A Xanga friend posted some good thoughts on smoking today and it led me to consider my own beliefs on the subject, which are quite different.

True, it's an incredibly stupid thing to start, for sure, but like a lot of folks my age, I WAS stupid (and young) when I lit up for the first time.  It didn’t take too long before it became a habit -- and I discovered for myself that the addiction of smoking is real as hell.

I’ve managed to quit twice, for two completely different reasons, but both times were followed by life-shattering events that made me feel as if I was going to fly into a million little pieces, and I lit up again because there were things to be done and I didn't know how else I might become calm enough to do them.  Did it  help?  Absolutely!  So now when I ponder on this subject, I usually end up asking myself if I'd rather live to be 85 all crippled up with arthritis or maybe incontinent and in a state of dementia -- or die a lot younger having found a skosh of peace during the years I had. 

We're all gonna die from something.  The human body is not designed to last forever and I've accepted that.  Might as well; can't change it.  I've seen a lot of folks suffer crap a HELLUVA lot worse than death in my lifetime, i.e. stuck in a wheelchair or tied to a bed in a nursing home, wearing blank stares and diapers, eating Pablum or worse, and drooling down their respective chins for years on end.

Unfortunately, thanks to our rather absurd penchant for keeping people alive as long as possible regardless of the QUALITY of life, the words John Mellencamp sings are entirely too real:  "Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone."

(I used to nag my mother, who was an alcoholic, to quit drinking because she was killing herself.  And she did quit, finally.  But you know whut?  She was a mere shell of a person after that.  There was no life left in her.  How I wish now with all my heart that she could have lived those final years doing what SHE wanted to do.)

So I'm pretty much of the opinion that people who smoke know the risks and they are the only ones who can/should decide whether they wanna keep smoking or try to quit and eventually die of something else.  (However, having said that, it’s also my opinion that smokers should not inflict their “exhaust” on others in homes, workplaces, restaurants, et. al.)

My children and grandchildren frequently nag me to quit smoking -- or else cast dire looks of disapproval when I excuse myself to go outside for a smoke.  And you know whut?  I am ecstatic that they do not smoke!   I love them all even more than my life and would do absolutely ANYTHING for them -- except live MY life by THEIR standards.  Under no circumstances do they have the right to ask me to do that. (And under no circumstances will I ever allow them to take care of me when I am old and unwell.)  I have earned the right to make my own choices, and if I am diagnosed with cancer, I shall choose to call Hospice to help me die as gracefully as possible.  No remorse.

On a closely related subject, and as more humorous food for thought, I leave you with an alleged recent quote from Willie Nelson when he was caught a week or so ago with (gasp!) a bag of weed on the bus:

     • Dear CSI Horatio Whut’s-yer-Name in Miami:  I’d MUCH prefer Gil Grissom in Vegas, but since you’re all that’s on late nite TV, please stop uttering every single one of your lines like an affected drama queen and begin speaking like the rest of us.  I liked you a lot on NYPD Blue, but you are totally overacting these days and it’s frightfully nauseating.  Or maybe that’s just the antibiotics I’ve been taking.  Either way, it ain’t workin’ for me.

    • Speaking of antibiotics, HALLELUJAH BRUTHUH!  Today is the twentieth and LAST day of this godforsaken medicinal regimen.  My nose is much better, thank you; perhaps my digestive system shall be human again before Christmas or so.

    • Dear children, grandchildren, and friends:  In the future, do NOT come around me when you have colds.  Because it is a given that I will catch said cold which will promptly morph into something much worse.  Yes, I realize that this is not your fault.  (The fault lies with the fudking HOSPITAL that gave me a fudking STAPH infection a few years back and screwed up my immune system forever.)  But it doesn’t matter whose fault it is at this juncture.  Next person who gives me his/her cold will be required to give me a GUN along with it.  I am deadly serious about this.

    • I love Tom Waits.  Truly, Madly, Deeply.

    • The Native American costume is in progress, but I need to move faster.

    • I have a friend who lost an 18-month-old daughter to complications from Turner’s Syndrome in 1994.  Every year my friend and her family go to the grave site on the little girl’s birthday and let helium-filled balloons loose to travel the universe in honor of this beloved child.  Tomorrow they will do it for the 12th time. 

       So why am I telling you about it?  I dunno.  I just like it a lot that they do this.  Happy Birthday, Hailey.

    • It is fall, glorious fall!  Until next week, anyway, when it will be hot again according to the weather dude who writes for The Curious Journal.  I LOVE the fall.  Unless it comes with antibiotics.  I wanna be outside, straight up and happily doing cool fall things -- not inside all doubled over with a debilitating stomach ache.

    • Dragged myself kicking and screaming to the cellphone store yesterday to purchase a new phone.  I was and am extremely fond of the phone I purchased 6 years ago, but Cingular blackmailed me into getting a new one by charging extra for keeping the old one.  Is that legal?  I dunno, but I’d rather switch than fight.  (No, I don't know why I suddenly recalled an ancient Tareyton commercial.  So don't ask.)

      The good news is that this new phone does not require me to drive 4 miles down the road to use it.   I love technology!  The bad news is that I haven’t figured out exactly HOW to use it.  I hate technology!

      (Schizo-whutia?  Nah.  My voices say it's just a phase born of impatience.)

      Plus, more bad news: It is a camera phone.  Gawd.  I don’t even know how to use my nearly new camera-that’s-just-a-camera yet.  By the time I do, I suppose it will be an old camera and I’ll be required to get a new one that also scrambles me eggs for breakfast every day.....whether I want them or not.

      (Whut?  Read the instructions?  The devil you say!)

     Came here by way of YouTube after watching a video of “Last Man Standing.”  (Thanks, Kaz!)  Observations on that experience follow:

(1) Of all the people I wouldn’t wanna live next door to, Jerry Lee Lewis is definitely in the top ten.

(2) But that’s okay.  He probably wouldn’t wanna live next door to me, either. 

(3) Besides, he more than makes up for his annoying personality every time he gets near a piano.

(4)  I would link you to the video, but I dunno how.  Ask Ed.

(5)  There’s something quite magic about whut the love of entertaining does for people who’ve grown old doing it.  Watching Jerry Lee, who must be in his 70s I guess, brings back a memory of a truly awesome experience I had in Nashville.

True Story:  About a hundred years ago, thanks to Grandpa Jones -- who was one helluva nice guy and the spokesperson for one of my ad biz clients -- I spent an evening backstage at The Grand Ole Opry. 

Roy Acuff, Minnie Pearl, Little Jimmie Dickens, Jeannie Shepherd, and Grandpa himself -- they were ALL so old they could barely get from their dressing rooms to the stage.  But when their respective turns came to perform, they each dropped at least thirty years and left ‘em behind in a heap on the floor behind the curtain.

I do not lie -- all at once there was a spring in their steps and energy oozing from every pore!

And their fans went wild.  

And then, after leaving the stage, just as quickly as each of them had become young, vibrant, and energetic, they were old again, moving slowly down the hall in their paper-thin skins and looking every bit as ancient as Methusela. 

I’m pretty sure I won’t ever see anything quite like that again.  But, as sure as my name is Fifi, I know I saw magic that night in the truest sense of the word.

(6) I hereby dedicate this page to the “Itis” boys -- Arthur, Burse & Tendon -- for staying the hell away from Jerry Lee's talent.

        Did you ever go out to run errands when you had a REALLY lousy cold/sinus infection and hadn’t slept all week?  And then a few hours & several stops later, did you realize that you’d forgotten to eat anything all day? 

    Yeah?  So then.....did you drive thru at a Cajun-To-Go place for food, and then realize you didn’t get enough to share with your dogs -- which meant that you had to eat it in the car before you got home?

    And then, upon stopping at a strip mall parking lot and opening the bag, did you discover to your dismay that the Cajun-To-Go place didn’t provide eating utensils which meant you hadda go find a grocery and buy plastic forks?

    (No, I didn’t consider going back to the Cajun-To-Go place.  Seemed like too much trouble.)

    So after guiltily scarfing down your cajun entree in the grocery store parking lot, did you drive away with the empty food container still in the car and realize halfway home that you hadda stop AGAIN to throw the food container away so the dogs wouldn’t smell it and have hurt feelings because there was nothing left for them?

    And then, when you saw a trash can at a business that’s closed on Sunday and drove around back to divest yourself of the good-smelling garbage, did you have to explain the entire situation in all of its absurdity to the cop who pulled in behind you to ask whut the hell you were doing?

    I thought not. 

    It wasn’t a fun experience at all and I can’t say that I’d recommend it to anyone else.

    Yeah, yeah, I know.  They’re DOGS for crissakes!  But hey!  Did I mention I am a sick, sleep-deprived woman, full of drugs and snot? 

    Yes, I finally made it home.  And the dogs were EVER so happy to see me!

    Fortunately, they did not ask to smell my breath.  

 
    I hab a code on top ub habbing hay fever. 

    Bud enuff aboud me. 

    Check out my most recent art acquisition!

                                                        Self Portrait - Amazing Grace, Age 6

    Ever notice how the most beautiful females always have such long, elegant necks? 

•  Heard from an old friend today.  Haven’t seen him since......uh.......high school, maybe?  We used to race around on country roads in his mother’s Falcon convertible and discuss solving the problems of the world.  So I wrote him back.  And then I got to thinking about how differently lives evolve......

•  .....which led to thinking about the luck of the draw.  Well, I guess that’s whut it is.  Partly, anyway.  Maybe part motivation, too, for some.  But did you ever consider the guy who lives in a rustic cabin in the Canadian Rockies and lacks nothing that he really needs, versus the guy who hauls his ass & his lunch box to a factory job every day and hopes like hell for overtime so he can make the ends come closer to meeting?  

•  (No, my friend doesn’t live in the Rockies or work in a factory.  He lives in some town in Kansas and works as a city planner.  I was just pondering sporadically, and one thing led to another.)

•  Me?  I think I’ve always sorta’ landed wherever I was when the wind stopped blowing.  When the wind picked up again, it blew me someplace else.  There always seemed to be a reason why, but sometimes it took awhile to reveal itself.

•  So anyway,  There’s not much point in questioning these things, but sometimes it’s interesting to consider the seemingly random way that they come to be.

•  For example, no one who knew me would ever have predicted that I would become a country chick, much less love being one.   I’m 100% positive about that.....no one.   But I have.  And I do.

•  Nor would anyone have predicted that I would ever shop at Hancock’s Home Fabrics or develop a relationship with a hateful & contrary sewing machine.  But I do.  And while I can’t say I love it, I have.

•  Amazing Grace, age 6, has requested a “Native American” costume for Halloween.  That’s whut she said, no kidding!  “Fifi?  Could you make a ‘Native American’ costume for me this year?”  Apparently, calling them Indians went the way of the last cowboy song.  Wonder where I was when that happened?  I must’ve been very busy or I’m sure I’d recall the event.

•  Ever since I almost flunked Home Ec, sewing has tended to make me swear a lot, but if you ever met Amazing Grace, you’d realize immediately that she is a beguiling Irish Elf who cannot be resisted.   (I must remember to give thanks to the gods that I don’t have to make another Mermaid costume.  That was last year......the challenge of a lifetime in yards and yards of slippery ruffled aqua fishtail.) 

   She’s concerned though, about her blonde hair.  Could we spray it black, she wondered?  Just for a day or so while she’s being someone else?  I told her about the blonde, blue-eyed Mandan Indians, but I’m pretty sure she thought they were mere figments of my imagination, so I didn’t belabor the issue.

•  Funny -- I used to have black hair.  Now I have mostly gray-with-a-little-brown hair.  And a lot of blonde grandchildren.  Some of them do have blue eyes, but none of ‘em look like they might be related to me.  Which is good, I think.

•  Dear Princess Prissy and HighOnPrine:  Gawd!  A whole YEAR has gone by!  Stop procrastinating!  I will make the Native American costume in exchange for a photo of Amazing Grace being a Mermaid.  I deserve one.  And don’t cut off the fishtail this time!

•  Relative to none of the above, I’m thinking of using the Power Washer on the house today.  I thought so hard about doing it yesterday that I even got the manual out and read the instructions.  But by the time I figured out how to use the damned thing, the mood had passed.  So I opted to be wickedly unproductive instead.  

                                                      ---------------------------------------------------

                                                           
                                                              Irish Elfin Mermaid, sans tail

    I watched the news last night.....oh boy.  It was an exhausting experience.

    Stupidity reigns and there's no end in sight.  (Notice I said "stupidity" and not "ignorance."  There's a difference.)

    Educated fools are in charge of my country.

    But it's almost fall -- the days & nights are beginning to morph into the most glorious time of year!

    And I have the privilege of residing here at Toad Hall, a/k/a Paradise.

    And "THE KID's" #1 son is 2 today.  Happy Birthday, Little A!

    So perhaps this is whut it means to have "balance" in one's life, huh?

    You know whut happiness is? It is finding a song I have been in search of for about 40 years or so -- accidentally, no less, and by way of a friend I rarely see and a TV I never watch.

    So here's the scoop on that: My friend just happened to drop by and then just happened to mention this show, see? It's on Showtime and it's called "Weeds."

    (Yeah, yeah......I know.  "Weeds" is in its second season already and where the helluv I been, anyway? Not watching television, obviously.)

    So anyway, "Weeds" is about a widowed chick who opts to grow and sell pot for a living.  It sounded like mindlessly amusing entertainment to me, and sometimes I have need of that, so I tuned in to watch a rerun. Whoa!  Turns out the best part may be that the theme song for this show is "Little Boxes!"

    Trying to find this song has been like a lifetime quest for the Holy Grail for me! I first heard it on the radio when I was just beginning to morph into my hippie-punk-rebel-commie-pinko stage and I LOVED it!  But I only heard it a couple times and then I never heard it again.  And I had no idea who wrote it or sang it. (Probably because it was highly offensive to the majority adult contingent who prescribed the very life the song made fun of.)

    Over the years I'd describe the song to people -- "You know, that song about ticky tacky and houses that all look the same!" I'd say.  All I ever got for my efforts was an endless sea of blank stares. (That all looked just the same.)

    And whut's even weirder, is that I do not actually subscribe to Showtime, I just get it in the living room.  I dunno why......maybe the cable guy who hooked us up way back when was incompetent.  Or maybe he liked us a lot for some reason and thought he was throwing us a bone.  Whutever.  The point is, it's gotta be FATE!  With a pinch of excellent Karma.  Because I'd never have found the song otherwise, because I'd never have watched the show otherwise.  (Yo Cable Guy! You ROCK!)

    BUT......do ALL things come to she who waits?  I dunno yet.  I'll let you know if my elusive mechanic ever fixes the CAR he's had for 3 years.  Meantime, I shall be listening to "Little Boxes."  As soon as I learn all the words, I shall sing along!

    And maybe watch a few episodes of "Weeds" to keep the mood from getting too intense.  Who knows? Perhaps it will lure my muse home from the nether regions.

• BIG Congrats to “THE KID” and Mrs. “THE KID.”
 
   AND to Aidan The Pensive who has a brand new beautiful baby sister now!
 
    Mackenzie arrived Tuesday afternoon, weighing in at 7 lbs. 5 oz. & 20 inches tall.
    She’s bald -- (did I mention that’s she’s BEAUTIFUL?) -- and she’s absoutely perfect !
    And yes, I have pictures.  But they’re stuck in my camera and can’t get out.
    The O’Toole Grands now total 11.....plus 1 Great.

• Still don’t have much to say, as my muse remains in absentia.  (My brain still works -- after a fashion anyway -- but my thoughts won’t come out of my fingers with any clarity for some reason.)

    But for whut it's worth, here's some of the stuff that's meandering around aimlessly in my head today:
 
    - JonBenet Ramsey, thanks to the crazy media who can’t seem to get their stories straight but just keep talking and can’t shut up.

    - That my heart goes out to JonBenet’s mom, who really got a raw deal and then didn’t live to see them haul this dude in from Thailand.

    - That this dude they hauled in from Thailand may or may not be guilty, and how if he isn’t his life is totally fudked now, again thanks to the crazy media.

    - The weather, because it’s August and I’ve always HATED August because it’s too goddammed HOT in August!

    - Dog Chow, because we’re almost out.

    - That I gotta mow tomorrow.  And probably Sunday, too.  Because it’s too goddammed HOT to do it all in one day.  Because it’s August.

    - That about a bazillion overheated knuckleheads are out at the State Fair right this very second, eating those vile & nasty funnel cakes and sweating their brains out.

    - About how my  “To DO” list is approximately 5 miles long and I’m sitting here blathering on endlessly about nothing in particular.

(1) In the national news:  "ISRAEL TARGETS CHRISTIAN AREAS"

    Oh good.   A headline designed to provoke World War III if I ever saw one.

    Sigh.

(2) In the Toad Hall Times:

      "TOO HOT FOR......BEASTS.
            -Dogs Watch With Great Curiosity From Comfort of Air-Conditioned House While Fifi Sweats & Mows."

     I dunno......there may be something wrong with that picture......