Virginia Laws By Loons

Nary a day goes by without me seeing a post somewhere on the internet, a text on my phone, or a phone call from someone asking what the heck is going on in Virginia. I'm assuming they're reading about the same head-scratching laws coming out of Richmond that I am. I briefly touched on some of the news in my last blog post, Virginia is for Tyrants. Since it’s been a couple of weeks, and we’ve reached the crossover deadline, I thought it would be good to once again check in on the state of Virginia’s mind…one word…loony!

For those who don’t know, like I didn’t, Crossover Day is the final day each chamber in Virginia can take action on their own final bills. As you know by now, both House and Senate are ruled by the Democrats. Although the refrain is elections have consequences, I still blame the Republican GOP for that scenario as you can’t vote on a candidate if there isn’t a candidate to vote on. And what we're seeing is the destruction of the state when one power rules it and tries to throw enough crap against the wall, only this time a lot of it is sticking. No use crying over rancid milk, so let’s get back to Crossover Day. Once that happens, sans budget bills, the House and Senate can only vote on bills that the other chamber has already passed. So let’s look at some of them…

There was a big hullabaloo when it came to light after Delegate Chris Hurst was stopped and released after blowing past the alcohol limit one should not have while driving, (skating past a DUI that would cost the average Virginian thousands of dollars,) that while in session the General Assembly are granted immunity from being arrested. That little known constitutional amendment is said to hail from the early days when delegates had to travel far and wide to get to the capitol and sometimes some unsavory characters would arrest and charge a delegate simply to keep them from arriving to the floor to vote.Those days are long gone, however Mr. Hurst did claim that the reason he was wobbly when he was stopped was because he had developed sciatica from having to drive back and forth from Blacksburg to Richmond. Hmmmm. I have sciatica too but my doctor never told me I got it from driving. Makes one wonder if we can expect a disability claim if/when Mr. Hurst leaves the House of Delegates. Anyhow, after the public’s outcry that delegates should not get any “special treatment,” on January 30, SJ87 regarding changing the immunity was introduced. On February 7 it was Passed by indefinitely by Rules of Voice vote. Passed by indefinitely does not mean it was passed. It means it was passed by like a stale doughnut at a cheap motel's free breakfast counter. Since nothing happened by Crossover Day, SJ87 bill is essentially dead. Did you have any doubt? That bill, along with any bill that would call for term limits will never happen. No way are they going to vote themselves out of a jail cell or a job. So the only way is for the citizens of Virginia to vote them out. Again I will say the only way we can vote someone out is to have someone run against them. Hey VAGOP that means get off your freaking ass and find decent candidates! Or VADNC get some moderate folks to run that aren't so far left they tip over! 

Virginia’s passing of gun control laws have by far gotten the most press and pushback. Doesn’t matter how much protesting occurs, Virginia has already passed 7 gun control laws which many believe is due to Michael Bloomberg’s opening his wallet to the tune of $2.5 million. He himself claims it at a rally he held in Richmond on February 15th as he tries to buy his way into the Oval Office. At that rally he was heckled as a fascist. Oh, if you think Virginia is going in a downward spiral, you ain’t seen nothing yet if Mr. Nanny State, destroyer of the Big Gulp, becomes president. But I digress. Back to the guns. I will admit I’m not the best person to speak about all the gun laws as, other than the potential of pissing someone off so much they red flag me, it's not my thing. Frankly, I just want to be able to protect my family and don’t want the government telling me I can’t. I also do not want them making me register guns as that's the first step needed for the government to confiscate them. It's basically handing them a list of where to go first. I’m sure there are many other blogs and sites out there that you can learn more about the specific laws better suited than what I can tell you about, such as the VCDL. As you can see from their page, between the over 22,000 protesters and all the 2nd Amendment sanctuary cities formed, many Virginians are “up in arms” about what’s going on in Richmond. I imagine the same outrage at the destruction of the 2nd Amendment will follow nationwide if Bloomberg winds up in the White House. Mini Mike has said proudly he is coming for your guns.

Onto to driver’s licenses. If you have been to DMV to get your Real ID driver’s license which will be needed if you plan to fly anywhere, or visit some federal sites, you know how difficult it is to obtain…original raised seal birth certificates, social security cards, marriage licenses, divorce papers, name change papers, w2’s, income tax returns, utility bills, blah blah blah needed to prove who you are even though you have your picture driver’s license already. Well, if you’re undocumented illegal alien in Virginia you should sail right through getting a driver’s license since SB34 and HB1211 have passed. The problem with this passing is not so much that someone will have a license to drive, hopefully they will have to undergo driving school and pass a permit test like the rest of us who have had to. Hmmm, will they? I don’t know. From what I've seen they also do not have to show as much verification as the legal citizens have to. The other problem is that it's a privilege given to someone who is illegal, not just an immigrant, but an illegal one. Oh, and let's not forget the perception is that this form of id can lead to voter fraud. Illegals are not supposed to vote in our elections, but do they? If they do, I’d wager it would be for democrats.

Speaking of wagering. Virginia has decided to join the 21st century by passing regulations allowing casino gambling via SB36 and HB4. Richmond, Norfolk, Danville, Bristol and Portsmouth would have to pass a voter referendum to see if their residents approve. If done correctly as a destination which offers more than casinos, these cities could have a major economic boom and attract gamblers away from North Carolina, Tennessee, Maryland, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. If done incorrectly, it could wind up like the side streets of Atlantic City have…run down and crime ridden. The small Rosie's Gaming Emporium in Vinton brought in more than $350,000 in its tax revenue in its first five months. I always thought Explore Park in Roanoke County would have made a great destination for a casino complex, but they opted for the pod cabins, Yurt rentals, and RV site rentals instead. Since everything I like in Roanoke usually fails, as no one else likes what I like, and the crap they love goes on forever, it’s probably for the best they kept the park a park.

Confederate monuments mean little to this Yankee transplant so I really couldn’t care less what they do with them. However, I don’t think one can erase history and pretend it didn’t exist by rewriting it with the removal of said monuments which was passed via SB183 and HB1537, allowing localities to remove them if they choose to do so. I hear the words heritage and racism when people refer to them. Both sides are quite passionate. I can also see both sides, so if a locality does decide to remove a confederate statue one would hope it would wind up in a museum where it’s not destroyed. It is a form of art after all.

Oh art. Let’s talk about art therapy in Virginia. I had to google to make sure this wasn’t an Onion article after seeing it on Facebook. Virginia is about to require a government license because get this…glue and scissors are potentially dangerous! Yes, you read that right. Not only a license, but there is talk that one must get a Master’s degree! Are you freaking kidding me?! Apparently they’re not kidding…read all about it here! So what’s this really about? I think it’s about filling the coffers of universities and local treasurers. I mean c’mon. Do you really think glue and scissors pose a threat and a Master’s degree is needed to wield those deadly objects? What happens to volunteers who use them when they go to places like Goodwill, their children’s classes, adult centers, etc? Will volunteers no longer be allowed to cut pictures out of magazines? Will workers at Goodwill have to get a Master’s degree? Do you know how much they pay at Goodwill…barely over minimum wage. People don’t work there to get rich, well, not unless you’re the CEO or at the top of their food chain. Most of their employees do it because they want to help others and enrich their lives. By the way, Virginia pays slightly over minimum wage to someone who offers “companion services” to a disabled person who stays in their home rather than them living in a nursing home. The person who cares for them is not even allowed to get overtime pay like many other states offer. Why doesn’t the General Assembly focus on real issues like paying a decent wage for someone who is caring for disabled person, not an easy job, and for such little money, that many don’t show back up at after even one day.

Which brings us to minimum wage. It’s my understanding that Virginia has passed a $15/hour minimum wage bill to be implemented in various stages over a couple of years. I need to do some more research on it before writing about it, so will keep that subject, along with a couple of other recently tabled or passed, normal or looney, bills for the next "What the Heck is Happening in Virginia" installment. 

Dear Southern Girls,

All I can do is utter, "What a damn shame" as I watch the treatment, or lack thereof, my husband's 85 year old friend is experiencing from his family, specifically from his grown daughters, so I thought a brief letter to them was in order...

Dear southern girls, I guess your dad's no longer needed as your children are old enough now not to be babysat by him like he used to do at the drop of a dime whenever you needed him.

Dear southern girls, let me tell you he misses those grandchildren. You might know that if you bothered to call him. Oh wait, you can't call him because he has no phone. You would know that if you had tried to call him. You would know he could't afford his landline any longer at his home or his "business" so he got rid of it over six months ago.

Dear southern girls, don't you think an 85 year old man should have a phone? We did. So a couple of months ago my husband went with him to Walmart and had him get a cheap cellphone which we discovered this week he no longer has, because he couldn't afford it any more. If you would have tried to call him you would have known there was something "wrong" as the call kept going to voicemail. It took my husband one day to figure that out. Although he says he doesn't "need" one we know he does.

Dear southern girls, you know where he lives, way out in the boondocks, you know the house, the one you had him sign over to you two when he was on his deathbed a mere two years ago. The farmhouse where he has no cable television, no phone, not even Sirius radio any more that one of  you were so kind to give him for a present a couple of years ago, but never continued to pay the yearly fee. You do realize if he cannot afford to pay for a phone, satellite radio is a luxury he would never pay for. So if sits dead on the counter amongst a cluttered mess you girls never helped clean.

Dear southern girls, if you ever bothered to open his refrigerator you would see there is barely any food in it, probably some apples, beans, and containers of soup and other leftovers from my kitchen that I make sure my husband gives him. I try and pack two lunches for "the boys" whenever I'm able to.

Dear southern girls, we invited him over Easter Sunday, but he didn't come. He said he didn't want to "impose." It would not have been an imposition at all. Instead, he stayed at his "business" building, down in the bottom, you know the one, the one he signed over to you two when he was on his deathbed, the one that has no phone, and no running water because he couldn't afford to keep it going. Well, he sat out in the back watching the beehives, waiting, hoping one of you girls would have come by to say hi, see what he was up to, maybe even invite him over to brunch or dinner so he could play with his grandchildren. Did I mention how much he misses his grandchildren? But no one called him, how could you? He has no phone. No one stopped by to see if he was all right. When I saw him the next day he said he didn't go anywhere, didn't hear from you. When I asked when was the last time he had, he couldn't remember. Months?

Dear southern girls, we invited him last Thanksgiving to come over. You didn't. He wouldn't. He didn't want to impose. We invited him to come over Christmas Eve. You didn't. He wouldn't. He didn't want to impose. For his birthday my husband took him to lunch. You didn't. Not a card, not even a call. Would that have been too much?

Dear southern girls, you make me sick. One of you is a nurse, the other a teacher. With the professions you chose one would think you should both know the meaning of compassion, especially towards your father. Let me tell you, for an 85 year old man, he's still got spunk, even with his colostomy bag. But there are days he doesn't look good. There are days his skin is too sallow and it worries me. He's losing too much weight. Even though every day my husband makes sure he's eating, there are some days your father should be going to the doctor, and my husband will insist he go even when he doesn't want to. It doesn't always work. Maybe if you girls took him, he'd go.

Dear southern girls, your father is not an imposition. He is a blessing. Do you know what I would give to hear my father's voice on the phone? Do you know what I would give to have my father sitting next to me at a dinner table? Do you know what I would give to have my father sitting next to me on the couch? Do you know what I would give to have my father be around his grandchildren, especially now that they've grown up? Do you know what I would give to not have lost my father at 74? I guess you don't and it's a damn shame.

Dear southern girls, I tell my husband he better make sure to get all of his wood out of your dad's "business" building because frankly, even though I've been told you know it's my husbands, I worry once your dad is gone, so will all that wood and anything else you could get your greedy mitts on to sell, because if you don't give a damn about your father while he's alive you certainly aren't going to give a damn about anyone else after he's dead.

Dear southern girls, I can't help but think that had your dad not signed over everything to you two already, he might have gotten a visit, an invitation, a call, something, anything from his "family." Maybe he doesn't have money like your mom does, but he's still your father. He's a great man.

Dear southern girls, every night when your father leaves our shop he hugs my husband and says, "Goodnight son." He is my husband's best friend and my husband is his best, and sometimes it seems, only, friend. My husband didn't know his birth dad, and didn't have a great relationship with his stepdad, and he treasures every minute with your dad. When the time comes, and your dad passes, my husband will be broken hearted and those tears coming from his eyes will be real. Will yours?

Dear southern girls, is this how daughters treat their elderly fathers in the south, discard them like a moth-worn flannel rag? Shameful. Oh year, bless your fucking hearts...

Podcast #2 - Give 'em Rope

Podcast #2 is all about a four letter word...no, not that one!

My Life Matters

Last night I witnessed my husband looking down a barrel of a gun while I had a couple pointed at me, in my carport, and not by criminals, but by Roanoke County cops.

It was just your average sweltering Saturday night spent in the cool air conditioning of our home, drinking wine while watching movies. Around 11:30 we turned on Saturday Night Live and after about fifteen minutes of not laughing, we decided to go to bed. As we were getting ready, Bella, our dog, started to freak out...whimpering, running to and fro before jumping into the front window. Once she did that she started barking ferociously, more so after the doorbell rang and a loud pounding ensued.

My husband and I looked at each, "Something's up!" No one we know uses the front door, and no one we know would be out at 11:45pm banging on it. Bella is barking danger, danger, danger! There's been home invasions in the county, one just last week, the perps are still out there. There's no way I'm answering that front door, to be bum-rushed as potential criminals might push their way in. My husband is already heading to the side door, stopping to grab his piece as Bella practically pushes him out of the way so she could "get 'em!"

Adrenaline kicks in and I know I have to be back-up. I've undergone training and know how to use my .38, only shattering water-filled bottles or just missing the bullseye on paper targets. By the time I get to it my husband is already out the door, with me yelling, "wait for me, wait for me, be careful, be careful!" I enter the sunroom, blinded by a light coming from somewhere, as I open door to Bella's yard to let her out. I hear shouting, but it's not coming my husband. I'm not out the door but being yelled at to "Step outside, step outside!" Still, not knowing what is happening I yell back, "Shut that light!"

I'm praying I don't hear a gunshot...I don't want to have shoot anyone, even a criminal who shoots my husband. Whoever it is, they are not lowering the light so I look away from it and see my husband to my left staring down the barrel of a gun while a cop shouts to him to put his hands on his head. WTF? The light gets lowered as I'm being yelled at to step out of the house, and for the first time I see cops, many, many cops all over my yard, guns pointed at me and my husband. I quickly put my piece on the shelf inside and step out to the shouting, "Put your hands on top of your head, hands on the head!" while three of them advance on me, their guns drawn and pointed.

"Do you have a weapon?" "Not on me." Wearing a dress, without a bra, I get frisked and patted down as does my husband, even his privates. He's wearing shorts and a wife-beater t-shit and remarks later, "We were dressed for an episode of cops."

"What the hell is going on?" I ask. "Keep your hands up, hands up!" is the response. Our hands are up and Bella's not liking this one bit, she's barking crazy and banging on the fence, "Let me at 'em, let me at 'em!!!" And I'm thinking, Oh damn, they better not shoot my dog. I'm looking at all the cops in the side yard, front yard, driveway, I count five cop cars. My husband tells me later there were more than that. I still don't know why they're here.

Finally a female cop states, "We got a report you assaulted someone." "What?! We've been home all night. You got the wrong people." They don't want to hear that, "Keep your hands up!!!!" Then it dawns on me. "What address are your looking for?" She says our four house numbers. "Yeah, but what street? This is xxDrive. Are you looking for xxMountain Road? That's two blocks down!" I try to point the way but I'm told to keep my hands up. She looks at her pad then all the cops start looking at each other. Then, only then, do they ask our names. Yeah, wrong names, wrong house.

Like what happens when a light switch is turned on in a hoarder's home, the roaches scatter. They all jump in the cars and head down the road. Not one apology. Not one we're sorry. I yell at them as they leave, "We're the fucking good guys!" I don't even know why I said that. Maybe I said it because I police the park across the street that they're supposed to. I've thrown druggies and pedophiles out of it. Just a couple of days ago we had a run-in with someone there, so it was no stretch of the imagination that maybe, just maybe they were the ones coming to our front door in retribution. When the banging on the door occurred not once was "Open up, it's the police!" uttered. They NEVER identified themselves as cops, not until I was looking at guns pointed to our heads did I realize they were law enforcement.

This could have been a disaster. Had we not complied immediately who the hell knows what the outcome might be. They all seemed quite hopped up, and why in the world would there be so many cars for a report of an assault??? It got me wondering why they were here, and why they thought our house was the place especially since our mailbox clearly states the correct address. It's one thing when the post office continually screws up delivering the right mail to the right address, but this is a whole other ball of wax.

I couldn't see all of the cops faces because I was mainly focused on the ones who had their guns pointed at me and the one who felt me up, but I wonder if this had something to do with another occurrence of a false report that happened two years ago, bringing three cops at my door at midnight then again. Waking me out of a deep sleep to question me and check my and my husband's hands for bruises one of the male cops at that time said, and I quote, "I hear you're a hot-headed crazy Italian, but we do things differently down here." I didn't even know what the fuck that meant. Flabbergasted that they would believe a report from someone who was just released from a mental institution after trying to kill themselves with drugs, I did go down the next day to file a complaint. Since no charges were brought, and no report was even made, nothing happened. But what if one of the cops last night was that same cop and heard the address, not listening to the full address, and immediately thought, that's the hot-headed Italian, follow me, I know exactly who they are and thus arrived at my house??? How screwed up is that???

When my kids were young I always told them cops are your friends. As the years passed and I saw and experienced more and more ineptitude from them, I changed my narrative. Now, it was more, "Be careful of cops. Not all of them are your friends. Some have a power complex. If you're ever stopped, do exactly what they say. Answer yes, sir, yes ma'am. Tell them you're reaching for your license, registration, whatever. There are dirty cops, ones that steal from dead men's homes. There are lazy cops, ones who can't be bothered to investigate crimes. There are judgmental cops, ones who see a teenaged girl with hair dyed a different color than the norm and immediately assume she's walking around a supermarket to shoplift. There are prejudiced cops, ones who think if you're Italian or a New Yorker in a southern state you must be a criminal.

Then there's cops like the ones in New York City who recently thought a bomb was tossed in their vehicle and rather than have it blow up everyone in a crowded area drove post haste to minimize the mayhem as much as possible. It didn't matter that it wasn't a bomb, but that they thought it was. Too bad there seems to be less and less of those types of cops lately...

So, after all this what would I have done differently? Probably the only thing would be the next time I would also reach for my phone and hit record...

My watchdog

*****UPDATE*****

PLEASE READ THE INCIDENT FOLLOW-UP BY CLICKING HERE

*****UPDATE*****

On October 11, 2016 I received a letter dated October 6, 2016 from Roanoke County Police Department Assistant Chief of Police

"Your complaint was assigned to a supervisory officer for investigation. That investigation has been completed and the facts of this matter were reviewed by the Command Staff. Following that review, the Department determined the allegations in this matter were not sustained."

Needless to say I sent an email requesting what this means, in particular if Roanoke County Police thinks I made up the story. I am awaiting a reply...

*****UPDATE*****

October 24, 2016 follow-up post to the follow-up entitled "Who Polices the Police?"

"No Skills For You!"

For the past couple of years my daughter has travelled to Hampton Roads with BCAT to take place in the Skills USA Competition. The first time she entered was as a individual when she was a sophomore. She walked away as the state champion for prepared speech.



Last year she was part of a television production team, and although they didn't come in first, they did place. The competition was good for her. She was able to experience being away from home for a couple of days, learning to manage her money and time, meeting and interacting with new people from across the country, as well as sharpen her skills in a timed event.

She was looking forward to her final year competition, until she found out, she wouldn't be going. BCAT is the school she goes to every other day for the classes in the field she wants to work in, Mass Communications. HVHS is her "home" school. Once again her "home" school couldn't give a crap about the students at BCAT as they scheduled the senior prom, senior day, senior cap & gown, senior yada yada yada on the days students who wanted to participate in Skills USA would have to be out of town. You can be damn sure if the students were going to some sort of sporting tournament that would bring "glory" to the school, instead of some "intellectual" tournament that the school could care less about, they would have coordinated the dates.

Although my daughter is "dating" someone, she could care less about the senior prom, and as far as I know, has no intention of going. "Why should I spend all that money watching people I really don't hang out with Jersey Turnpike? Ewwww!" My wallet wasn't the only thing that sighed in relief. However, her teammate feels different, "But it's our senior prom!" Totally understandable, so my daughter sought out a different partner.

As she was searching for someone, anyone, she received the schedule of other senior events. Now, even the most jaded teen wants to get their cap and gown and participate in at least some senior happenings that take place during a school day. So...it looks like the girl won't be heading to Hampton Roads. In my best Soup Nazi voice -- "No Skills For You!" Oh well, if she plays her cards right, she'll be able to travel many places after she graduates and gets a job in the field she wants, and this is just a precursor to "real life" where there's certainly no shortages of disappointments.

One Task Every Day

I have a theory that in order to be successful at anything you're passionate about, you must perform at least one activity per day in order to achieve your goal. It doesn't matter how small the task is as long as you do "something" to advance your cause. Even if it's just posting an update on Facebook, tweaking an author page, or shooting off a quick e-mail, it still counts.

For today's task I will insist the local printer I've been attempting to give my money to, see me in person. Rather than pay half the price I could by using an on-line company like Vistaprint to design my eBook business cards, I thought it would be more in-line with my desire to support local businesses by giving them the work. I thought I had made it very easy as I was very clear with the look I desired, submitted quality artwork, and even laid out the exact way I wanted the copy to look. After going back and forth a couple of times via e-mail, I have not been happy with the results.



The one great thing about being an "independent" anything is that you have total control. And this includes my marketing material. If I want something one way, I expect it be to done that way. I don't want excuses, or your "creative" touch smudging my ideas. If you're unable to perform the service I am seeking, just be honest and tell me so I can go on my merry way. Stop wasting my time. So....I will give the printer one more chance today, but that, as they say, is that.

RA - One Year Later

It's been a year since I was first diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I guess the worst part of it came last week when I saw my rheumatologist and asked him, "So when do I get off the Methotrexate?" and he answered, "Never." What...the...hell?

After I picked my jaw up off the floor I reminded him that during my initial visit a year ago he claimed we could put the RA into remission by dosing me heavy with the horrible MTX. Was that just a ploy so I wouldn't feel "devasted" by my diagnosis and sink into deep depression? He countered some people do go into remission, but it's very rare. In order to qualify that someone is in remission, my RA level and inflammation level would have to be "normal" and I would have to be pain free for over a year. I am nowhere near that.

I finally stopped taking prednisone three weeks ago and the consequences of that action have enabled me to sleep better, but also have raised my inflammation and pain levels. It's a damned if you do, damned if you don't. And damned, I don't want to be on it anymore, so I am dealing with the pain as best as I can.

To look at me you wouldn't know I have this disease unless you could read something in my eyes, or notice I cannot open a jar without help. You wouldn't see my struggle to get out of bed some mornings, but my husband does. I try not to complain but he knows when I'm having a flare up. He's been very good with it, although it gets really annoying when he still asks me, "What can I do to help you?" There is nothing you can do to help me. It really irks me when he follows up with, "I could never imagine that you would get something like this." You don't have to "imagine" it, it's happened. "There's got to be something you can take."

There are no magic pain pills. I can't even take Tylenol because the MTX is hard on the liver and so is acetaminophen. And so far I've been "lucky" that my liver has been able to handle the MTX. I go for blood work every other month to make sure. It seems my pattern of taking the chemo pills on Monday and then waiting until Thursday evening to drink is working. I've pushed the envelope a little and allow myself to imbibe throughout the weekend, clearing out my body for 24 hours before the Monday MTX dosage. But I can't drink as much as before, and not only because of the potential liver damage. My blood counts are so low that my body reacts as if every drink is equal to two drinks. I know exactly how many glasses of wine I could tolerate. So far, so good.

Another side effect of taking a chemo medication is loss of hair. Lately I've noticed I've been losing more strands than usual. It could be a seasonal thing so I'm not going to panic, yet. If it happens I will buy a wig in every color and have fun with it. In the beginning, I used to keep a pain chart based on the weather, humidity, and barometric pressure, trying to determine if I could see a pattern. Once I realized even if I did find a common link I still wouldn't be able to do anything about it, I figured I was just wasting my time. And if there's one thing RA has taught me is that time is precious and not meant to be wasted.

When I say I don't have a year to spare I mean it. I live on the edge of wondering if today is the day I wake up and I'm rendered severely disabled. Yet, in my glorious belief in miracles, I know I can be cured. I believe in healing. Don't know when, don't know how, but do know life is meant to live now. Waiting for that "special" occasion to wear that "special" dress will only gather dust. Everyday is special.

Nope, I don't have a year to spare. And that's another reason I've decided not to go the traditional publishing route for my book. Too long to print. Deadlines? Yeah, I want to set my own. And that trip out West I've always dreamed about? That's happening next year. I don't want to drive a Hover-round along the Grand Canyon's rim. I'm hiking it. I'm taking a month to drive tothe West and visit all the locations I've always felt drawn to. No more waiting for the, "We'll go out West after -- insert parental obligation here -- is finished."

So, on this RA anniversary -- physically, I feel much better than I did one year ago when I thought I had bone cancer. RA sucks, but it's nothing I can't handle. There's much worse diseases out there. Mentally? Better than I felt a year ago. It's liberating when you give into your heart.

Bless Your Heart

After living in Virginia for 16 years I think I may have finally uncovered what women really mean when they say, "Bless your heart..."

It's Southern speak for...

"You poor thing..."

-- or --

"You haven't got a clue..."

-- or --

"You are so pathetic..."

-- or --

"You are a freaking moron..."

-- or --

Fill in the blanks.

In any event, I find being told "Bless your heart" or someone saying "Bless her heart" when speaking about someone else very insincere and condescending. Say what you really mean, dammit! Since I will never be a Southern Belle I guess I'll never know the true meaning...