All things Celia

I am a fan of Celia Rivenbark.

I had the chance to see a live bit she did on GMA talking about inappropriate clothing for little girls in a range of skank wear mean more for ladies of the night than little children.

She even used a term that I was unfamiliar with: "Prostitots", meaning those children who are dressed in those off the shoulder come hither outfits.

Why has our society begun treating our children as the next step in the chain for the predators of the world? Although predatory men and women do NOT need provocation for their filthy choices, the blatant advertising of 'hot stuff' and 'juicy' on the clothing being sold to minors is completely offensive and certainly gives every indication that the sexualization of young girls is fine and dandy.

IT IS MOST CERTAINLY NOT!

Though I do not have little girls myself, I do have several nieces, and I do care about their welfare. I understand that part of a girls' self esteem revolves around looking nice. I was out getting a new outfit myself just last night.

But that need to dress well and have something special to make a girl feel pretty doesn't in any measure justify the objectification of a minor child as a target of the lustful thoughts of an adult.

As Celia (my hero!) showed the array of hoochie wear, I was astonished that parents thought so little of their child's wellbeing as to actually purchase the prostitot line of clothing and think it was okay to so do.

Nobody said you had to dress "Princess" in the 2008 line of Puritan wear, but to dress them in clothing that robs them of the chance to be a little girl is more than disturbing. It is SICK.

Without the opportunity to be children, we create incomplete adults who will always hunger for something that they haven't ever had - the kind of freedom that comes from knowing the adults in your life truly care enough to let you daydream and be innocent.

I am not absent the fact that violence and horror greets many an innocent child on a daily basis. But this sexualization of children on a deliberate basis to receive the gratification of the almighty dollar is idolatry of the basest sort.

God, please bless and care for these of your children. I fear that some of the parents don't.

Taken for Granted

Okay. It's just a random series of thoughts but lets see how this plays out.

When was the last time you were totally dependent upon another person to fulfill your needs? Not just getting you a glass of water or a snack, but completely in the grasp of another's compassion, or lack thereof, in your behalf?

Now, imagine that in addition to being totally dependent for your meals and your basic daily needs of toileting, bathing and dressing having to be completed for you by another person.

For most of us, that ended about the time we became older toddlers. Exerting our independence became a rite of passage that continued to evolve until we mustered up the strength, the fortitude and the cash to move out on our own.

But how about for the perpetual children of the world who cannot simply bide their time until they move out? Where is their defining moment and rite of passage?

My son Jared is such an individual.

He cannot speak beyond a couple of baby words. He cannot move himself about in any regular or predictable pattern beyond those things that he has come to grasp over a decade of practice in his special school.

Jared can't take himself to the bathroom or let us know his diapers require changing in any way besides crying. He can't tell us he is hungry or tired or that he'd like to see something else on t.v.

Jared can't join in on the games he sees other boys his age playing in driveways and yards all over the neighborhood. He does get frustrated. I can see it and he is most vocal when things irk him. . . just like the rest of us.

Going on outings requires some serious logistics since he is no longer an infant. Changing him in a public restroom is a joke. They do not have a table to place him on and he can't use a toilet. I guess the assumption is that when you are that seriously disabled you don't go anywhere.

Being my son, that would be an impossibility in his life. I love to travel. In fact, my fantasy is that I would be able to see the world someday. I'd like to go to those places that have graced the pages of the National Geographic over the years.

At this time, the reality is that Jared's wanderlust is my fault, but the world doesn't believe that those who are that severely involved should share the world in the same way as the able bodied.

So the next time you complain about about the MINOR inconveniences of your day, think about Jared and all that he doesn't even get to try.

What to say

Do you ever have the feeling that subtly, while you were looking somewhere else, your brain decided that you didn't need it for a while and it just slipped out?

That's how I feel when I am thrust into the limelight and asked to speak Spanish.

In the harsh glare of the center stage spot beaming directly through my head revealing my lack of brains, I cannot conjugate even a simple verb. I know I know something in Spanish, but for the life of me, I can't remember it.

Naturally, this creates confusion on the part of the person who erroneously thought that my being able to read Spanish translates into the skill of a dictionary and wordsmith when it comes to the spoken language.

Not happening, people.

Test anxiety is something I have dealt with a majority of my life. This is a different issue in only one respect. Instead of paper and pencil, this has become a painful exercise in oral examination.

I read every day.

But lacking someone who is willing to be patient enough for me to learn conversational skills that wouldn't make a toddler fall over laughing is something entirely different.

Adults DO NOT want to wait for you to learn. They want an answer and they want it now. That is a universal truth in every language on the planet including Pig-Latin (which, by the way, I AM fluent in!).

Years ago there was a show where a made up language called Ubi Dubbi was spoken. I loved the fact that for once, kids could have a language that would confuse otherwise erudite and well spoken adults.

Alas, Ubi Dubbi is also a dying language once you pass the tender age of about 13. No one cares if you can say something in it because no one can understand you.

I confessed my particular weakness to visiting missionaries the other night over Mexican lasagna. How do you get to where you are able to just 'shoot the breeze' with the nonchalant confidence of the native born speaker?

The answer is the same as the proverbial question 'How do you get to Carnegie Hall?'

PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE.

Oddly enough, I have had dreams where I am vacationing in some Spanish speaking country and I am not tongue tied. People marvel at my skill and are thankful to have me along to keep them from getting lost or ordering llama's butt for dinner. I am sophisticated in my skills and the words flow from my mouth eloquently.

Sadly, my dream ends the moment I open my eyes and realize that whatever gibberish I was uttering in my sleep was more than likely an invitation for someone to come and polish my girdle or paint my sausages.

Oh well. At least no one heard me. Excepting my husband who doesn't understand a word of Spanish beyond menu items at a restaurant.

Ole'. Enchilada. Sopapilla. Leche. Whatever.

Of Dogs and Treadmills

I don't know if you truly understand dogs until you have had several to share your living space, your furniture and your bed. Tricky little devils, they manage to sneak, crawl and squidge their way into every crevasse of your life.

They leave behind fur, spitty kisses and the ever present assurance that they honestly believe you to be better than sliced bread with melted butter.

Then, the inevitable occurs and for whatever reason, a dog will let you know in some not so subtle ways that you have 'let them down'.

That moment arrived on December 26th, when the treadmill came on line. I actually received it on Christmas Day, but I don't know any people who actually use the treadmill when Christmas goodies are hanging over their platters and the gravy boat is nearby. I am sure there are some purists out there who do, I just don't personally know them.

So, I hop up onto the treadmill today to begin the agony, uh the ecstacy that is exercising for this morning and my dog, whom I have been training, begins to whine.

HOW CARELESS OF YOU!!! The look in her eyes is accusatory, to say the least. Fool that I am, I put my time ahead of hers.

Turning off the program (hey, 32 seconds doesn't count people!), I encouraged Gypsy to hop aboard and began sequencing the keys for both angle and speed. Starting slow to warm up the old doggie hams, we did a minute or so of light walking. Then, as the glutes and hams were thoroughly warmed up, we increased the speed. Tongue hanging out, Gypsy applied herself to the task until she decided abruptly that she had done enough.

Had I not been holding the bar in front of me with my right hand, I would have made an ugly exodus through the uprights holding the computer readout screen.

"Well, fine, girl! All you had to do was tell me you were done! You about jerked my arm clean off, mutt!"

Her happy bark let me know the assassin is alive and well and had planned the whole proceedure carefully. This isn't about my needs people, and don't you ever forget it.
She was in training to learn another approved method sanctioned for routine home assassinations and I willingly was duped into teaching it to her.

Thankfully, Gypsy decided to leave the room and I was able to sweat some calories off. We hope. And now the laundry has started so my day is going good.

My only remaining issue lies with the fact that she feels totally comfortable lying directly over my face while I am lifting weights.

Subtle she is not on this manuever. She could take a lesson from Rambo and at least camoflague herself to look like the exercise blanket, but Gypsy prefers to let her victim know when it's coming. . .

The good news is that while I am waving the hand weights around like a maniac trying to keep from smacking her or me in the head, I am building up some pretty nice biceps. My son Thomas calls them 'Miguel' and 'Tulio'. He does this to mock me, of course.

Come to think of it, the tone and tenor of his letters about my exercise bears a striking resemblance to Gypsy's conduct. . . you don't think he. . . no, he couldn't have.

But then again, maybe he DID teach her everything she knows. After all, she is his 'baby girl doggie' and she literally does his bidding.

I'll have to investigate that later when I can breathe out of more than one lung.