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"Not Guilty. Not Guilty. Not Guilty." What? What? What? Deja Vu! Is this 1995? Am I in the dentist office with partially cleaned teeth, gathered around a portable TV with my hygienist and a women with a rubber dam in her mouth, listening to the "Not Guilty" verdict of OJ Simpson?. . . It's the only logical answer. This certainly couldn't happen twice in a lifetime.
Disturbingly so it has. I am still riveted to the TV, awaiting breaking news stating that, "The verdict was read wrong. We really meant to say "Guilty". But it's not happening, there is no one breaking with any news other than she is still not guilty. How could this be?! I am so saddened and disheartened by this verdict. My heart is breaking for this beautiful brown eyed baby, who has not received justice in any way shape or form.
I did not start watching this case recently. I have watched from day one, over three years ago. I admit I thought from the start that Casey Anthony had killed her daughter. But when the trial started and the defense team said there would be shocking evidence to prove that she was innocent, I was willing to listen and form an unbiased opinion. I listened intently to the opening statements and heard nothing but a carnival madness roller coaster ride of stomach dropping balderdash from the Defense.
Evidently common sense has no place in the legal system. I'm not berating the jury, I'd like to but I won't. Obviously they had a hard time muddling through the untruths flung at them, and possibly their quick verdict may have been because they had important dates to keep. But the least the court room should do is to warn the jurors by placing a sign at the door where the jury enters stating "We the Defense don't believe in the truth as long as it means we can't win our case."
So let's pop out the bubbly, and celebrate because hooray they won. Oh wait, that's for them to do.
So if you ever find yourself entangled in a murder trial the formula for getting away with it is to lie your a$$ off. Throw your dad in the fire, then blame your mother for raising you this way. But after you're acquitted and you go home and holler "Mom, Dad, I'm home. What's for dinner? Boy am I hungry, you can't believe how awful that jail food is. Is my room ready?"
Let's hope they have moved and left no forwarding address.
There is no more anyone can do from this earth to save an innocent defenseless child named Caylee Marie Anthony. I will release my anger because I for one know for certain that the person responsible will be held accountable by the one and only true judge and jury on the other side of this life.
All that remains on this earth for this little girl is an enormous black hole of a cloud hanging around the resting place of poor little Caylee, shouting the monumental question "If Casey didn't kill Caylee, then who.?"
I haven't given much attention to New York Rep. Anthony Weiner, nor to the not-so-hot-bod pictures he felt the need to share. I have caught a random glimpse of his current violation on my TV, and again, I am not surprised by the shenanigans of any politician/celebrity. That being said I am becoming a bit befuddled by the thought process of these men.
What must be going on in their pea brains as they click the send button, flinging pictures and or text, to sail across the stratosphere we call the world wide web. Have they not seen their other brothers who have been caught in comparable compromising conditions?
The only answer I can surmise is that they are grown men with adolescent minds. Only a pubescent punk could think that he is the exception and will not be caught, even though his actions are exactly the same as his naughty predecessors.
What don't they understand about the digital age? In today's techno world not only is "one picture worth a thousand words", but one picture morphs into a thousand pictures. Still somehow every time I hear of another good old boy doing something improper, I naively think, surely others who are considering venturing into similar escapades will come to their senses when they have seen the consequences of such behavior.
The movie title Dumb and Dumber comes to mind. But I shall call this latest raunchy comedic movie "Weenie and Weenier." It's about a bunch of grown men who are under the impression they are irresistible to women (and some men). But their brains have been replaced with ground up hot dogs, so when they do something stupid—and they will—they can use the excuse that they really were thinking with their "Weiners."
Ever since Mr. Arnold Schwarzenegger vied for the office of the "Governator", the rumors of his less than gentlemanly actions, towards the women around him, began fluttering like soiled laundry on a clothes line. Well here we go again. And again I ask the much too overlooked and under-asked question, "Was anyone surprised?" Well, evidently the misses was.
Maria would like us to believe that she was bamboozled by the news of Benedict Arnold's infidelity and consequential fatherhood. I don't know how long she had been sidestepping the pink pachyderm in the middle of the mansion, but there's no way she could have dodged the manure that flanked it. We all know she stepped in it at least once.
Years ago before it could stick to the bottom of her Manolo Blahniks, she scuffed the then scandal off by telling the naysayers they could listen to the negative stories or they could listen to her. "I invite you to listen to me. I wouldn't be standing here if this man weren't an A plus human being." declared Shriver.
I accepted her invitation and listened, but that didn't mean I believed her. Though what bothered me most was the "I wouldn't be standing here" part. Enough already with the standing next to the betrayers. Maria Shriver, and many others—including one Ms. Jackie Kennedy Onassis—have been proclaimed as brave, courageous, gallant etc., for sticking with a cad. It takes more guts to walk away than to stand still.
I am not here to discount Ms. Shriver's pain and heartbreak, that I believe. However I don't think the sore is as fresh as she would have us think. When the inaugural smell of Arnold's dirty laundry was tickling the tip of Maria's pointed sniffer, she should have listened to the laundry list of women rather than an A plus barbarian. She's not extending any invitations to listen to her true lies now. I'm sure she would prefer it if we were all terminated. Sadly when you are a public figure privacy is an illusion.
If you don't want to air your dirty laundry then don't use the public laundromat.
And hopefully the next time Ms. Shriver—or her maid—hang the soggy laundry on the line, there will be one Mr. Schwarzenegger hanging out to dry .
The words "happy", "delighted", and "ecstatic", have come into play when describing how some Americans feel with regards to the death of Bin Laden. I've been a happy bride, a delighted mother, and an ecstatic grandmother. Therefore it is difficult for me to associate these same memorable feelings with the death of such an evil man. Don't get me wrong, I am relieved, satisfied, and confident that he is indeed dead. But "happy" not so much.
The big question now is to show or not to show graphic pictures of a dead terrorist. I can not fathom the American People wanting or needing to see the pictures of a dead Osama Bin Laden. Yes "dead", he's dead. Dead as a doornail, dead as a dodo, dead as yesterday, ding-dong dead. Seeing a picture will not make him anymore dead. For those who are skeptic, a picture is not going to turn them into believers. They would still doubt the validity of a picture. A doubter is a doubter is a doubter
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Disclaimer: I refuse to discuss politics in any way shape or form.
Anyway, when something of such importance and bombshell-ness is shoved in my already politically stupefied face, as the release of Obama's long-form birth certificate, I must vent. And who do we have to thank for this historical event? Donald Trump? Really Donald really! Are you "really proud of yourself, really honored" and have you "accomplished something really really important?" Your humility is mind-blowing. In the words of Obama "let's put this silliness to rest." But first The Donald says he has to examine the birth certificate to insure it's authenticity. Huh
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Time is a curious creature. She does not flow smoothly or evenly. She ebbs, drifts, flies, soars, gallops, skips, races, idles, piddles, meanders, drags, halts, and hurries. Sixty seconds may make up a minute and sixty minutes becomes an hour, but I am here to tell you that all minutes are not created equal.
There are all different kinds of minutes. For instance—funny thing is an instant or a moment is always the same—a football minute is no sixty seconds, it's at least forty-five minutes. A minute on the treadmill is almost as long as ninety minutes waiting in line at the DMV. Fifteen minute breaks are actually a minute
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Almost thirty years ago I (along with some 750 million viewers) was fixated on the "telly" as Lady Di married Prince Charles. I had followed the media's pre-wedding coverage and became a fan of the soon-to-be princess. I thought she was adorable. She seemed to be very genuine and normal as well as sensitive and a bit vulnerable, which I found to be endearing.
My thoughts of the whole pomp and ceremony were firstly that Diana's dress looked like a pile of sheets that needed a good ironing and secondly, she looked so dismal. Which pretty much sums up the marriage of the then "Royal Couple". Together they were like trying to jam two ill-fitting puzzle pieces together. Alone she was radiant
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I have only one thing to say about Charlie Sheen's latest insanity, DUH! Was anyone surprised?! Keep moving, no news here.
Which brings me to the media's coverage of "news" with regards to celebrities. They seem to have an affinity for ear-catching phrases. I guess you could call it media license
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I've often heard it said that if you want to be a healthy, centered adult, you must get in touch with your inner child. I'm not sure if this means you must dive head first into the wading pool of repressed memories, or simply go nonchalantly skipping down the tulip-lined avenue. Either way, if I'm going to get in touch with my inner-imp, I would like to know what she looked like.
Unfortunately there is no tangible proof that I ever existed before the age of 12. Oh I have a whole caboodle of memories, but as far as photographs or anything resembling a keepsake from my kid-dom . . . nada, zip, zilch, diddly squat. OK, I exaggerate, there is one petite picture of my tiny self, *see below
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In his own words Charlie Sheen or Carlos Irwin Esteves (yes that's his real name) is a freakin' rock star from Mars, a warlock an F-18 with tiger blood and magic and poetry in his fingertips. He is not bi-polar but bi-winning and can't be processed because he is not normal, not from this particular realm.
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All that remains on this earth for this little girl is an enormous black hole of a cloud hanging around the resting place of poor little Caylee, shouting the monumental question "If Casey didn't kill Caylee, then who.?" 
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