hold a grudge against everyone else. I try to time my trips for just after everyone gets to work and school and before people start taking lunch breaks.

How sad is that?

No one knows anyone anymore but more disturbingly; nobody seems to want to know anybody anymore.

I use to describe Keene as a small city that feels like a town. Now, it just feels like a small city. It’s lost its community and become a cold place.

Maybe in time the neighborhoods will develop their own little communities the way big cities do, but for now, all sense of community is gone and I am very saddened by it.

Saddened to know that what I will miss most about Keene when I move to NY had already left before me.

The good news?

There’s a community in NY who can’t wait for us to get there. Talk of shared trails for ATV’s, snowmobiles and horses, bartering for goods and services has already begun and we aren’t even there yet.

Yep, this move has got me tied up in knots of stress that sometimes stills my waters but I feel the winds of change and it’s very refreshing.

Of course, making sure the liqueur cabinet is well stocked at all times helps too.

2006 Dawn Marie Kelly all rights reserved

Bath Re-do-Doo

Guess who’s back, back again …

2006-09-24T12:59:00.000Z

ANGEL’S BACK! Tell your friends.

Okay, so I truly wish I could tell you all, (all three of you), that I was off on an opulent and grand adventure that was not to be missed. If that were true, I probably wouldn’t have been able to not blog about it.

Or perhaps I took a planned sabbatical that I forgot to tell you all about and then while being so incredibly engrossed in said sabbatical that I completely stopped reading all blogs in general, let alone actually write in my own, BUT, alas as I bring a very lengthy and somehow worthy run-on sentence to a close, that is unfortunately, not the case.

If I then told you that I have spent this last six weeks vacillating between packing, paint ready-ing, panicking and rocking back and forth naked in a corner whilst sucking my thumb, would you believe me?

Well, good on you. You know me all too well then.

Anyway, that being said, I am back.

Keep your browsers tuned to this same bat station as I have a gagillion things that have been eating at my tiny blonde brain and giving my dark roots a massive headache.

It is in fact, good to be Queen.

Chipmunks & Groundhogs & Possums -- Oh MY!

2006-08-09T15:41:00.001Z

Thanks, comes in many forms, other than the obvious word or words of course.

Sometimes you go about doing the things you do without any thought of getting a thanks, take Charlie for instance. Charlie Parker, a stray cat who came around singing at night about two months ago.

I named him Charlie Parker because he is surprisingly similar to a cat that went missing on us two years ago this month, Miles Davis. (Beginning to sense a theme here?) Miles came to us as a stray as well. When I was still occupying a cubicle at the Insurance Agency, he turned up outside the building, a gangly teenager, on a Friday afternoon.

He spent the day sleeping in the accountant’s area and we had nearly convinced the owner that we should keep him to help with the mice issue in the basement where the long-term file storage was kept.

Yes, archaic sounding I know, and we all hated going down there, flashlights in hand to pull old files, trying not to notice the scurrying sounds in the corners of the dirt floors.

Oh yeah, I miss that place --- like a pair of jeans that are two sizes too small on a fully booked, cross-Atlantic plane ride. Not that I really know how that feels or anything.

Miles finally woke up from sleeping off the trauma of his being lost in the big world, stretched, yawned and proceeded to walk the length of the entire first floor and into the owner’s office. And shat on one of the files he had piled on his floor.

So there was now NO chance that he had a place to call home at the agency, mice or no mice. “Come five o’clock that cat is back on the street if he’s still in this building!”

It’s a small agency with fewer than 20 people in the building and while everyone was concerned, no one was willing to take him home. Including myself who already had two cats and two dogs.

As it got closer to five and I thought about him being back out on his own with all the traffic on that road, I gave in and called home.

“ Is this where I’m supposed to talk you out of it like when you called about Stinker?” (Way too long a story that!), asked the Hubster.

“Good try, but no, I won’t be able to sleep if I know he’s on the streets alone.”

So home he came.

I named him Miles Davis because he had a surly attitude and a soul patch of grey fur under his chin. It suited him.

When Charlie started coming round he shocked us all with how much he looked like Miles, in coloring as well as having a big head, minus the soul patch and what seem like chubby cheeks. If cats can indeed have such things, as chubby cheeks.

I of course added Charlie to the list of critters that get fed on my front stoop in the evenings.

You know, the skunks, possums and the occasional raccoon.

What?

You don’t feed the critters around your place?

Yeah, my neighbors think I’m whacked as well, so don’t tell them about Varmint Poo Tang, the ground hog that’s been living in the back gardens since last summer.

They all have their place. Mr Poo Tang eats the weeds around the crab apple tree. The chipmunk that lives under the garden shed cleans up the seed the birds spill onto the back deck from the feeder and the skunks; well they are the cutest, most polite little guests of all.

So now Charlie shows up every night between 7:30 and 9 PM depending on his mood and the weather and sits at the front door until I feed him.

I talk to him through the window while I get his food scooped and when I open the door he greets me with squinty eyes and a hiss while leaning in to stick his nose in the food scoop as I pour into the dish.

Then I talk to him a little more while he eats and he returns with low growls in my general direction.

I do wish I could get close enough to stroke his fur or at least apply some flea and tick juice to his back but he’s having none of it so I make do with talking to him in soothing tones and hope that I will eventually where him down. Hell, I have even resorted to petting Ozzy, Lucy and Ichy in front of him so he can see that they survive it.

Then again, I have no way of knowing just how long he’s been out there on his own or where he was previous to that. For now our relationship remains highly dysfunctional and reminds me of my stepfather at the dinner table. That tells you so much about me …

I’ve told Charlie that he doesn’t have to like me but he might want to pretend to tolerate me long enough to relocate to NY with us and become head barn cat as the other three cats are lazy, indoor sloths.

Over the weeks our doomed relationship has remained stagnant as I do my best to gain the affections of this bad boy. Oh, except for the time I so stupidly came at his head with my hand from above while he had his head down eating, thinking I could sneak a scratch in and was promptly rewarded with a scratch of my own.

He’s like a boyfriend I had in my 20s. Not very predictable, worries me when he doesn’t show up some nights and then doesn’t return the love when he is around.

Or does he?

The last time I went away for the weekend, there was no one to feed him for two nights. When I got back Sunday night, I opened the door to put food out and found this.

Oh Charlie. You love me; you really, really love me!

Eat your heart out Sally Field.

2006 ~ Dawn Marie Kelly~ All Rights Reserved

Passion of the Vice

2006-07-31T14:37:00.000Z

When is an apology not good enough?

I guess the answer to that is subjective.

I am having a hard time swallowing Mel Gibson’s apology for the mess he found himself in this past weekend.

The vat of shit he landed in was deep, wide and provided by no one other than himself.

• Driving drunk at an excessive speed, putting himself and anyone else in his path at great risk.
• Spouting a tirade of anti-Semitic declarations.
• Sexually demeaning name-calling of female officers and declaring he would f*** a deputy who was doing his job.
• And that ever-classic move of believing that who he is and his money are above the law and saying so. Out. Loud.

You can read all about it here.

We all battle our own inner demons that are implanted in us when we are children. ALL of us and those of you out there, who believe that you have none, are kidding no one but your selves. You’ve got them and they are affecting you and everyone around you, probably more so than those of us that introduce our demons readily to anyone close to us.

How can that be? Well, when we are honest and open about our demons then we give those close to us the opportunity to realize that maybe it really is us and not them. Not a built in excuse for either side mind you, but another angle at which to look at and work through a situation.

Hi, I’m Dawn and this is my dysfunction/demon.

I may still, from time to time, like to think that I can dress my dysfunction up in pretty clothes and disguise it or shove it into a closet and pretend it doesn’t exist but that usually results in some horribly gone wrong event where my dysfunction throws a demonic temper tantrum and will not be denied.

How big that tantrum is depends on how much is being pushed down and unacknowledged.

Of course when I fall in my shit, it doesn’t make the news. Thank goddess for small favors.

Should we blame Mel’s mess on the alcohol?

No. Full stop.

Alcohol doesn’t turn people into different people. It releases the binds that keep our inner censors in check.

Unless we believe that some other entity was in fact speaking through Mel, (call in the exorcist!), the awful things that came out of his mouth were indeed his alone.

Somewhere deep down where he kept them shoved and hidden they survived and bided their time waiting for a chance to rush to the surface and be known.

That chance came in the form of too may drinks.

So all that apology means to me is that he’s sorry that we caught a glimpse into how he really feels about certain things and people.

For me, everything he says he is and believes in, in his sober state, will be discredited.

Russell Crowe is an ass. But I’ll give him this, he’s an ass right in our face and we are not surprised by it in the least.

Embrace your inner ass Mel, your glass house has been shattered.

2006 ~ Dawn Marie Kelly ~ all rights reserved

Tomorrow People --- How Long Will We Last?

2006-07-21T13:55:00.000Z

Past or future?

It comes down to which is more important.

That’s the question and the answer is unquestionably --- FUTURE!

The past is, of course, important, but insignificantly so compared to the future.

We need to know our past, own it, learn from it and then move away from it towards the future. With the faith and confidence that what we learned from the past will make the future different, better.

People invest in things called futures, on Wall Street--- there is not one thing you can invest in called, pasts, on Wall Street. The brains doesn’t even know how to wrap itself around that concept.

What are we investing in?

That 13.2 acres on Sinsabaugh Road is our future. We need to own it and I’m not talking about owning on paper and with money, loans etc... I mean in our hearts and souls.

We are being wishy washy and not taking control.
The universe can NOT read and fulfill wishy washy pictures. It needs clear, concise pictures in which to work with.

My point and yes I actually have one, shock-horror, is this:

The Hoosier— is my past. I no longer need it. It was bought with dreams and expectations put upon it that never quite blossomed. They had to do with my past life and a much younger Derek. That time is past and I don’t need a reminder of what didn’t happen.

When I picture making Christmas cookies, breads and all with our grandchildren I see a long ,rustic table covered in flour and too many bowls and utensils. I see that table being accessed on all sides by whomever wants to join in for a minute or the duration. Those watching and those participating.

An open welcoming expanse that is attacked with joy and without boundaries.

The Hoosier is a finite space. A private niche who’s time is past. It contains more bad karma than good and I want to let that go.

There must be so much more around here that we should do the same with.

One can’t move forward while still having one foot chained to the unfulfilled past.

I want to move forward.

Will you come with me?

Yes, bazillions of insects and all.

ZIGGY MARLEY
Tomorrow People

Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last?
Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last?

Today you say you deyah
Tomorrow you say you're gone
But you're gone so long
If there is no love in your heart - so sorry
Then there is no hope for you - true, true

Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last?
Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last?

So you're in the air
But you still don't have a thing to spare
You're flying high
While we're on the low o-o-oh

Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last? Tell me now
Tomorrow people, where is your past? No where
Tomorrow people, how long will you last? Ten years!

Stop tellin' me the same story
Today you say you deyah
Tomorrow you say you're gone and you're not coming back
If there is no love in your heart oh now
There will never be hope for you

Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, how long will you last? Ten years!
Tomorrow people, where is your past?
Tomorrow people, tomorrow people, come on
Tomorrow people, tomorrow people, come on
Tomorrow people, tomorrow people, no soon come
Tomorrow people, tomorrow people, soon come
Tomorrow people, tomorrow people, today is here

If you don't know your past, you don't know your future
Everyone
Don't know your past, don't know your future everyman
Don't know your past, don't know your future, come on
Don't know your past, don't know your future

How many nations
How many people did that one catch
How many nations did that one catch
Don't know past, don't know your future
Don't know past, don't know your future

Alone again, naturally.

2006-07-13T23:08:00.000Z

I am tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired where there is no amount of sleep that takes the edge off, tired.

We have been moving towards this move, (see, tired), for so long that I can’t really believe it’s all happening. Seemingly fast and of it’s own accord. Or maybe not, since if it were, I probably wouldn’t be so bloody … wait for it … TIRED.

Let’s go back to The Hubster’s hiatus. No really, can we? This Sunday he headed back to NY after we had spent four whole weeks together. Mind you most of it was covered in sweat and dirt and mulch and then there were the times we were doing massive amounts of garden work. (See what I just did there? How I slyly made a reference to what you were thinking was yard work and then made it all seem … seemly and dirty and then I confused you and threw in garden work and now you don’t know where the garden work ends and the sex begins. Yes, sex. We are married after all.) That night after he left I didn’t sleep very well at all.

Took me forever to fall asleep and then I had a series of nightmares with one of them ending when I woke myself up yelling for the Boy Wonder to dial 911. Thank goodness he never heard me. I haven’t remembered a dream in months let alone had any nightmares. Although, if I had really needed BW to dial 911, I wouldn’t have fared very well I guess. Small blessing that every time I woke and I reached for Ozzy’s furriness, he was there every time. First time he’d slept on the bed since Hubster arrived home.

What a four weeks it was. Despite all the hard work we managed to do the little things that we miss out on during the other 11 months a year. Go out for coffee in the morning and plan the day, break for lunch together and then after getting things and ourselves cleaned up every night, we’d sit down to a fabulous meal and a good bottle of wine. Most every lunch and dinner was had on the back deck and conversation lasted into the night until the bugs braved past the Tiki torches and drove us inside.

Yup, it’s been a long two years of this married but alone 6 days a week, eleven months a year. Good thing I’m nearly 45 because at 25 this would have worked for about 23 seconds.

So we are more than ready for the move and when an offer was accepted on the acreage we’ve been dreaming about for the last six months I was elated. For two minutes. Then I went directly forward to the next six things that could go terribly wrong. Why? Because I am special that way. Deal with it, I have to.

I’m looking at another sleepless night tonight. Tomorrow I head to NY and meet with the bank that’s going to process the land loan and then later that afternoon we are having the closing on our home equity loan to cover the %25 down required for the land loan. Then we will be paying two mortgages between now and when we sell the house.

I need to get my hands on a Timber Frame builder as soon as the loans are both all set. See, we are going to live in the second story apartment I’ve designed while we take our time building the farmhouse up on the hill and we can get started right in with the horses, chickens, sheep and beef. I have absolutely no idea how long the process of getting the two story post and beam barn built and we can move in will take.

The good news? We can live in the crew house between the time the house sells and we can move into the barn. If living with two camera guys, the three of us, our four cats and one dog is good news.

I need to take another little nap.

2006 Dawn Marie Kelly ~ all rights reserved

Part 2 - I may be blonde but I'm not all together ... er, all together

2006-06-22T20:18:00.000Z

Okay, so where were we when we were so rudely interrupted by an onslaught of gardening and at last count – 14 yards of mulch being moved around our gardens, front, side and back.

Did you know knees sweat? I didn’t either, but they apparently do.

So yeah, I shoplifted. No one caught me, no one inquired where these things were coming from at home and eventually the guilt got to be too much and it just wasn’t fun any more. So I stopped.

The only reason I started in the first place was because a friend dared me to. I didn’t have the now famous, “Winona Ryder”, syndrome of taking things and mass denial when caught. Wouldn’t you have more respect for her if she had just stood up and admitted she had some psychological flaw that she just couldn’t help herself, but she’s sorry and is seeking help? I would have.

Here’s the thing though. Without help or incarceration she will be out there still unable to stop herself from doing it. However, no young girls will be missing and turn up dead and buried in Winona’s back garden.

Which brings us to Marc Dutroux, a 47-year-old Belgian pedophile. I’m using him only so we don’t forget that this is not a problem that is ours alone here in the States.

In 1989 Dutoux was convicted of raping and abusing five young girls and was sentenced to 13 years but was released in 1992 on good behavior.

Um, well yeah, because there are NO young girls to abuse in prison for him to pray on.

Oy. Who makes these decisions?

Shortly after his release, young girls began to disappear from nearby neighborhoods where Dutroux owned houses.

In August of 1996 two girls, ages 12 and 14 were found alive in the basement dungeun of on of Dutroux’s houses. They had both been raped repeatedly. One of the girls had been held for 80 days while the other had been there for 6 days and they were the lucky ones.

They found the bodies of two eight year olds buried in the back garden of one house and the bodies of two more girls ages, 17 and 19, buried in the back garden of another house.
The older girls were repeatedly raped and beaten before they were drugged and buried alive.

Vanity Fair published an interview with actress Teri Hatcher in their April 2006 issue. She had recently published her first book, Burnt Toast, and in it revealed that she had been repeatedly molested by a trusted uncle from the age of five, until she was around eight or nine. She never told anyone until she heard about a 14 year old who put a gun to her head in 2002 and left behind a note identifying the same man as her molester.

If not for Teri’s testimony the man would still be free and would have happily moved on to his next young victim.

Recently, Mark Hayward published an article in the Manchester, NH, Union Leader about the studies that have been done to assess the risk of sex offenders repeating their crimes. He found that the studies that have been done often contradict each other in their findings.

In the article, New Hampshire State Representative, David Welch, is quoted as saying,
“… about one in 30 sex offenders are predators that society has to be very concerned about.”

Well, if we do the math with the previously cited 563,000 registered sex offenders, that works out to be 18,767 highly dangerous known sex offenders out on our streets. Divided by 50 states, that’s 375 per state in the union. In our towns. Your neighborhoods.

Are you scared for your children yet?

Well then, did you know that a judge in Lincoln, Nebraska, just last month, chose to sentence a convicted sex offender to probation instead of jail time because the man was 5-foot-one?

10 years probation instead of 10 years behind bars because the man is short and the judge thought he’d be at risk from the larger inmates.

Hold up. Didn’t this man use his size to dominate, terrify and violate his young victims?

Yeah. I thought so.

So that judge decided that this man’s welfare and risk of bodily harm in prison was more important that the risk of the young girls he preys on and their bodily harm and – tad da -- he is on the streets, free.

Are you more than pissed off yet?

I am. So forgive me if I think we have better things to be fighting for in this country other than banning gay marriage and petitioning for the removal of harmless Macy’s window displays that are supporting the tolerance of gays in our society.

Gay couples who are working for a living and paying taxes just like you and me. Gay couples who are willing to adopt the cast off children of our society and raise them in loving, safe, albeit differing environments than you may know as, “normal”.

©2006 Dawn Marie Kelly, all rights reserved.

Once upon some Moo-Doo

2006-06-15T21:18:00.000Z

I know, this was supposed to be the follow up to last weeks post.

Just when I thought I had my thoughts in a row, enter The Hubster with breaking news from the BBC website about a Marc Dutroux from Belgium. And that just complicated everything. I now have several back articles that I am researching and re-approaching this second installment.

So when you’ve reached your personal level of repulsion about what people on this earth are capable of, enter Marc Dutroux.

Meanwhile, The Hubster is home for only four short weeks and we are going at full speed trying to get all of the, “House for Sale”, preparations done and dusted.

We started outside. The front garden had become overgrown and crowded over the past couple years and needed to be beat back into shape. Except that at the end of the day, I was the one who felt like I had been beaten.

Hubster dug and pulled out sections of the front hedges with his beastly truck so we can add fence section to open the front of the house to the street and up the curb appeal. I weeded and thinned until I could no longer put my fingers together and pull any more.

We dug up and moved a couple monster sized hostas and a six-foot high cherry shrub thingy and relocated them into the back garden along with the hedges we pulled from the front.

There is still more work to be done, but wow are we impressed with ourselves so far.

And no, that is not a circus tent in the front garden. That’s the world’s largest sun hat that the Hubster bought his little Angel who is prone to having bits surgically removed due to the sun’s toll.

One last note – The Boy Wonder will be starting a strength training/resistance class for janitors next week, it fills up quickly, so sign up now!

©2006 Dawn Marie Kelly, all rights reserved.

I may be blonde but I'm not all together ... er, all together

2006-06-09T14:30:00.000Z

While I am the first person to yell, “Blonde!” in self-defense, (yes, even I have my dirty little secrets) I have to claim mass, (MA) confusion on what follows.

The good news – the Senate actually rejected Bush’s proposal of a constitutional amendment to ban same sex marriages.

The bad news – they voted it down by a final tally of 49-48.

Not all that comforting is it? If you want to see how they voted, click here.

More good news – the Boston Macy’s store located at Downtown crossing dedicated a window display in support of the Boston’s Pride chapter and Boston Pride 2006. It was designed in collaboration with the Boston Pride Committee.

More bad news – After much harassment from the anti-gay organization, Article 8, Macy’s decided to pull the mannequins from the display.

Not good enough and on Article 8’s website the group says, “Your voices are starting to be heard loud and clear," the group’s website states, "and Macy’s is starting to back down. But they still don’t get it on their public support of a week of rather raunchy homosexual activity.”

Where are the gay groups rising up against the raunchy heterosexual activity that happens daily at organized sports events, construction sites and in every bar, restaurant, pub where heterosexual, (not to mention homophobic) males have consumed more than 2.5 alcoholic beverages?

I can only speak from my own experience, but I have been fair game for wolf cries and obscenities veiled as come on lines since I was 14.
Where were/are the activists rushing to save me from depravity?

Mind you, I have NEVER had a, or a group of, lesbians cat call at me or try recruiting me on a public or private level.

If I find myself in the unthinkable position of testifying against a man who raped me, I will actually find myself defending myself. Yes, the rape victim must first prove her own innocence before the predator is put in a position to be held accountable.

Back to that window display, depraved isn’t it? Just look at those two male mannequins just standing there, not touching, not in any sexually orientated activity of ANY kind.

Back to the activists, where are they in our malls? Why are they not protecting us from the likes of Fredrick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s not so Secret?

Seriously though, why are they not protecting us from the likes of, Jerry Buck Inman, the confessed, Bikini Killer, of Tiffany Marie Sours?

Inman is one of 563,000 registered sex offenders living in the United States. Do not even try to tell me that every single one of them is not a repeat offender, (Not to mention we don’t have numbers for the un-registered offenders.) for example; I’m no angel and dabbled in shoplifting in my early teens.

Did I stop at my first dibble? Uhh, no. Did I stop at my second, third, forth? Uhh, no. Because. I. Was. Not. Caught.

Huh. Let us stop and pause, and pick up next week, because, I think, therefore we are.

©2006 Dawn Marie Kelly, all rights reserved.

Part Deux - If I'm Letting Go ~ Why Are my Knuckles White?

2006-06-01T13:01:00.000Z

Mama told me when I was young
Come sit beside me, my only son
And listen closely to what I say.
And if you do this
It will help you some sunny day.

When we hug, my head rests on his chest. We stand and chat and I have to look up at him. It wasn’t that long ago that it was the other way round.

Gone are the days when he would creep after me through the house as I buzzed about doing my chores. When he would rush up to me and hug my leg as hard as he could and while looking up at me towering above, announce passionately, “ I love mum mum,” while grinning so broad his face looked in danger of splitting in two.

He has a profound fear of spiders. When he was somewhere between two and three he began waking nearly nightly screaming about spiders. Going to bed became difficult until I started spraying the room with spider killer. It was actually an all-natural citrus oil air freshening mist but it sure enough did the trick and everyone got back to his or her regular sleep patterns.

Take your time... don’t live too fast,
Troubles will come and they will pass.
Go find a woman and you’ll find love,
And don’t forget son,
There is someone up above.

We haven’t had an impromptu dance party in the living room for a couple years now. There’s nothing like slam dancing with a kid.

He asked for money towards a paintball gun this past March for his birthday. Prior to that, the only gun thingy he has ever had is a super soaker. Mind you, that didn’t stop him from turning sticks, Legos and anything else linier into a weapon. I have to confess, the boy is a remarkable shot and plans are being made for a trip to the shooting range to try his hand at skeet shooting.

And be a simple kind of man.
Be something you love and understand.
Be a simple kind of man.
Wont you do this for me son,
If you can?

Prom has past and this Saturday it’s his SAT’s. He has not done any special preparation for the event at all. Nor have I pushed him; he aced the PSAT’s when he took them this autumn. He’s smart without trying and has the even more rare gifts of common sense and a conscience to go with it.

Next week he’s taking my beloved new Beetle into his auto tech class and will be replacing the timing belt, serpentine belt, water pump and coolant. A job that would cost me $1200 at the dealership is costing me $160 for parts.

Forget your lust for the rich mans gold
All that you need is in your soul,
And you can do this if you try.
All that I want for you my son,
Is to be satisfied.

I am more than proud of the man he’s becoming. He has a plan and it includes becoming an auto tech and learning custom fabrication. Someday he wants to own his own shop and be his own boss. I have no doubt he’ll do just that.

I never gave ultimatums, always choices with clear consequences. The choices were always his to make. It’s remarkable how a kid will make the right choices when the power is given to them. No was never an answer that wasn’t followed with an explanation. It still isn’t.

I have been letting him go since the day he was born. Feeding him the tools and the knowledge he needs to be able to walk into the world on his own and listen to the voice inside his head when he needs to. That voice isn’t mine, it’s his own and it tells him his truths.

Boy, don’t you worry... you’ll find yourself.
Follow you heart and nothing else.
And you can do this if you try.
All I want for you my son,

Is to be satisfied.*

Confessions on a Blog Floor

2006-05-25T13:29:00.000Z

Part Deux --White Knuckles et el, will be along soon -- till then enjoy this little outburst from this morning.

Okay, I have a confession to make. I’m not even sure why I’m coming clean on this; maybe Madonna’s Confessions tour has inspired me. Or, maybe not.

And on a side note; could someone please ask that woman to eat a little more and exercise a little less? Honestly, she’s starting to look a bit scary up close (in person sans airbrushing) without the benefits of ANY body fat what so ever. Ripped is one thing, stripped is quite another.

Back to me, although the two are related and yes I am stalling.

I”VE STARTED EXERCISING!

There I’ve said it and I won’t apoligise for it. No, not at all. It had to be done I tell you. Had to. After the whole nearly killing Bill Murray by inducing an erupting hernia while holding only half my body ton-age something had to give, besides his hernia.

Nothing like a near death experience, even if, in this case, causing someone else’s, to get one’s arse in gear, as we say.

I’ll wait a moment while you all collect yourselves, as I know this all comes as a bit of a shock considering my stand on exercise and/or lack thereof.

It happened in the midst of all the rain we had been having recently and since I had no voices telling me to build an ark, I started walking. Four and a half miles a day rain or shine. The dog started out all excited and quickly became confused during one particularly drenching walk. He kept stopping and looking at me as if to say, “Okay, you’ve made your point. Although I have no idea what that point is, can we stop this madness now?”

Huh, what does he know? He’s a DOG.

I’m sure it has something to do with all these upcoming changes happening in my life right now. All for the good, but all rushing at me at once and knocking me a bit off kilter. Okay, more off kilter than normal. Okay, I am nowhere near normal on a good day, but that’s not the point. The point is, I feel better for it and that’s a pretty good side effect as far as side effect go. If you ever listened to the side effects at the end of any pharmaceutical advert, you know what I mean.

Another lovely side effect, I’m getting my curves back. Instead of being one large round curve, I’m getting a waist and looking less like a candidate for The Biggest Loser. Which is good news because watching me kill those judges on that show on national television, while entertaining, would’ve been troublesome for the family.

Anywho, I’ve got to go for my walk, lots to do today as I’m getting ready to head to Tempe, AZ for OCC’s big hoohaa there this weekend.

I will leave you with a couple of pics from Saturday night, The Boy Wonder’s Prom.

How incredibly cute are they?!

Crawling Out From Under

2006-05-19T16:51:00.000Z

I have been completely unfocused now for going on two plus weeks. I have put it off on the weather, (over 11 days of rain), hormones, (well, everyone else does), allergies, (there is pollen blowing about when it’s not raining), but never really putting my finger on the real trouble.

I cry at the drop of a hat. Okay not really but I found myself walking past a possum dead in the road yesterday, along with two dead baby possums and I burst into tears.

I watched an older movie on one of the movie channels titled, “The Power of One” and bawled my way through it.

Maybe trouble isn’t the right word and I don’t know what is, but I think its finally hitting me.

May is a tricky time of year for me. Mother’s Day is followed closely by my mother’s birth date, May 16. Then you can segue on to mid June, when my mother died.

But that’s not everything.

Saturday is the Boy Wonder’s prom. Followed closely by his graduating from high school. If you all remember, it’s really his junior year but he chose to graduate early a few months back.

But wait, there’s more.

The Hubster ia about to go through some changes with his job. It is all for the best, onwards and upwards as they say, but a transition nonetheless.

Let’s also take into account that we are in the process of a ton of work on this house to get it ready to sell in the quickest time possible. While we are also fervently seeking out that acreage to buy where we will all resettle and build into our futures. A future made of organically raised beef, lamb, milk, eggs, chickens, herbs, berries and veggies. Horses of our own, boarded horses and leased horses. In a new state, where new friends are to be found and made and new local publications will be wooed to feature my writing.

It all sounds lovely and exciting doesn’t it?

So why am I so out of sorts?

Well, let’s call this Post One of a series called, “If Change is Good, Why am I So Damn Scared?”

Tune in for Post Two – “If I’m Letting go, Why Are My Knuckles White?”

Another Mother's Day

2006-05-11T22:43:00.000Z

This is actually a post from back in January and no less appropriate for the upcoming holiday.

My mother has a way of never leaving me. Not that I want her to.

Bits and pieces of her find their way into my life when I least expect it, but need it most. Even if I don’t know it yet or at the time, it always comes clear.

We have a new grocery store here in Keene. A Price Chopper. Those of you in NY know them well as they originated there. They have made their way into NH and my backyard. Within a mile and a half of it, literally.

The Boy Wonder applied and is working there, knowing he can transfer to one of the 3 locations near where we are moving to in NY.

So of course I had to check it out.

Me and 25,842 other people during the first week it was open. You would think we didn’t have another two major grocery stores to choose from in town. Maybe they were running some great specials that I was blissfully unaware of as I shop only the outside walls of the store.

I start in the organic produce section. I then head into the natural foods section before hitting the natural and organic meats section. Pick up a couple things from diary and I’m done.åç

Today though I was a first time visitor at their deli counter thanks to The Boy Wonder. His dinner request was for hot sub sandwiches. Crusty baguette, bacon, fried Genoa salami, roast beef, capicola, roast turkey, red onion, hamburger pickles, tomatoes and Irish Swiss baked in the oven. I’m getting hungry again just writing about it.

That sandwich was slamming delicious!

So there I was at the deli counter and as they are slicing up the roast beef I start checking out the salami choices and there it is. The Tobin’s First Prize logo was screaming at me from inside the case on the liverwurst, bologna and salami.

Tobin’s First Prize products originated from the Tobin’s meat packing plant that was located on Exchange Street just off Exit 5 of Interstate 90 in Albany. It’s where my mother worked while we lived in Albany, until I was nine. They are now produced and distributed by John Morrell.

But they have kept the same logo and packaging on the products and when I saw them a smile followed by a slight wince emitted from me.

Funny how a big old slab of liverwurst brings my mother back to life but it does.

I don’t believe I ever stepped foot in the plant but I remember vividly what the parking lot and the big white building looked like and the logo on the tower that you could see from the interstate going north.

I also remember this one girlfriend she had from there that had red hair, smoked, dressed in bright prints and dated a gangster. I think her name was Denise?

A day when the two of them spent the whole afternoon painting the ceilings in the dining room and living room and enough time went by that a little blonde girl playing quietly on her own staying out the way was blessed with them being themselves and given a window into the lives of women without the usual boundaries by which they’re tied.

I’d like to think that day played a small but important part in what makes me the woman I am.

Then there was a story that has become infamous over the years for me.

A Christmas party prank gone horribly wrong which involved an air hose, some poor mans buttock and too much alcohol. You do the math.

The last couple days have been an ongoing dialogue with The Boy Wonder about where he’s going and how he is in control of what does and doesn’t happen for him. We’re coming to the end of the semester and he’s in full excuse mode and defense. (I'm the innocent bystander, Somehow I got stuck, Between the rock and the hard place, And I'm down on my luck)

On my way to Price Chopper I had time to think as the guy in front of me forgot he was in his truck and was basically strolling to the plaza with his cigarette, reading his newspaper and darning a pair of socks.

I got to thinking about what I want for him in his life and it’s really quite simple and here is how the thought process went.

**Disclaimer~ those prone to motion sickness should take the necessary precautions or at the very least, remain seated and have a paper bag handy.**

As I was pulling out of the driveway the Santana/Steven Tyler song came on and it made me angry. It’s not the song. The song, Just Feel Better, is hauntingly lovely and what is it about Steven Tyler when he is doing the belting bits in any of his songs I uncontrollably sing along at the top of my voice.

Every time.

Hearing Mr Tyler sing is like smashing into a fresh bruise for me at the moment because it makes me think of J Frey and that makes me want to smash J Frey into a million little pieces if for no reason than there will be truth in the title of that book.

In that book J Frey goes on and on about a guest speaker who he refers to as an aging rock star who is clean and making a comeback and seems to go out of his way NOT to identify but sounded all the world to me that he was describing Mr Tyler.

J Frey goes on about how angry this speaker is making him, that this person is lying and no one could survive the amounts of drugs and alcohol they were saying they would ingest in a 24-hour period. And I am trying not to be upset as I love Mr Tyler but not in that---they have to pull me off his leg kinda way and then isn’t it ironic that we find out thanks to this article in The Smoking Gun, that J Frey himself is the liar.

How bloody hypocritical is he.

So yeah, I’m still bitter as J Frey became yet another person who chose to lie to me after I became emotionally invested in him.

Which got me to thinking about The Boy Wonder and how I want him to be his own best friend and know that he can do whatever it is he sets out to do. No one can stop him but himself.

Here I am, 45, finally investing enough in myself to pursue the one thing I always wanted to do---write. Send little bits of myself out into the world through my own distinct voice.

I’m not looking to win any prizes---won’t turn any down---not looking to be famous and not looking to be like anyone else, just me.

Apparently my voice is very different and not everyone wants to listen and I’m okay with that.

My humour class assignments have developed a pattern in what the teacher has to say and none of it is about a lack of humour, he tells me I’m very funny, it’s about the mechanics of my writing; switching tenses and POV----and that thing that’s gotten me pulled aside my whole schooling life.

“It seems like you didn’t follow the directive, but this is really good and I had to give you the A.”

A writing mentor recently told me that, “You’re humour and voice may be too intelligent for most average Americans to follow.”

I’m okay with that because I’m 45 now and at 12, 14, 18 and 21 no one put it to me in that way so that I could see that I shouldn’t stop and this time I won’t.

I want The Boy Wonder to know he shouldn’t stop.

I wish my mother hadn’t died before she finally did the one thing that was inside her, but she didn’t and I’ll never know what it was. I don’t know that she did either.
And that’s when I pulled into the parking space at Price Chopper and two minutes later there was my Mother visiting me in the form of Tobin’s First Prize, Mother Goose Liverwurst.

She’s given me more advice in the years since her death than she ever did when she was alive.

I guess that’s because those boundaries that use to keep her tied, no longer apply.

Isn’t it ironic.

Just Feel Better

She said, I feel stranded
And I can't tell anymore
If I'm coming or I'm going
It's not how I planned it
I've got a key to the door
But it just won't open

And I know, I know, I know
Part of me says let it go
That life happens for a reason
I don't, I don't, I don't
Cause it never worked before
But this time, this time
I'm gonna try anything to just feel better

Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through
The haze around me
And I'll do anything to just feel better
I can't find my way
God I need a change
And I'll do anything to just feel better
Any little thing to just feel better

She said I need you to hold me
I'm a little far from the shore
And I'm afraid of sinking
You're the only one who knows me
And who doesn't ignore,
That my soul is weeping

I know, I know, I know
Part of me says let it go
Everything must have its season
Around, around it goes
Everyday's the one before
But this time, this time,
I'm gonna try anything to just feel better

Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through
The haze around me
And I'll do anything to just feel better
I can't find my way
God I need a change
And I'll do anything to just feel better
Any little thing to just feel better

I'm tired of holding on
To all the things I oughta leave behind
It's really getting old and
I think I need a little help this time

I'm gonna try anything to just feel better
Tell me what to do
You know I can't see through
The haze around me
And I'll do anything to just feel better
I can't find my way
God I need a change
And I'll do anything to just feel better
Any little thing to just feel better

Criminals Need More Rights ... & Lefts

2006-05-05T00:41:00.000Z

Maybe I’m different – wait – I AM different, but let’s plow ahead anyway.

A couple weeks ago I was having a conversation with The Hubster and I don’t remember, which is often the case, how we got to here but it went a little like this:

Me: “They should collect and file everyone’s DNA at birth. That way when a child goes missing, they already have it handy. Or, when someone is found dead, they are easily and quickly identified.”

Hubster: Attempts to get a word in… unsuccessfully.

Me: “Better still, sex offenders will already be data based for earlier pegging and criminals of all sorts can be identified and picked up quite early on.” Gathers momentum in that way only a great idea born of red wine can do.

Hubster: Recognizes said momentum and realizes that this is a one sided conversation as only The Hubster can do.

Me: “Do you suppose people will be all – ‘Oh, no, we have our privacy rights.’ And all, “Too Big Brother for us!’

Hubster: “Ahh”

Me: “We get blood typed at birth, why not DNA typed as well?”

Hubster: “Ummm”

Me: “It would be to the advantage of all really.”

Hubster: “ZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz …”

Me: “People would probably be all, ‘Too Minority Report for us.” Shame really.

So imagine my surprise to see an article in the New York Times today; New York Pushes for DNA In Crimes Big And Small, (why is for lowercase but in is upper case?) by Diane Cardwell.

New York is trying to get a proposal passed into law that anyone convicted of felonies and misdemeanors will have their DNA collected.

What gets me is that there are actually people who are fighting against making this happen. Why?

For all of our forward technology and thinking how is it that we can still be so bass ackwards on this sort of thing? Why is the burden of proof still on the victims?

Seems to me we’d have a lot fewer people cluttering up our jails and being executed for crimes they never committed and more actual criminals taking up the space. That would be a good thing right?

After I became a parent and realized that even though I had been raised in a most inappropriate manner I could use that knowledge to become a good parent with a very large amount of commitment and work, I had an epiphany of sorts.

Wouldn’t it be great if they could do some sort of test at birth that would determine who would be a good parent and who wouldn’t, and you could just sterilize the bad ones right then?

I still think it’s a good idea.

My oldest brother and his wife decided not to have any kids because they felt the world was not a hopeful place. At the time, my other brother who was 13 said, “But Richard & Louise are smart people. If all the smart people do this, then in a hundred years the entire planet will be populated by idiots!”

Maybe this bit from the NYT’s article supports that theory:

“Expanding the law to include those convicted of misdemeanors, said Stephen Saloom, policy director at the Innocence Project, which supports DNA sampling of convicted felons, ‘is an inefficient use of resources, increases the risk of wrongful prosecution and conviction of innocent people whose DNA might end up at a crime scene and further strains a forensics community that is already complaining of a lack of qualified and trained analysts to work in their labs.’ ”

Wouldn’t the answer to that be … good old fashioned recruiting for the field and incentives for kids to pursue this line of work rather than not collecting DNA?

Thank goodness there’s still a good amount of smart people out there that are over ruled by their raging hormones.

Oy.

©2006 Dawn Marie Kelly, all rights reserved.