Shelby, Part 3: "Johnny," Shelby called to her younger son. "Let me look over your math work." Shel then

rubbed her lower back muscles, as she made her way to the kids' work table.  Callie's lessons done for the day, sat coloring within an outline of a group of people gathered around an old plank-board table.  Between checking her son's division problems, Shel did a double-take.  Her little girl had drawn the outline a bit earlier.   Good job.  But that wasn't it.  The table had contained roughly the same items, and the people wore roughly the same cut and color of clothing.  Wait a minute...her girl was only four.  Below, she'd even written a little caption.   California People.

"Very good job!" She hugged her daughter.  Maybe someday, her kids would meet their aunt, uncle and two - maybe three by now - cousins.  But today, of course, wasn't the time.  And yeah, the news brought hopeful forecasts of the continuing peace-agreement...uhm- hmm, last week's coverage was different.   

She then returned to Johnny's work.  One of the problems was a six-digit, divided by a four-digit.  "Honey, here," Shel peeled off a fresh sheet of paper.  "It's always better to have plenty of room, especially for those kinds of problems."  Yep, squeezing every last little bit, so like his dad.  

She heard sniffling coming from Matt, who was reading, what appeared to be some sort of quasi-newspage.  From where she sat, a small image what looked like a barbed-wire fence was posted along with several other sidebar gifs.  Though Shel, being near-sighted, really couldn't tell.  And besides, it was her boy's sniffle that caught her attention.  Last evening the boys had been playing near the creek, and of course...we all know the drill:  kids + water = WET!  Mid june is just a tad too early.

"Son?" She approached her boy, whose back remained toward her.  "Are you catching cold?"  His response was a stifled sniffle, he didn't turn to face his mother.  Instead he attempted to hide his face from her.

"Matt?"  She spoke softly.  He didn't have a cold.  But something was wrong.  She turned to her other two.  "Class dismissed, go outside and play."  

The two shot up, and were out of there.

"Matt?" She pulled over a chair.  "What's wrong?"  Her eyes scanned the site.  It was one of those, fake news ...well, hopefully, fake news sites.  

The boy began to sob.  He looked up at his mom.  "Are they gonna come and put gramma in the gulag?"

Shel paused.  "No Matt... of course not."  Her response, was to calm herself, as much as her child.

Was by no means, a ridiculous question...considering last Sunday.  Short version goes like this:  Not long after they'd gotten back from church, while Brian and the kids were playing tag, Gwin was puttering in one of her flower beds.  A familiar whizz came by.  Seriously, nobody likes slow-movers, but hey, it is what it is.  Shel didn't think anything of it.  Relaxing her tired back on a chaise, she nodded off.

"Cha-chah, BOOMMM!"

The old lady, with one hand on Pop's shotgun, with the other, fist in the air, blurted out a few choice words.  

Joyce, Part 3: she smelled a rat. No, not the that lay alonside the card-op. Ew, nasty.

She set the basket upon the not-to-clean counter, and approached the paper-towel dispenser.  Of course, that was empty.  So her only option was to nudge the carcass to the other side of the laundry area.  Yes, she had some paper towels and spray ammonia with her, but these were for wiping the counter tops, so she could fold her laundry on atleast a reasonably clean surface.  Disgusting.  Even the trash bin was borderline overflowing with empty soap containers, flurries of dryer sheets, and a whole lot of fast food containers.

No, the real stench, came from those long-stemmed roses.  The ones Linda had raved about - to about everyone she knew.  Since her workplace policy forbade pics on-site, she did, however, bring them outside, to a picnic table - belonging to the office next door - and selfied her and them both.

Things would run their course, Joyce knew this - like a roman candle, it emits cascade after cascade of uniquely, beautiful sparks, but then it goes out - its heat-worn shell, when cool, either languishes in a field, or ends up in the trash.

Flowers at work.  Unless it's about someone's 40th, or so-n-so just became a gramma...anything much outside of that, just comes off ... showy.  Lin's so-called luv was playing her like pseudo-classical.  Moms know, ya know.  Joyce didn't know luvey-duv's name, but whoever th... he/she/it was, luvey was 35-something - that part, she knew.  Messing with a young girl...it should be taken out and SHOT!!!

Joyce loaded the dryer, then lit up another cigarette.  Above her, read a "NO SMOKING" sign.  She glared at it, then flipped it the bird.

Ellen, Part 1: She hated to be kept waiting, especially in an outer office. Apparently, the meeting - one, which

of course was not invited to, an additional insult - had run overtime, a bit more than anticipated.  Or, maybe not.  Maybe that was part of the game.  Still, to get what she wanted, Ellen had to play along - and smile.  Finally, the air-conditioning kicked on, and hopefully would stay on, for as long as she had to wait - and smile.

Her light faux cashmere coat was a bit much, but it was the only one that extended down to her mid-thigh region.  

The guy sitting behind the reception desk had ignored her the whole time; he hadn't troubled himself to offer her even a cup of coffee.  She knew this place.  Other clients  - if, in good graces, or they knew ...the drill - were offered coffee and a selection of  pastries, which came from the area's finest bakery.  

The inner-office door opened.  Inside, was yet another waiting room - that's where the pastries were.  A few suits came out - one or two, she recognized - walked by Ellen, as if she didn't even exist.  They exited.

After another 15 minutes or so had passed, the stud-bedecked receptionist took out his ear plug.  "You may go in."  He put the plug back in his ear, and continued doing ... whatever.

Finally within the first room of the inner suite, another receptionist, with plug in ear,  directed her to "please have a seat."  Neither coffee or any pastries, were offered, however.   Alittle more comfortable, anyway, Ellen crossed her legs, while giving the coat's hem a tug, to cover.

In short, the real Dorothy from Oz wore a volumous skirt that reached at the knee - if not a bit longer.  And the little girl, in the story, wore cotton bobby socks - not itchy garters, that pinched.

Joyce, Part 2: she checked her phone. Getting toward midnight, a bit late for a weeknight. Not that she had wanted

to wax full mamma-bear, after all, Linda was 19.  But on the other hand, 19 carried obligations - namely, holding down a job.  Namely, getting to work on time, and getting there fit for duty.  Oh no, Joyce would have none of the calling another off sick...been there, not doing that again.  Ever!  

Her daughter had landed a good job, but the kid, evidently, didn't much value the opportunity.  The girl couldn't see past the data-entry,  the filing, and the multitude of having to greet with a, "How may I help you...?" portions.  Nor would Linda realize the position included tuition benefits, along with decent health insurance.  In short, Linda could see a real dentist, and not some hack whose facility was, either two counties over, or in an iffy  neighborhood.

The front door clicked open, then shut.  Joyce let out a sigh of relief.  Within a few moments, she fell asleep.

Six-something pm, the next day.

Joyce, finished putting away the supper she'd cooked, washed the dishes - the dishwasher didn't work, as to when either the manager or landlord would get it repaired, or replaced, that was anybody's guess.  She then covered Linda's untouched plate, and put it in the frig - Lin could eat it later, or take it for her lunch.  

Joyce then picked up the paperback she had started the day before yesterday.  It was one of those just-before-the-rapture stories, and boy was it a turner.  It even had bad angels; moloch was a greasy, foul-smelling fallen who got his jollies burning kids; astarte was a real ... female dog, complete with a spiked collar.   Meh, not so much like fiction, Joyce had known more than a few hum-dillies in her time. 

But those days were so OVER, and good flipping riddance.  

Her daughter came through the door.

"You hungry, Lin? I made ..."

The girl responded with the shutting of her bedroom door.  But it didn't completely shut, a pink shoe lay between the door and the frame.  From inside, Joyce heard her daughter pounce upon the bed; a clatter of ... whatever had joined whatever else lay on the floor.  Whatever!  If the girl wanted clutter-central, she could have at it.   Needful to say, there was no point in making an issue - been there, done that...talk to the wall.

From inside the girl's room, she heard someone at the other end of Lin's cell.  Joyce sort of recognized who it was, but she wasn't sure what whoever was ... well, this week.  Kids...

The chapter Joyce was reading, centered on a certain predator in pumps ... yeah, ya can't make this stuff up.  The story was good.  More than a few times, Joyce found herself praying for the author's well being - some guy from Ohio - that he watches himself, when crossing the street.

"I'm in love!"

Down went the book.

While Joyce wasn't one to pry, something told her, there was an agenda at foot, and Lin would, sooner or later, would end up...not happy.

"...had lunch...that office is so fine ... yeah there's a ...umm-hmmm...I mean I...uh-huh, a few times..."

Joyce arose from her recliner - which no longer reclined, only sagged - went into her bedroom, and shut the door.  Per her daughter's conversation, Joyce was too upset to read.  She opened the window, and lit up a cigarette.  

She had been seriously considering quitting...but, oh no, NOT TONIGHT!

The three young men, were sitting atop one of the two picnic tables,

in the square, as the last of the parade passed by.  People carrying lawn chairs, bags of whatever they had bought, kept a close eye on their kids, especially the ones not yet tired enough to decline another kid's invite to spar with their glowing green plastic swords, or red wands of the same material - or various other toys purchased from one of several street vendors, pushing - what had been earlier - top-heavy grocery carts.  

One of the teens was gouging at a thorn still lodged in his palm with his penknife, while the other was looking at his phone.  The third was waiting in a nearby line to get a soda, before they too shut down.  The two, talked about this and that, the tractor show, the motorcycles, a company of old soldiers, and the teens' future plans.

"Army." The teen, finally dislodged the thorn and wiped it and the blood on his jeans...and dislodging a pamphlet he'd earlier picked up while visiting the recruiter's booth.  He reached for it and put it in his other pocket.  He'd have to wait a few years, of course, but that didn't mean he couldn't get ready.  He looked up and over.  Two guys were taking down the hot dog stand.  He didn't recognize the one, but he did, the one who looked about 30.  Glen, yeah, that's his name.  The kid liked him.  Glen was cool, he wanted to "kill me a few more of them kurgan b-tards."

The teen remembered, when he was still a kid, his dad, mom and sis were eating supper at the VFW.  From the bar area, hearing, "Go home!"  Why Glen got kicked out for that evening, the teen didn't understand.  From what he heard, Glen wasn't even drunk.  In fact, Glen was a one-and-doner...maybe two, if that.

The third returned with soda in hand.  The crowd continued to disperse.  The three conversed among themselves, called to friends passing by, one or two joining the group, then heading out.  The teen with the phone said he was taking off; phone guy headed up the street with one of the young men who had stopped by.  

Soda king sniffed.  "ARMY??"  He shoved his buddy off the wall.  "You'll get 20 years in Levinworth for that." Soda got up from his brick seat, and stood a few yards away.  "Dude, UGH!!!"  Pen then shot back, the two began roughhousing.  Both were oblivious to a young girl's voiced dismay; her cashmere sweater being struck - and ruined - by a flying armament of orange soda.  

A few minutes later, soda king - now demoted to water baron, because that was all he could get, from a stand the two had just passed - exclaimed, "Fonda?"

"Who?"

"The chick you were just talking about."

"Not her, are you kidding?  She's like 30 by now."  Pen unwrapped his jacket that he'd had tied around his waist.  "I'm talking about someone like that missionary lady."

"Missionary?"

"Yeah, someone like her."

Her, who?"

"I don't know her name, but she's hot dog lady's kid, and their last name isn't Fonda."

A few places behind the two teens, a woman, on the verge of middle-age eyed Pen's every move.  Oh, he was a dish, and then some.

"Oh comeon, Ellen," her partner nudged.  "We should get gone, from this HICK town."

What partner didn't elaborate on, was: they should have left hours ago, having had brought upon themselves a bit too much attention.

Gwin, Part 5: the sun having set, the parade had about run its course. Gwin, and the other vendor

were selling their last items while cleaning up and starting to shut down.  She was still somewhat upset from earlier.   Ellen was Ellen.  She knew that.  The woman had issues - oh, Gwin had no idea.   Ellen also had, a few years back, had set her sites upon Glen.  But he, evidently, had wanted no parts of that.  Well, come to think of it, while on leave, he might have ... a time or two.  Men! 

No, Ellen's mouth wasn't what still had Gwin upset.  

It was more the vendor across the street.  Oh, he'd been all ears.  And throughout the rest of the day, had cast leers in Gwin's direction.  

Yeah, there's some history there too.  An acquaintance of her late husband, she'd never cared for the man.  He wasn't much for eye contact when speaking to friends, customers, or anyone else.  While Gwin wasn't one to meddle in her husband's business/choice of friends, there did come a time or two when she quietly spoke to him, and him alone, "uhm, honey, something isn't right about...."

Anyway, right before the parade started, just after the National Anthem resounded, she thought she'd heard from someone walking right by her stand, the phrase, "Hey, did ja git some juicy tomato on yer meat?"  All Gwin knew was, some other guy had laughed so hard, he dropped his sub.

Unbeknownst to our feisty little old lady, the little jibes here and there among the locals, weren't her problem.  Had she blown a tire, or just broke down, most of them would have stopped to assist, or called someone.  No, the problem was Ellen.  And Gwin had no idea, Ellen wasn't someone to mess with.

Gwin, Part 4: she handed the young man his two hotdogs,

"The condiments are to your left."

He turned right, and before he reached the end of the line, the one hotdogs was finished. The other one was on it's way.  The teen appeared promising.  No piercings on neither his face or arms.  A bit chill for a muscle shirt, but teens are teens.  A moment later, he was joined by two of his buddies - who also showed promise.  No piercings.  

Gwin, like the other adults kept a eye on the crowd.  While most were here to enjoy family fun, all wasn't mayberry.   In the next town, a little boy had disappeared during last year's earth day festivities.  Sad to say, probably rust-bottled by now.  Dads and Moms just couldn't be too careful, these days.

Gwin spotted a certain woman who looked out of place.  Yet, she was familiar - familiar enough, to maintain a polite distance.  The woman, approaching middle-age, and from the look on her face, didn't appear too happy about it.  Ellen, that's her name.  She was part of a group ... no wait, she ran the group, the one who made a stink about certain vendors being granted street space.  Oh never mind "Only Christ Missions" paid the same square yardage as the Rotary Club did for theirs.  

So, OCM was selling hotdogs.  They had been selling fries, but the taters had run out an hour ago.  Shades of whatever-color-that-was, glared.  She then was greeted by a friend, they both waved their little us flags, chatted a bit as they walked towards a stand selling glass knick-knacks.  

Moments later, a lull in the crowd, Gwin tidied and restocked the condiments table. 

"Oh, I don't know, Clara." Ellen's voice was nearby, "But I wouldn't be showing my face, if it was my daughter."

Both gossips tittered, making certain they were loud enough to be heard.  A few vendors and waiting customers perked up.  While overwhelmingly, most were polite, to Gwin, the whole episode had been serving the town a juicy morsel for some time now.  

"No, I can't imagine, either.  But then again, but you know how it is:  there's easy women, and there are sluts..." they both tittered again.  The other added: "and tthhheeenn, there's the...ugh, sort of women who sleep with the enemy."

Well that did it.

Gwin, about face, marched over to the two.

"The war is OVER!!! But i guess neither of YOU bothered to check your email!"  

Gwin marched back to her stand, and the two women strolled away, tittering.  

Shelby, Part 3: Calling the boys in for dinner, she did a double-take at contents piled in back of her brother-in-law's car.

Yeah, she got it.  The coat, a woolen hoodie, scarf, boots, and atleast one blanket...a wartime thing.  Her boys came running, the younger's had something smeared, and topped with blades of freshly cut grass, upon his t-shirt.  Nice!  She rolled her eyes.

All seated at Gwin's table, a spring bounty of baked ham, topped with pineapple slices, scalloped potatoes, green beans - canned last year - and a bowl of early lettuce, they all joined hands, while Brian led them in prayer.  Not a long one, of course, but for-real thanks to the Lord, for His generous provision - for having enough to eat, and living in areas, safe enough to venture outside to your mailbox, even after dark.

"And Lord, we pray for the continuing healing of both Your nations."

Oopps, that last part didn't go too well.  From the other end of the table, Brian's eyes were met with a cold stony stare.   Those stony eyes, belonged to the man clad in a long-sleeved flannel shirt - his brother, Glen.

But still, the prayer - ALL of it - needed prayed - and the one certain nation needed to learn to mind it's own business...i.e., bring the rest of - what's left, that is - of their troops, back home.  

The last years?  Bad!  But that's bound fo happen, when sent to meddle on turf which is not ones own.  Reason Two for the high fatality count?   The climate.  Brutal!  Reason Number Three - which anyone with an iq of 80 could explain - is, in reality, Reason  Number One ... well, Reader, we won't go there.

Gwin's prayer had included that ongoing unspoken request: that Brian and his family would get out of that crampy apartment and come home to live - atleast for awhile ... wasn't like there was lack of room.  But, we know the drill: Pride.  And yeah, there was an element of self serving on Gwin's part.  

Mainly loneliness - and that would only intensify, come retirement.  The wednesday before the last ... suffice to say, going up the street for a sandwich, was becoming risky behavior  Not an hour later, the store clerk had left his job early - in the back of an ambulance.

Gwin and Shelby cleared the table.  The plate of ham nearly empty, as with the potatoes.  The bowls, containing the beans and lettuce had been scraped empty.  As coffee brewed, both women washed the dishes, and set them to dry on a large rack.  (Yeah, Gwin was probably one of three people in the tri-county area who didn't own a dishwasher.  She didn't want one, either.)  Anyway, took the two women, what?  Fifteen minutes?  

"Needed to work it off." Shell quipped, reaching in the drawer for a dry towel.

A queried look crossed her mother-in-law's face.

Shelby leaned in, and whispered: "I'm putting on pounds." She shook her head.

"Well, you'd better be!"  Gwin whispered back. 

"HEY, HEY, HEY!"  Shelby called to her daughter, who was fascinated with a lump of mud-encrusted quartz, and wanted to detail her find.  "Outside with that!"   Shelby dried her hands, and headed outside to check on her kids - ugh, from one minute to the next...

A few moments later, Gwin set a plate, containing, maybe a third of a lemon-cake, which Shelby had brought over, along with a cheese ball and some crackers, adding, "Sorry i couldn't make that batch of..."

"Yeah, I hear ya!"  Shelby rolled her eyes and added, in a low voice - so flannel-meister wouldn't hear, "stupid war."  Truth told, just being around Glen for any length of time, made Shelby uneasy.  Would he ever come to a place where he would just. move. on. - and realize the Department of Defense did her brother-in-law a big favor, getting him OFF the battle-field, and away from the whole thing entirely.

How many russian soldiers did he kill, during that certain fiasco?  She didn't want to know.  But she knew enough to know, he very much wanted to go back over there, and kill a few more.  

Well, it's about time to fire up the time machine.

Glen, Part 1: He took a bite from a pizza slice, left sitting in the box, which had sat on his coffee table since

friday, while his other hand scrolled his newsfeed.  More cold weather on the way...of course.  Another ad popped on-screen; annoying, but ad-free wasn't worth the cost.  He'd gladly put up with the non-stop vanity-parade - a $20 saved here, $10 saved from over there, $7 from over thataways...it added up over time.  Glen stood about three years away from finally getting the mortgage off his back, and was determined to squeeze it to two years.  

Ugh, what's this?  On his screen flashed ... how'd they know?  If he hadn't known any better, he'd of concluded a drone had flown by, earlier in the day and snapped a pic of the fraying hem of his mom's dress.  Had Glen been a conspiracy theorist, he of almost sworn AI could read minds.

Mom needed some new clothing, and a new pair of shoes wouldn't hurt either.   It wasn't like she'd no money.  Not only had Dad seen to it, she had atleast some funds - in case something would happen - mom had a way of squeezing a dollar into five.  

But enough was enough - dad was probably turning over in his grave.  When dad was alive, anything even faded was fine about anywhere else.  But not church.

Mom's winter coat wasn't looking so hot either.  Hhmm, a coat, a pair of shoes, and two dresses...the figures tallied in Glen's head...about $1,200-ish.  Not a problem.  No, the problem was finding decent clothing - everything was made fast, for even "faster" women.

And yeah, he knew Traci could hook him up.  But, oh no, he'd figure this one out on his own.  As far as he was concerned, they were done.

How could she, anyway?  

He and his sister, had their share of ups and downs, and some humdinger disagreements.  Some years back, they had not spoken for months, she'd voted for ... IDIOT.  Yep, hope yer happy, because IDIOT did get us in a war.  Yes Readers, Glen's one of those guys who seriously questions if giving women the vote was a bright idea...after all.  But that election did happen, and afyerward they both did eventually move on - and outside shooting hoops, or tin cans in mom's back field.  

But this last turn of events went well beyond women's dumb voting preferences.  Yeah IDIOT did promise lower tuition rates.  And yeah, Glen did in fact laugh in his sister's face, that one particular thursday, as the family conversed while filling themselves with turkey and fixings, "almost $6.50 for regular, that's ... that's just insane!" 

This last turn??  Yeah, Pastor on-the-Podcast, you go on about forgiveness, bet yer sister didn't marry some [blankety-blank] Russian.

Joyce. Dear Reader calling one of God's children "gruesome" or "greenie" isn't gonna fly. Her mom had named her "Joyce."

"MOM!" Joyce's young adult daughter gasped, "You effing WHAT???"

"Hey, hey I'm your Mom."

"Well, MOM, have you lost yer freaking mind???"  Her daughter, was a combination of shocked, but more peeved.  "They were diamond.  You could have gotten, well maybe, almost enough for tires."  The young tatted woman continued, "Why the eff would ya flush em down th..." outside a siren whaled on by.  "You could have easily sold them."

"No, Linda."  Joyce quietly spoke.  "Some things, ya don't want to foist on other people."

"OH, AND WHY IS THAT?" her daughter retorted.   " Are there," Linda's face waxed full-blown smirk, DEVILS in them?  Is THAT it.?

"Well, now that you mention it..."  Joyce began sifting through an overstuffed kitchen junk-drawer.

"Oh come on, Mom, that's just Bible bull..." from outside, the closed windows were barely enough to muffle a lyric booming it's way down the street - one which this blogger isn't about to spell out.  "It's all about control, haven't you yet gotten the memo?" Linda continued, "Patriarchal mindgaming..."

"Enough." Joyce calmly fished out some random junk, including a string of plastic beads from ... well, it no longer mattered.  Another item was ... well part of, a plastic-coated paper tierra, from a new year's party she'd forgotten about - and cared not to recall.  "Oh what's this"? Joyce softly exclaimed.  A bottle opener with what appeared to be mouse droppings stuck to it.  "Ugh!"  That, and half the drawer's contents went into the waste can.

Just as Linda was ready to launch into part two of her tirade, her phone rang.  Now, one could say, Joyce's drama-weary ears had been was saved by the bell.  But Linda's ring-tone couldn't save anything.  She walked into her bedroom, and shut the door.

We all know the old saying: "Mothers know..."

Joyce glanced at the calendar hanging on the refrigerator.  Soon, Feburary would give way to March.  While not wanting to wish her life away, this winter - and the one before, and it seemed like, the one before that - had been brutal.  Outside, the winds were picking up, again.   All she knew was: come spring,  she wouldn't have the high heating bill - the draft snakes in the windows helped keep down the drafts, but still, that only went so far.  Maybe, just maybe, come mid March, she'd have the money for tires - real tires, not another half-set of three-week wonders.

Seriously, was getting to the point where she was half afraid to take the car much farther than a few miles.  

Bits of conversation seeped - more like creeped... considering who she was talking to.  She didn't like that girl, never did.  Neither did Joyce care much for most the others.  There had been one friend whom Joyce did like, but evidently, Ruth was outs'd - probably for holding fast to atleast a few standards.  

"You go, girl." Joyce offered up a quick prayer for the brown-eyed girl, who rode the same bus and would stop by after school. 

Well Readers, it's getting late in 2022, and past time to climb into the time machine, and head on back.  

Gwin, Part 3: She reached for her cell, and clicked Glen's icon, her other son, who lived nearby.

Being single, he only had himself to get ready for church - and besides, Brian had joined his wife's church...which was okay, but they were somewhat calvinist.  "Glen," is your church on for tomorrow?

"Uh, yeah...why wouldn't it be"?

"If it's okay, would you come by and pick me up?" 

"Mom, I'd be more than happy to take you to yours."

"Mine had to cancel; Pastor blew out his back, shoveling Thursday; he's okay, just banged up a bit."  Gwin, ever battling, and oftentimes, losing against a proud spirit, added, "I'd drive myself, but the plowguy - and i guess about everyone else, was called south, so I'll meet you out front."

"WHAT??" Her son paused, counted to three, then continued.  "You've not been able to get out...WHY didn't you call one of us?"

Didn't need to."

"MOTHER!!" He paused, and counted again, "What if...

"If, schmif, it's all good."

"I'll be over later on, to plow your drive."

Sunday morning:

Glen unzipped his jacket, but didn't yet take it off.  The house was, this side of chill - but, except for living room, and the adjoining parlor, it usually was.  Though the kitchen was moderately warm, since his mom had made bacon, eggs, biscuits, and fried taters, and coffee.  

Nope, he wasn't about to the senior-living speel-route.  Know-it-all, didn't know everything.  Glen's job as a delivery dispatch...well, there were things he had gotten wind of, which most people either didn't know about, or care to know about - or both.  Suffice to say, he had reason to stand firm, on the fact, that old folks - if possible - were better off living in their own homes.  

The Grove...my arse!  

And yeah, there was a history of sibbling rivalry.  Brian had things, which Glen wanted.  Namely, a wifely wife and children, but...considering what's out there...nuh uh, no thanks.  How'd he rate?  Glen stirred his coffee, green devil, be gone.  He reached for seconds.  And yeah, he needed to hit the gym, but Dear Reader, that's all easy enough to say, when your business has well staffed. 

Needful to say, this story's incel hero would be back on the phones, this afternoon.  Jimmy was piling snow somewhere in Maryland, and wouldn't be back until tuesday.  As for Ha-ha-hhaankk?  No, he was gone - period.

The service:

Son and Mom met in the corridor outside the sanctuary.  "Did you enjoy the class?"

"Yes I did." While they took their seats, Gwin briefed what the elder group had been studying.  Glen likewise briefed a missionary's topic given during the men's fellowship class.  Though, he didn't go into detail; the happenings in a certain major u.s. city, Glen didn't think, was appropriate for his mother's ears - besides, such would only distress her.  

Gwin looked across the aisle, to what appeared to be a familiar face.  Was that ...?  No, couldn't be...church would be the last place.  A stately puritan hymn resounded from the piano, a few moments later, one of the elders led the congregation in prayer.  Following, was another puritan hymn, the lyrics from out of the 17th or 18th century.  A few quick announcements, then came the sermon.  

Oh it was a long one.  Gwin had no choice but to have to arise and visit the "Ladies" room.  Which was no shame; there had been several others, who also had to take the same call - one, a middle-aged man.

Thankfully, the facilities were near by, so Gwin didn't miss much.  Sitting back down, that somewhat familiar face, somewhat turned in her direction.  Familiar, but different.  And where?  No, not the grocery store.  Meanwhile, the pastor came to a verse concerning employees.  

That's where!  And that's when Gwin realized what was different about the approaching-middle-aged woman.  Her hair wasn't so green.  

Later in the afternoon:

Gwin was at home, redoing a hem in one of the faded curtains, she'd recently pulled out of the dryer.  They were pale green, a bit paler than their last washing.  Finishing the hem, some other things came together.  While Gwin had enough to keep her busy, simply doing her job, and so, little time, or interes, in the latest gossip.  

Oh, so that's why gruesome hasn't been hanging with twosome - and vice-versa.  All's Gwin knew was, the one who, evidently, had began her journey upon the narrow road, needed, right now, most of all, privacy and space.

Thank You, Lord Jesus, Gwin looked up, tossed the panel aside, and did a twirl.

Shelby, Part 2: She couldn't have asked for a better family to marry into. Even the, inevitable, points of contention

had an element of humor.   Several weeks ago, the main point had, again surfaced.  It had been a wednesday... no wait, tuesday, because that was the day it had snowed.  While the boys were working on their math, Shelby called Gwin at work, but she'd called off because of the front moving in.  Anyway, she and the children stopped over to see if Gwin had what she needed.  Anyway, between the chit-chat, the dining room light switch surfaced.  Needful to say, it wasn't a big deal, Shell had it fixed in about a half hour.  

Unfortunately, she had left her cell sitting in the car, and Brian was trying to get hold of her.   Shortly later, guess who pulls in the drive, and the snow was beginning to lay.  He hadn't been in the door for two minutes, when he announced:  "Mom, you need to sell the house."

"I don't want to sell our house"  Yes, Dear Reader, after ten years, it remained "our."

"But Mom, fifteen rooms..."

"Fourteen rooms."

"But you have the seven upstairs rooms..."

"Six rooms, the enclosed balcony doesn't count."

"And about half the downstairs closed off."

"So!"

"Still, your heat hemorrhages."

"Why I run the woodstove."

MOM, you're pushing 70!"

"I love you too."

Then came the speel about "The Glades"  And how the sale of the house and the surrounding acreage, could afford her to live quite nicely, within reason of course, in that rather coveted senior apartment community.

"Ah ain't livin' in no geriatric ho house!"

"Mmomm!" Shelby's eyes widened.

Quickly, a set of parental hands, went forth to cover the ears of the couple's middle child.  

Too late!

"Daddy, what's a ho house?"

"Never mind!"  The response came in union.

Shelby, Part 1: "Coats!" Our homeschooling mom announced to both sons, before they had the chance to run up the kitchen stairs.

She had heard her husband's stories, of he and his brothers and sister growing up here.  Stories she enjoyed hearing.  Having been the only child of an apartment manager, while the complex was nice - and had not only tennis courts, but a spacious swimming pool, still, the units had been small, and most of the neighbors were child-free - some had been evangelically so.  But she harbored no regrets.  Her father hadn't always been successful in getting an electrician or a plumber when needed.  So, of course, he, more than a few times did the repair work - or rigged something until the contractor was able to fix/replace whatever.  In short, she had acquired a decent set of do-it-yourself skills.  Skills which came in handy for a one-income family of five - with, Lord willing, number six on the way.  

She peered around the corner, glancing into the entrance to a room beyond the living room.  "Callie, out of there, that's Grammie's space."  Her daughter tottled out, coloring book and a box of crayons in hand.  She set both upon an ottoman; her attention was drawn by movement outside.  The little girl ran over to the window and watched several deer grazing in the side field.

The muffled thunk of a plate, followed by a metal canister, sounded from behind Shelby's turned back.  She turned toward the table before her.  Oh brother!  

 

"I didn't have enough bananas." Gwin set a date nut loaf on the table, next to a shallow bowl containing cheese slices.  On the other side, sat a plate of broccoli, cauliflower and dip.  And of course, the tin half full of some kind of german cookies Gwin had made before the holidays.  

"Callie, come on out here for bit." Her mother called. "Mamma, the deer..."  "Honey it's getting too dark to see them, come on out here."

From a room, across the hallway, a rustle of papers was followed up by the sound of a desk drawer being closed.  Brian s eyes lit up at the bounty before him. "Boys," he shouted up the steps, "it's time to come down."  Footfalls, bounded down from the second flight, then onto the first.

"Cookies!"  The younger exclaimed, while the older reached for a glass of milk and a piece of cheese.  

"Matt, just one for now."  Shelby chided, we're all going to go eat soon."  She then reached for one of the veggies, and slathered it in dip - not just any dip, this stuff was ambrosia; Gwin had made it herself.  How she had the time?  Considering, her mother-in-law worked full-time, plus the commute.  One thing Shell knew was: having a big kitchen, made a big difference.  

Brian and she were both working toward that - a house, rooms, each with plenty of room.  

Gwinnie, Part 2. She wasn't even halfway down the basement corridor, when her ears were assaulted

by the screeching and pounding of whatever was playing through the speaker.  Either most were used to whatever mumbled screaming passed as lyrics, or didn't think it worth the drama that would surely erupt, upon carefully saying something along the lines that the (typically) repeated lines were less-than workplace appropriate.  Gwinnie, would have brought her ear-plugs, but there was one small problem with that.  She needed to hear what Chad said about the package.  While transacting normal business, he leaned in a bit closer and, in his low raspy voice told her, his last day was the friday after next.  He then turned his head slightly, nodding toward the speaker.  "Caint deal with this anymore."  His facial expression, per previous conversations, said enough - that he wasn't sure how he'd manage, then audibly added, "The Lord takes care of His own."  While waiting for the cart to be brought over from another area, they chit-chatted a bit.  

"Oh my stars!" Gwinnie gasped at what she may have heard, pouring from the speaker, but really didn't want to know.   She then blushed, adding, "Guess i need to get with the death-metal program...Not!"  Concluding their business, and a few more lines of chit-chat, she pushed her cart toward the elevator.  Two other individuals, who'd just seconds ago, had passed her in the corridor, got into the car; the larger of the pair pushed the button for the door to close - before Gwinnine had a chance to wheel the small cart inside.  As usual, one of the other three cars was down - and probably would remain so, for want of someone to come fix it.  

On the way up, gruesome cackled to twosome something about old people calling things by obsolete names.  Dear Reader, "death metal" was so 2010; wasn't even the same genre...well actually it was, only "vamp" - short for "vampire rock" was (predictably) more ear-splittingly obscene than the former had been pemitted.

Several hours later:

Fortunately, public-trans had a policy which, for passanger-safety purposes, banned any form of audio that played above annoying decibel levels.  So, the bus ride, to and from, was usually reasonably quiet.

Gwin took a seat toward the back, while she preferred toward the front, an empty seat was an empty seat.  Maybe, in another ten or twenty years, the fiasco of 2020 and 2021 would become forgotten - but probably not.  While she didn't have a problem sharing a seat - after all, it was a bus ride, not a marriage - many took issue with sharing ... well, anything.  

Settling for pm run, she mused about her evening.  The curtains in one of the upstairs bedrooms were about due to be taken down and washed.  They were faded, but still do-able.  She'd heard enough commute and workplace conversations to figure out how and why people, who didn't intend to - fell into serious debt.  Barely made minimums,  as a result of keeping up with the bling-borg - yeah, the same crew who wouldn't float ya a $20 if your very life depended upon it.  

Making herself a mental note to check the vac-bag before running the upstairs sweeper, which was parked behind a door in the back hallway ... oh wait, wasn't the vac sitting in the corner of the second room on the third floor?   She then texted one of her daughter-in-laws, "How much do you want for the qwik-vic?"  

The bus jerked.  Probably someone had run a red.  From the back, erupted various grumbled curses.  Barely a mile or two down the highway, the, eh...language waxed louder.  Ugh, she so wanted to tell them to shut up, but even to utter a polite, "Please..." would only exacerbate the snarling.

"Bing!"  A second or so later, someone a few seats behind began quarreling on the cell, with what sounded like a domestic partner.  Youch, that was harsh!  Gwin rolling her eyes caught an ad posted along the upper part of the bus interior.  Something about about an upcoming V-day rally.  Pictured, of course, was a typical crowd of drabs-to-be - their face paint resembled more like an army of picts going up against rome...yeah and about as profitable.  Boy, did they look mad - no candy last Valentine's...guess this one wasn't looking too promising either.  In the very back, a break-up that shoulda already happened, was gearing up.  Gwin was no goody-two-shoes, but if she had to hear that f-word one more time, on this trip...  Ugh, not that it helped the bomb came from "mouth" sitting a seat or two away from break-up.  Oh brother...

Reason Number Two to put in the papers.  

"Bbluup-bbluup!" That was Gwin's cell.  The text read: "Banana bread :):):), I'll bring the vic over on friday."

Gwinnie, Part 1 - she about ran out of there, and headed downstairs, where another facility

would, hopefully, be either unoccupied, or only being used for it's intent.  Gwinnie had to pee.  Back to her desk, she gave the report a final look-over, then half chided herself for having, again, put nature on hold; at her age?  Not wise.  She forwarded the two pages of figures, then created a new template, with the changes, for next time.  

Next time.   Well considering what she, a few minutes ago, had witnessed - and she wasn't sure, what ... and, frankly, didn't want to know ... ew!   From the thunk of a cellphone hitting the floor - and one of the individuals grasping to retrieve it - probably a video being made; a typical click-bait, one that would garner towards a certain - still illicit - drug that came in one or two ounce bottles.

Still illegal - well, on paper, that is; it's use, however, was gaining popularity in leaps and bounds.  Only a few years ago, such - bottled in crystal - was only partaken by the wealthy.  Wasn't long after, the drug began appearing in plain glass; the formula being made somewhat affordable to the upper middle-class.  Recently, however, the stuff had been making its way, in one-ounce plastic bottles.  But still, even the cheap stuff, more often than not, came before things like, groceries, rent, tires - containing traction on them...yeah, that was another up-and-coming industry: pseudo-racers - yep, a $50 could get ya between inspections with one, maybe two, low-to-no treads.

Balding tires.  Last winter, a law had been passed, allowing police to ticket, but we all know the drill - the police were not only short-staffed, their average age had just crept a year or two higher; was now something like 44.  So, people adjusted.  Commuters took extra precautions when crossing the street on rainy/icy days.  And just tightened their belts come time to pay the auto insurance premium. 

While the very real commute hazards also served a handy excuse to sponge off others, there was more money in working, or pretending to.  Weather-related commute-issues, such almost sealed Gwinnie's decision, the previous late october, to put in her retirement papers.  Almost...yeah that car, the one with the blaring - and obviously tattered - speakers, had come within, like two inches.  

But our workaday heroine had, decades ago, asked the Lord Jesus to save her from a life of sin, and son's wages of eternal death.  So yeah, when that grunge-wagon nearly flattened Gwinnie, sure, she had been upset, and trembled a bit, yet a few hours later, basically forgot about it.

"But you were almost killed!"  Gwinnie had also been encouraged to press charges.   One thing for sure, AI wasn't playing foo-fooball (or whatever it was called) as he/she/it/they monitored the (everywhere) cameras.  Within, not even 12 hours, she had been contacted by three ... no wait, four attorneys.  

Amazing how word got around.  Wasn't like Gwinnie got on farcebook - ya have to create an account for that, as with several other platforms.  Nope, she wasn't interested in telling her business to ... whatever was droning out there.  But still, she had been urged to sue.  Sue for what?  Oh that's right...make up a boo-hoo  list, of several of the latest traumas - experienced, while not even a scratch resulted.

Yeah, while the restaurant and clothing industries was not doing well, the lawsuit industry was raking in serious money.  So, what was the name for the ongoing trauma, suffered after shelling out several thousand, only to receive automated phone-calls, prompting you to respond, only to be connected to "your call is very important to us, please wait for the next ..."  

No thanks!  Gwinnie had had her fill, a few years ago, when her fairly new washer had quit.  Her husband would have put the hammer down, but he was gone.  And per the things he did, (not merely said) she was reasonably assured, he sure didn't want to come back to this sullen, sin-worn world - complete with automated messages that lie like wet area rugs.

More later.

Women riding the cad-carousel. What are they thinking? Could it be,

they sort of know - even in their early 20s - they're basically amazon packages - of merchandise, with a shelf-life of about 10 years.  So, being schooled in evolutionary science, ("so called") where you only live once, and life being short, and then you die - like an old tv.  Well, why not have some fun (if that's what ya wanna call it) while you can!  

Do these riders think about getting old?  Probably, being on a modern-day evolutionary-survival mode, broaching the very idea of one day being 30-something, is likely to be abruptly dismissed - sort of how an evangelical atheist dismisses the very concept of eternity, one where BibleGod holds all the cards.

Cad riders also ride cars, busses and trains.  So, these still-hot women see wall and post-wall women lugging totes/pushing baby- carriages, and ever rushing to work - only to see their wages going everywhere...with barely a $20 to buy themselves a little reward, for all their work and worry.  Yep, the walls appear to have several things in common.  Number one:  they all look tired, and rather drab.  Number two: despondent.  And Number three, being on about non-stop survival-mode, the dolls want no parts of that crowd of drudges.

Years ago, when the oldest of today's bloggers were little children, post/wall women took busses into town.  Back then, the busstop benches were clean and feet-free; freaky people would have to freak elsewhere - because there was always a cop nearby, who'd run em off.  Anyway, the older women could sit on the benches, without fear of ruining their coats and dresses - back then, clothing was expensive and money was tight.  

Oh, by the way, back then children, weren't told they were just hairless primates.  Many teachers, even unsaved teachers, would start the day with a verse from (King James) Scripture and a pledge to the united states flag - guess in england, the class sang "God Save...[whomever was king or queen]."

Sure, the women back then were busy, and  tired, but the lovely floral panels, made a 50 or 60-ish woman appear some years younger and pounds thinner.   Generously cut fabric...yeah, good old-fashioned quality, does that.

Here in the 21st century, see it all the time...the same-old shades of ill-fitting drab, accentuating every roll.  While putting on pounds is a middle-age thing, whatever happened to privacy?  Really, does the world need to know that Sally carries some 20 excess pounds around her midsection?

And by the way, today's everything-in-yer-face-fashion causes our "brothers to stumble" in various directions ... one being mgtow.

"Looks like they were shredding a book." That's what the clerk across the hall said.

And no, he wasn't able to clear it either.  Got me to wondering.  Was the person..?  The same individual who walked by, carrying a stack of what looked like personal mail..?  What's really funny ... not funny, is the same person with the stack, a few weeks earlier,  had told me, point blank, "The shredder is jammed."  Wanted to say, "ya don't say!"  But i didn't ;)   Richie's tone was as if i'm one of the kitchen help - oh well, no big deal.  Anyway, it sure was jammed.  Choaked, with pieces of that busy bank statement, and yeah, enough of the account holder's name...

Per the last post, bring your personal drama to work?  Might come to a blogger near you.  

All's i know is, the next day when there was some work papers to be shredded, had ended up going across the hall to use theirs.  Well, that's no longer an option.  What next?  Another floor?  That is, if richie-pseudo-rich doesn't get there first.  That would be rude, by the way - sort of like walking into a neighbor's house without knocking.  

All's i know is, richie must have been in a hurry.  Why?  It's not like the supervisors are around every corner, every day.  Why not shread the personal drama two, maybe three, sheets at a time?  There's time for that, there was never a line at either machine. Maybe there's an element of embarrassment of secrecy; something being sent to the residence for which a domestic partner may have issues?  Don't know.  Whatever the situation, it shouldn't be a workplace problem. 

Per the last post, it's only a matter of time, before management will have to step in - as if they don't have enough to deal with.  Ugh!

Bring your personal drama into the office? Don't be surprised if someone, a few cubes over, gets wind of it, and then

posts the incident on her blog.  Yeah, doing that right now, and could spit bullets.  Our shredder clogger is back in business.  You'd think, after jamming up our shredder - this time, it's so clogged, i can't fix it - el clogger, would have gotten the hint, and bought a shredder for personal use at home.  You'd think...

Nope.  Why, a shredder for use at home costs ... wow we ... like $60 dollars.  Guess you can get them cheaper, but then you end up buying another shredder soon after.  Nope.  Spending money on mere practical stuff, take dollars away from playing rich.  

Uhm, having loosened some of that jammed paper, was able to see a name, and part of a very busy bank statement.  Sitting at the front desk, right by the door...yeah, gonna see things.  Things i wouldn't know about, if they - the handfulls of (plastic coated) papers and eye-catching envelopes were dealt with at home.   By the way, the neither does our office use, nor do the offices with whom we communicate.  So these shredder choakers, do not come from our supply closet, nor that of our business partners.

But that's not the half of it.  Our shredder is down, and of cccoooouuuurrrrssse, it takes special tools to take it apart to clear the jam.  (Heaven forbid, this stuff would be low-hassles to fix, but most stuff is designed by reprobate$ ... and repros be repros, they do what they do.)

Okay, now the other half.

The shredder in the office across the hall is also jammed.  Like. A. Drum.   And the clerk over there, a young man - with better knowledge than i, of tools and such - was working to clear it.  He was even flummoxed with the mini-mountain.

Grandaddy, you were right about ... some things.

There goes that 80% stat again - but this time, from a KJB preacher. His sermon focused

on women wearing immodest clothing, and how the scanty, flashy fabric raises red flags - warning godly men, don't get involved.  Being a preacher, he has heard the DRO drama.  Listening, seems he's a bit red-pill empathetic - oh well, like alot of his other sermons, because he preaches from the real Bible; and needful to say, can agree to disagree.

As for the 80% stat, of wives initiating divorce?  Googled around a bit (for whatever that's worth ;/) and the major reasons boil down to: women these days have options - we don't have to take crap.  One big reason for wifey finally saying enough was resulting from years of overwork - ya know, both work, but wifey does the second shift, while hubby plays puter-games or just watches the tube.

So, wifey, being pressed for time, will choose convenience-clothing.  T-shirts and yoga-pants are available just about anywhere, and are completely wash, dry and wear; the fabrics don't wrinkle, even if left in the dryer, just pull em out, and put em on.   No buttons to come off, hems to come undone.  When a seam does begin to tear, by that time, the garment has been through the washer a few times, and is about ready for the trash can, anyway.

But here's the wrinkle.  And it shows.  Advertisers know this, they know that women prefer long feminine dresses - complete with petticoats.  Novel publishers know this too - that's why half the bookstore shelves are stocked with paperbacks showing pictures of women adorned in long, full-skirted dresses.  Women want to dress like women, and women know that men prefer women who dress like women.  

But there's no time.   Merely finding a decent dress or two, made from REAL fabric ... good luck with that.  Btw, a certain catalog has several lovely dresses available, but they're all rayon ... or whatever other stifling sort of fake fabric - which at around $130, per dress, may, or may not, wear so well, come next season.  Sure, if you take the time (which busy wives are pressed for) you can find decent cotton dresses for around $90 - "You spent WHAT???"

And ya wonder why, wifey, finally, put a fork in it!

Yep, red-pills blaming and shaming the women again. Red-pill's book-plug was almost funny, but not really.

The ad read:  "Smart women read [mr.red-piller's] books."  In all fairness, he has a title or two which look interesting, and am still thinking about buying one of them.  But anyway, i wonder if he had worked around the ad industry, because the ad was so ... much like an ad.

Above the caption, you see a young woman, wearing a bit too much make-up.  In short, she looked like someone, one wouldn't be surprised to see dancing around a pole / or on a page in a one of those magazines, which normally you won't see sitting, on the coffee table, alongside newzworld or hikers'planet.

By the way, women who become involved in those lines of work, usually are sweet-talked, are promised quick money (ya know, to pay for mounting college debt).  Nine chances out of ten, they'll end up doing drugs, because club / video realities are disgusting.

So, there she is, sitting at a kitchen table, soft-cover book, in one hand.  In her other hand, she is holding what appears to be a thickly frosted mini-muffin, which she had recently prepared.  She was still wearing an apron.  And no, of course she isn't going to eat what she had mixed, baked, and afterwards washed the bowls, spoons and pans.  Not if she wants to keep her figure.  

The apron, evidently, served another purpose.  Had she gotten any of that pink icing on her, wouldn't have posed much a stain-removal issue - she didn't seem to be wearing all that much under the apron.

  

Okay, this post may tick off a few people, but hey, freedom to express opinions. Cannot, and will not blame employers

for wanting their staff to return to the worksite.  Employers are still paying utility bills and rent for spaces which are largely unoccupied.  And yeah, bosses can purchase spyware, to make sure their working-from-home staff are actually doing their jobs.  Don't know what that costs, but it's probably not cheap.  All's i know is, saw an article where employers want their staff onsite, and some employers are basically saying: if you want to work at home, in yer jimmy-jams, then find another job.

The bus driver just said she hopes this mask-lifting will bring back more commuters - she depends on her paycheck.  And so do the stores and restaurants in town - many which have closed ... because too many people would rather eat both breakfast and lunch while still in their jimmy-jams.

Just my opinion, take it or leave it.  Have noticed, that remaining in my nightgown for any amount of time, seriously detracts from motivation to get things done.  Sure, will sew or sweep the floor, wash some dishes, and in general tidy up.  But that's my work, not work for which someone else is paying me.  Maybe it's just me, but while on someone else's timetable, for motivation purposes, wanna be dressed, in a real dress, and with real shoes on my feet.

Per the last post, concerning that video - which out-meaned any high-school mean girl, brought to mind,

a certain business meeting.  The one, we all bad to listen up to.  It had dealt with opioid addiction.  Well, we all know that a higher percentage of addicts to booze and drugs tends to be among the male population.  Though frankly, because opioids are prescribed by doctors, i figured that was more a woman problem.  Nope.  

Anyway, we all know that substance addiction is bad - and it evidences really self-centered hearts.  Seriously, talk to the spouse, or children, of a (so-called) "functional" drunkard.  Better yet, visit an alanon website/blog.  You'll find accounts of the drunk accusing, name-calling, projecting, lying ... and whatever other vicious little games.

Seriously, it's one thing to live under the iron yoke of "please remit" statements arrayed each month in the mailbox.  But it's SO another to be cursed at ... for really, no reason...other than breathing.  

Oh, but that's not all.  There's more to addictions than booze, pills and dope.  There's video games and tee-vee...ya know the drill... Come in from WORKING all day, get supper on, clean that up, qwik-fold the laundry - that was left in the dryer, because yesterday...no time, just drama...all the while, the same-old same-old you-know-who video gaming, and flinging the usual yer-just-a-frigid-beech railings.  And isn't it funny - no it's not - how there's money for golf/fishing gear, but no money to hire someone to come in for an hour or two, once a week to vac the carpets and clean the counters.

If the stats be 80%...?  Well, that's what the red-pills - and their (churchian) suck-ups are saying.  Anyway, if the stat is basically true...uhm, yyeaah, go figure!

What? Are these guys clueless? Started watching a video, entitled...evidently...

What's funny is, they hurl that same accusation toward women.  Anyway, the video was entitled, something like, "Hooking Up, Great for Men (if that's what ya wanna call em) Bad for Women."  First off, casual sex is called "fornication" in the Bible - and there, the only place where the news ya get is actually TRUE - the news gets much worse for unrepentant fornicators.  Can ya spell, "lake of fire."  Yeah i get it, most people gloss over that eternally horrible FACT.

Okay, moving right along...to life in the here and now.  While some, if not most veneral diseases can be cured, still, there's the hassle for player - and most the cost paid through insurance (yer premiums at work, folks).  But not all VDs are fixed through a visit to the doctor and a quick drive to the drug store.  Some of those diseases are like pity-ploy sofa-surfers - they don't wanna leave, but they sure leave a mess, and you can't be sure what you'll come home to, after getting off work each day.  

Btw, had a co-worker, who had a surfer staying with her, and wouldn't get his act together.  Any wonder she was miserable...sick of coming home and smelling pot smoke - that crap gets in your clothes.  

Anyway, anyone - christian or not - knows that a nation of hookers and hookees will only produce the next generation of the same (that is, the babies who don't end up in the dumpster behind the abortion facility).  And we all know that kids who are born out of wedlock tend to grow up with a chip on their shoulder.  Well yeah?  Kids aren't stupid, they know - even if they're not mature enough to articulate - kids know whether or not their parents love them, or barely tolerate their being around.

Anyway, listened to the playah-blather, for about three minutes, and then backed out - in favor of something far better to listen to.  Yep, a sermon given by a King James preacher - ya know, a REAL man. :)  One brave (YES, BRAVE) enough to risk getting his face punched in - he street-preaches in a major city...one where those riots took place.  It's no breaking news that when ya preach the Gospel ... and don't soft-soap the fact that God throws unrepentant sinners into hell ... uh, while most people just roll their eyes, laugh, and walk away ... a few get angry, and vicious.

Godda get ready for work, bye.

Dating myself :) i am old enough to remember racist attitudes. What i recall most is: yes, there were prejudices among the adults, while

at the same time, various words - which i refuse to spell out, because such are just flat out UNGODLY - period!  Just take a glance at the Scriptures, and it won't take long to come upon, what the Lord thinks of clay-pottie pride.  In other words, when ya think yer better than so-n-so, because yer people came from...wherever, while so-n-so's folks came from ...  That's called haughtiness, pride ... and that doesn't sit too well with the King of kings - He holds all the cards.

Anyway, having grown up in a nominal (if even that) christian household, somehow i knew - what a 7 year-oldish mind was not mature enough to articulate - that people who sling the n-word and such, have been - almost to a man (or woman) the sort of people who didn't much trouble themselves to do routine maintenance...ya know, let their grass grow almost a foot, and then beef about the g*d* rain.  The same people were the type to let dirty dishes pile in the sink ... oh, and don't even think of opening the frig door.  And while yer at it, don't sit anywhere - that is, if there's even any place to sit.

Yep, the same sort of people who would accuse a certain other race of people of being shiftless and lazy, when in fact the accusers took 1st prize in that category.  

Was about 7 when i learned in school about slavery.  The first thought in my mind was the slave-owners had slaves, because they (the owners) were too lazy to do their own work.

Per last post, "ame" is a spelling error, but am going to leave it, as is. That way,

mr/s ai may overlook.  Which brings the next point.  When free speech/writing is muzzled, men, generally, have a more difficult time of dealing with censorship, than do women.  When men are not allowed to discuss things with one another - and tthhheeeennn, are also NOT allowed to get angry, as a result of being stifled...oh, not healthy...for anyone.

Not safe either.

Women, generally, don't take this muzzling to heart as much - we gals have been told to just shut-th'...up for the last 6k years, so we gals are used to being cancelled.  It happens. We just cry in our coffee, or go buy another pair of shoes.

One thing that is gender-inclusive, however, is:  humans don't come with on-and-off switches.  When a man (for-real christian, or not) is out in the world and sees obvious things going on, that are wrong/destructive, and he is not allowed to even broach the issue - let alone work toward a solution - it's going to gnaw at him, when he's back home; sooner or later, he will likely begin questioning his own sanity.  

While neurotic women simply go "running to the shelter of a mother's little helper" (rolling stones) - in short, the drama is rather easily contained.  

Not so with men, who've been too long invalidated.  

"How do we effect your marriage?" Okay, am going to take a concerted effort to answer politely. First off,

your butting into everything - oh wait, the normal rest-of-us need take the blame, for not having run you wicked freakoids out of town, from the get go.  And yeah, i know enough of Scripture to know, your very existence evidences, our society is under the Lord's judgment...and it's only a matter of time before things get really ugly.

But this post is about today's marriages between men (xy chromo) and women (xx) - and yeah, there's like a fraction of a half percent of individuals who are other than xy or xx, but this post is about the majority of people.   Our marriages are adversely effected by the ungodly and unnatural blurring of gender lines.  These days most husbands view their wives as more like ame-sex roommates-with-benefits (ew...); wives are expected to work full-time, but still make the meals, keep the house, mind the kids, mend the clothes...  

Out in the work world, she must compete - like any other droid.  And ya wonder why, she cops a loud mouth - complete with foul language?  And it's no big wonder she ditches her tresses for a wash-and-towel-dry butch-cut, and pulls on pairs of stretch-trousers, because skirts and petticoats...?  They take time; she has way too little of that.  

So, uhm yeaahh...by the time wifey hits her mid-thirties, she isn't who you married.  Rendered beyond careworn, she not only has lost her youth, circumstances have caused wifey to lose her very identity, her personhood, as a woman.  Btw, female is what the Lord (i.e., King of kings) created her to be.

And YIKES, this confusion has long crept into the church; any wonder, men want no parts of listening to preaching, singing hymns.  The real ones (i.e., the masculine hymns) have been years ripped out and replaced with sissified ones - no wonder people more mumble, than sing; once again, we normie churchgoers are to blame for listening to a bunch of butch-cut mealymouths...ugh.

But more on this later, godda get to work.

Not surprised - hardly an hour or so ago, a whIne barrel rooled its way onto my newsfeed.

Ya know, the same-old same-old men-are-on-their-own, while women-have-Daddy-Gubment.  Yeah??  Because even Bible-bashers have atleast some grip on reality - that Men are able to do ALOT of things, that women ... ugh, won't be able to pull off so well, without help.  Yep kiddies, there are two genders, and they're different from each other - have different skills and priorities.

While listening to the last video, the host was going on about women spending money on stuff - cosmetics, a later model car, and wanting a new floor (while the old one was just fine).  Anyway, had a brain storm.  Could it be, the bitter-bachelor society has yet to figure out, that - while ms.proverbs7 is really hot, where that all leads...a hot place, infinitely worse than lawyer bills and dro notices.  Anyway, got beef?  Take that up with the Author of Proverbs (and the other 65 Books).

So, the video host goes on.  And yeah, he provided some good advice to his red-pill audience.  The minimalist lifestyle.  Yep, Amen to not caving into (unredeemed) society's NAGGING ya-godda-buy-this-n-that...for what?  To impress people you really don't like, that's what.

Maybe, somewhere along the way, he'd gotten the memo about the needs of the 90%.  Anyway, yay.  He went on to describe joe-bachelor - living his life, working a job that he likes (or atleast doesn't dread monday mornings) going to the gym afterward, getting together with friends, and being just fine watching videos in his small apartment.  With no relationship drama, a man (or woman) can live reasonably cheap.

Come to think of it, yet another one of the Lord's (temporal) blessings.  Men are able to live more frugally than women; men generally cut their own grass, fix their own lawnmowers.  In winter, men can shovel twice the snow a woman can.  (Older) men climb ladders, (old) women..., eh, not so much - balance issues, ya know ;/.   Men's clothing is sensibly made, and lasts longer - while fashion designers score big profits through cutting skimpy proverbs7 patterns, and shuddy-buhdying the chincy pieces together for all women.  When a man's washer quits, he probably has an idea why it quit and might be able to fix it - while a woman will probably just reach for her phone, and dial a number.  

So, concerning the host's raman-noodle  reminisce of his college days - while his attractive female classmates, having no food, and two dollars to get them to the day after tomorrow, had instead enjoyed going on dates, which started with a nice meal at a decent restaurant, an hour or so before the movie.  

Things balance out.

"Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning : let us solace ourselves with loves.  For the goodman is not at home, he us gone a long journey : He hath taken a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed."  Proverbs 7:18-20

"Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death."  Proverbs 7:27

Celeb worship. Noticed, more than a bit of that, going on at red-pill sites. And to think, we thought it was women

going on about this and that movie star.  The video that popped up yesterday, went on about some celeb...Brad somebody, i think.  Anyway, whomever is in his mid 40s; he takes up with a 22-something female, and then, when she begins to age out, at around 25-ish, he dumps her, and takes up with another 22-something female - rinse and repeat.  

Oh nevermind, that the marriage bed is undefiled, but God judges fornicators.  Uh, hope all that bedroom fun is worth an eternity of...ouch!

Anyway, this post is about the present, and the seen, the measured - because that's where most people are, and prefer to remain.  Ya know, "no gods, no masters" ... yeah, right :/  (And the same are whining about how and why things are such a mess?  Anyway...)  

Needful to say, these videos and articles, designed to help young guys deal their present situations, don't offer much help.  Why?  Because, most guys will not become movie or sports stars.  Most men (and most women) - pray all they will to chakras, or whatever other (masked) demon spirits - won't score anything near a million in the bank.  The reality is:  most people thank their lucky stars for having enough money to buy food and pay bills.

More on this later, bye.

"Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled : but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge."  Hebrews 13:4

"Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants  ye are to whom ye obey ; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness." Romans 6:16

There they go again - rolling out the wine barrel. You know, "men age like wine, women age

like milk."   Yeah wine does age - and it can age into semi-vinegar.  Was reading a post about wine-making; thanks to modern science, the wines of today turn out better than the wines of yesteryear.  Back in the old days, much of it didn't turn out so well - only the wealthy got the better stuff.  But back then, you made do ... wasn't like you had the choice of four different soft drinks, sweet tea or lemonade.  As for the water??  A tall glass of that could give you serious runs, if not worse.

Today's wine is better.  Buy a bottle of... whatever, and you can expect that it will taste just like the bottle you served at the last get-together.   But still - and maybe it's just me, maybe that "bitter" aftertaste is the alcohol.   i don't know, but i do know what vinegar taste like.

As for milk, isn't sour cream milk?  Alot of uses for sour cream - on baked taters, and lots of it :)  A main ingredient for salad dressings and veggie dips... (homemade stuff, without the INSANE amounts of sugar that goes into everything).  Cookies - made from scratch, with half the sugar, where you can actually taste the cookie...whoda thunk;/  Anyway, had to pass up this and that baked goods recipe, because it called for sour milk.  Didn't have any fresh milk in the house - let alone any sour milk.   

One thing for sure, with sour milk and sour cream: you can pile on the dressing and eat two slices of the cake, and not have to worry about the cops pulling you over.

"Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging : and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise."  Proverbs 20:1

Why are young attractive women riding the carousel? Could it be, a diversion from the

daily trod upon career-track stones (which creep into shoes) icy mud and...surprise, surprise pot holes?   Surely, college-educated women aren't totally stupid; surely they know what a wall is.   But what choice have 22-ish women have?  Spend their youth seeking a husband, have two or three kids...only to end up divorced 15 years later, with minimal education and stuck in a job which barely pays for a dingy apartment.

It happens.  

So, what do you call a career-focused young woman.  Materialistic?   Well considering, she spent 12 years paying attention to her teachers throughout elementary and high school...   Entitled?  Well, if we only have this life, and at the end of it, no white-bearded old deity to answer to, why not grab onto every advantage, while you can...while humming a line from the Who - "Hope I die, before I get old."  (Yep, showing my age :)

Statistically, however, she will get old.  Before she realizes it, she will turn 30-something.  And near the end of her shelf-life, she'll discover that red-pills (formerly known as MRAs, masculinists) are very catty: and do, out-mean, by leaps and bounds, the meanest girls from whom our careerist heroine had kept a wide berth during her high school years.

So yeah, she's bound to wonder if those red-pill guys aren't...eh, sometimes gazing toward the sidewalk, looking for a random $3 bill here or there.  It's easy to call these "aged out" women bitter, but come on, when these guys clique up - and come off like those snooty girls back in high school ... of course ms.wall-woman - reading their petulant little comments - might wonder, if in fact, some of these guys aren't actually...

Speaking of "bitter," there was a bitter old woman in the Scriptures.  Her name was Naomi.  Bitter?  You bet!   She had lost her husband, and her two sons - to a famine.  The word "bitter" also shows up in the New Testament.  Paul was telling husbands to not be "bitter" towards their wives.

"And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara : for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me." Ruth 1:20

"Husbsnds, love your wives, and be not bitter against them."  Colossians 3:19

Pastor Matthew Trewhella REFUSES to be silenced, when he preaches from the Bible. See sidebar for Mercy Seat Christian Church

Yep, he gives no quarter for the silencing slop going on these days.  More than two or three of his sermons deal with a certain topic, one which many social-media platforms forbid even questioning.   Needful to say, per his (and alot of other people's) study of Scripture, reveals, again and again, when you erase the God ordained (and just plain natural, rational) differences between men and women, things get messed up - bad.  In short, society loses its very sanity.

"The wicked walk on every side, when the vilest men are exalted."  Psalm 12:8

Oh, don't cha jus love the way the LORD works :) Okay, real quick - cause there's stuff need to get done - a few days ago,

was a bit bummed out because the thought police nixed two - not just one - of my posts.  What's really funny is, this blog is located along a side street of a side street ... uhm, can ya spell "obscure?"   Oh my goodness, Willie :)  Anyway, since the Bible, in several places tells the Lord's people - especially, women - to be careful about speech, i.e., not run yet yap all over town.  Well, something came up, and i wanted to post about it ... uhm, and maybe five people would read, maybe, part of the short post :) :) :)  Seriously, that's okay, because, since the Lord Himself even determines where even a very proton will go, or not go.  And if scoffers wanna scoff :), oh. have. at. it.  

Anyway, a Man - per a sermon - spoke the Word; and he said things several thousand ways BETTER than i ever could.  Yyyaayy, him - thank You Lord Jesus :)  

Would so love to post the link on my sidebar, but...oh my stars, i better not.  But here's the thing :)  :)  That site gets  plenty of hits.  Take that, politically correct namby-pamby prudes.  Have a nice day :)