I don't have a problem!

“I own 81 leather jackets, 75 pairs of boots, 41 pairs of leather pants, 32 pairs of haute couture jeans, 10 evening jackets, and 115 pairs of leather gloves.”  

So says Buzz Bissinger.  You know, the guy who wrote “Friday Night Lights.”  He confesses to spending $587,412.97 between 2010 and 2012.  On clothes!  Evidence of his shopping addiction.  No kidding.  He wrote about it in an essay published in GQ magazine this week.  He posed for a few pics as well. 

Bissinger says he keeps scrupulous records of his spending and has every expense category under control.  Except for the one, of course: Threads.  Leather, to be more precise.  Although I guess you can be “haute” without being leather. 

I can almost relate. 

Once, my friend who knows everything about clothing, shopping, dressing and accessorizing told me that I should color coordinate my closet to facilitate mixing and matching.  Hang blues with blues, greens with greens, and so on.   

So I did. 

That’s when I discovered I had 13 cream-colored sweaters!  V-necks, cable knits, turtlenecks, mock turtles, wrap-a-rounds.  Man, are they versatile!  

But honestly, that’s probably more about weak wardrobe awareness than shopping addiction.  Right?  

On the other hand, I do love me my sweaters.  And that ecru!  Oatmeal!  Crème brulee!  Goes with everything.  

Besides, I can stop whenever I want to.  

Anyway, by comparison, it’s mild, my affliction.  I was a classroom teacher in Oklahoma at the time I acquired those monochromatic multipurpose sweaters.  And I couldn’t get in that much trouble.  My 30-year, career financial plan did not enter the universe of $587K.  Those 13 sweaters probably represented a $300 expenditure over five years! 

Still, I have to admit such things can be problematic for a Costco shopper with a bad memory.  When in doubt I’ll just go ahead and pick up the item in question.  With big box packaging, it’s not long at all before one finds herself knee-deep in Q-tips and dental floss.  I keep the extra 3-packs of ketchup and mayo in the garage with the crates of OrvilleRedenbacher popcorn and Quaker oats.  Overflow paper products?  In the toolshed with the lawnmower and the surplus chardonnay. 

That’s different, anyway.  I’m not compulsive.  Like any Dust Bowl Okie, I don’t like to live too close to the bone. 

Nevertheless, I read an article on NBCNews.com:  “10 ways to escape a shopping addiction,” and found I’d already put one strategy into operation:  #8.  Find healthy alternatives.  

Not sure if the lip balm qualifies as a healthy alternative, though.  It is better than chapped lips, but I just counted 19 tubes of it in my make-up drawer.  I know, little waxy tubes of … wax don’t constitute actual make-up, but where else would I keep them?  Except in my jacket pockets, my desk drawer, the phone table, my purse, the toolbox, the cup holder of my car and of course, the clothes dryer.   

I just love the stuff.  Ever since Carmex added that little taste of what?  Menthol?  Eucalyptus?  Keeps a girl coming back.   

And what’s the harm?  Though the days of 79-cent Chap Stick are behind us.  It’s all flavored, tinted and scented specialty wax now; with added SPF it’s about $2.79 a pop.

My current favorite – Burt’s Bees Rejuvenating.  So smooth.  So worth it. 

And let’s see…19 @ $2.79 = $53.10, just about the price of a lovely, cream-colored cardigan.  

Do I seem defensive? 

When you feel overwhelmed by the urge to stockpile, says NBCNews.com, go for a walk or do some other form of exercise.  This can take your mind off the urge until it passes. 

You’ll need a sturdy pair of walking shoes.  A pedometer is nice.  A visor, polarized sunglasses, a lightweight jacket.  And of course, your lip balm. 

So that idea backfired. 

Maybe I’ll try #9.  “Expand your possibilities,” it says.  Instead of using all that time to shop, I could volunteer in my community, spend more time with my family, go back to school, read lots of great books.   

That’s a lot of pressure.  Stressful.  Maybe I’ll start with a magazine.  

Hey, here’s a copy of GQ.  Oh man!  Look at this guy Bissinger!  He blew half a million bucks on leather pants!  Now he has a problem.

Take the 'A' train to Elite-town

Hey!  I’m elite!  Who says I’m not elite?! 

I’m elite, I tell ya!  By definition.  And I don’t mean MerriamWebster’s middle-of-the-road, everybody-gets-it definition.  I’m talking about the big time, high falootin’, scientific, cultural definition.  You know - the one from American Enterprise Institution’s Fellow, Charles Murray.  That’s right. 

According to Mr. Murray, even someone like me can live in can “elitist bubble” if she cannot identify the NASCAR driver pictured in his quiz about the culture gap in the United States.  Those NASCAR guys all look the same to me (Sorry, Danica!); so that’s a step on the elitist staircase. 

Ever see “Transformers: Dark of the Moon.”  Me neither!  Step two!  I’m ascending toward elite-osity!   

Step 3:  I don’t hang out with people who smoke (unless they’re my friends and the patch just doesn’t work for them).  It turns out being a non-smoker is elite! 

Step 4:  All my friends made good grades, or at least they could have if they hadn’t gone anti-establishment and failed deliberately to get back at “the man.” 

This is so exciting!  After all those anxious years of yearning to be in, only to be sadly, awkwardly, gawkily out.  Painful memories linger!  So I was jazzed to stumble across Mr. Murray and his quiz.  

His measure of one’s residence in the “elite bubble” encompasses 25 questions to help determine a quizzee’s status by examining her activities.  He does this rather than calculating her earnings as do more traditional gauges of social status or preeminent elite-ness.   

For example Murray wants to know if you ever worked in a job where a part of your body hurt at the end of the day.  Duh!  I was a high school principal!  My brain hurt constantly!  That’s a pretty important body part.  AND my feet hurt too!   

But oops.  Pain in the anatomy gets chalked up on the non-elite side of the ledger. 

Evidently, the upper crust doesn’t relate to physical pain from work…hmmm. 

But I never worked on a factory floor, so I have that goin’ for me on the elite bubble point scale.   

What’s this?  Uh oh.  I’ve been fishing in the last five years.  Darn it!  I used bait, too!  A worm on a hook!  Yikes.  You can take the Okie out of the state, but she’ll never shake that hankerin’ for catfish.  Catch ‘em and skin ‘em; fry ‘em up with hushpuppies; add a red beer!  Now we’re talkin’! 

No fancy schmancy flies.  Catch and release?!  What’s the point? 

Oh…Methinks I doth digress too much.  I’ve wandered afield from the posh confines to which I aspire to become accustomed. 

Returning to Mr. Murray’s questionnaire, he wants to know if you have a close friend who’s an evangelical Christian, or a close friend with whom you have strong and wide-ranging political disagreements.  

Do I have to count family?  

‘Cause there’s my crazy “Uncle Earl” (name changed to protect the guilty).  When he learned how I voted in the 2012 election he called me a “sympathizer.”  And the last time I went to church with his family, the sermon was entitled “Satan Wants You Dead.”  

Decidedly non-elite.  

I don’t like this stupid survey anymore.  

I scored 12.  Middle of the pack.  Foot in both worlds kind of a deal.  Neither mainstream American nor elite American.  

Oh well.  Doesn’t matter.  I can hang out with the whoopti dos.  I can fit in.  I can blend.  I even get a little cocky with my adroit schmoozing.  

But inevitably I expose my non-elite side by lifting my Diet Coke when everyone else is ready to tilt stems on their Pinot. 

When I’m at the other end of the spectrum, family picnics can get a little icy.  My cousins don’t like it when I correct their grammar.  I guess elite people know how to keep their mouths shut.  You don’t see them rolling their eyes when someone shows up with a baby stroller and a six-pack of Bud Lite. 

So to heck with the elite bubble!  I’m happy here in my Lake Woebegone bubble, where all the women are strong; all the men are good looking; and all the children are above average.  No one to look down on and no snob left behind.
 
That’s my kind of elite.

Bless the beasts

We have an abomination duck in our neighborhood.  Or goose.  Maybe he’s a goose. 

He’s tall and bulky like a goose.  White body.  Orange feet.  And a big green mallard head. 

When you first lay eyes on him, it’s a bit like watching “The Exorcist” for the first time:  that famous scene when Linda Blair’s head rotates ever so slowly.  All.  The way.  Around.   

Your brain does a double take and your reflex is to squint and turn away.  Nothing’s supposed to look like that.  It’s wrong on so many levels.  

But you must look again.  What IS that?  Ewww!  An abomination duck! 

Something funny’s going on in the barnyard.  A recombining of critters.  A reordering of genes. 

The other “regular” geese make no distinction, bless their ecumenical selves.  But no true mallards linger in the vicinity.  Perhaps someone’s feeling sheepish about the consequences of his behavior.  Not to mix metaphors.   

Ugh.  More creepiness. 

I had the same reaction when I watched a Big Think Big Idea video on that crazy contraption, the internet.  Some scientist talking about “de-extinction.” 

Stewart Brand, of the Revive and Restore Project, is working with ecologists and biologists all over the world to “de-extinct” the passenger pigeon, among other long departed species.  “The world misses them,” he says. 

So these brainiacs collected the DNA of the extinct passenger pigeon (that’s right, there’s a bunch of deceased passenger pigeon bodies complete with DNA in a hermetically sealed jar on Funk & Wagnall’s porch), and they’re combining it with the DNA of the passenger pigeon’s closest living relative, the band-tailed pigeon.   

And voila!  A “nearly perfect” hybrid version of that passenger pigeon we’ve been pining for since 1912.  The one that flew across the eastern seaboard in flocks a mile wide and 400 miles long, blackening the sky. 

I don’t know.  I wasn’t there to see that spectacle, so it’s probably unfair to refer to anything like, say, locusts, or guano.  As usual, I’m superficially informed, so maybe our ecosystem suffers from the passing of billions of squab.  You’d think so.  It hasn’t made headlines, that’s all. 

And somehow, “nearly perfect” evokes that skin-crawly sensation of a Stepford-ish creation fluttering around the lab, “better” than the original, but flawed in an invisible way that we only discover, to our horror, when thousands of them assemble on the swing set outside the schoolhouse in Bodega Bay.   

Seriously, should we be doing this?  I mean after all, you’ve seen “Jurassic Park,” right?  “The Island of Dr. Moreau”?  And what about the abomination duck? 

Clearly, these guys are not moviegoers.  Like Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman, they’re blithely tripping along reviving an array of long-dead creatures, piece-mealing them together using the brain of Abbey Normal. 

They’re reconstituting the beast of the southern wild!  Yes, really.  The aurochs of little Hushpuppy’s nightmares!  Coming soon to a bad dream near you.   

Oh, I’ll admit my bleeding little heart is torn over this whole concept.  I certainly don’t want ANY more species going extinct.  It’s wrong.  We must stop trampling across the planet like so many arrogant and thoughtless clods, oblivious to the harm we inflict. 

And of course there’s the guilt.  The heart-crushing devastating shame and self-reproach we carry when faced with our record of snuffing out beautiful, irreplaceable animals.  But that’s what makes each one precious, isn’t it?  Once they’re gone…  

Are we absolving ourselves of the theft when we restore a nearly perfect version of what we stole?  They’re saying that the beast, the aurochs, will be returned to its ecological role of turning barren landscapes to productive meadows.  So that’s good.   

But something internal recoils in the face of reanimation.  Mary Shelley and all.  We’re not supposed to be messing with THAT, are we? 

Even the audience watching Stewart Brand shifted uneasily in their seats, applauding tentatively, doing their best to support their guy.  But he’s starting to look like Christopher Lloyd and sound like Dr. Strangelove as he paces on stage in front of a giant screen, clicking through slides of mystic creatures and fantastic scenarios.  

Yeah, we have to atone for our sins.  But not so literally, please.  Remember “The Monkey’s Paw”?  We don’t get “overs.”

Leave the details to me

I could be your virtual assistant. 

Come on…!  You know you want one.  And I’m ideal.  I’m cheap, for one thing.  And of course, I’m virtual. 

As a citizen of the 21^st century, I do almost everything on my own personal to do list in a virtual manner.  That is to say, I execute virtually everything in cyberspace; meaning I accomplish virtually nothing in actual time and space.    

And for a nominal fee, I can do the same for you. 

According to the Wall Street Journal, Personal Assistants manage all the bothersome bailiwicks that eat up the good humor of the harried.   

Virtual Assistants simply do it online!  They never meet their clients, communicating instead by email, instant message, or videoconference.  Virtual Assistants maintain an air of mystery, perhaps living continents away from their customers.  That’s perfect for me!  I can be enigmatic. 

Virtual Assistants might be students working their way through college, parents who want to work from home or older people (ahem!) who are semi-retired. 

So far, I meet all the stipulations:  I’m virtual, mature (!), and mysterious. 

Virtual Assistants work selflessly to unsnarl busy people's lives, taking on everything from scheduling their doctor's appointments and coordinating their calendars to finding them the perfect pair of pants.  Yeah, that’s me, me, me!   

I’m your invisible Man Friday.  Jeeves in the Ether.  I’m Miss Money-penny in the cloud.   

Let’s just run a test case:  Consider your hair appointments, for example.   

As an industrious person preoccupied with say, feeding the hungry, you cannot devote precious time to personal grooming.  But to your dismay, a glimpse in the mirror reveals white roots.  You rationalize that white is almost blonde and no one is likely to notice.  You consider going white.  Then your stomach growls.  Let it grow! 

Still you must soon acknowledge the sharp demarcation between one inch of white roots and your remaining yellow hair.  You consider the expense of professional coloring.  Pet your wallet.  Soothe it. 

You go to the beauty supply store and purchase the chemicals necessary to color your own hair.  Don’t forget the rubber gloves and gas mask.  Goop up.  Rinse.   

Finally, save money, if not face, with a no-appointment-necessary visit to Supercuts.  And voila!  All you need is a cheap pair of shoes to complete your nutty professor ambience. 

Please!  Let me help you with that.  It’s no biggy.  A day in the life.  I can arrange all those things for you. It’s effortless for me, therefore making me a natural for helping others.   

Of course, if you’re a no-nonsense, bottom line kind of person, just want to get the darned haircut, I can set that up for you too. 

Let’s say you’ve been putting off getting that membership at the gym.  I can do it for you.   

Ha ha ha!  I don’t mean I can procrastinate for you!  I’m pretty busy doing that for myself.  So many things not to do! 

No, I mean I can sign up at the gym for you.  Sure!  I’ll take care of all the pesky details.  Get your yoga mat and your stretchy pants.  Rent a locker and never use it.  Heck, for an added premium, I’ll even perspire some virtual sweat for you.  Say the word. 

I have a client now who says he doesn’t have time to socialize with his friends.  (OK.  I don’t really have a client.  Just run with me on this.) 

He doesn’t have time to call people, send cards, go out to lunch, you know, act like a caring human being.  So I do all that for him. 

He hands over his contact list and I hang out with his friends in virtual reality.  I ‘like’ their stuff on Facebook.  I ‘lol’ all over the place.  They think he’s the greatest, most attentive, thoughtful friend they hardly know.  Conversely, he is freed of the burden of interaction and involvement.  And I make a little dough. 

Win, win, WIN! 

Oh yeah, I’m all over this Virtual Assistant thing.   

I can charge by the hour or by the job.  Fleet rates.  Flat rates.  We can work out a payment plan so long as your genuine check is in the authentic mail.   

Otherwise I’ll have to crack your cybernetic kneecaps.

 

I do work from home, really!

I’m pumping iron right now. 

That’s right.  Here at my desk.  Between words. 

Fifteen reps.  Five-pound dumbbells.  Bicep curls, Baby.  Overhead punches.  Whooh!  Man!  That’s a workout. 

How do I do it, you might ask.  It’s just the kind of person I am.  A multi-tasker.  Master of time management and personal fitness.  Oh yeah. 

If you want to change your own slovenly ways and turn your torpid life around, you can find some great suggestions for this kind of efficiency online.   

To wit:  Keep exercise tubing in your desk drawer and use it while talking on the phone.  I’m unsure why I didn’t think of that myself.   

An element of caution is appropriate here.  I’ve learned that exercise tubes can be awkward in your desk.  They’re rubbery, and a little like those coiled-up cloth-covered snakes that spring out of a tube, freaking out the unsuspecting dupe who unscrews the lid, never anticipating that old gag.   

Just this morning I spilled coffee and carrot sticks all over the place when I opened the desk drawer and my exercise tubes surged at me like a nest of eels.  It was extremely unpleasant. 

My cat had her nose at the edge of the drawer just at that moment too since I keep her treats in there.  I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.   

I’ll bet you didn’t know you can tighten your flappy triceps right there at your computer.  Chair dips’ll do it!  Sure!   

Face outward, placing your palms on the seat of the chair behind you.  That’s right, behind you.  Now, feet flat on the floor.  Bend your knees.  Bend ‘em!  Now slowly bend your arms and lower yourself until your upper arms are parallel to the floor.  Feel the burn!  And push yourself back up!  

Or just ooze yourself on down to the floor for a minute.  Then get up and try again.  Repeat 15 times. Easy peasy!   

I should warn you though, no matter how committed you are to eliminating those granny wings, don’t attempt these dips if your chair is on wheels.  Take my word. 

You know you can strengthen your core by standing on one leg while you brush your teeth, right?  I time myself according to the timer built into my fancy schmancy electric toothbrush, holding that flamingo pose for sixty seconds on each leg.   

Beginners should build up their balance on this one though.  One erratic wobble and you can wind up with your Sonicare sideways in your mouth and toothpaste in your ear. 

Tighten those buns by doing squats while you blow your hair dry.  That’s right, squats.  Hold that squat for as long as you can, then stand up and give your glutes 30 isometric squeezes.   

I beg your pardon.  Was that too graphic?  No time to be squeamish!  But if you’re getting ready to go to work, you’ll want to complete this move before you put on your pantyhose. 

I never just walk around the kitchen anymore.  No!  The dedicated multi-tasker never lets an opportunity pass to maximize the personal fitness moment.  When I’m putting away groceries, cooking or cleaning up, I only allow myself to lunge around the kitchen.  Didn’t you ever see Monty Python’s Minister of Silly Walks?  Super toned legs! 

If I have a few moments waiting for the coffee to brew – I have time to tone my hamstrings with jump squats.  I jump up and land in a squat position from the guest bedroom to the entry hall and back.   

Of course, to enhance your motivation and results, you must visualize the benefits of your workout!  I can just picture my…well, just picture your own body parts getting firmer and more toned as you go. 

Finally, you’ve earned a cool down.  Stretch out in your chair by opening your knees and folding your body over your thighs.  Let your head hang low towards your feet.  You’ll recognize this as the emergency (crash) landing pose advocated by the airlines; the one where you kiss your bum goodbye. 

One caveat is in order:  If you happen to be working from home for Yahoo!, be advised that President & CEO Marissa Mayer will not approve this regimen as legitimate use of company time.

Last wishes playlist

 

I remember when my grandma announced that she had finalized the plans for her funeral.   

I was about seven years old and wearing her pheasant-feathered pillbox hat with a beaded necklace and matching brooch pinned to my t-shirt.  I had selected her “rose luster” lipstick and drawn it on mostly within the confines of my lips.   

Completing my ensemble was her stole, made not just from the hides of a couple of hapless minks, but from their pelts intact, replete with tiny mink feet, claws, and a head with beady black eyes and a mouth that was converted to a clamp so it could bite its own tail and hold itself in place. 

As you can see my grandma had flair.  All her Sunday dresses boasted matching shoes and handbags.  She kept her waist-length red hair braided just so and curled around her head forming a crown befitting her status in the family.   

She appreciated the finer things.  She would have been among the first to avail herself of the newest advances in the field of funeral science.  And the last to be lowered into the ground without her face on. 

Grandma never settled for the mundane; she served every meal on her best dishes.  Franciscan.  Dogwood pattern.   

I’m pretty sure she ironed her sheets, so it follows that her dainties must have been wrinkle-free too, though I never saw them.  I can assure you they were not exposed to public viewing on the clothesline with my grandpa’s formidable sox and boxers.  

If I caught her in the right mood, as I had on this day, she’d let me noodle through her closet at will.  On this particular morning, she’d been preoccupied with papers and brochures at her desk, licking the tip of her pencil, erasing and rearranging items on a list.  

I was just slipping into a pair of open-toed black suede platform pumps when she made her proclamation.   

Even at seven, I knew it was weird.  But she wasn’t going to leave such important details to discussion or debate.  And no one else was there to hear it.  She’d picked her dress, shoes, jewelry, even her nail polish.  

Did I mention that my grandma wasn’t ill?  Not disabled.  No, she was bright and perfectly healthy, if a little odd-turned. 

She had an excruciatingly screechy voice.  But she loved the Lord and every Sunday she showed it by singing louder than anyone else in the congregation.  So it was no surprise to me that she also picked the hymns to be played when she would inevitably be laid out for viewing. 

(“Gladly the Cross I’d Bear” was first on her program.  To her dismay, I said I’d never heard of a cross-eyed bear.  With a harrumph she scratched it leaving only “Amazing Grace.”)   

You can see why, when I read about the latest Swedish casket technology, the first person who popped into my mind was my Grandma, even if it came along too late for her to benefit:  Stockholm music and video equipment store owner Fredrik Hjelmquist has designed a coffin withbuilt-in speakers linked to a music playlist that can be updated by the living.  That’s right.  Wi-Fi for the dead. 

Grandma would have loved it.  So I’m including it in my funeral plans.  It’s not that I’m ready to tuck it in, you understand.  I’m forward thinking, that’s all.  Like Grandma, I don’t want anyone else planning my parties.   

And, like her, I have some detailed last wishes.  For one thing, don’t let just anyone do my hair.  I’ve been with Mr. Paul for so many years now; no one else can cover the gray like he does.  Light mascara.  Clear polish and Chapstick only. 

I wish I could still browse through Grandma’s closet.  My wardrobe just doesn’t have her panache.  Best to stick with the classics, navy blue skirt and sweater.  Crisp white blouse.  Perpetuity and all.  

It’s the playlist that’s worrisome.  Must have Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto.  Perlman!  I can listen to that for years.  But eternity?  No, I'll want some variety, please!  I love my Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Throw in some Stevie RayVaughn for goodness sake.  Bonnie Raitt.  Black Keys.  Oh yeah.  That’ll work 

And yes, Grandma, of course - Amazing Grace.

Repent! Or pass the Cracker Jacks!

Whenever I need to cheer down, I have a look at the End Time Headlines for “News from a Prophetic Perspective.”  A family member turned me onto this website.  She wants me to be mindful of all the disasters that are about to befall me.  And the world at large.  And the United States in particular.  So thoughtful. 

I probably sleep too well anyway. 

Let’s have a look…  OMG!  Huge spiders are raining down from the sky!  In Brazil, it’s raining really big spiders. 

Well.  Not exactly raining.  They’re sort of falling. 

Actually, to be completely accurate, when you check it out online, you can see a video of admittedly large spiders constructing giant “sheet webs” to capture insects in an unfortunate town in South America.  They float from tree to post on gusts of wind.  It’s what they do, those crazy sheet-web-building arachnids.   

It is pretty freaky.   

But it’s not a sign of the end of the world, unless you want it to be.  In that case you can denounce any and all scientific explanation and refer to www.endtimeheadlines.wordpress.com for confirmation of your greatest fears. 

Here’s an excellent example of something the End Times wants us to worry about:   Obama Has Put in Place a Secret Database with ‘Everything on Everyone.’ 

Oh man.  That could be bad.  He’s bound to be making a list, checking it a couple of times.   

And I’ve fallen off on my flossing.  That doesn’t make a good impression.  

I wonder what he’ll think of my TV viewing habits?  After the morning news it’s either murder and mayhem or Comedy Central.  What does that tell you?  Wait.  Don’t answer that. 

But I love a Twilight Zone marathon.  That should count for something. 

Here’s one story worthy of consternation that would have slipped right past me if it were not for our vigilant friends at End Times:  Twitter Explodes with Fears of Armed Drone Strikes Targeting [fugitive] Chris Dorner.  Yeah. 

The Prophetic Perspective includes “Signs in the Heavens 2013-2015.”  In this section, we discover “how signs from the heavens are once again happening [and] preparing us for coming Wars, Prophetic Events and the Soon Return of the Lord Jesus Christ.”   

It’s good that they’re tracking this stuff, right?  Otherwise, the thread would be lost.  With no one monitoring and reporting the dark doomy news, we’d all probably trail off into photos of natural beauty and unfettered optimism.  

I think I’ll let the End Times folks carry the lead, though.  I’ll peruse other sites for newsworthy items - things to distract us in the meantime.   

Here’s one:  Puck Daddy reports that the Bakersfield Condors, a minor league hockey team, suffered an unfortunate incident this week when their mascot turned on them.  The California condor named Queen Victoria escaped from her handler and wobbled and flapped her way across the ice to the penalty box where she began pecking the players.  Only mortification and minor injuries were sustained before her highness was corralled and escorted to the locker room.  (The Condors went down in defeat to the Las Vegas Wranglers, 4-1.) 

Oh, and the Pope resigned.  God love him.  In a perverse way, I’m looking forward to what the Prophetic Perspective on this will be.  Maybe the President’s new database had something juicy on the pontiff and he stepped down to avoid exposure.  

After an engine fire, the Carnival cruise ship “Triumph” is drifting in the Gulf of Mexico, powerless; its 4200 passengers experiencing ennui.  Certainly this sort of thing isn’t out of the ordinary.  Next comes a reality series episode on each cruise itinerary. 

Darn it, the End Times has gotten in my head a little bit.  Torrents of spiders, endangered birds behaving badly, the Pope punts, cruise ships running amok.  Who can’t add these seemingly random and unrelated events together without concluding we could have some prophetic events on our hands?!   

Throw in the President’s database and armed drones targeting fugitives on American soil, well, I’m sure you recognize the omens.  It could be bad.  Signs in the Heavens.   

I just want to be prepared, that’s all.  Maybe I’ll dig a hole.  Crawl in.  At the least I’ll worry!   

Or… I could stay out here and watch baseball.