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Mary Bogue

Mary Bogue is always wondering about how we walk through life, and sees it as a dance; sometimes we're wearing high heels and doing the tango backwards in a man's arms, other times we're line dancing in flats while picking up after kids, and when we're lucky, we're barefootin' it freestyle.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Our Most Basic Need and Our Most Valuable Asset

I stepped away from the computer tonight to sit in my easy-chair and elevate a sensitive ankle, sip some water and play some TV Remote Control Roulette on the television. I flipped through the usual shows of cooking and half-finished movies. Then I came upon the news; tear gas being used on journalists and regular citizens. Our own. 

We, as a nation have walked so far away, no - run from loving each other, that I was both shaken and saddened.  In this anxiety-ridden world of natural disasters from floods to droughts, hurricanes to earthquakes, acts of God -where you can be stripped in minutes of  every earthly possession and life itself, as you just live your ordinary life -turned around to answer a doorbell,  take a ride in your car or a Sunday afternoon at the movies. We can lose it all, and yet the one most  valuable asset we have, we trash without thinking about it. Our humanity. Shouldn't we be clinging to each with more love and compassion than ever before? We should be evolving into the best version of human mercy, while longing to feel safe for ourselves and families. What are we doing?

SAFE. What does it mean to you? Safe food, water and air. Love. We should certainly feel safe enough to live with these common needs being met.  And how about love?  Seems we shouldn't have to feel second-class – in the experience and  honor of loving whom we do without prejudice. To hold our loved one dear enough to our hearts and share dreams for our future and families...  It goes without saying that we  want to cleave to our partners the middle of the night or  in the state of matrimony without fear. Safe. We should feel safe in our homes, our streets and our schools. 

Guns. They only make fools feel safe. You cannot write the word revolution wihtout containing the word evolution. We need both, of our hearts and souls. Love is the real weapon. Love prevails - I'm sure every religion fundamentally agrees. But then it gets “qualified” and love gets a bad  name and becomes a threat. 

Every American child should be able to walk to school, sit in a classroom, experience a first-class education with the tools they need, including healthy lunches and food education, the arts and sciences, physical and health education. To turn our backs on this is to rob the future from our children, from our nation. Every child, and I mean every child of every age, color, religion - boy or girl, able-bodied or challenged, should be cherished and raised up.  An African American mother or father should be able say, "Have a nice day at school today”, and believe without even thinking about it, that they WILL see their child alive and well, and mentally healthy. Tell me, someone please, how you will ever feel safe again, when you get the call that your child is not walking through your kitchen door tonight because they have been killed - and not because they were hit by a car or some other tragic way,  but because they were murdered at the hands of a fellow American. What's it going take to wave those flags again with the same passion of unity we felt after 9/11? Remember? We were no longer Caucasians Americans, African Americans, Mexican Americans, Korean Americans United for Separation of Church and State - and so on. We were American, and finally we were one, our separate paths merged into a journey of our common love of county. So. Now what? 

Safe.  Isn't there plenty of grief going around already? Here, have a cup of cancer, a gallon of diabetes, an incurable disease yet to be diagnosed. Isn't there enough uncertainty in this world already? Well? More than anything, we need to be expressing our human kindness. 

Safe.  Every woman should be safe enough to cross a college campus without threat of being raped and every  man feel safe and secure able to protect his family, but not fromt each other, no. Every man and woman should be and feel safe enough to protect their family members from poverty consciousness, fear of not being worthy or ever enough.  Our power to be the best us yet, as American citizens, as individuals and as who we are yet to become – well, that dream should be safe.

Be safe, my dears - all the faces I know on a daily or weekly basis, old friends and family, new friends too, and those of you I only know here in the world of Facebook, be safe. Do not let anyone rob you of the love you were born to express.  You are loved beyond measure and your presence here is a gift. Be safe from the darkness, the fear of never measuring up so that the only way you can express your strength or worthiness is with your fists. Be safe. Take care of and rescue the sentient beings around you. Be safe and Be THE Safe - allow others to put their trust in you, their love into you, their passions, and make sure they always feel safe enough to trust you with the contents of their minds and souls. Yes, be the safe harbor upon the rocky waters. Be safe. Be authentic. Be love.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

HE RAISED HIS HAND TO ME

He raised his hand to me. Right there in the light of day. He, in his plain, dark clothing, wore a black hat but didn't hide behind sunglasses with an anonymity you would think one might claim given the circumstances of the bright sun. He raised his hand to me boldly, without hesitation and looked me in my eyes while doing so. He was older, unshaved and his hands were rough like sandpaper. 

There was not a trace of manscaping in his appearance, nothing flashy nor outstanding, except for how absolutely plain he was, yet his weathered face said more about him than I could imagine. I had never met him before, did not know his name then and still don't. This stranger remains anonymous to me but well known where he lives. He has family, that much I do know.  And yet I was the stranger in the strange land, where time stood still in that brief moment when he claimed for himself a bit of my soul. He marked me. His face was captured in my mind's eye like a black and white photograph from my grandmother's photo album, names no longer known, only the fading image remaining in shades of black, white and gray.  He was a man without any family pictures of birthday celebrations, weddings, family picnics, new grandchildren or even one tattered photo from his own childhood. I knew that if I wanted to recall him with great clarity that I would have to memorize that flash where time stood still.

It was a day like many others for him and like no other for me. After the encounter, I continued my way going nowhere with intention, down a hushed road with the sun beating overhead in a postcard blue sky. He was used to it most certainly, his thick clothing betraying the 90 degree weather, but the cloying, sticky June humidity made me uncomfortable and I wanted a rush of refrigerated air to surround me. 

I looked in the rear view mirror and watched him slowly disappear as I continued forward on a road bookmarked with perfect symmetrically planted rows of corn still close to the ground;  the dirt a rich dark brown, damp from the rain the night before punctuated with clapping thunder. I passed a perfectly maintained white house with a clothesline. A clothesline. If I had one in my front yard I would most certainly have the local authorities knocking on my door. Here, it was natural and the fleeting light gusts of wind turned the blue dresses, blue shirts and dark aprons into a vine of hanging fruit never seen where I live in the outskirts of Los Angeles. 

For a moment I longed for my own car synced with my iPhone, and instead I reached for the radio dial but stopped. The man in the rear view mirror was almost completely gone now, nothing but a black square in the reflection. Forget the music. I rolled down the windows of my rented black car and drove on thinking about just how rushed we city dwellers are. We can't even enjoy a meal in public without checking our phones for texts, let alone accepting a phone call that is neither urgent or commanding, all the while ignoring the fact that our friend or family member or coworker is just across the table from us. 

He marked me, as did the next man coming towards me. He too raised his hand to me, and this time I returned the gesture. His wife sitting next to him with their two girls in the backseat, eyed me suspiciously, no trace of a smile, just a nod of acknowledgement. Still it was more than I would ever get at home on the freeways. If someone raised a hand to me there, it most certainly would have a middle finger extended because I had the nerve to want to merge into another lane. Their getting closer to me came with a cadence that pierced the quietude. It was the steady, rhythmic one-two beat of clip-clops that their sturdy, chestnut-colored horse and the creak of buggy wheels on asphalt offered up to me. If one listened with appreciation, it was music, and the brush of reins on horseback was no different than brushes used on drum skin by my best jazz drummer when I sing a ballad.  

There were no lanes on this Illinois country road. The only way to know where you were exactly was to know where you were in relation to the sun and by whose property you passed, and every once in awhile an intersection which criss-crossed the verdant farmland. There was no exhaust to cough as the strangers passed by me,  only that which I left behind for them to inhale as I passed them.  It felt embarrassing and for all of my own big city ways, I knew in my heart that I was the primitive one. An evolved society leaves no footprints; carbon or otherwise. Their boot prints in mud dries long enough to bear witness to hard work, but the next rain washes them away and the growing crops are the legacy of the men's arduous work and the sweat of his brow.

I raised my hand as the next black buggy approached and nodded the nod that comes with the  recognition we should offer when in the presence of strangers. It is afterall, a human acknowledgment of soul meeting soul. I slowed my car my car out of deep respect. Where was I going that I needed to go with so much "horsepower"?  I was there to witness the peace of Amish country and the lesson was driven home to me. As each passing black buggy or open wagon approached me with the steady whir of wooden wheels, I realized that the wave was very specific. When the driver raised his hand to me, it was with with the index and middle finger slightly separated from the others on the left hand and the other two fingers slightly curled downwards, the thumb relaxed and pointed upwards. And then it hit me, I had seen this before, this was the "hand of benediction," a blessing. I have no idea if the strangers realized it, but I was never more keenly aware. 

He raised his hand to me and I was blessed. I think I shall never wave the same way again to a passerby. I too shall slightly nod my head, recognizing the spirit in me sees the equal spirit of oneness in them, as I raise my hand and extend a blessing.  I'm not sure how if it will work back home on the 405 Freeway, but for now I will continue to use it on my journey. Wherever your journey takes you today, may you know that we are one and our legacy is what we leave behind.  May we strive to leave a better place than we found yesterday and know that each of us is as spokes of a wheel; we really need each other to get along,  and to get along down the road of life, we need each other.

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Friday, April 19, 2013

"If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here, folks."

"If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here, folks."
~ Mary Bogue

Love of Power vs. Power of Love 

Someone on a thread tonight asked, "Why did the Boston bombing suspects do such a thing?" I thought about it, and maybe I'm dead wrong or maybe I'm a little right but here's my reflection:

In committing such heinous crimes that mar our conscience, rob our innocence and endow our stream of consciousness with raw fear, what were these two young men seeking? Notoriety? Fame? A "place" in the world, or becoming a celebrity whose names forever carry weight and foster hatred? Perhaps it was a "validation" of fame or family name, or being remembered by no other means possible - as perverted as that may be.

Whether tied to an organization or not, the suspects were young men looking to show the world what "men" they were. When people feel powerless, worthless or like "losers," sometimes in desperation they cling to whatever tactics will "prove" in their eyes, that perception to be wrong. They are easy prey to the predators who would destroy us. Pawns, if you will.

We shouldn't be surprised that the two suspects lived here in our own country. We glorify violence in our country; we refuse to cut down the killing machines - whether they be assault weapons, gun ownership legislation and background checks, or the Monsanto's of our world. Images of blood and guts, glory and winning at death can be found as close as the X-box or Quentin Tarantino re-runs. We torture animals to eat, and turn our heads away from the unpleasantness, yet we permit it. If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here folks. Call it greed, the American way or whatever you want, but to me it is a testimony to how desensitized we are, so very cavalier and in my opinion, downright ignorant. 

Am I against gun ownership? Nope. But you ought have to do more than I had to adopt my golden retriever, or foster a child. I mean, really. Shouldn't a background check be mandatory, along with a gun safety class AND a gun safe installed before a gun is turned over? A gun has one purpose only. Killing. Anything else you tell yourself is bullshit, and I'm calling you on it. Let's just be real honest. And you don't need an AK-47 to kill your dinner or put meat in your freezer, unless you like your meat bullet ridden.

We can do better. We can love better. We can grow men and women, young adults and children who strive to show their power by the degree of compassion they exhibit. Blessed be the men and women who went to the rescue of the injured, the doctors, nurses and therapists who pick up the torch from here, and mostly blessed be souls of those who paid the ultimate price for our stupidity -dying, as we continue turning our cheek and lacking the courage to stand up and represent the 90% of us who want to see real reform in gun control. Stand up. Violence begets violence. Love always prevails. Time to "man up" to love and compassion.

I bid you peace and strength, health and happiness, and most of all, a kind and compassionate heart. We share the journey on this treasured planet but for a short time. And one more thing; You are so beautiful, you are a product of a loving expression itself, you are like no one else, and it is a wonderful thing. 

Peace ~~ 
Mary Bogue

Thursday, December 13, 2012

WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS A HOPELESS JUMBLE

When All The World Is A Hopeless Jumble


How could they possibly know that the dark figure hidden within the over-sized grey hoody, tee shirt and checkered men's pajamas bottoms, with the thick soled, heavy black Velcro closing orthopedic shoes and glaring white athletic socks was really a masquerading queen of the highest order? This was a beautiful black woman with full, luscious lips from which sang heartfelt ballads. This person was more than a patient in a wheelchair. This was a queen, a doting daughter taking care of her own mother, a mother to her son, and girlfriend and lover to her sweetheart.


To the parade of nursing staff dressed in green scrubs who floated down pristine white and mint-green halls adorned with plastic plants hanging on the walls of some obscure green floral print, Yolanda was a stroke victim, who as all patients seem to have no prior identity.Their current identity is that of Bed A or Bed B in Room 101 or the like, either the one who screams uncontrollably, drags his or her right foot behind them as if tethered to a ball and chain, or draws imaginary artwork on imaginary canvases of yesterdays memories. Maybe some others like Yolanda recognized the Christmas holiday decorations stapled and taped to their room doors. Who knows. 


I cannot say I know Yolanda's personal hell. I know of it. It has been a year or more since that night of singing at Leimert Park's World Stage when she sat down, not feeling well. One minute she was a remarkable vocalist and the next she had been rushed by ambulance to Cedars Sinai Hospital across town.


Her hell was different than my older sister Judy's. Judy was physically intact, able to walk with no difficulty. That meant she was also able to roam, lost down the corridors of her own mind, looking for her first-born son or her boyfriend who abandoned her as quickly as the first of several strokes took their toll, calling their names, "James, James, James..." or simply, "Ed."
My father could not understand Judy's confused state. I tried my best to explain it." Remember, I asked, "how the radio sounds when you're between two stations? Well, Judy's brain is kind of stuck there. She knows what she wants to communicate, but suddenly the wires have crossed."
That was Judy. Her personal hell was knowing just how effed up she was and that we couldn't help her. I was powerless to teach her the piano she had self-taught herself because I myself never learned to play. She was devastated that she could not figure out how to operate her keyboard or turn the television on or off. And pissed at me that I never learned so I could teach her. When I told her she was smarter than me, she shrugged her shoulders.

On my last visit to Yolanda at the facility where she lives,  which was way too long ago to even admit to myself, let alone to my friends or anyone reading this, it brought great introspection. Her mind was as sharp as ever, and though she was medicated, she clearly made her wants known. I was happy to go to the store and get her a charger for her iPad so that she could go online when possible. On her bed was a  book, "Music Theory For Dummies." She was smarter than me. I've never studied music theory except for one brief semester in junior high school maybe. And I say maybe, because honestly, I can't remember with any certainty. I have the audacity to get up and sing from some organic place within me, but she has the determination to learn the mechanics of music. 

Yolanda is confined to a wheel chair. No one knows for how long. It is her body that has betrayed her. She tells her left leg to move, her left arm to comply with her wishes, and her left ear to hear what it no longer does, but it is a rebel and refuses to do as asked. I wheeled her outside to the sparsely decorated patio where she asked me to push her. She told me with no uncertainty how to change direction of the chair and take her over the threshold backwards so as not to dump her on the ground. I did as instructed and we found a spot where she could look upwards at the sky, and I at her.

Music is our common denominator, so it comes naturally that we speak of it. She asked about certain people who have seem to have forgotten about her - there to donate some money at a fundraiser, but nowhere around now. I could relate. I remembered how when my husband died, people first flocked with more casseroles than my daughter and I could eat, but after that was said and done, it was much easier to go about their own day. I'm not faulting them, I have done it myself. Who hasn't?  I agreed with her, nodding my head affirmatively. Sighing. 

And then Yolanda looked up at the sky and told me she couldn't wait to come back and sing, that singing is what frees her. "You know, Mary. I already know what I want to sing. One day I was sitting on the toilet, wishing I could really see more out of the window. But I was looking at the sky and I thought to myself, why?  And then she sang, "When all the world is a hopeless jumble and the raindrops tumble all around. Heaven opens up a magic lane.. When all the clouds darken up the skyway, there's a rainbow highway to be found, leading from your windowpane to a place behind the sun,  just a step beyond..."  Oh my stars, it was the introductory verse to Harold Arlen's "Somewhere Over The Rainbow, " and she knew it. I was stunned.

She went on and sang the familiar beginning of the iconic song, and it was lovely. But when she hit the next part of the song, I thought I was going to lose it, as a tear ran down her face, "Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me, Where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney-tops, That's where you'll find me. Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I?" 

By now, I was at a loss of words, which I assure you doesn't happen very often. Perhaps she took my silent reflection of just how amazing I thought her to be as a quiet sadness, and before I could interject, she added, "But maybe I won't sing that. I don't want to make anyone else sad."

We pretty much wrapped up our visit right after that, as her meds were starting to kick in and she got a little chill, asking me to take her back inside, and for me not to forget to turn that chair around. Again, I did as told. 

I returned a month or so later with my friend Ada who volunteered her car which was better suited to transport Yolanda to the venue in Hollywood where we sang. She was wearing the easy on and easy off pull-on pants and a loose nondescript shirt. But around her face was the beautiful purple silk shawl that Ada had previously brought to her. She brought with her the faux fur coverlet I had given her to dress up a way too thin bedspread, and wrapped it around her like a jacket. The orderlies scooped Yolanda from her chair into the backseat with ease and then folded her chair and put it in the trunk. Though Ada and I tried to maneuver her safely from the car into her wheelchair, it was apparent we needed help. Two strong men came to our assistance, and soon enough Yolanda was inside. Everyone cheered her entrance, and then again when she signed up for open mic. She sang with heart and soul, but saved "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" for another time. People applauded and she seemed content to have had a "real dinner" out with friends and the opportunity to sing again. It had been so very long. But now she was tired and wanted to go "home." Through trial and tribulation we got her back to her care facility, and she was ready to sleep and dream another dream beyond the rainbow.

"When all the world is a hopeless jumble," Yolanda will see to it that heaven opens up a magic lane right into our hearts. Sometimes our earthly restraints are defined by being wheelchair bound, and sometimes our brains get stuck between two stations trying to figure out the world of telling each other what we mean. Sometimes a bluebird needs a nudge. Maybe this is yours and maybe mine too. Let's try to help each other take that elusive step beyond the rainbow. Maybe we just need to get off our ass and click our shoes. Damn. Sometimes I hate when I'm right.


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Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Fine Art of Blending Life, Love and Veggies


I can just hear a couple of folks wondering out loud, "Oh my, she's writing about blending now! That's it, she's flipped her lid!"  No, not really - just a little wishful day dreaming about being able to appreciate our differences, but meld our humanity.


Anyone who really knows me, I mean really knows me, knows that I have a great admiration for the finer things in life. While I don't mean some high-fa-luting designer label on the backside of my jeans, I do mean quality over quantity. 


Back up. If you really know me, you know I don't wear jeans. Sorry about that. Let's go with the shoe analogy. Take for example the Christian Louboutin red-soled high heels of Oprah fame. We're talking four inch plus stilettos - super sexy - but unless they come with two gorgeous gay guys to hold me up, an oil man's 401K and a Senator's health plan, forget about it. Give me my Birkenstocks - which, by the way is the gold standard for sandals and if made 2010 years ago, we all know who would have been sporting a pair.


Last week, while wasting my time on Facebook, I got caught up in reading the posting from my online source of vitamins and health foods. This company posted what sounded like a great recipe for pork in a cilantro-lime sauce. Well, sure enough, in great big ol' CAPS, the first post was something to the order of "DON'T EAT PIGS!!!!!!!!!" followed by another cry denouncing meat-eaters, and yet another.  You know me, I had to respond. I wrote that I didn't think that this was the appropriate forum to vent their anti-carnivorous outlook, and that the recipe had merit. In the words of my late husband, Rob, this fired up a sh*t storm of controversy. The retort was screamed at me in capital letters again, followed by lines of exclamation points and challenged anyone reading it that they believed in America and the freedom of speech, and if I were a vegetarian...yada, yada, yada.  


Damn. Can't we all get along?  The onus was on me to respond. I did so, and asked them to consider the fact that this was the very site where I buy all my plant protein for my one-a-day shakes, and really, couldn't we all just relax and edit or glean what we wanted from a posting without the ramifications of anger and drama? If only Blendtec (I'll get to that reference in a moment) could blend all of our wants and desires together and pour us out a big ol' plate of love.


I already know this blog sounds like a runaway train, but here's my point - let's take the best of who we are, our lives and life's experiences, our lessons learned and those we have yet to master, and just get along. Pollyanna-ish of me? Maybe.  But if anything could do it, it would be my new Blendtec blender - the all powerful, super efficient, veggie-grinding, freshly frozen ice-cream making, instant homemade soup in just 90 seconds, bucket of love machine. The Blendtec. (Sigh.) If there was a peacemaker in a machine - it would be the Blendtec. Of course there are other blenders, and most of them do a really good job. But anything I do, I commit to for the long haul. Give me one great pair of sandals, a killer pair of heels and my Blendtec. Oh yeah,  it's three horsepower of energy muscles this gargantuan task master while it easily creates a silken blend from the toughest greens and hardest fruits. Add a couple cups of ice. No problem. Throw in a carrot chopped in halves. Still, no problem. A whole pig - ah, not so much. However, it can handle whatever you throw at it within reason. If only life were so simple.


Even though the Blendtec nicked my AMEX card for a cool chunk of change - close to $400, mind you - at Costco, I have never appreciated such a workhorse of a machine - it does everything except ... hold on, I'm thinking...walk the dog. 


Imagine this world if we took all of our prejudices, all of our fears and loathing, and put them in the Blendtec on high - I'm guessing the soup button would work. What would pour out from it's giant mouth? L-O-V-E. Yup. It would grind up the anti-gay marriage concerns, pulverize "the world is coming to an end so get a gun and stockpile canned goods" terrors, cream the daylights out of the I'm too fat, too tall and too old - fears and worries, and in the end all you would have is big ol' cup of love.  Get to work Blendtec, the world really needs you. 


Let me just kick off my sandals and barefoot my way over to the kitchen. I think I'll go make a protein drink loaded with kale, spinach and strawberries, some protein powder, ice and my liquid vitamins, and ponder the next generation and how love always prevails. 





Thursday, May 6, 2010

DREAMS & SCHEMES



I'm performing tonight, over at the Hollywood Studio Bar & Grill on Sunset Boulevard, with world class musicians Karen Hernandez, Tony Dumas and Ralph Penland, and with my singing partner, Al Timss. In putting together a show, I always like to find the defining thread that carries one song to the next, one which will take the audience for a ride with me. I chose "DREAMS & SCHEMES" for this event. 


Take love for example. I'm not proud of it, but I have done some major scheming in my years. If you asked most women, I think most women would flat out deny that they scheme. But in fact, it is major scheming when you deliberately put on a push-up bra, your best Spanx control slip, red patent leather high heels, have your hair colored,  try an age-defying new foundation guaranteed for 16 hours, and a crimson colored lip-plumping, lipstick combination gloss that screams, "Choose me."  Oh yeah. That's some serious scheming.


Men on the other hand are the dreamers. Okay, mostly they're only dreaming of one thing, granted, but day dreams, night dreams or the other kind all add up to dreaming. As they age, the dreams change from imagining a "Yes, I'm gonna get some!" to more sophisticated imaginations such as a bigger house, better jobs and indeed, someone to grow old with. Because they need us. The helpless and hopeless dreamers need the breath, imagination and the beliefs of the schemers that they are worthy of our best efforts. We schemers know the truth - we scheme so that they will only dream of us in the midnight hours. 


Here's to the illusions, the give and take and the seeing love from both sides now.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Oh, sure! I had to be wearing frickin Birkenstocks when all I wanted to do was ram a 4" high heel into the forehead of the frickin' Fascist Pig outside the Post Office.

I actually drove to the Post Office to get a card out in time to send to the man who was my junior high school boyfriend...a mere 47 years ago, and now resides in the south of France.

But before I could go in, the sidewalk was blocked by The World's Largest Living Asshole sporting huge signs of our President wearing a Hitler mustache. Mother of God. I felt my chest start to heave, the rash of red fill my face and I went in to automatic orbit. How dare anyone, and sue me, I mean ANYONE, compare our President with anyone who has murdered, tortured, and mutilated 6,000,000 people! Veins were popping in my neck, my heart rate increased, and I was SO beyond myself, all I could mutter was something lame like, "Unbelievable! What audacity you have to compare our President with a mass murderer!"  I then marched inside and handed over the Netflix rental of Inglorious Basterds, my birthday card to my guy friend in France,  and made ugly with everyone in line.

Upon leaving, I remember calling the idiot boy-wonder with the propaganda, despicable. How dare you, how f*cking dare you undervalue the evilness of Hitler, how dare you compare him to a Harvard graduate who stepped up and inheriting a nation full of woes from the previous administration, is making the most of what's been handed him!"  For crying out loud, it was I who was GOING POSTAL!

I wanted to knock him into tomorrow and confetti the air with his hate pamphlets. But really, that was just the mindless little fantasy. Instead I called the police. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't go there with me. Of COURSE I know he has the right to expound his dribble. But he doesn't have the right to block the sidewalk doing so.

I called the new Match.com man in my life, "Talk me down. Talk me down, please." He had not heard me lose it, had not heard the astonishment in my voice, the heat, the passion and the venom. He was sweet and calm, assuring me that I said my peace and should go home now, that the police would NOT be coming. "Yes, they will! This is Arcadia. They come if you flush a turd down sideways!" He chuckled, called me endearing names which DID help calm me, I admit. I stayed parked in the lot, watching the man in the orange ski jacket hand out his crap and do his harm. "Honey, I have to go..."I offered without an excuse, seeing what was approaching.

And then, in the next breath, the police arrived. I put down the window of my bug, "It's me! I'm the one who called you, " I waved. They did the cop thing...one guy goes to the offender, the other to the "offendee."  That's me. I assured the 13 year old officer that I knew the moron had the right to be a moron, but he couldn't block the sidewalk being one.

Soon, both officers were at my window, talking to me. Moronic Asshole was putting his stuff in his Toyota and taking off. They took my name and number which I joyfully volunteered, thanking them for their time.Turns out Moronic Asshole has been here for quite a while and I am not the first to have called. They continued to talk me down. "Have a nice evening, Ms. Bogue."

I came home and called Match.com man from my driveway. "Are you okay? You didn't run him over, did you? DID you?" I laughed. No, but I sure thought about returning with a pair of high heels and if harassed one more time, taking my shoe off and marking the Neanderthal right in the middle of his forehead. We all have to have a dream, and that was mine. Match.com man told me, "Well, I was afraid I would have to bail you out of jail..."  Aw, I could feel my heart slowing, and my heat turning a hot pink instead of blood red. That's about the most romantic thing a man ever said to me. Really. I think I have a chunk of love in my heart...

Now, please pass the Johnnie Walker Red, please.