Where Can I get One of Those Snazzy Signs?

I remember taking a macroec course in college.  It was fascinating to me.  If I hadn't been an adult student, firmly entrenched in my major and its required courses, the pressure to earn my degree as quickly as possible bearing down on me like an runaway cement mixer, I might have taken another course or two in economics.  The concepts of  free market and a cyclical economy reassured and encouraged me. 

As I listened, my mind went back to tenth grade American History and our study of Roosevelt's New Deal.  I never had understood the AAA, the Agricultural Adjustment Act, or the WPA, the Works Progress Administration.  Weren't they just robbing from Peter to pay Paul?  If a government agrees to fund projects that no one thought necessary six months before, aren't we really increasing national debt to build a "bridge to nowhere?"  If my children want something I cannot afford to give them, is increasing their allowance so they can save for it, a viable solution?  And does my solution encourage them to think "out of the box" to develop a solution to their own deficit?

Likewise, if I increase my debt to fund their desires, aren't I just postponing the inevitable?  Eventually, someone is going to have to do without something else, or they are going to have to contribute in a way they were never required previously -- maybe my children will have to contribute to other "extras."

As for paying farmers not to grow, when people are starving?  Needless to say, good thing the Constitution put an end to that one, whether it was for ethical or economic reasons.

Anyhow, all this came back to me when I read a "Cash for Clunkers" article by William Jeanes, AOL's Auto Editor. (Link here.) Normally I am not the least impressed by AOL's writing.  In fact, most times I shake my head and, inspired, plunge into writing my great American novel.  However, this article poses the same question I have asked all along -- "Is increasing my personal debt really going to secure my job (not in the auto industry) or keep my family fed in the long run?"  If I don't suspend my contributions to my 401K, whose pockets am I lining?  If I "panic" and postpone scheduled home improvements, because my hours at work and my salary have been cut, why am I "un-American?"  AND, why can Wall Street take my money, lower the interest on my retirement fund, raise the price of fuel, and reduce my salary, but I am regularly cautioned to "do the right thing" and maintain status quo when it comes to spending and investing?

Lastly, what about this American Recovery and Reinvestment Act?  Where is the ARRA getting the money to fund projects that six months ago were funded by state dollars?  Are they tax dollars I have already paid?  How about a stimulus check with my name on it, instead of one of those snazzy signs?  Or are they tax dollars I am going to have to pay via tax increase after the government so kindly "bails us out?"

Either way, here's hoping next week's garage sale is a dismal failure; these days, irresponsible accounting seems to have its perks.

The Murphy's Have Checked Out -- Temporarily

Aah, that's right -- the start of the school year; everyone's on "bus" time.  I got up early to go to the grocery store and, maybe get a little writing done.  When I got home, the house was lit up like Times Square.  This is the first real weekend we've had with the children since the school routine kicked in; I'd forgotten that, in this house, colder weather means longer days!  Up at 7AM, hanging tough at 9PM!  Well, the "yutes" are -- Scott and I are at a "7 count."

The Fall brings some of the busiest days, as well.  Judging by the frazzled faces I saw at the dance studio and the ice skating rink yesterday, we are not alone.  The simple act of scheduling has required Google-like capabilities from time to time; implementing can get downright ugly!

Accordingly, last night we just said "no."  We bit the finacial bullet in these volatile times, and tried a new restaurant -- albeit a noisy, family-friendly one -- but delicious and astonishingly relaxing.  We walked the mall -- something I try not to do unless we have somehow amassed a vast fortune and have absolutely nothing else to do.  Needless to say, we never walk the mall.  But, last night, I had some coupons and a gift card or two, Madison had saved her money for weeks to buy a game for her DS, and we all needed to just spend some time "checking out" together.

Good thing it was worth it -- when we got home, our resident escape artist and indiscriminate wrecking ball, Bishop, had once again busted out of his crate.  Like something from "The Incredible Hulk," the door was hanging off, secured only to the rest of the crate by the chain Scott had used to padlock the door shut; the top of the crate was popped off on one corner like some deranged beast had resisted captivity with supernatural strength.  Bishop, of course, met us at the front door, tongue lolling, tail wagging his entire body, and seizing with joy.

Would you care for a wake-up call? 

Puppy Love

Could it be?  Has she come home?  I've been lying here all day, wishing she would return.  When she's gone, I think of no one else.  I remember our long walks, our days in the sun.  She is truly my soulmate, "the One."  We are inseparable.  Some days, she is gone so long, I think I will die.  Perhaps, when she returns, we will go for a walk, or enjoy a small repast...

But, wait!  I hear keys.  Yes, her keys.  Jingling at the front door!  She is home at last!

"Rocky!"

Her voice!  We are together again!

"Rocky!"

Ooh, here I am!  I've waited all day to see you!

What's that?  Something is different!  A new smell.  The crinkle of a shopping bag...  rustling with something new!  For me?!  The new smell!  The rustling bag!  It's all for me!

I rush to the door.  She waits for me.

"Rocky!  Does Rocky want what Mommy has?"

Oh, yes!  Drop it!  C'mon, drop it, already!  I wanna see.  Look how I wag.  And my ears!  Are they perfect -- one up, one down?  Head rakishly tilted?  Tongue wet and lolling?  On, I think my tail will fall off.  Maybe just a little whimper -- that always gets her.  What does Mommy haaave?!

Is that -- Oh, it is!  A ball!  And it's for me!  A beautiful ball -- the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!  It's round, and new, and round... What a figure!  Oh, my!  Once I get that soft round figure in my clutches... Well, let's just say, I could act like a real dog!

Wait!  Oh, look!  It moves!  And, the way it moves... Pure poetry!  Oh, but there she goes, running away, playing coy, hard to get.  I will chase her, bring her back to me.  I must have it!  I will possess it!

In moments, she has possessed me.  I hold her snuggly between my paws and smell the deep fragrance of her skin.  She is smooth and supple; her skin is warm and wet from my kisses.  She is young and full of spirit.
I take her outside, to show her the world beyond my elegant home.  "I have acres of ground," I tell her.  "Would you like to see?"  She is impressed, I can tell.

In my garden she stays close, moving only a few feet away to survey the grounds.  "Stay away from the hedgerow," I caution.  "It is dark and predatory, waiting to consume one so enticing as you."  I do not tell her there are those that have never returned.

We bask in the rays of the afternoon sun.  She does not desire to leave me.

Suddenly, I spy an intruder.  "I will protect you, my love.  He will not have you!"  I dash off, teeth bared and ready to defend her.  I warn the tresspasser that he is not welcome here -- this yard is mine, and everything in it!  "Leave now, or suffer the consequences!"  He is incensed but defeated; he flips his grey tail brazenly and climbs on to the next gate.

I return to my love.  She does not quiver in fright; she has seen my valor and knows I will protect her.  I draw her near and smother her with kisses.  She teases like a minx, rolling a short way off, coaxing me to chase her.  I join her game, tossing her in the air, and pursuing as she runs.  Our game continues until my body is wracked with hunger.  Inside, I sup graciously, but she will not betray that lovely figure; she sits quietly, admiring my fervor.

I carry her to the lawn to enjoy the cool evening.  We are inseparable.  Though, it is true, there have been others, this love is as no other.  She holds my heart so sweetly, yet so insistently; I hold hers as well.

"Rocky!"

Who dares disrupt our bliss?

"Rocky!  Oh, there you are!  My Little Boy is never gonna guess what Mommy found in the hedgerow!"

A ball?  Is that a ball?  Oh, yes!  Drop it!  C'mon, drop it already!

Now It's Personal

I keep under lock and key, a file marked "Judi - Personal."  I maintain one for Scott, and our children as well. The object was to archive personal items that had no place in our "regular" filing system; artifacts that were not substantial enough in number to require an individual file, but important enough to safeguard.
Upon going through my file the other day, I found a memoir...

A Philadelphia Zoo Elephant Key: The Philadelphia Zoo had "talking boxes" at many of the exhibits which would squawk with information about the animal whose domain lay before you. The boxes required the use of "a key" to begin the lesson, keys that were, of course, sold at the Gift Shop for a small fee. But annual zoo membership was a prerequisite for raising children in the city. We would spend entire spring and fall afternoons racing from one box to the other -- not even lingering to hear the end of the monologue -- pointing, gawking and shouting, our cheeks red with excitement and exhaustion. This is the memoir of a mother, holding on to a small piece of her children's childhood.

A Silver Certificate:  I don't know why. This is the memoir of a child whose mother saved jar after jar of wheat pennies and Mercury dimes.

"Weary:" A piece written several years ago by a woman who, in all honesty, I did not like very much. I don't even recall now, but I know we had some sort of "run in" at some point -- totally turned me off.  It's beautiful prose, and it speaks to me even now; I cannot throw it away. The writer and I attended church together; she later died of a lengthy illness. I know she loved the Lord and we will meet in Heaven one day -- without egos, without prejudices; I look forward to liking her. This is the memoir of a sinful human, loved by a God who grants her beauty, even in the most unlikely places.

My Aunt's Obituary: She and I were never close; I didn't even attend her funeral. She is the only link I have right now, to that part of who I am. This is the memoir of a daughter with a unique heritage, most of it lost, and a mother wishes to pass it on to her children, but knows that hurt and pride sometimes stand in the way.

A Picture of My Son with Santa: Not your typical picture with Santa; he's about 16 years old, in his firefighting gear, posing cheerfully with my ex-husband. A memoir of joy and sorrow.

A Note from My Husband: Peace, love, reassurance, and glee. The memoir of a wife given far more than she deserves.

A Picture of Me: Drawn by one of our resident artists when she was about five. I have antennae (sort of "roach-like") that were intended, I believe, to be hair. I have a square body -- not that far off -- a huge mouth, and a perky little nose. Perky is not one of those words I would use to describe me in any way. Maddy gave it to me about two months after we met; she was drawing pictures of me every other day back then, but this was one of her first. This is the memoir of a step-mother, privileged to be in the lives and hearts of three wonderful children, praying for them daily, longing for the weekends when I see them, and loving them for all they're worth.