And by weed I mean the smokable kind that’s propelled itself onto a ballot near you. Vote YES! to legalize medi-mary. Vote NO! to keep it off the counter at your neighborhood corner store! I’m not about to go into a long epistle (Heather, thanks for that), about whether or not I ever inhaled, let’s just say that me and the herb have been acquainted at various times in my life. The whole marijuana question has come up often enough for me to really decide how I feel and think about this- “little gift from Mother Nature.” Ah, but is it a gift? Mother Nature provided us with poison hemlock and oleander too, but I’m not about to go rolling around in it, or grow it hydroponically. Yes. Yes, I understand that’s not a fair comparison. Herbs have been used medicinally long before recorded history, so why has the pot subject irked me for almost as many years? I suppose it goes back to early recovery for me. I was in a relationship with someone who smoked and I felt afraid for my sobriety and truly a bit put off. It bugged me that my girlfriend would choose to alter her frame of mind around me. Didn’t I deserve to have her complete unadultered attention? How could I tell if she was responding to me, or the weed? I couldn’t. And damn if I didn’t want complete control over situations, and for much of my life, our relationship. We all know (don’t we?), that control is merely folly, but I digress.

The rudimentary facts are that I hate to see people f-ed up. Drunk, high, whatever. I spend (for the most part, nowadays) zero time with people who “party” or heavily (ab)use substances affecting them from the neck up. I don’t partake in those “recreational activities,” so unless someone wants to reach out for help, I hardly ever see that stuff going on. (But has anyone else felt like the only person left on Earth lately who doesn’t hit the bong?)

But Dee, you say, what about medical marijuana? Peeps, I reply, pain relief is necessary. The opioid crisis makes me sad that we’ve sunk so low as a society so as not to do our best to protect people from the risk of addiction. Don’t you just love it when I go off on a tangent? Me too. I’ve heard from a boatload of people who say that while they’re not recreational users of marijuana, they’d sure use it for relief from pain. I wouldn’t begrudge a soul the possibility of wresting some satisfying hiatus from chronic pain or nausea or etc., but why do I bristle at folks who smoke for fun? Not jealous or resentful (mainly because I never got a thrill from the stuff, and I find the smell of the smoke repugnant), so that’s not it. Hmm…maybe because it’s illegal? Nope, I do illegal things. Just yesterday I didn’t stop completely when the sign clearly instructed me to do so. I took it as more of a suggestion, really. Why just this morning I jaywalked on my foot commute to work, and don’t even get me started on those mattress tags I’ve removed before delivering to the consumer!

Kidding aside, it is MORE illegal by way of punishment, and federally it’s still a crime that if convicted, may keep you from acquiring things like a job, a home, a car, freedom. That shit scares me. I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about those kinds of shenanigans. I dont think I’d feel satisfied with my life while wearing an orange jumpsuit.

I do believe the answer then, is that I have pre-conceived ideas and longstanding judgement issues with pot users. I fall victim to thinking alongside a “group” or “entity” or the “self-righteous,” instead of thinking it out for myself. So I’ve done that now, through the construction of this post, come to a bit of resolution about it.

There are certain youngsters that I’m acquainted with who have shared the fact that they smoke pot. My first reaction is to lure them up a mountain and then lock them up in a monastery, but since the practicalities of that are slim, I have no choice but  to accept it. I must admit that it bugs me way more to see young folks smoke tobacco. Now there’s something that should be illegal.

I do believe that while for me, marijuana remains a weed that serves no useful purpose to promote my own well-being, I have to lay down my prejudices and simply say, you do you boo-boo. I’m gonna have to go with Willie on this one and live and let live.

Peace out peeps.✌🏽️

…I’ve learned a thing or two, so you little whipper-snappers listen up now. (Somebody called me that once when I was working in one of my stores. She wanted to return a pepper grinder because it didn’t work. I merely pointed out that it wasn’t meant to grind the nutmeg that was in it. She told me it was pepper and that she’d “been grinding pepper longer than you’ve been alive, you little whipper-snapper!” That was one of two times I had something thrown at me during my 21 year reign as know-it-all kitchen-ette). That reminded me of another story I’ll have to tell you about the guy who just had brain surgery…but first I should probably go through this musty ol’ blog to check and see if I’ve already told you that one, at 50 I’ve learned that I forget shit. Haha.

So where was I? Oh yes, the things I’ve learned and a few bonus and random morsels of wisdom. Keep in mind that when I say I have learned things, some may or may not have occured to me yesterday, last week, or last month perhaps. Hey, some lessons take me a long time to learn. Sheesh. Don’t judge.

You know that I took a break from effbook in October, and I haven’t felt the spirit move me back yet. It’s just too damned comfy in this angst-free zone. I felt my head spinning off its axis with all the political hubub and families and friends pitted against one another was making me sick. Soul sick. I miss my peeps though. Effbook truly has worked magic in my life in various stages. Once inauguration season is over, I hope to get back, but this hiatus (and finally getting my old laptop with the REAL keyboard fixed) has made the transition back to writing easier.

At 50 I’ve learned probably one of the most valuable lessons to date, and I poop you not when I tell you that this revelation and all its incarnations has been presented to me many times. I needed to use my own language during the perfect circumstance to have it finally permeate my thick skull. It goes like this: if a situation, event, person, action, or communication doesn’t alter or change the course of my direction, I shut the f— up about it. There have been too many occasions of late that have put my epiphany to the test. I can guarantee you that I will not be succesful every time, but what freedom I can achieve when I realize that my opinion about a situation does not make it factual. I could rail on endlessly at the crudfu–ery of your behaviour, thing, action, belief. How dare she, he, it, they, them! Don’t they know/care how this affects ME? How this makes ME feel? No, Deedle. No they don’t. But it’s ok, 90% of the times I’ve thought people should’ve altered their behaviour or words to protect my fragile ego, they didn’t even know I was breakable. We are all free to do and think and live and act how we please here in Americaland, and I have never asked your permission to do my life my way. Why on earth would I think you should have to ask permission to do the same thing? Exactly. Duh!

At 50 I’ve learned to listen with my whole heart to kids (and by kids I mean humans ages 2-30) who tell me their plans or intentions. Of course I know those plans will likely change (often in the next week or month), but their world is much more in the “now” than mine is these days. When I was 16, I thought that someone who was 20 was old and I don’t think I could even comprehend 40. I spent too much time telling kids not to do this or cautioning them about that, forgetting that I needn’t bother. Life teaches those lessons without my insistence or criticisms. I listen and I nod and I get excited because these are feelings that are happening right now for the kid who has selected me to hear them. My job is to share their enthusiasm, offer my experience (if asked), and be honored that anyone under 30 is willing to share their stuff with me. Seriously. If a young person talks to you, listen. They provide inspiration for me on the regular. The one caveat here is that lower back tattoo thing that I thought was a sound life choice in my 30’s. Sure would’ve appreciated a head’s up about that. Yes indeed.

At 50 I’ve learned that after age 48, topics including regularity and fiber are relevant in waaaaay more conversations than sex.

At 50 I’ve learned that he who has the most tools, has the most responsibility. It took me acquiring some tools before that made any sense to me. I am often compelled to use that as my dogmatic perspective in many familial relationships.

At 50 I’ve learned that there is a measure of peace that comes with financial security and there is a double measure of misery from doing miserable things to gain it.

At 50 I’ve learned that our whole planet is the home I’d like to visit, and my bucket will always have holes. I’m good with letting y’all go to the moon, though. I’ll stay on the ground and wave.

At 50 I’ve learned that when I’m sleepy, I can come back tomorrow and pick up where I left off…

At 50 I have not learned (it’s a battle I fight all the time) that people who don’t live up to my expectations is much of my problem in life. I made little drawings in my head about what human relationships were supposed to look like, and right out of the gate, my pictures often didn’t match up with the reality of any given connection or kinship. What wasn’t written down in my particular handbook was this; just because x y or z wasn’t capable, willing, adept, or even intended to match up to my ideals, didn’t (and still doesn’t) mean that the fault is mine. Some people suck at being who I thought/think they should be, and that isn’t their fault. It’s my fault for churning myself into butter at a futile attempt to be the right person who might transform them into my drawing of a friend/parent/brother/sister/on & on…I must keep reminding myself that some folks don’t have the capability nor the willingness to be what I needed, or need. And that my dears, will just have to do.

Oops, hang on a sec… Dropped my lathe on my foot there, buddy. Ouch. Horizontal axis rotating tools are surely a danger! Ask Lukey. I bet he knows…

There are bits and pieces and portions and parts of my life that I’ve not yet written down here on my “digital journal.” Years and months and ages of pages of me are omitted. No, not because of any lesser significance. Merely because I’m older now, more prone to the release of several measures of youth. Measures that I need to recall, but measures that goeth before my fall. I fell alot, y’all. And took prisoners along my descent. It’s just that I’m so far removed from that era, I forget so easily. I just don’t recognize that Dee anymore. But still-it behooves me to recall, if nothing more than a method by which to keep myself firmly planted in the garden of sense and rooted in the land of justice. Here we go kiddies…

Barb. 1995. What an eff-fest THAT was. I was a carbon-copy of a fiasco, those days.

Then came (anonymous). I saw her at the ball field and there/then was the beginning of my undoing. Schemed, planned, cavorted and manipulated my way to a first date. I tripped and fell into her without once looking ahead. Without ever looking back. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.

It’s been more than a decade since I’ve really put my mind to analysis about those days. But as I press and prod my brain to recall, it all comes readily back to my frontal lobe.

This is another one of those: ‘to be continued posts.’

Bummer. But I’m really weary this week.

I’m feeling beat down a bit and I very much miss my girl in Pa.

Nevertheless, I’ll continue this story. Probably tomorrow, since I have an entire glorious day to enjoy football and my narcissistic self. I have much to say on this very topic. No, silly. Not narcissism, Deeiscoolism!

See y’all then.

Ok, so I didn’t quite fit myself or my words into the aforementioned timetable. I must have needed to sleep because I missed a couple of other engagements too. Oh well. C’est la vie. The story WILL get told. (Without any persuasion from any peanut gallery attendees, either. Ahem!) No worries, I don’t often look backward with disdain. Only “aha” moments and life lessons. Except for that one time during a thunderstorm…

Dear Red States, we’re ticked off at the way you’ve treated California, and we’ve decided we’re leaving.  We intend to form our own country, and we’re taking the other Blue States with us.

  In case you aren’t aware, that includes Hawaii, Oregon, Washington, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois and the entire Northeast. We believe this split will be beneficial to the nation, and especially to the people of the new country of New California.
 
To sum up briefly:
 
You get Texas, Oklahoma and all the slave states.
 
We get stem cell research and the best beaches.We get Nancy Pelosi.  You get Sarah Palin.
 
We get the Statue of Liberty.  You get Wal-Mart.
 
We get Intel and Microsoft.  You get WorldCom.
 
We get Harvard.  You get Ole’ Miss.
 
We get 85 percent of America’s venture capital and entrepreneurs.  You get Alabama.
 
We get two-thirds of the tax revenue.  You get to make the red states pay their fair share.
 
Since our aggregate divorce rate is 22 percent lower than the Christian Coalition’s, we get a bunch of happy families.  You get a bunch of single moms.
 
Please be aware that Nuevo California will be pro-choice and anti-war, and we’re going to want all our citizens back from Iraq at once.  If you need people to fight, ask your evangelicals.
 
They have kids they’re apparently willing to send to their deaths for no purpose, and they don’t care if you don’t show pictures of their children’s caskets coming home.
 
We do wish you success in Iraq, and hope that the WMDs turn up, but we’re not willing to spend our resources in Bush’s Quagmire.
 
With the  Blue States in hand, we will have firm control of 80 percent of the country’s fresh water, more than 90 percent of the pineapple and lettuce, 92 percent of  the nation’s fresh fruit, 95 percent of America’s quality wines (you can serve  French wines at state dinners) 90 percent of all cheese, 90 percent of the high tech industry, most of the U.S. low-sulfur coal, all living redwoods, sequoias and condors, all the Ivy and Seven Sister schools, plus Stanford, Cal Tech and MIT.
 
With the Red States, on the other hand, you will have to cope with 88 percent of all obese Americans (and their projected health care costs), 92 percent of all U.S. mosquitoes, nearly 100 percent of the tornadoes, 90 percent of the hurricanes, 99 percent of all Southern Baptists, virtually 100 percent of all televangelists, Rush Limbaugh, Bob Jones University, Clemson and the University of Georgia.
 
We get Hollywood and Yosemite, thank you.
 
Additionally, 38 percent of those in the Red states believe Jonah was actually swallowed by a whale, 62 percent believe life is sacred unless we’re discussing the death penalty or gun laws, 44 percent say that evolution is only a theory, 53 percent that Saddam was involved in 9/11, and 61 percent of you crazy bastards believe you are people with higher morals than we lefties.
 
By the way, we’re taking the good pot, too.  You can have that dirt weed they grow in Mexico.

  My name is Dee Fortin and I intend to vote sensibly. I vote on the issues that affect me, my friends, my family, my dreams, my hopes for this great country. I will not stand silently by and watch a woman who has no interest beyond her own gun-toting, abortion opposing (even in the event of rape), earmarker of funds for Alaska, abuser of power, bridge to nowhere profiter, ex brother-in-law banishing, women’s rights bashing agenda. I believe in the strength and tenacity of women. I do not believe that Sarah Palin is among us. Her cutesy terms and admitted redneckism, Joe-shmo, hockey ho, perceptions have no place in the lives of hardworking Americans. THIS IS SCARY PEOPLE! The actuary tables don’t lie. SHE MIGHT BE PRESIDENT! I vote HELL NO in November. I shudder to think of the consequences of ignorant ballot casting. We must vote our conscience. Suffragettes lament in their graves knowing this woman is on any ballot, anywhere, despite their battles to grant us voting rights. I am pro-woman, but I am most surely anti-Palin. Let’s not be affected by John McCain’s desperate attempt at appealing to our solidarity as women. We cannot afford to be fooled.

 I will also be voting no on two. The constitutional amendment Article 1, new section, which prohibits, in a nut shell, marriage between any persons other than one man, one woman. Furthermore, Florida is the only state that specifically bans gays from adopting. I challenge any Floridian lawmaker (yes, you Governor Crist), to tell me to my face that I am ill-equipped, based soley on my sexual preference, to care for a child. I’ve been caring for YOUR high school dropouts since I moved here. This is a ludicrous and plain; ‘good ole boy’ redneck philosophy that needs to be expunged. I am here to change the minds of good American people who have sense. But I don’t do it by preaching fear and bigotry from atop an ignorant soapbox. I do it with grace, tolerance and intellect. As my constitution reads to me.

http://slackeruprising.com/download/location.php?utm_medium=download&utm_source=31371199

The republican party has provided an economic meltdown. The democratic supporter Michael Moore, gave us clean undies and Ramen noodles. Rising up, I am. 

I used to get so indignant (ok, still do), when I would hear folks refer to the attack on the World Trade Center Towers as the; 9/11 attack. “Nope, I would think to myself, it isn’t 9/11. I HATE that term. Can’t we spell it out in all its meaning? ” Is it not the least we can do to say the full date? Today it is seven years since seven years ago. Yes, today I shed  my Yankee born tears watching the re-enactment on the History Channel. Yes, I am still afraid. Yes, I still yearn for revenge. Revenge against something, someone, somewhere. But mostly I think, I am done. I am done with Bush and all his branches. I am ready to get over, get on, get going with things American. You know… things brave, things upright, things proud. I will not forget the events of September Eleventh, 2001. But I am SOOO ready to get upward and onward and beyond the stifling velcro of deceipt. I’m ready for difference, deliverance. I’m ready to carry the flag of the UNITED States Of America. Walk with me, please. But, let’s not forget a single thing, ok? Let’s not “Palin” comparison in the face of  “Barack.”

Let’s stay quiet for a moment and just remember those who are not here to give their opinion. Those who gave up their lives, those who had no choice…

Barack Obama.

If you’re a part of the Georgepublican-loop, it’ll be three words; Barack Obama Bin Laden. (Didya notice that our dear George miscounted?) I knew that you did-educated bunch, you are!

Did you also catch his inappropriate smiling during Bob Costas’ interview in Beijing? I for one, was embarrassed for our country. Imagine a leader, (look it up- it doesn’t mean war monger) smiling when asked about agendas. “I don’t need the olympics to advance America’s agenda.” And then there’s this;  “I don’t see America as having problems…”

I do. I see us as having BIG fucking problems, Georgie-poo. We’re not leaders anymore.

If we can’t vote this right, I’m moving left.

Peace out y’all.

I researched this metaphoric phrase recently as it is relevant to my fence line.

Not in the form as mentioned above, but as this; “The grass grows greener on the other side of the fence.”

There are several ponderous references to the theory, really. Many links to its past.

But it’s how it relates to ME that I care enough to write about.
Like you didn’t catch on to that already.

There’s a grassy knoll in my history. Not only the JFK one. A Grass of a different color. Green and bright and full.
A Grass that meant, and means to this day, a great deal to me. Even when my apprehensions abound.

A blade that swayed toward the dark side. Left the beautiful moon and benevolent sun to follow a nefarious pathway.

Why?

Well that, my dears, is what this blog tries to figure.

The why and the how and the who and the when and what of things. No matter the sense it makes. Or doesn’t.

What leads the grass to drink?

It starts out small, I think.

It begins with a shimmer and a glimmer. A spark even, of doubt.

It begins with a leaving of a soul, maybe.

How does the soul go so far south that it can’t steer clear of the land mines that surely pop up? How, indeed.

Self loathing pops up, crops up, trips us and flips us. You’ve felt it, no?

But you knew better. You knew that life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness was yours for the taking.
Didn’t you?

Maybe you didn’t, Grass. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you thought that your life-tickets, happy-coupons were used up?
Nope. They aren’t. They’re still here, still there. They’re still at your disposal. Go look. Check it out.

It takes a key. Or so they say to us green makers. Those John Deere nothing-run-likers. Listen up. Listen hard. Listen like you’ve not heard a thing. It’s the hearing that takes us where we need to go.

Or so I hear.

There is indeed, a greener Grass. I saw it once. Felt it twice. Need it still. Like the rest of the planet. The Grass must grow, it’s the in the will of all things.

You just need to stretch your face to the sun and feel it.
Life, as with Grass, shows its green when we seek it.

You just gotta seek with all who love you.

It really IS greener here, Grass.

Been looking around lately?

Been paying attention to the latest rage? The newest fad?

I have. I see skulls on everything and on everyone. From ball caps to mannequins/womanquins on Lincoln Ave. in South Beach to the Jack Sparrows and and t-shirts and bandanas at Jax Beach. To silver rings and flying machines, from the old school to the hip hop, to the far reaches of there, to way over here. They’re everywhere.

I just laugh. Internally. Skeletally.

Didya happen to catch the celestial rage five years ago?
Oh yes. It was stars and moons and astronomy and astrology and Milky Ways and glow-in-the-dark atmospheres.
Stick-on glowers and grinning moons, pin-up silhouettes of waxers and waners. License plates and grow-a-dates, tattooed ankles and rear mirror bangles. They were everywhere.

I just smirked. Internally. Crescentic.

This all reminds me of a wise old adage: I was country before country was cool.
Or some shit like that.

How about 99 red balloons? Did you see them go by?
(Slow) Do do do do (Fast) doo-doo-doo-doo. Repeat. And…repeat.
Or if you prefer, 99 luftballoons, the German original version from like, 1983.

The point is this; that I kinda get nostalgic-ed off (I know, it ‘aint a word!) that no one thought we were cool when we WERE ACTUALLY cool.

I liked the skully-moony-starry-jingly-jangly-way-cooly and so untouchable thingies from my beginning. So get lost. Get lost in the stratosphere, beeotches.Yeah, that’d be about 8 miles from our fuckin’ surface, yo.

The fashionistas feel like THIS is the time to be into skulls. NOW is the sweet hour to lasso our moon and rope the stars. From HERE is our vantage point to spy some red balloons.

But geez. Can’t we get some props for being the originals? I feel like I’m havin’ to explain Woodstock to a bunch of parochial school students and I wasn’t even THERE!

I shrug off the moon, blow off the skulls and pop the red balloons.

Gotta find something new, something of my very own, to be cool at.
Gotta move on from there.

Just can’t stand those copy-cats.

Just can’t stand no more.

Blind THAT shit with science, yo.