I'm Just Sayin'

When I grow up, I want to be a Peanut M&M
you quip
a little too smugly like you discovered a secret.

You already are
I reply
a whole bag of them.

Feeling sick like I had eaten too many sweets
or drank too much gin
or stayed too long in the sun
or maybe all three.

You like that answer
I can tell
but I hadn't meant to flatter or amuse.

Ironic from the one who always makes you smile.

But what color M&M am I
you persist
and I want to pour them all down your throat
and suffocate you with the bag.

I told you
You are the whole damn bag
or else it wasn't about you at all.

I’ve had several conversations recently about happiness. I know several people who are wrestling with the word and the concept. I struggle too, but I think I have come to terms with what it means to be happy. As a writer, I feel compelled to share my insights with you. (And, yes, I am fully aware of how happy that makes you, the reader. Not happy? Step off. No hard feelings. Open, but cautious? Read on, my people! Blindly accepting? Seriously, why are you even here?)

But here is where I found my answers: in the reality of everyday life, in the pure and simple gestures of people that I call my friends, in the common bonds of blood and tears and human endeavor. I realized there are people who actually want to be happy and others who don’t. There are those who cultivate  happiness, and others who seek to kill it at its roots. I think I’ve learned to identify those on either end of the happiness spectrum, and to chart those, like me, who land somewhere in the middle.

A friend (in life and on Facebook) posted that she is going to take up running to honor her late mother by participating in Disney's Tinkerbell Half Marathon. Since I myself took up running a few short months ago, and like my friend, I carry around more than my share of womanly wonderfulness, I thought she might benefit from my recent experience.

So, here are my tips for big girls on the go. Some are serious and some are less serious. I hope you can tell the difference.

1. Understand that you are going to sweat. A lot. And smell bad. And your mascara is going to run, even if you buy the most expensive waterproof stuff.

2. If you insist on trying to look cute when you run, go ahead and get some special outfits, in colors that don't clash with red, because your face is going to turn beet red with exertion. Don't forget matching hair scrunchies.

3. Get some Pat Benatar music on your iTunes. She's very empowering. I recommend "Invincible."

4. Buy the best shoes you can afford, but realize that you are going to have to replace them frequently. They are going to take a beating.

5. Invest in some reusable ice packs. I need them for bad knees. You will probably need them for those dainty little ankles of yours. And some Alleve. And muscle soak crystals for the bath.

6. Start out on a soft, level surface, like a track. It's much easier on the joints, which are already working harder than they want to. Eventually you can transition to street running if you are not paranoid about motorists wisecracking about your ass ...

7. Wear some big shades. So even if motorists are making fun of your ass, they won't know it's you.

8. Start with walking, then add short bursts of running. I think it actually is pretty effective for calorie burning and metabolism boosting. Gradually increase your running bursts and your total distance.

9. You might be tempted to run with a buddy. I don't recommend it. You will want to chat and gossip with your pal, and you just can't do that and run. Not yet anyway. Trust me. Ask my friend Stacy about the Children's Miracle Network 5K... We caught up with our lives, but not with the runners ahead of us ...

10. Stretch, stretch, stretch...and hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. By the way, wine is not particularly effective for hydration. Voice of experience.

11. On your off days, try some leg-strengthening exercises like leg presses, squats and lunges. It will help keep your muscles loose and support your joints.

That's enough to get you started, my friend. See ya on the roads, but don't you dare talk smack about my ass ...

Washington D.C. is probably not Emerald City, but this campaign of 2012 is feeling a lot like the Yellow Brick Road.

I recently signed on as a volunteer for the Elisabeth Motsinger for Congress campaign, and joined a small but steadfast band of down-to-earth dreamers who are determined that North Carolina will be represented by a woman who shares our values: equal access to affordable healthcare; opportunities for quality public education; a growing economy in a thriving natural environment; protecting human rights and ending discrimination in all its forms.

I will not cast myself as Dorothy, and I dare not assign roles to my colleagues on the campaign trail. But I will say this: unlike L. Frank Baum’s beloved characters in The Wizard of Oz, we already know that we have everything we need. We need not search for Scarecrow’s brain, because our candidate has the intelligence she needs to make the right decisions for North Carolina. Tin Man’s heart? Got it. Elisabeth Motsinger has shown remarkable compassion through her work as a physician’s assistant, her service on the School Board, and her activism on social and environmental issues. Courage? Forget about it, Cowardly Lion. When the local paper endorsed her opponent in the primary, Elisabeth replied, “I would like to thank the Winston-Salem Journal for noticing that I am an activist for liberal causes. My actions are firmly grounded in my moral vision and I make no apologies for standing fast.” The campaign staff was spitting nails, but our candidate showed us back bone and calm, reasoned courage of conviction.

And Dorothy’s fervent desire to find her way home? Elisabeth has the vision to restore the American dream. “I believe in real prosperity for real people,” she says. “America should be the land of opportunity for everyone. Our society can make sure that the generations that follow us inherit an America where dreams can still be achieved.”

In the Wizard of Oz, the Good Witch Glinda told Dorothy that she only had to believe to find her way home. Elizabeth Motsinger believes in America, and I believe in Elisabeth. And we all know who is the Wicked Witch of the West.

Just sayin.

The Komen Foundation is engaged in the doo-doo dance. You know, when you step in a pile of dog poop and then you scuff around trying to get the crap off your shoes. It ain’t pretty. It’s almost impossible to do it gracefully. And if you do manage to clean your shoes, you’re still left with a pile of shit in your yard.

That’s what I thought when I studied today’s statement, in which Komen supposedly reversed its decision to de-fund Planned Parenthood, and apologized for casting doubt on its commitment.

When I first read the statement, I felt triumphant. The angry and indignant outcry from hundreds of thousands of former Komen supporters had been heard! But then I read it again, and got a whiff of something stinky. After reading it several times, and mulling it over for a few hours, I’ve come to the conclusion that Komen still has poop on its shoes, and it might never get its yard cleaned up.

Today’s statement was very carefully worded to make me feel like I’d won. And, feeling warm and fuzzy with victory, I’d be more likely to forgive and forget. And in the spirit of forgiveness, perhaps I would reconsider my vow to de-fund Komen. After all, they changed their minds, so shouldn’t I change mine? Shouldn’t we all just get back to the business at hand – protecting women’s health?

In reality, the statement didn’t offer much. It said Komen would “continue to fund existing grants, including those of Planned Parenthood …” But they never said they would take money away from Planned Parenthood, just that they would not approve future grants. Stinky.

In today’s statement, Komen also pledged to “preserve their eligibility to apply for future grants.” Well, of course anyone can apply for a grant, but that doesn’t mean Komen would actually consider the application. Smelly.

And while Komen has repeatedly denied that its decision to de-fund Planned Parenthood was political, today’s statement clearly pointed the political finger at those who cried foul. “We urge everyone who has participated in this conversation across the country over the last few days to help us move past this issue. We do not want our mission marred or affected by politics - anyone's politics.” We weren’t playing politics with women’s health, but if you don’t return to the fold, your politics is getting in the way of our mission. Reeking.

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Maybe I am too bitter to see this objectively. Could be. But I won’t apologize for that. It’s too personal. The betrayal is still too fresh. And Komen has a long way to go to restore my faith and regain my trust. And in the meantime, I have found alternatives in my personal fight against breast cancer.

I have discovered Forsyth Medical Center Foundation. Donations to this organization can be earmarked for breast cancer screening and treatment at Forsyth Medical Center facilities for uninsured women in nine North Carolina counties. Through its Women’s Council, the foundation addresses a variety of women’s health issues, and it sponsors a mobile mammogram unit to provide on-the-spot screenings in remote and underserved areas. Donors can even request their gift be used specifically by WomanWise, the breast and cervical cancer prevention program administered by Forsyth County Department of Public Health, which has provided me with free mammograms for the past three years that I have been uninsured.

Each and every penny donated to the foundation goes directly to patient care, and there are volunteer opportunities for those with more time than money. For more information go to http://www.forsythmedicalcenter.org/ and click “ways to give.”

I’ve also been reacquainted with the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. Since 1936, BCRF has provided critical funding for research at leading medical centers worldwide, including Harvard, Yale, Duke, Johns Hopkins, the Mayo Clinic, Washington University in St. Louis, Stanford, UCLA, Oxford, and the University of London. More than 90 cents of every dollar donated goes directly to breast cancer research and awareness programs. For more information, see http://www.bcrfcure.org/index.html.

There is also the National Breast Cancer Foundation, created by a breast cancer survivor to promote early detection through screening, and to provide free mammograms to women in need. NBCF is highly rated as a charitable organization and has an impressive list of corporate and celebrity partners. See http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/default.aspx.

Information about these organizations is provided as a resource, and is not an endorsement. Haven’t we all learned to do our homework? I am sure there are many worthy organizations that are dedicated to breast cancer awareness and prevention and are working to find a cure. I hope to pass along information as I find it, and I encourage my allies in this fight to share their information with me as well.

The Breast Cancer Research Foundation estimates that in the U.S. a woman dies of breast cancer roughly every 13 minutes. That means that more than 300 women have died in America while the Komen Foundation played politics with their lives.

That stinks. I’m just sayin.

I’ve had an emotional day. Scratch that. Ten days.

On January 23 I heard the words I’ve dreaded for so long …”your recent mammogram showed an irregularity…” My heart fell into my stomach, and then my stomach hit the floor. I have a sister who died of breast cancer. I have another sister who survived it. My mother died of brain cancer. One of my brothers just finished treatment for prostate cancer. Yeah, I feel vulnerable.

I’ve pretty much gone about my business for the past week and a half. I told only a few people. I continued to work my three jobs. I gathered up my talismans (a rosary crucifix that my high school friend and pseudo-cousin Michael gave me the night before I left for college and he left for Army basic training, a jade dragon given to me by a grateful immigrant parent for helping her daughter get settled into college half a continent away from home, and the guardian angel prayer card that I placed at my sister’s bedside when she was dying). And I came home from work and fell apart every night. I don’t mention all of this so you will feel sorry for me. I want you to know how deeply personal this is.

So today was the day I went for additional mammography screening. And it was also the day we learned that Komen for the Cure was cutting off funding for Planned Parenthood. Actually I heard about it last night on Facebook. I’m grateful for the distraction. Feelings of hurt, disappointment, sadness and betrayal were a welcome change from worry. Yeah, that’s the kind of week it’s been.

Not to draw this out any longer: I am fine. Today’s more detailed tests showed nothing irregular. Imagine my relief. Imagine my exhaustion. Imagine my gratitude and anger. It’s been a roller coaster kind of day.

A bit of self-disclosure. When my state job was eliminated in 2008, I lost my health insurance. My last several mammograms have been paid for by a local program called Woman Wise, which receives some of its funding from the Komen foundation. That’s not easy to admit, but it is easier to live with because I have been an ardent supporter of Komen. I’ve participated in its Race for the Cure events for several years, in three states. I coordinated a benefit event for Komen, and raised enough to fund several mammograms for uninsured women like me. I bought yogurt with pink lids and went online to register my purchases so Komen would get credit. I bought all kinds of “pink” products to support Komen, both financially and emotionally.

No more.

If you have spent the day under a rock, perhaps you are not aware that Komen for the Cure has chosen to de-fund Planned Parenthood, because Planned Parenthood spends a miniscule amount of its resources on abortion. Yeah, the organization founded on a promise to end death by cancer has turned its back on an organization that provides life-saving cancer screenings, to prove that it is “pro-life.”

I feel betrayed. I feel angry. I feel sad. And I am a writer. When I feel, I write.

I wrote an email to the executive director of the local Komen affiliate. Another bit of self-disclosure: I once applied for a job there, as an event planner. That’s how much I supported Komen. I wanted to give them my time, in addition to my money and my sweat. So I’ve met this woman, and I respect and admire her. Today in my email I told her I could no longer support her organization, and I vowed to contact her corporate sponsors to withdraw my support from them. To her credit, she responded very promptly. She’s in crisis-control mode, like hundreds of her counterparts across the country, a dance thrust upon them by a national executive who apparently has chosen politics over women’s health. I know nothing of the local executive’s political leanings, but I have no doubt of her commitment to the cause. I would not be in her shoes for any amount of money.

She wanted me to know that currently in our area, Planned Parenthood is not funded by Komen, because Planned Parenthood did not apply for a Komen grant. And she sent me an impressive list of 16 regional organizations and projects that are funded by Komen. She informed me that 75 percent of funds raised locally remain in the area to provide live-saving services for local women like me.

I admire all of that. I do. But I cannot accept that one red cent of my hard-earned money, or one drop of my sweat, goes to support the national organization that caved to political pressure from “pro-lifers” who demonstrate no respect for MY life, or the lives of hundreds of thousands of uninsured women.

So I’m on a mission. My mission is to inform anyone who will listen that Komen is not the only game in town when it comes to breast cancer awareness and prevention. There are other organizations that fund mammograms for uninsured and low-income women. There are other efforts that promote breast health awareness. Subsequent posts will list them. I will also identify Komen corporate sponsors in case you want to join me in voicing your disapproval.

If you choose to continue supporting Komen, I respect that. I am sure the foundation will continue to benefit some women. But as long as Komen continues its hateful and destructive policy regarding Planned Parenthood, I will continue to speak out against them in any way I can.

Like the founder of Komen, I made a promise to my dying sister.

I’m creating a home gym in my basement. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration. My “gym” consists of a TV, DVD player, three workout DVDs, some hand weights, a figure-8 band, rug, yoga mat, and a stack of golf towels. I am accepting donations of equipment, if anyone is ready to get rid of their clothes rack, I mean, treadmill or exercise bike.

For those of you who might be considering setting up your own basement exercise room, I thought I would share my experience. You might want to hold your applause until you’ve read this entire post, I mean, in case you do read this entire post.

If you are considering setting up an exercise room in your basement, and you have cats, your first step must be to ask their permission. Chances are, they consider the basement their private domain, and they have been very generous in allowing you access to do laundry, store your stuff, and scoop the crap out of their litter boxes. My cats responded thusly:

• Chloe said it was fine, as she never goes to basement except to use the you-know-what. She is my girly girl, a real southern lady, and would never discuss bathroom habits.
• Fannie said yes, provided I do not interrupt her own basement workout routine, which includes a warm-up nap on the table by the window, scratching the old upholstered chair, a nap on the back of the old upholstered chair, a quick trip upstairs for a sip of water and to see if there is anything new and interesting in the food bowl, a visit to the crapper (Fannie tells it like it is) and finally back to the table by the window for a cool-down nap. I promised not to interfere with any of that.
• Sophie said ok as long as I realized she might occasionally leave me a hair ball offering on the rug. She thinks I actually LIKE her gifts, and she is quite generous. Apparently, “Dammit, Sophie, not again!” translates to “Darling Sophie! Thank you so much!” in catspeak.

Step two in establishing a basement gym will probably include moving some junk . In my case, it was necessary to break down and discard the cardboard boxes from my new lighting fixtures, load the old lighting fixtures into the car for a trip to the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, and relocate the unused cat scratching toys that I already relocated from the living room.

The third step is optional, but highly recommended: give the floor a quick sweep. Unless of course, you want to inhale cat hair and dust as you work out.

Next, resurrect the dinosaur television that you carted down there after buying a sleek flat-screen last year. Procure a DVD player. For me, this required a trip to my least favorite place in all of creation. You got it, Walmart. Ok, I could have gone to Kmart, but I had to get my prescriptions filled anyway, and unfortunately you really can’t beat the Walmart pharmacy prices. While at Walmart, if you are very fortunate, you might be treated to a complimentary pearl of wisdom, courtesy of a friendly Walmart employee. The nuclear physicist I encountered yesterday educated me on oranges. “You can tell them are navel oranges cuz they got ‘em a navel right thar.” Honestly, I didn’t even have to pay for that insight!

And here is my own pearl of wisdom regarding DVD players. The $100 unit comes with batteries for the remote control, and has a life expectancy of about a year. The $30 unit does not come with batteries, and the life expectancy is about a year. Those are some expensive batteries, huh? Hey, no charge for that nugget of technical knowledge. Aren’t you glad you kept reading?

In establishing a basement gym, you must consider your heating and air conditioning needs. My basement has neither, so I got out the emergency space heater that I bought last year when my heat pump died and couldn’t be replaced for three days. And I think I can manage to be drying a load of clothes in the adjacent laundry room, which should help. I also have a room air conditioner (Okay, Thelma has a room air conditioner which I borrowed a few years ago, when my heat pump first started showing its age. It’s still in my basement, and she hasn’t asked for it back, soooo ….) But wait, by the time I need an air conditioner, I will be trim and svelt and running the streets for my work out! Optimism burns calories, you know.

You should also consider your flooring situation. Since my partially-finished basement has a totally unfinished concrete floor, I bought a cheap area rug (WalMart again) and added the yoga mat I bought for fitness boot camp a while back. That meant digging it out of the closet under the stairs, where I store all the stuff I don’t want to subject to cats’ claws, random acts of litter box rejection, and hair ball offerings.

Okay! Now for the equipment. I have a rainbow of hand weights: red three-pounders, blue five-pounders, and purple eight-pounders. Perhaps soon I will invest in some ten-pounders. Green, I think. I also have a figure-eight band and corresponding yoga/pilates DVD. This is the DVD with the hot mama (according to my brother) on a platform at the beach, the sight and sound of crashing waves in the background, along with a tinkling of wind chimes. Very zen. Very good stretching sequence and core workout.

I have two additional DVDs in my collection. One came with the 17 Day Diet Book, and is what prompted this whole adventure. It has four 17-minute aerobic work outs -- one for general conditioning, and others which target abs, buns and arms. I got through the general workout and the abs workout just fine. Then I tried the aerobic workout for buns, and that resulted in a painful blow to one of my coffee table cubes (it was painful to both my shin and the cube) and a necessary straightening of every piece of framed art in the living room. I knew something had to give and decided to move my workout to the indestructible basement.

My final DVD is what I call the Pimps and Hos workout. I found it last year in the clearance bin at TJ Maxx and decided it was worth $3. I don’t know when I have gotten so much entertainment for three bucks! This workout is led by a man who would seem to be more at home on a used-car lot, or in a Cadillac cruising the seedier side of town. His back up dancers are a rainbow of sleazy, spangly-dressed, pockmarked “ladies” who all look like they just climbed out of the backseat of said Cadillac, and who all seem to be staring continuously at his gluteus maximus! I must have laughed off a few hundred calories with this jewel!

Throw in a bottle of water and some towels (I figure this is a good off-season use for the golf towels) and you have a basement work out room. Now all you have to do is drag your sorry ass down the steps. I’m just sayin …

If I don’t find happiness and prosperity in 2011, it will be Julia Child’s fault. Because of Julia, I did not make my Lucky New Year’s Soup this year. I live in the South, where we place great stock in eating black-eyed peas, collard greens and pork on New Year’s Day. A few years ago I developed a recipe for soup that contained all the required ingredients, could be made during halftime of a bowl game, and was lighter than the traditional grease and calorie-laden holiday meal.

But I didn’t make it this year, because of Julia. You see, I picked up a copy of My Life in France by Julia Child and Alex Prud’homme. (Okay, I snagged the book off my brother’s coffee table when I was at his house for Christmas. I think he might have borrowed it from someone else, but I’m not sure I will have the fortitude to return it.) I started thumbing through the book last week, reading a passage here and there, checking out the photographs. And the book inspired me to cook a chicken.

I’ve cooked lots of chicken over the years, mostly breasts charred on the grill, baked with rice, or sautéed and served with pasta. But I had never cooked a whole chicken. I can hear Julia now:

“Tsk, tsk, young lady.” (Yes, I believe Julia would call me young lady. It’s one of the reasons I love her so.)

“There’s nothing like a nice, fat, roasted chicken. You absolutely must cook one immediately.”

Can’t you just hear her wonderfully shrill, nasally chortle? Love, love, love.

So I did it. I roasted my first whole chicken, stuffed with lemon, rosemary, garlic and onions, skin massaged with olive oil, crushed garlic, salt and pepper. It was beautiful. It was fragrant. It was delicious. It was a lot of meat for one person!

So I threw the carcass into a pot of water and made my own stock, which I then turned into roast chicken and wild rice soup. At this point, I swear Julia was looking over my shoulder, humming, sipping sherry and prompting me to add a pinch of this or a drop of that. Oh, the comfort of cooking soup on a cold day! Oh, the anticipation of dipping some good crusty bread, slurping up the savory, salty broth!

It was a happy, day long project. And at the end of the day, I had a big pot (a really big pot) of tasty soup. And it was December 30. Two days before time to cook Lucky New Year’s Soup! I know what you’re thinking. I could have frozen the chicken soup and gone ahead with the New Year’s tradition. But seriously, I never seem to get around to actually eating any of the stuff I freeze, and my freezer space is a little cramped with martini glasses, beer mugs and Edy’s Gourmet Limited Edition Peppermint Ice Cream.

So I have postponed the New Year’s Soup until later this week. Surely, for the love of butter, grits, and Texas Pete hot sauce, the gods of southern superstition will forgive a few days’ lapse. If not, Julia’s got my back. I just know it. Just sayin ...

Lucky New Year’s Soup

3 cups cooked black-eyed peas or yellow-eye beans, drained of cooking liquid
8 slices bacon
2 cups chopped onion
1 large clove garlic, chopped
1 can diced tomatoes with liquid
3 cups chicken or vegetable broth
1 cup water, or more as needed

1 tablespoon brown sugar
1 tablespoon cider vinegar
¼ teaspoon allspice
Pinch of dried thyme
Splash of hot sauce, or to taste
3 cups frozen chopped collard greens
Salt and pepper to taste
Small can (single serving size) Spicy Hot V8

Cook bacon in large soup pot. Drain on paper towels and crumble. Reserve 1 tablespoon drippings in pot. Add onions and garlic to soup pot and sauté over medium-low heat until onions are soft, scraping bottom of pan to loosen brown bits. Add next nine ingredients (through collard greens) and increase heat to medium-high heat. Bring to a boil. Add salt, pepper, V8 and beans. Reduce heat to low and simmer until beans are heated through. Add water if necessary to achieve good ratio of broth.

Serve topped with crumbled bacon if desired, accompanied by corn bread.

If beans and bacon are cooked ahead of time, you can assemble the soup during half time and it will be ready to eat by the start of the third quarter.

The Rally to Restore Sanity was just like Woodstock. Except most of us remember the rally. And we didn’t get muddy. And it was three hours, not three days. But other than that …

I even said it, on the bus headed to Washington, DC. “Do you think this will be like Woodstock?” And one of my travelling companions said “Oh exactly.” I think she might have rolled her eyes, but I’m not sure. It was five-effin-o’clock in the morning, and it was dark on the bus. I couldn’t see her facial expression, but I did catch the tone of sarcasm. I kind of admire anyone who can muster up sarcasm at that hour. I can barely form a complete sentence, or a question in this case.

Some of my friends and relations are marveling at the fact I got on a bus at 4 am, fully and appropriately clothed, hair and makeup passably arranged. A neighbor quipped that when he stepped outside to walk his dog at 8 am on a Saturday and noticed my car gone, he was sure someone had stolen it. I don’t do early. But there I was, on a bus rolling along Interstate 85, on my way to Jon Stewart’s big event.

When the political comedian first announced his rally on the Daily Show, I thought, “that sounds like fun.” But I didn’t really consider going. Then a friend invited me to jump on a bus with a bunch of people I didn’t know, and I thought, “Hell yeah! Why not?!”

It must have been like that in 1969, when Moondoggie called Daddy-O and said “Hey, let’s hitch a ride up to New York and camp out in a cow pasture to see this rad concert.” And Daddy-O replied “Right on, brother.” And away they went in a VW bus, wearing beads, strumming guitars and passing joints.

My trip to DC was much like that. We piled into a charter bus, wearing bifocals, stroking our I-phones, and passing around a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. Like the sojourners of 69, we were on our way to the event that defined the state of our culture. Like those who went to Woodstock, the tens of thousands of us who attended the rally were discontent, standing up to the establishment, saying to the man, “I’m mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore.”

Of course, we are not going to dance naked in the rain anymore, either. While we chuckled over the protest signs we encountered, our activism is more likely to involve a letter to the editor, a small campaign contribution, or a FaceBook petition. We’re mad, all right. But we’re reasonable, and responsible, and we have mortgages and student loans, artificial hips and knees, advanced degrees and technology out the wazoo. We can connect with each other, argue and scream and express ourselves 24 hours a day in multi-media formats.

But for three hours in the autumn of 2010, we came from across the continent to squeeze onto a field and listen to some music and share a laugh. Our cell phones froze in gridlock, and we stood still long enough to listen and focus. Young and old, black, white and every color in between, Christian, Muslim, Jew and Atheist, we were connected by a shared understanding: we are more alike than we are different. Just like at Woodstock.

But we used porta-johns. I’m just sayin.

I never know how to refer to the mother of my ex-husband. She died before I divorced her son. Sometimes I say “late ex-mother-in-law” and sometimes, when I’m with close friends and family, I say “the dumb-ass’s mother.” Regardless, she was a wise and witty woman. I loved her dearly and have forgiven her for raising that pathetic excuse for a man. Rarely does a day go by when I fail to think of her and remember some of her pithy sayings. Some of my favorites:

No woman is well dressed unless she’s wearing a little cat hair.

I’ve been so busy I’m behind on my drinking.

and

Every dish in the kitchen is dirty, so it must be time for dinner.

The last saying came to mind this evening as I was tinkering around in the kitchen, coming up with a tasty use for leftover pork roast. Did I say tinkering around? That tinkering resulted in a clogged sink (the one with the disposal, of course), a dishwasher full of dirty dishes, and a sink full of pots and pans that I can’t wash until Liquid Plumr does its thing. (Please God, make the Liquid Plumr do its thing. I can’t afford a solid, flesh-and-blood plumber.)

It all started with some leftover pork roast, and it resulted in a really delicious “Elevated Shepherd’s Pie.” This is not a quick and easy recipe, and although the finished product has the appearance of one-dish meal, it is anything but. It is, however, really tasty, if I do say so myself. And yes, I do. Say so. Myself.

As I relished my creation, I swear I heard my ex-husand’s late mother say something like,

Nothing made in one dish is worth eating

or

Quick and easy? You are what you eat, so strive for complex and worth-every-minute.

Mmmmmm …. yummy. She would have loved it. I'm just sayin ...

Elevated Shepherd’s Pie

3 to 4 cups leftover pork roast, shredded or chopped
2 medium sweet potatoes, cooked
1 large russet potato, cooked
4 tablespoons butter, melted
2 cloves garlic, or to taste
Milk, as needed
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
1-1/2 cups diced turnips, cooked
1-1/2 cups diced carrots, cooked
½ cup frozen peas
1 can mushroom soup
1 tablespoon worscestershire sauce
Buttered bread crumbs, optional

Place pork in bottom of deep casserole and set aside.

Melt butter in a large skillet. Add garlic and sauté for a couple of minutes. Remove from heat.

Place cooked sweet potatoes and russet potato in a medium bowl. Add 2 tablespoons of the melted butter/garlic mixture, and use electric mixture to blend, adding a little milk as needed to achieve a smooth, creamy consistency.

Return skillet to heat, and add onion. Saute 3 or 4 minutes until onion is translucent. Stir in soup and worcestershire sauce, and then add turnips, carrots, and peas. Stir to combine. Add to casserole. Spread mashed potatoes over top, and sprinkle with bread crumbs, if desired. Bake uncovered at 350 for about 30 minutes, until bubbly and heated through. Let sit 5 minutes, and serve.

Makes about 8 servings.

I’m calling for a national time out. I think every adult in America should stop whatever they are doing for a designated period of time and focus on one really important thing. Like a high school assembly, but without bleachers. I realize we would have to do this in shifts, so we don’t disrupt really important things, like schools, law enforcement efforts, wars and WalMart operations. And here is what we need to focus on: religion.

Yep, I know. Me, the anti-church person, talking about religion. I’m as surprised as you are. But it is important, right now, in America, because we can’t seem to separate it from our political process. It’s an election year. Our nation is in crisis – no, make that crises – and we need to get it right. So I think we need some schoolin’ on what religion is, and has been, and should be, in America.

We should start at the beginning, with the pilgrims coming to America to flee religious persecution in Europe. They sought a new home where they would be free to practice their faith. What faith was that? It doesn’t really matter. The point is, they came from lands where the government was trying to tell them what to believe, how to worship, whom to praise. And they came here to establish a new nation, where government would not do that. Lesson number one.

Next, we should visit the Constitution for a brief review, covering some important points, including:
• Religious freedom is actually part of the First Amendment to the Bill of Rights. It was not included in the original Constitution.
• The “religion clause” of the First Amendment states simply, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
• The Phrase “separation of church and state” is not actually included in the First Amendment, but is attributed to Thomas Jefferson (not an author of the Bill of Rights) in 1802. Nevertheless, it widely accepted as an interpretation of the intent of those who wrote the Bill of Rights.
Lesson number two.

We could conclude with a debate about individual practice of religion versus government-endorsed expression of religion. Maybe an atheist will explain how it feels to stand in a classroom and pledge allegiance to the flag of “one nation under God” or to carry around money that bears “In God We Trust.” Maybe a Jew or Muslim will describe serving on a jury in a courtroom where the Christian Ten Commandments are posted. Maybe a Baptist can justify using a military funeral to protest homosexuality, or a Protestant can help us all understand where the “Christian flag” came from, and why it’s appropriate to fly it over a government memorial to veterans of all faiths. And maybe someone can clarify how it restricts my individual religious freedom if you remove the flag, take down the plaque bearing the Ten Commandments, or delete any reference to God on my money or in my pledge of allegiance. Lesson number three.

Supposedly, those who wrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights enjoyed a rigorous debate about religion and its role in government. Hopefully the tone of their debate was more moderate, more polite, and more respectful than our current debate appears to be. Maybe they understood that patriotism is not the same as religion, and vice versa. I’m just sayin ...

Part 1: Kitten learns that dog treats may disrupt digestive system, access to bedroom restricted as a result

A kitten who consumed an entire bag of chicken-flavored dog chews has experienced nausea and is now restricted from entering a lower level bedroom and bath, according to an inside source. The adventurous cat reportedly climbed a set of built-in shelves to access the bag of treats, causing a basketful of pet supplies to tumble to the floor. The cat then allegedly consumed the treats, and vomited on a bed.

A source who chose to remain anonymous said a second cat in the household could have joined in the caper, but it was unlikely since “the two are not known to collaborate.” The source said a “devoted pet sitter” noticed the vomit and removed a bed sheet which had been placed on the bed to protect the more valuable quilt.

“Apparently, the laundry lady washed the sheet and put it away somewhere, so there was nothing to cover the bed with,” the source said. As a result, the litter box, toys, food and water bowls were relocated from an adjacent bathroom, and the bedroom and bath were sealed. The bag of cat food in was secured in an upper right-hand cabinet in the lower level kitchen.

“Clearly, if the cat ate the dog treats, you can’t allow him access to a bag of cat food,” the source quoted the sitter.

The kitten has recovered from his gastronomical distress, but is accusing the pet sitter and the laundry lady of conspiring to deny his rights to access the bedroom and bath.

Part 2: Precocious kitten, distressed over being confined indoors, takes to gambling.

An active kitten who reportedly enjoys his outdoor adventures apparently became anxious at being confined to the house during his owner’s absence, and took up gambling, according to the pet sitter. The sitter reports that on two separate visits to the home, she found a single die on the floor. After the first visit, the sitter says she placed the die on a kitchen counter on the lower level, but by the next visit, it was back on the floor.

“It’s obviously an addiction at this point,” she said. “I don’t know where the die came from, but it’s possible that on one of his previous prowls, he came in contact with some neighborhood cats, and they introduced him to some bad habits. Thank God he has not begun abusing catnip.”

The sitter reports that so far, the cat has rolled a three and a four. “He’s not ready for Vegas yet,” she said.

Part 3: Cat counting days until owner’s return

An adventurous kitten confined to portions of his house is reportedly counting the days until his owners return from a trip, and is using the kitchen calendar to do so. A longtime pet sitter reported today that a calendar which normally hangs on the wall above the litter box was found inside the litter box. The sitter admitted that the calendar could have fallen on its own, but said that recent history led her to believe the cat was involved.

Recent reports indicate the cat has been involved in a neighborhood cat gambling ring, and has been accused of stealing dog treats. “He’s really a very sweet cat,” said the sitter. “But he’s anxious because he can’t go outside.”

According to the sitter, the cat’s owners routinely allow him to roam freely outdoors, but decided to confine him indoors due to curfew violations and a fear that he might be kidnapped. “He’s very attractive and outgoing, and has been known to attract all sorts of attention,” she said.

No damage was reported to the calendar, which was securely reattached to the bulletin board.

Summer is over. It’s still hot as hell outside, so I missed some of the clues that a new season is upon us. The pool closed two weeks ago. Our local minor league baseball team has completed its regular season and is in the playoffs. I’ve been to a college football game, and watched more than one on TV. School has started. My mums are budding and my geraniums are limping to the finish line. We’re up to K on the hurricane list. You’d think I would have caught on before now. But no, none of that tipped me off.

What brought it home to me was a trip to the farmer’s market. I go to the small one downtown, which is open on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and is tucked in an alley near the arts district. The merchants there are truly local farmers and gardeners. Nothing is trucked in from out of state. These are regular people growing stuff, some organically, in their back yards, like my mom and dad did. Like I would do if I had a back yard.

I’ve been a regular there all summer, and I’ve got my routine down. First I take a lap down the row, window shopping so to speak. Then I go back and make my purchases. The first stall is always the lady with gorgeous cut flowers: lilies, hydrangeas, zinnias, gladiolas, sunflowers. I think they place her near the street for marketing. Even if you don’t know about the farmer’s market, and you fail to notice the sidewalk sign, you’d have to be blind to miss the riot of colors. About halfway down is a table full of the most delicious baked goods you’ve ever seen, all made by the two little old black ladies whose smiles are even sweeter than their five-flavor pound cake, blueberry muffins, and lemon chess tarts. I try to resist their goodies most of the time, but they are free with their sunny greetings anyway. I get happy just thinking about those two. And at the far end are the melon men. They don’t bother with a table. They just sell their watermelons and cantaloupes from the back of their pick up. I always ask for their very best cantaloupe, and one of them will take his time to find just the right one. They might be shining me on, but I swear when I cut into that melon, it is just perfect every time.

In between the flower lady, the smiley sisters and the melon men, there are about six or eight other vendors, most loaded with tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, eggplant, peppers, peaches, squash, and corn. There’s a lady who sells crocheted pot holders and embroidered dish towels, another with homemade soaps and more varieties of jelly and jam than Smuckers ever dreamed of. One man sets up a cooler full of ice cold bottled water and canned soft drinks. It’s a wonder I ever get away from there with any cash in hand.

I didn’t make it to the farmer’s market last week, which is why it hit me today. Summer has passed, and it left the week I stayed away. There was a noticeable change this week. Tables weren’t quite as crowded. I had my heart set on an eggplant, but had to go all the way to the melon men to find one. They had four, and gave me two of them for the price of one. No peaches this week. No berries, black or blue. Corn was piled on the tabletops, not in bushel baskets below. I know there are still weeks of harvest here in North Carolina. We haven’t seen the end of the zucchini and summer squash. The melons will last until the pumpkins come in. But as I stood there admiring the heirloom tomatoes, it hit me. I haven’t even made my fresh tomato pasta yet! Not once! And soon it would be too late! How could I let summer end without the pasta dish I dream about in February and March, when the seed catalogs arrive, teasing with glossy photographs of gorgeous red ripe tomatoes.

Needless to say, I loaded up. Drove home in a daze, thinking about the gooey mozzarella, tangy tomatoes, and pungent basil. The eggplant can wait! Tonight I’m celebrating summer one last time, with my favorite pasta. And, since I can’t share the food with everyone, I’ll have to settle for sharing the recipe. Better hurry, summer’s gone and the tomatoes are going fast! I'm just sayin ...

Fresh Tomato Pasta

6 cups fresh chopped tomatoes
2 cloves garlic, or to taste
6-8 large leaves fresh basil
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1 pound bow tie pasta
½ pound fresh mozzarella cheese, cut in ½ inch cubes
Shredded parmesan, optional.

Cook pasta according to package directions. Meanwhile, place 4 cups of tomatoes, garlic, 4 to 6 leaves basil, and olive oil in a blender or food processor and process until smooth. Add salt and pepper to taste. Snip remaining basil into small strips. Drain pasta. Return to pot and add mozzarella. Toss to distribute cheese. Add tomato sauce and toss. Serve immediately, topped with remaining chopped tomatoes, basil, and parmesan. 6 servings.

Variation: Use feta cheese instead of mozzarella, and add a can of sliced ripe olives, drained.

Dear Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf:

We’ve never met, and probably never will. Everything I know about you, I have read in media reports. I’m not a Muslim. I’m not anything, really, when it comes to religion. I’ve referred to myself as a “recovering Catholic” at times. But actually, my spiritual beliefs are best described as very personal, non-denominational, humanist and naturist. I believe you should treat others as you want to be treated, that you should serve those less fortunate, that God is more accessible in a forest than in a chapel, and that when we die, we go to a sort of spiritual compost pile, from which all life is created. I know it’s weird, so if you stop reading now, I understand.

I don’t go to church, and I don’t sing hymns and I don’t read the Bible or any other “sacred text.” But I am an American, and therefore, I stand up for those who do all those things. I don’t care if you’re Baptist, Methodist, Jewish, Muslim, Universalist or whatever. I admit that Pentecostals give me the willies, but I still support their right to worship in whatever way they see fit (as long as they put the snakes back in the cages when they are finished, and make sure the door is closed and locked.)

Anyway Imam Rauf, that’s a long lead in to what I want to say. I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that your building project has gotten so much negative attention. I think a community center is a splendid idea, and I hope you get to proceed, wherever you choose to do it.

I’m sorry that your faith is so sadly mischaracterized because of the actions of some extremists. I’m sorry that you are stereotyped as a terrorist.

But most of all, I am sorry that you are apparently going to be bullied into meeting with the Right Reverend Terry Jones from Florida’s Dove World Outreach Center. According to news reports, the good pastor is on a plane to New York even as I write this. He’s agreed to postpone his Quran bonfire in exchange for a sit-down with you. The same news reports say that you have not agreed to the meeting. I don’t blame you for not wanting to sit in the same room with a man who has publicly denounced your faith and has urged his followers – all 50 of his congregation – to join him in burning your sacred texts.

By the way, I find it ironic that Pastor Jones presides over the DOVE WORLD OUTREACH CENTER. Dove: a symbol of peace. World: a big collection of diverse cultures and religions. Outreach: an effort to help the community. Center: well, it is located in the middle of Florida.

Of course you are under no obligation to meet with the Right Reverend. But I hope you will, if only to defuse his inflammatory and un-godlike crusade against Islam. The politicos warn that Jones’ bonfire could spark violence against our troops in Afghanistan, and other Americans in Islamic lands. Unfortunately, you might be the only one who can do anything to prevent that. So, please, take one for the team.

I’m sorry that Pastor Jones’ crusade has garnered so much attention around the world. I hope that the world community won’t judge all Americans by the actions of this mutton-chop mustachioed, gun-toting, Mel Gibson-loving man of “God.” (It’s true: when Iman Muhammad Musri from Orlando arrived at the Dove World Outreach Center to try and talk some sense into Jones, he found the Right Reverend, his wife, son and assistant pastor locked in the “outreach center” sporting handguns. They met across the reverend’s desk, under a poster of Mel Gibson in Braveheart.)

Finally, I’m sorry that in his zealous desire to inflame and incite, Jones apparently does not realize that he has become what he claims to despise. He’s threatened a highly offensive action against a segment of our society. He’s recruited others to aid in the attack. And in effect, Imam Rauf, he is holding you hostage to his self-serving demands.

The Right Reverend Terry Jones is a terrorist. I’m just sayin.

If you know me very well, you are probably not surprised to learn that I subscribe to a website called All Recipes. Yes, I love to cook and it shows. I like cooking partly because I enjoy good food, but mostly because I like to share good food with other people who like good food.

So every day, I get a recipe-of-the-day email. If I follow the link, I can view the entire recipe, along with ratings, comments and revisions from other subscribers. I can save the recipes in my own online recipe file for future reference.

I can also use the website to search for recipes, which I do often, but usually only after consulting one or more of my many cookbooks. Nothing like a cookbook! No online search engine will ever replace for me the simple pleasure of browsing through a glossy book full of recipes, pictures, and hopefully a few stories or anecdotes. My favorite cookbooks are dog-eared, food-stained and broken-spined with notes scribbled in the margins. When I open one, I could swear they whisper “Welcome back. Where you been? Let’s make something good!” It’s a love thing – a chubby girl and her cookbook. You skinny bitches probably have a similar relationship with your treadmills or elliptical trainers. Go for it. Come over to my place when you’re finished working out. I’ll help you put your thighs back on.

Anyway, back to the website. I get these daily emails, and I usually think, “Huh, another recipe for chicken enchilada casserole.” Or “why would I want to make meatloaf in a crockpot?” But every once in a while, probably when breakfast has been oatmeal and lunch a salad, a recipe really grabs my attention. So it was with Martini Chicken.

If you know me well enough to understand my love for cooking, then you probably also know I enjoy a good martini: dry, dirty, shaken, with three olives, please. And gin, preferably Tanqueray. So the email alert, for “Easy Olive Martini Chicken” stopped me in my tracks. You mean I can have a martini for dinner? I mean, AS the entrée, and not IN PLACE of the entrée? I had to check it out. Sure enough, a main dish that contained gin, dry vermouth, and olives! And garlic! And yes, chicken.

I would have cooked some on the spot, if I’d had chicken in the house, and if I hadn’t already thawed a tilapia filet for dinner that night. So I marveled at the recipe, even noted the wonder of it on my Facebook status update. And today, I got myself to the grocery store for some boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which happened to be on sale, buy one package, get two free. Bonus!

A couple of Facebook friends asked me to share. I’m still not sure if you wanted the recipe, or wanted to join me for dinner. But since most of you are out of state, you’ll have to settle for the recipe, this time. But hey, if you are ever in the neighborhood …I’ll be cooking. Just sayin’

Martini Chicken
Adapted by Lauren Whitaker from Easy Olive Martini Chicken by “Jen” at allrecipes.com

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
Salt and pepper to taste
2 tablespoons butter, divided
2 large cloves garlic, minced, or to taste
¼ cup gin
1 tablespoon dry vermouth
2 teaspoons lemon juice
¼ cup chicken broth
½ cup sliced olives stuffed with pimiento

Heat olive oil in skillet over medium high heat. Season chicken with salt and pepper to taste. (Keep in mind that olives will add saltiness to dish.) Brown chicken in olive oil, about 5 minutes per side. Remove chicken and reduce heat to medium low. Add 1 tablespoon butter and garlic to skillet. Saute 1-2 minutes, scraping skillet to loosen brown bits.
Add gin, vermouth, lemon juice and chicken broth and bring to a boil. Return chicken to skillet and add olives. Simmer chicken 5-10 minutes until chicken juice runs clear, occasionally spooning broth over chicken.
Remove chicken to platter and keep warm. Increase heat to medium high, and cook sauce for 2-3 minutes until thick. Stir in remaining tablespoon butter. Stir until butter is melted, and then spoon sauce over chicken.

I don’t usually blog about politics, but this “ground zero mosque” controversy has my panties all in a wad. So allow me, please, to pick this wedgie from my ass, metaphorically speaking.

First of all, can we all quit calling it the ground zero mosque? It is not a mosque, and it is not at ground zero. I am not one to blame the media for creating controversy. After all, if we all quit paying attention, they would have to move on. But somewhere, some reporter first came up with the erroneous label, recognized its emotional impact, and away we go.

Or maybe it wasn’t the media. Maybe it was one of the sycophantic politicians, fighting for traction in a mid-term election. Seriously, how does a building project in Manhattan figure into a senate or gubernatorial race in Florida? Is the United States Senate, or the Florida state government, really going to influence this issue?
And for the life of me, I don’t understand what Obama said that was so bad. He spoke in support of the constitution of the United States. Isn’t that within the duties expected of the President? He said they have a right to build it, and then refused to comment on whether they should build it. From that, the candidate for governor in Florida credited Obama with creating a national issue, and interjecting the “mosque” into the mid-term election. He even released an ad with the headline “Obama’s Mosque.” Really, if you stretched reality any further, the elastic would unravel quicker than the beleaguered waistband of my hi-cut cotton hipsters.

In the interest of full self-disclosure, I voted for Obama. I’m not thrilled with his performance so far, but I think he got it right this time: support the Constitution and move on to issues he can actually impact. Seriously, wouldn’t we rather know where the candidates stand on the economy, energy policy, immigration reform, or health care legislation? Even hot button issues like abortion and same-sex marriage have taken a back seat to one man’s plan to build a community center in New York City.

I am amazed at some of the dialog surrounding this building project. It’s been all over Facebook, of course. The local paper invited readers to weigh in, with its daily opinion poll. Two-thirds of those who responded were opposed, which is not surprising for a Bible-belt city located smack in the middle of a red state. Some of the comments indicate that opponents consider Park51 a threat to their religious freedom. Really? How are Muslims in New York City playing basketball, learning to cook -- or heaven forbid -- praying, going to affect your Sunday morning worship service in North Carolina? Someone thought that supporters were using “inflammatory language” by suggesting that Park51 is a community center, rather than a mosque. Oh, yeah, that c-word, community, it’s a real fire-starter. And another person objected to the size of the 13-story project. Hello? Have you ever been to Manhattan? Or seen pictures? Thirteen stories is nothing!

We are so obsessed with the issue, we had to consult a true expert, Miss USA. That’s right, the 24-year-old pole dancing beauty queen weighed in. To be fair, she is Muslim. She grew up in New York City, but her family fled to Michigan amidst the post 9/11 anti-Islamic hate wave. She thinks the community center should be located farther away from the World Trade Center site, by the way. I wonder if Inside Edition, the bastion of hard news, would have bothered to report her views if she’d been in favor. I mean, she’s Muslim, born in Lebanon. And while she’s not a constitutional scholar, she is a college graduate. So maybe she does have a unique perspective.

The point is, she has a right to speak up. The president has a right to speak up. Each of us has a right to speak up. It’s another one of those pesky guarantees of the U.S. Constitution, along with, you got it: freedom of religion. But here’s the deal. If you are going to exercise your right to speak up, you should make an effort to know what you’re talking about. It’s a community center, not a mosque. It’s not at Ground Zero. It’s two blocks away.

And what is Ground Zero? It’s a chunk of pricey real estate where something horrible happened. Park51, the site of the community center, is another chunk of pricey real estate. And the bottom line is that Mr. Rauf has every legal right to build what he wants on that site. The local zoning board has upheld that right. And while the rest of us can speak our piece, in the end, we just have to accept the reality. Turn the other cheek, as the Christian Bible says. If we don’t like what the community center represents, we don’t have to go there. When we go to visit the ground made sacred on 9/11, we can choose another route. Perhaps we’d rather walk past a seedy strip club or pawn shop, or a boarded up building. They are there, within steps of ground zero. Anybody’s panties in a wad over that?

The tragic events of September 11, 2001 have shaped America in ways we still struggle to define. As a nation we owe support and sensitivity to the survivors and the families of those who perished. And we owe them something else. We owe them our very best efforts to defend our rights and our freedom as Americans. The extremists who caused the catastrophe known as 9/11 acted to destroy that freedom. If we give in to fear and hatred, we allow them to succeed.

I’m just sayin …

A friend of a Facebook friend, obviously a small business owner, recently lamented the rampant use of debit cards by customers. Don’t they realize, she wondered, that merchants have to pay a processing fee on debit card purchases, usually a percentage of sales? Don’t consumers realize the stated price is usually a cash price, she asked, and not a debit or credit card price?

Well, yes and no, Ms. Biz Owner. Yes, I did know that retail outlets pay for the privilege of providing this huge convenience to buyers. In America, we call that overhead. It’s the cost of doing business, along with rent, utilities, advertising and inventory. And no, I was not aware that advertised prices are meant for cash only purchases. I thought a price was a price was a price.

Don’t get me wrong, I am sensitive to the struggles of small businesses in this economy. But I am struggling too. And that means I am spending less (in theory anyway). So the business that provides the highest quality goods or services, at the best price, and meets my needs for convenience, is going to get my meager dollars. Nine times out of ten, I buy local. I go out of my way to do so. I shop the local farmer’s market, and I get up early to do so! I haunt consignment stores for household goods, frequent a local second-hand bookseller, and eat in locally-owned restaurants. And I use my debit card almost exclusively.

I am so devoted to the use of my debit card, that I recently drove off from a gas pump (without fueling) when the card reader was out of service. (I neglected to replace the gas cap or close the fuel tank access door, which prompted lots of honking and waving from fellow motorists, but I kind of got off on the attention.) I am just not interested in walking into the service station, standing in line, resisting the Peppermint Patty or Bit O Honey that is screaming my name, to pay for my gas. Call me lazy. Call me stubborn. But if you want to call me your customer, provide me the opportunity to pay at the pump.

I rarely carry cash. Several years ago, an acquaintance was mugged in the parking lot of the grocery store in broad daylight, had her purse wrenched from her arm and was knocked to the ground, breaking her wrist. Police told her someone in the store probably watched her pay cash and noticed that she had some leftover. Another friend once had her cash-filled wallet stolen from her desk drawer. She was able to prevent charges against her credit and debit cards, but the cash was long gone. So, sorry, Ms. Biz Owner, when I weigh your overhead with my personal safety and wellbeing, I’m choosing me. If you support me by providing the convenience, I’ll support you by buying your stuff. I’m just sayin’ …