Who is your favorite President – besides the obvious choice of our fabulous President Trump?
In our house, it’s President James Knox Polk, 1845-1849.
My son, Gunner, had a project due on an assigned President, and he was uncharacteristically stalling writing his essay. Old Presidents were “old” and not exactly engaging for him. At the time, I knew next to nothing about Polk. My son kept wandering into the kitchen, searching for help from me, trying to get his essay started. In other words, he wanted me to stop what I was doing and help him write his essay. No. Not happening. I won’t do your project for you, but I didn’t want him to die on a vine either.
I prodded him with a few questions about President Polk, and he gave me a brief bio. As the last minute, he mentioned Polk was from Tennessee. I stopped washing dishes, “Where in Tennessee?”, I asked him. Gunner replied, “(mumble)…., somewhere near Nashville”. He was so discouraged, counting tiles on the kitchen floor. His voice and the mumbles came from his chest. He was swinging his arms and playing with his feet. Completely unlike him. We had great history teachers when we were kids. Sad to see him not involved, using his imagination about the time period. Time for an intervention, I thought. “Sounds like a road trip to me!”, I replied.
Road trips are legendary in our house, and at the mere mention of a road trip, Gunner’s attitude did a 180 degree turn. We sauntered into the den to ask husband, “How do you feel about going to Nashville this weekend?” Husband preplans everything and spontaneity is not his strong suit. “When?”, he said, “Tomorrow morning?”, he was almost spasm/panicking. We couldn’t really afford it, true. BUT, I remembered a huge Marriott credit I had, called around, and booked a cheap room. We invited a buddy for Gunner to make it more enjoyable, and I packed snacks and sandwich stuff to save a little bit of money. In less than 12 hours, we were on the road….. looking for adventure.
Before we left, I printed off what seemed like a ream of paper, downloaded info on President Polk, and President Jackson, Gunner’s buddy’s President. Along the way, the boys read to us data on the two Presidents. We were brushing up.
We took the scenic route to Nashville, through historic battlefields the kids had never seen, Bloody Pond, and Shiloh. Husband, from Boston, was amazed. The history was coming to life – my eyes twinkled a little – that little seed planted was growing. We talked about what it must have been like, in the midst of a Civil War, while munching on sandwiches from home.
We made our way to Nashville, checked in, and I whipped out the Platinum Amex, guaranteeing an upgrade in room and an early check-in. Wow, did we get a suite. It was like a palace! We stopped at a few historical sites that afternoon, around Nashville, to get into the mood before returning to the hotel. Kids were thrilled and headed to the pool with husband. Exhausted, in-hotel grill food, another Marriott credit, and off to sleep. So far, so good.
The next day, we did the Hermitage, President Jackson’s home, and the assignment of Gunner’s school chum. I love that kid and swear he will be our Governor one day, natural people skills. It was his first vacation outside the state and everything was new and wondrous to him (he wanted to take his hotel pillow home with him). He objected to the price of admission at The Hermitage, so, they let all of us in on student pricing (next to nothing). We spent all day there, wandering, learning, completely absorbed.
Suddenly, as only 8th graders do, they were tired and their “feet were hot”. They thought the only cure would be the hotel pool. Home we went to the hotel, more in-hotel pool grill food and very tired young men.
Next morning, we were off to Polk’s home, shown above, and again, we were lucky. Three docents and we were the only ones there. Polk is not nearly as popular as Jackson. The docents were thrilled we showed up and told those kids stories all day long. Best history teachers – ever. They even took us to the store-rooms. We were sitting on crates as they spun tales of the Texas-Mexico Wars, Stonewall Jackson, a YOUNG America, and the push “from sea to shining sea” = Manifest Destiny. Even my husband was wide-eyed. The kids were hanging on their every word. Great teachers are truly a gift. They closed for lunch but asked us to come back after lunch – they promised a surprise.
I wondered how a little museum could get any better, but dutifully, we went to lunch and returned to the docents. They knew Gunner had to do a school report on Polk and that’s why we were there. They took us to another room, and outfitted us all with gloves and masks. They let the kids handle historical archives, old guns, clothing, speeches – and they explained the policy behind the speech. It was like being in the world’s greatest attic but also a research lab with chemicals and weird lighting. The whole time, they stressed how important it was to preserve history and the art of preservation. I watched my son handle a letter from Polk to Jackson, his mentor, and my son was holding it like it was the Gutenberg Bible or the Declaration of Independence. It was so cute. But the young grad student was a male and connected extremely well with the kids.
After our lesson on historic preservation, the docents presented my son with a large frame of Polk’s campaign token cards, elaborately printed ribbons, pictures, and paraphernalia from his inauguration. My son froze (and so did I). It was surreal, like the President wasn’t really dead, but passing his legacy to a future generation. Reaching, forward to the future, to inspire. Gunner was speechless but understood the importance. Message received loud and clear.
The docents took my husband and I aside and cleared that it was just a loan from the museum, and they expected the frame to be returned (which we did). They let us know they checked our address while we were at lunch, but they were beyond kind – not big-brotherish at all. I was blubbering with thanks and appreciation. They came out to the car with us and I carefully wrapped the frame in a blanket. Lots of hugs for goodbye. One docent, a retired teacher, hugged me and whispered in my ear, regarding my son, “You make sure to watch over him, he’s a special one.”, like she knew a secret. Still embraced, I looked at her, searching for the secret through her eyes. She had the lightest blue eyes and was still, a striking woman. “I know”, I whispered in her ear. About that time, my son hugged her from the back and caught both of us. The best of days.
When we got in the car to go home, husband turned to me in a deadpan stare and said, “I love the south, that would NEVER have happened in Boston”. I couldn’t believe it happened… anywhere.
It was was mid-afternoon and we planned on taking the expressway home – fast route. “NO!!!!”, came the objections from the back seat. They wanted to take the scenic route home again. I shifted in my seat, fighting a stupid seatbelt, to look to the back, “How come?”, I asked. My son’s buddy piped up and said, “We have to say goodbye.” and my son nodded, “Yeah”. I glanced at my husband, and he nodded in agreement, “And so it shall be done”. Within 30 minutes we were out of the city on a two-lane road. I was staring at the white dash lines on the road as they flipped by. “They wanted to say goodbye”, I thought, as if those men weren’t dead, “Gone but not forgotten” took on a new meaning.
Both boys got an “A” on their papers and presentations. My husband INSISTED that he did not trust FEDEX (the most reliable courier on the planet) to return the Polk frame and in one day, drove 4 1/2 hours to Nashville and 4 1/2 hours home. I do love that man. He also wrote a handsome check to the museum. A few weeks later, a package arrived from Nashville for my son. It was a faded campaign ribbon from President Polk, with a packet of copies from his speeches. The message was handwritten and simple, “Know your history and be inspired.”
It’s no surprise, Gunner still talks about Polk, years later. The Polk campaign ribbon is the tree topper for his Christmas tree. His electives are history classes and he’s an avid reader, usually historical, war, strategy related.
Moral of the story: Find a great teacher, wherever they might be, and travel with your kids, even when you cannot really afford it. The payback is priceless.
What did we learn about President Polk? A lot. See below. He was strikingly similar to our President Trump.
Polk oversaw the annexation of Texas, went to war with Mexico and resolved the final problem with Mexico with the Gadsden Purchase, and settled the Oregon Territory (49th parallel) with England. Manifest Destiny was also part of his administration and Polk made it happen through land acquisition. Polk was not expected to be President and agreed to only serve one term, keeping his word. He and his wife were strict Presbyterians, no drinking, and swept out the swill and substantially changed the party atmosphere of the White House. Polk established an independent treasury and what do you know…… substantially lowered tariffs. He worked 16 hour days, nonstop, and kept his cabinet busy on the business of the nation. Polk was relentless. He retired to Nashville and died three months later. For a President, Polk accomplished an incredible amount in 4 short years. Sound familiar?
Yes, the politically correct historians will point out Polk did own slaves, but both he and his wife’s wills freed their slaves upon their death.
Look at Polk’s opinion on tariffs. Polk was “America First”:
“A potential pitfall for Polk’s campaign was the issue of whether the tariff should be for revenue only, or with the intent to protect American industry. Polk finessed the tariff issue in a published letter. Recalling that he had long stated that tariffs should only be sufficient to finance government operations, he maintained that stance, but wrote that within that limitation, government could and should offer “fair and just protection” to American interests, including manufacturers.” http://www.tn4me.org/article.cfm/a_id/194/minor_id/67/major_id/22/era_id/4
Tariffs, for revenue or for the protection of American manufacturers. Who does that sound like to you?????
I won’t bore you with a full dissertation of President Polk but he was fascinating. His time in history was pivotal to what became our America.
Happy President’s Day!

This one is in honor of Nebraska Filly and ZooNTexas. Please, let me slip my arm around your shoulder and give you a tight squeeze. Grab a cup of coffee, settle in, and let me tell you a story.
One bereaved or angry person can ruin the spirit in a room or a group. Most often, it has nothing, whatsoever, to do with us. We’re merely in the line of direct fire. Often, we quickly ascertain something is wrong, and we shun that person. We stay away from conflict. No – wrong. Don’t take offense. Run to the conflict. Be the firefighter or LEO to a friend. Figure out what it is. Dig deep. Let them rail at the stars and get it out. Free them.
For example, if you and your spouse are arguing, fiercely, about whether to have chicken or salmon for dinner, I guarantee, you’re not arguing about what to have for dinner. Figure out the source of the problem, and fix it, no matter how long it takes. Eventually, put your baggage into a suitcase and toss it, or give it up to a higher power as a great, unsolved mystery. Life is too short to live in black sludge.
In life, we can hold on to anger, betrayal, resentments, slights, or we can purge it all and live in the sun. No matter how grievous the pain… no matter how long the process to move through the grief, find someone to help you and hold on tight. What we cannot do, is carry the pain, or the grudge, to our death. If we hang onto it, we rot from the inside, and the rest of humanity is cheated out of our natural gifts. It’s a crime against humanity! We poison everything around us. We become the human version of a legit EPA Superfund Sight = Toxic. Our opponent wins. To hell with that idea. Choose to live!
Let’s start with small steps. Little things. Daily chores. We can work up to bigger problems as we gain strength. We all, at times, have to do chores we would rather not. Okay. We can either have fun while we work, or we can gripe and moan. It’s all about attitude and the will to survive. We CAN have fun going to the grocery store, getting gas, mowing the lawn, or even, ironing!
My mother was consumed with demons, bitter and miserable her entire life. I was lucky, however, and had a dad who could make small mundane tasks seem like fun. He was the sun. And like our tree of refuge, I leaned into the sun for those brief happy moments. I chose to follow his path. He passed his spirit to me, and I passed it to my son and stepdaughters. Yet, I had no idea where his spirit came from….. or that it was born from misery, buried deeply.
We moved from Chicago to New Orleans when I was 10, and our house wasn’t quite finished by the contractor. In August, Dad and I laid sod in the yard. Being from the north, we weren’t used to the humidity. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever again been that hot. Sweat ran down my arms and legs like a river, and a curious thing, collected on my eyelashes. Yet, we drank a gallon of Iced Tea and played in the hose. We had a wonderful day, and we proudly finished the job. We were foul, nasty, smelly, stinky, and could not have been happier.
When I was a little older, I learned my Dad’s great attitude came from his parents,  Grandma Della and Grandpa Earl. If I look back on old photos, my Grandfather is ALWAYS smiling, beaming. His eyes sparkle, as if he was the one who ate the proverbial canary. He was notoriously mischievous. I recall family meals where we laughed so hard, my stomach, rib muscles, would hurt for days afterwards. Grandma Della even made ironing enjoyable…., which is hard to do…, but this story will break your heart and then, make your heart soar.
It’s all about ironing, birds, and the source of great pain, and the purest form of love.
I was 21, finishing college (the first time), and had accepted a job in Manhattan. Thrilled with the opportunity, I was feeling big and bad, full of “femme” power, ready to shake off the dusty little town in Mississippi, and move to the big city. My wardrobe was updated, new luggage purchased, and I was brushing up on my Cosmopolitan Magazine. My attitude needed a gut check, and I got it that day, in the most humbling of ways.
During college, I lived with my grandparents, which was good for them, me, and a lot of fun for us all. One day, midweek, I came home from work for lunch, and Grandma was ironing in the kitchen. I gathered my triscuits. cheese, and leftover grilled chicken, and slid into the deacon’s bench to eat and talk to her. I was staring out the big bay window at the bird feeders when a Chickadee landed. A Chickadee was rare, and I prompted Grandma to look. “Grandma Violet came to visit!”, I said. Chickadees always reminded my grandmother of her mom, but I never knew why…., until that day.
Grandma Della had quite an extraordinary process for ironing. The ironing board was a metal contraption left over from the war (WW2) and weighed almost as much as my grandmother. Grandpa would set it up for her on ironing day. She would wash Grandpa’s white shirts in hot water, Tide and bleach, then, rewash them, with starch added to the mix. She would take the shirts out of the washing machine, straighten them, and roll them up, placing them in a leftover, clean, Wonder Bread wrapper…… and put them in the lowest shelf of the fridge to chill. A “chilled shirt on a hot iron, made the shirt more crisp”, she claimed.
I was watching my grandmother labor in this process and I noticed she closed her eyes when she was almost done with the shirt. She murmured something, spread her hands, eyes still closed, the length of the shirt. Satisfied, she opened her eyes, hung it up, and moved on to the next one. I bit into a triscuit, and watched her. The kitchen was cozy and smelled fresh with the steam from the iron. She did the same thing several times. Breaking the silence but with my mouth full, I asked her what she was doing. Of course, like all 21 year olds who think they know better, I interrupted her before she could speak. I asked, “Why, on earth, don’t you take the shirts to the cleaners?” After all, they could afford it, and it would save her time. She stopped, glared at me, and physically recoiled, as if I had accused her of murdering the neighbor.
She said, “I don’t want to tell you.” What? Huh? Grandma told me everything! I didn’t know she had any secrets. For the first time ever, I looked at my grandmother like she was another woman, not my grandmother. I lowered my voice and sincerely asked her to please, tell me. She sighed deeply, stalling, big breath in and out, and looked at me hard. Whatever was coming, I had the sense it was big.
She told me that she said a small prayer over every shirt she ironed for my grandfather. To her, it was his suit of armor. It was his shield placed BY HER, to keep him safe, throughout his day. She felt that her love, with a little help from God, would protect him…. I could feel the tears sting my eyes. Her love for my grandfather was like a mountain.. like a whole range of mountains.
She pointed at me for emphasis. She reminded me how she always hugged her husband and told him she loved him before he left. She sternly warned me, “You should never (still pointing) take anything for granted, anyone you love can be gone in a flash.” She gestured to the window dismissively, and flatly stated, “Chickadees were not my mother’s favorite, they were my father’s favorite.” She hardly ever spoke of her real father. I knew my great-grandfather died when she was young. My great-grandmother remarried a man named Ross, and they were married for 30+ years. Apparently, my great-grandmother was not feeling well one morning and my great-grandfather let her sleep in when he went to work. He died that day and my great-grandmother never had the chance to say goodbye, to kiss him one more time. It haunted her and Chickadees were a reminder. My grandmother explained, “Chickadees were like a good but bittersweet ghost, who had returned for one final kiss goodbye, just a quick peck on the cheek”. My grandmother, as a young girl, understood, life was precious… and she still missed her father. No wonder she hugged me so hard every time we parted.
The story she told made her tear up. Her grief bubbled to the surface as if it were fresh, although 50 years prior. I comforted her, for the first time, our roles reversed. We embraced and she sobbed on my shoulder. I understood her in a new way never thought possible. She never spoke of her father’s death, and she desperately needed to talk about it. I was astonished at the way she turned her fear of death, into ‘extra’ love for her family and friends. She turned her grief into a positive, without knowing it. It was a ‘thing’ in our family. We always hugged, kissed goodbye, and told each other we loved them when we were separated. As a kid, it sometimes made me impatient. Now, I understood why.
From then on, grandma and I were closer than ever before, not as a familial obligation, but as two people who cared about each other deeply. Gut check to me was received. Priorities reset. I was humbled, a little bit wiser, and grateful.
The years flew by as I whizzed through Manhattan and Miami, finally cashing out to return home. I married and found myself ironing shirts for my first husband. They were work shirts with blue or brown collars, but they were immaculately pressed. No fridge treatment for me, however. My first husband asked me, “Why in the hell don’t you let me take them into the laundry service.” I refused but was reluctant to tell him why. He finally prodded it out of me one day, and he thought I was silly. I still ironed his shirts no matter how gruff he was – and I added a little prayer for patience.
Flash forward a few years.
We bought the big house and turned it into a B&B. I did about 80 loads of laundry every week, and always ironed the pillow cases and top sheets – light starch. We turned one of the bedrooms into a larger laundry room because I spent so much time on laundry. I moved in a television so I could watch stock reports (old habit from the brokerage days), and a couple of comfy chairs. We also bought an old ironing MANGLE, with foot pedals, so I could do linen and sheets in one pass. Blue jeans came out beautifully when run through the MANGLE. I had the system of “laundry” just about perfected…. but I needed music to soothe my soul.
A few months later, my first husband rewired sets of speakers with a big switcher. We could broadcast music to different places, central hall, upstairs hall, kitchen, laundry, side porch, and powerful waterproof Bose speakers for the backyard. The switcher was rather complicated and I didn’t really pay attention. I put in Tina Turner or AC/DC when I ironed. Unknown to me, the outside speakers were on the whole time. Teachers at the school got to the point where they knew I was ironing….. because Tina was blaring. Embarrassing, but I made friends.
We live next to the school and my girlfriends would stop into my kitchen after dropping off their kids for leftover coffee and to chat. After about an hour, one girlfriend mentioned she had to go home and iron…. she was whining about it, too. Another girlfriend joked, her husband’s “iron pile” has been in the same position for 3 months. She ignored the iron pile. Another girlfriend piped up about the drudgery of ironing. They were all downtrodden, accumulating their purses, keys, and putting empty coffee cups in the sink… leaving……. when I had an idea.
“Wait a minute”, I said, “How about you all go home and get your ironing and we’ll do it together!” They stopped and looked at me like I lost my mind. I continued, “Because of the B&B, I have irons and ironing boards in every room, plus mine downstairs. That’s five irons, ironing boards, plus the Mangle.” I said, “It makes sense. Instead of you being alone and miserable, we can get our ironing done together and be happy.” They were looking at each other, waiting for a signal…..,  few moments of silence…….., when one girlfriend said, “I’ll make Bloody Mary’s – we can iron and drink!” The idea was sold.
We laughed and cackled all day – ironing. We laughed until our sides split. We got ‘tickled’ and slapped at each other. Belly laughs. Laughing to the point where you beg to stop and stomp your feet. Laughing until you have to pee. Laughing so hard you have to leave the room to catch a breath. It was great. Someone made sandwiches and while we were eating, I told the story of Della, my grandmother, ironing for my grandfather, creating a suit of armor for him, and a love so deep, so big, like mountains. We cried like babies. I told them about the Chickadees, and the ghost returning for one more kiss goodbye, and we cried more. All my girlfriends knew her. Della was a community grandma.
For years, about once a month while the kids were in school, we got together to iron. We always made a “special” drink and sometimes a “casserole event” for lunch. The husbands knew, eye-rolled, “It was ironing day”. The kids became jealous and wondered what we did on those days. Finally, we decided all the kids would just gather at our house, snacks for all, until we were finished. In that way, the kids felt like they were part of our secret club – The Ironing Club.
I was at a wedding when a pregnant young woman approached me who was new to town. She asked me if she could come and iron with us. She had “heard stories”. “No kidding…”, I said. I threw my arms around her and hugged her big, “Of course, you can come and iron!”. She needed a little bit of Grandma Della love. She was accepted immediately and her baby was born into a clan of cave bear moms. It made her better and it made us better.
We burned a few shirts over the years, sure, but we mended things and saved them as well. We taught each other countless tips and worked together to get a job done, just like dad and I laid the sod. We didn’t just whistle while we worked, we sang loudly. We danced with a zeal, enough to make Tina Turner proud. Above all, we laughed. More than anything else, we laughed.
Over the years, all of us suffered hardships, some suffered intolerable pain and loss. There were deaths, divorces, the death of one child, and coincidentally, we were all together, in the laundry room, watching television, when the planes struck the World Trade Center. Somehow, being together, made it less painful. We knew, whatever happened, we would face it together. We would survive, and eventually, we would laugh and dance, once more.
So, the next time you iron, think about the person who will wear the item, and say a little prayer, or wish them well. It won’t hurt you. I promise. If you see a Chickadee this spring, smile, and remember Grandma Della. Do we ever have enough kisses for those we love? Wouldn’t we all want just one more kiss before we said goodbye?
And here’s a hint. You might not have to look so hard for a deep and profound love, like a mountain range…… it might be right under your nose.
 
 
 
 

McCabe’s reasoning behind his mandate to investigate President Trump were startling. The President’s disappointment in Paul Ryan/McConnell to not fund the border wall, after President Trump signed the original Omnibus Bill, leads us to be suspicious of the motives of the GOPe. When we learned McCain sent the Exec Director of The McCain Institute, to London, to pick up a copy of the dirty dossier, our hearts sank. We realize the power of the forces arrayed against our President and we support him, but he is fighting everyone in DC.
The lying, dirty-dealing, false promises of politicians, lobbyists who write legislation, perks and pork slipped in at the last minute, vacations for politicians, rubber stamp of nepotism, exponential increase in wealth for politicians, and groups like the US Chamber of Commerce, are the enemies of the people……, and that’s before we get to our problems with the press. Everyone wants a ticket to Easy Street. Everyone is in search of fame. As #MeToo has confirmed, in Hollywood, young men and women disregard their personal ethics for a mere opportunity in a movie. At what price?
At what point are we tempted? At what point do we cross a line? How much would it take for YOU to go bad?
Today, the ‘price’ is pretty cheap. We have a bigger problem in our DOJ and no consequences for half of America. Most of us are disgruntled with the double standard in our justice system. Wealthy people can ‘get away with murder’, or go to a country club jail if they don’t dodge the charge, or make a deal with a prosecutor. Those in the middle, and increasingly, those who are Republican, suffer brutally at the hands of Mueller or the DOJ. Unless we return fairness to our judiciary, the unscrupulous will continue to cheat, lie, steal, and cross the line. The reliability of our legal system is in danger. Our trust has been shattered.
We’re also concerned about the sensational headlines of politicians, CEO’s, cutting corners, selling out, but we don’t often see the reports of their downfall, indictments, and subsequent jail time. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others…” is but a distant memory in the workplace. Corporate loyalty is at an all time low as H1B visas for foreign nationals are on the rise. Some of us are tempted to ‘take’ a ‘fair share’ and somehow, justify the unethical behavior.
We need a return to the ethics of our parents and a clear set of penalties for bad behavior. Sure, we understand. It is tempting to rationalize illegal behavior when it seems like everyone around us is doing the same thing. We all have a price, right? Well, my price was 600 million dollars.
Here’s my story, grab a cup of coffee, and let’s put politics aside for a moment.
I was 24 years old, working for a brokerage firm in Miami. It was the year before I made partner and I was working 12-16 hours a day. That year, I made more money than my father and grandfather put together. I moved into a penthouse, drove a sweet little Alpha convertible, dated a guy in NYC, and we bought a ski house in Vermont. I was single, tall, auburn-haired/green eyed. A woman like me, in Miami, could ALMOST get away with murder. I spent most of my time in little planes scattered about the Caribbean and South America. I was very good at what I did, but far too arrogant and impatient. Life was good and I was winning.
Miami’s underbelly was wild, but drugs never appealed to me – too expensive, and let’s just say, the police didn’t come to my parent’s house. Nonetheless, consistently, I found myself in odd situations, bordering on illegal. Meet a client for dinner at a cock fight? That was a surprise. Meet for drinks, get up to use the restroom, pile of cocaine was available. I had one sales manager who tried to sell me into white slavery to a Panamanian Diplomat. That was interesting (but another story). We did a lot of work in embassies, and the diplomats stretched the rules. After all, it was Miami in the mid-80’s. The best part? From time to time, people would come into our office, to sell things, which just fell off a truck – Italian shoes, VCRs, binoculars, and Colombian emeralds. I was a long way from the suburbs and innocence.
I preferred the right side of the law and had many friends in the legal community. There were so many guys in Miami, from Alphabet agencies, who hit on me, my friends teased me, “someone put your number on a bathroom wall”. Bottom line, I was still my father’s daughter. He was the good guy, the Presbyterian and the Marine. For me, the money had to balance and it had to be legal. I was never tempted… until one day…..
Four guys walked into the office and asked to see me. I had done work for prominent car dealers in the area, after hiring a former F&I manager who knew everyone in the car biz in Miami. One of them recommended me. The front receptionist showed them to my office. These guys were straight out of central casting for the movie, “Scarface”, but they weren’t that unusual for Miami. Two were carrying stainless steel briefcases (stereotype much?) and one had a duffle bag. Two remained by my office door, like they were guarding my door. I wonder to this day if they brought weapons. The other two sat down opposite me, in the club chairs. As they crossed the room, I recall my dad’s voice ringing in my ear, “Never do business with a guy who wears more jewelry than your wife.” They were dripping in gold, but again, not uncommon for Miami.
They had interrupted my day and I was miffed. They had no appointment. No one like surprises and clients make appointments. Guy A was in charge. I asked why they did not make an appointment and it rattled him a little bit. He halfway apologized, but he quickly referred to the car dealer. He mentioned financial details of the plan I put together for the car dealer, which made it clear the two were close enough to share intimate details of their personal finances. I calmed down and settled into my chair to listen.
Now, please understand, many of the people in Miami previously lived in dictatorships, where the banking and legal systems are not stable. They hid their assets and never trusted anyone. My “sales pitch”, if we can call it that, was that I could do things for them, LEGALLY, and find a way to give them the same benefit. In this way, they would not run afoul of US authorities, and their children would grow up to be upstanding American citizens.
My “Scarface” friends had a similar problem, Guy A explained. They wanted to be legal but had a problem with cash and property. I started to giggle, “cash”? How stupid did they think I was? “Oh, no”, they said, “the cash is already in a US institution.” Which means, it had been ‘laundered’. I was physically backing away from the men and my desk. “Which bank?”, I asked, and they replied it was a bank well known for sleaze. He explained the problems he was having with the bank, bank officers, and his desire to move his business. He wanted to “be in the stock market” and “be an investor”. Oh, he talked a big game but then, his voice changed and his story was compelling. He told me stories of the bank managers denying movement of his funds and he felt like a prisoner at that bank. He was convincing and sincere – hard to fake. I was curious and smelled a double-cross by the bank. Why would the bank need to keep roughly 20 million on deposit? Theoretically, Guy A was correct. Once deposited, the funds are his and should be clear to move or do whatever he wants. OBVIOUSLY, there was some other reason the bank officers were not allowing the transfers. Legally, I COULD help them.
Guy A wanted to move about $20 million dollars. Again, not that unusual for a client in Miami, but it smelled skeevy. I was trying to trip him up in a lie but couldn’t. Guy A explained he had recently sold his parents Dominican sugar holdings and THAT was the reason for his windfall inheritance. My demeanor changed completely. I knew Dominican Sugar owners. Here was my chance to talk about competing wealthy families in the Dominican.  “OH! Well then, do you know Mr. ABC”, I asked, expecting him to instantly know the whole family. It’s a small circle of friends. Yet, Guy A didn’t know them and wanted to change the subject. Suspicious.
It would have been almost impossible for Guy A to NOT know the family. It indicated he was lying. Guy A was quick to imply he had other ‘friends’ who would like to do similar business with me…. on a regular basis…….. probably quarterly. Gee, 20 million, quarterly. Now, we were back to drug money again, total set-up, but I wanted more info about the bank. Guy A provided me with a large amount of info about the bank.
“What’s in the briefcase?”, I said. A briefcase similar in size could carry about $220K in $100 bills. Like Olympic synchronized swimmers, both men raised their briefcases and simultaneously opened them to reveal a pile full of $100 bills — just like a movie script. I was not impressed. Drama? Really? I did touch one of the bills to feel the paper. My fee, if I could solve his problems, would be $750K in cash, for the 20 million (never mind that I had a regular commission schedule). I pointed at the briefcases and said, “But that’s not even a half million”, and Guy A pointed to another man at the door with a duffle. He approached my desk, unzipped the duffle, to reveal more cash. At that point, age 24, I had never seen that much cash in one place. It was all too surreal and I wasn’t falling for it. Not tempted. Nope. Not me. Not one damn bit tempted.
I was thinking, “What the hell?” and “Why did I come into the office today?” or “Things like this don’t happen”, “is this a dream/nightmare”, “Am I on Candid Camera” or “maybe an FBI camera?”. The whole thing was ridiculous. Absurd. No one ever offered to pay my fees in cash. Who would do such a thing if they were legal? Guy A sensed my apprehension and nervousness. He insisted he wanted to be legal, all the funds would come from a US Institution, and wanted to do business. Then why all the CASH! Why not just write me a pretty, sweet, legal, check? We went back and forth. He was emphatic. Guy B, who had been quiet until then, gave me a disapproving look and said, “We insist.”, which I took as a direct threat. The room changed. He mentioned the building where I lived…… The two guys at the door nodded — which meant they were not FBI — which meant they were crooks. I don’t like to be threatened.
I was more mad than threatened. I was indignant, bothered, but trapped in a room with a bunch of criminals who seemed rather amateur. I got up and walked over to the window, my mind was running. They wanted ‘me’, so, I had to make them NOT want me, and NOT view me as a threat. I needed them to go away and leave me alone. Forever. I had an idea.
“You can’t afford me.”, I blurted out as I swung around. They almost laughed. I walked over to Guy A, stood over him and repeated, “You simply cannot afford me. It’s not enough money.” I slid into my chair and whipped my hair back. I was time to be the $itch. He was confused, “Why not? Do you want 1/20?” and “Do you insist on 5%? (which would be a million/20)”, he countered. I shook my head, “You don’t understand.” I patted his hand like he was a child, but I was mom, and there would be cookies if he kept still.
I reached into my desk for paper and a pencil, which made the guys at the door jumpy. I started to explain and talked numbers while I wrote on a legal pad. I concocted a formula on paper. If I was 24yrs old, and made ‘x’ dollars, and was expected to make ‘x’ dollars per year, for several years, I could make as much as 60 million dollars in my career (which was a BS number but sounded fairly legit). “After all”, I said, “I was so good at what I did, our car dealer friend referred you to me, right?” He nodded. Guy B was looking and listening intently. I was slow and convincing. My formula was intentionally over-complicated, and I added time value of money, etc. Then, I added, if I were to go ‘bad’, and join with them, to HELP them, quarterly, as they implied, I would have to exponentially add to the 60 million. They didn’t know what that meant, so I kept going.
Of course, there would be a risk to whomever I would marry, and the danger to my children- who were not born, YET, and I ‘wanted many bambinos’. Plus, I had to worry about the potential to ruin my family name and shame my father – which they very much understood. “Yes, I would have to have 60 million x 10 or 600 million dollars.”, I drew a circle around the number and finished. Their eyes went wide; their jaws fell. Here’s the weird part, they were OKAY with the 60 million, but not 600 million. GOOD.
Thus, my price, to go bad, was 600 million dollars.
“You’re crazy!”, said Guy A, in Spanish, with a lot of other curse words, as he looked to Guy B for help. “No”, I said, “You’re the one who came to me.” Things had changed. Now, instead of pulling away from him, I was leaning in. He was moving back (which was good). I piled on with specific terms, “My price of 600 million should be payable in terms of 60 million/yr, deposited offshore, for a period of 10 years, and then, I would quit – having trained someone they trusted to replace me”, so I could have a life. They were dumbfounded. I was serious and straight-faced. “It’s too much!”, they said. Both Guy A and Guy B were objecting and I swear — trying to negotiate with me.
100 million would have been fine with them, for 10 years. I opened my arms, palms up, and shrugged, “I was afraid you might not be able to afford me. I’m so very sorry. What would you like to do?” Silence hung in the room. I bit my tongue, knowing the first person who spoke would lose. Guy B, who was apparently the real person in charge said, “We will think about your offer and make an appointment to come back. Thank you for your time.” He called me a ‘gentle lady’, which I thought was odd but genteel for a drug lord. Was I wrong about them and had I just missed the sale of my career?
I never saw them again. They never called back. I gave the details of the bank to a buddy who worked for the FBI and forgot it. About 3 years later, the bank went through a scandal. No surprise.
Moral of the story:
When you’re propositioned, think about your selling price in terms of selling out your entire family. If you go bad, they will fall with you. What’s your price? One million? Two million? Ten million? It’s not nearly enough. Oh, no. Remember, your kids would grow up to be like Chelsea Clinton….
Make your price far too high to appeal to a criminal and you will never have to look over your shoulder. AND, pray the criminals don’t take you up on your outlandish offer.
 
 

Short post here, on my part. Hopefully, it will lead to open discussion from a well-informed group of people who are smarter than I am.
I had a conversation with a “Person A” this weekend who was resentful of several specific Silicon Valley billionaires and their overnight wealth. “Person B” brought up the Carnegies and Vanderbilts of old, but there was no resentment for the older wealthy families. I wondered why there was hatred for the nouveau riche but not the blue-bloods.
I thought, maybe, the passage of time has softened the images of the Carnegies, Vanderbilt’s and others, but “Person A” was quick to disagree. Person A said (paraphrasing), “No, that’s not it at all. The new billionaires earn their money quickly, either by stealing an idea or by taking a good idea public, and overnight – poof – they’re rich. They then think they can rule our country and buy respect. The older families acquired wealth over decades, generations, and improved their communities along the way. They also saved their wealth for the next generation. They had a sense of responsibility. Perhaps, they did ‘rule’ the country or influence politics, but they understood their position in society”.
Hmmm, I thought. My mind ran through examples of poor work conditions under Carnegies, etc., but also to universities and hospitals named in their honor. Likewise, we can point to a Bill Gates, who does benevolent work overseas and domestically.
To bolster the perception of Person A, we can also point to “lucky” billionaires, or the thieves, as they are perceived. We all remember the movie about Zuckerberg stealing the idea of Facebook from the Harvard twins. Jack Dorsey floundered and failed as a human being and sort of fell into the idea of Twitter. One could make the argument the ideas were stolen, just ask a dead Steve Jobs.
OR, is it that our world has experience a tech revolution and some people were on the inside, and we are resentful because we were not in the right place at the right time. OR are we resentful at all? Or are we merely disgusted with nouveau riche behavior? Like the Kardashians?
Interesting note: Person A was a liberal. Yet, Person A was not resentful of the wealth of Donald Trump or a man like Carl Icahn. In the view of Person A, even Donald Trump EARNED his money over a lifetime, “He worked for it and he deserves it – he built buildings all over the world”. Yet, there was still resentment for billionaires like Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Dorsey… and the Kardashians. The resentment went beyond personal politics. Interesting, eh?
Soooooo, here’s the question. Is the resentment of newly rich billionaires a broad feeling in America, AND is this ‘feeling’ feeding the push towards higher taxes on the wealthy and a general call for socialism. Are the new billionaires acting responsibly with their wealth? Do we believe the new billionaires are so irresponsible, we (or some Americans) think we should take their money away? Are the new billionaires cheaters (thieves) or did they just cheat the idea of “a lifetime of hard word is our reward”. Do we, as Americans, resent the Chinese billionaires because they cheated America…. because our politicians allowed it to happen?
Is the feeling of unfairness a call for socialism, or is it a BIGGER call for a return to fairness? It’s a big question. If the masses are being sold “socialism” as a society which is more fair (and that’s definitely what Dem presidential candidates are selling = resentment of the rich and a return to normalcy)………. then, all we have to do is sell “fairness”, with a return to justice, crime does not pay (Facebook is fined for stealing data – or China is penalized – or Hillary is indicted), and ethical hard work is rewarded.
What do you think?
 

If we’re going to pass judgement by mob rule and decide a man’s/woman’s fate in public, then why do we have a court system? Why have police at all. Maybe we should simple adopt gang mentality or decide on a few local warlords and carry on. Maybe we should all, just, regress… Or not? It’s time to decide.
The public square was where we decided the fate of the women of Salem. We burned them alive because we were ignorant and thought them to be witches. They were “a danger to our society and community”. How is this false outcry different than the press outcry against our President, today? How is it different for the men of Virginia?
In Salem, the public outcry was so loud, there was no time for proof of the women’s innocence nor a rational evaluation of their guilt. The “mob” demanded action and it didn’t matter if the action was just or fair. Gee whiz, did we think those days were long gone? Did we assume we have advanced as a society? Take a look at Virginia, today. Take a broader look at politics, today. Take a look at DC and the “Muh Russia” investigation, same thing. We’re doing the same thing. As a country, we are supposed to be embarrassed by the Salem Witch Trials in 2019. Right? Yet, if we’re embarrassed, if what happened in 1692 was wrong, then what in the hell are we doing, today?
How was Trayvon Martin any different? George Zimmerman was innocent. We learned NBC doctored an audiotape to make Zimmerman appear to be racist, which was a lie. HOW was what NBC did in the Zimmerman case, any different than bearing false witness against the Salem women?
How was Ferguson any different? We learned “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” was a lie and pushed by the media. Eventually, through our court system, rather than depending on the lie from CNN of “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot”, we learned Brown was the aggressor and yes, he did go after the policeman and tried to get the policeman’s gun. Yet, the mob, unwilling to wait for the court process, already convicted the policeman and threatened his life. Even AFTER the trial, the policeman had to leave the state. How is that fair?
Are any of these instances all that different from an online mob who attacked innocent kids from Covington High School? How about a rent-a-mob of twitter bots, hired to influence a corporate entity?
I recall living in Miami and meeting people who were born in dictatorships. In the third world, they hid their money under mattresses or buried it in the backyard. They fled their homes, when accused of a crime, because they had no trust in their government. Their experience was so dire, so horrific, they risked their very lives to come to the USA. In the USA, OUR legal system, despite a few hiccups, was the envy of the world. The USA was just and fair. Our banking system was stable. My new friends were relieved to finally be safe, in the USA, and my own pride in my country was renewed. A reliable system of government was something I took for granted as an American. Their relief made me keenly aware of how fortunate I was and how fragile freedom can be. Suddenly, all the songs we sing, as Americans, made sense.
Today, I am keenly aware of how easy it is to lose our legal system. Today, we’re in danger from the mob. So, what the heck are we doing, America?
Would ANY of us want to convict an innocent man? Do you, as an individual, believe yourself to be moral and fair? Okay. How about convicting a man in a court of public opinion if it serves your political interests? What if you were paid to protest the man? Can you justify the ‘sacrifice’ of one man, rationally, because you believe it serves a higher goal of “Orange Man Bad”? Look what the USA did to Justice Kavanaugh, based on no evidence, whatsoever. Was it fair? In the instance of Kavanaugh, very quickly, we had women admit they made up false claims to smear a man for the purpose of politics. How is their behavior any different than bearing false witness against the Salem witches?
Why don’t we LEARN from these experiences?
Why in the heck are we rushing to judgement for the men in Virginia? Why do we presume we know better than a jury of our peers in a court of law? Why do we rush, beat our chests, scream and yell on social media, and demand action when we KNOW our haste is likely to lead to a false accusation and a bad result? Why…… and this part is funny because it’s self-defeating, are we so silly/arrogant/self-absorbed/ presumptuous to SHOUT our opinions when we KNOW we don’t have all the facts….
Are we addicted to the outrage? Does being part of the outrage make us feel like we’re part of something bigger or more important than our regular lives? If so, we might need to “get a life”.
The Presidents taxes are a perfect example. In this area, I am an expert. I’ve testified in court, as an expert. I know it would take a team of 100 people, just like me, to properly evaluate the President’s taxes, AND it would take us at least 6-12 months to assemble the information to even begin the process. I know it would take us 3-5 years to properly evaluate the 512 entities where the President has a major interest as a principal and even longer to evaluate his other personal investments. This length of time would only be compounded if we were required to analyze many years of tax returns. Yet, my expert opinion does not matter to the mob nor to any pundit on television. “THEY” think they know better and they are the ones whispering in the ears of others, encouraging the mob. Never mind that the IRS, the entity charged with auditing the President, every year since W Bush was elected, has professionally evaluated the Trump tax return and found no wrongdoing ……. It does not matter to those who push for wrongful actions.
We’ve reached a point where our opinion or our desire to be heard, even though it may be false, has become more important than the life and reputation of an innocent man/woman. We haven’t learned a damn thing in 330 years. We’re making the same mistakes. We’re still listening to the MSM/idiots in the crowd who shout, “Kill her, burn her, she’s a witch.”
The mob thinks they know best and we’re being misled by those who would rather see people burned alive. Today, the “higher goal of a political win” is being used as a dangerous justification for insidious behavior. Look what happened to Matt Whitaker yesterday at the hands of our “leaders”, the Democrats, in Congress! They know what they did was wrong, but they do it anyway. Before we, as individuals, partake in “the mob”, we should probably ask ourselves, “Does it feel good to watch an innocent man/woman burn at the stake”?
Is it FINALLY time, after almost 330 years, to turn our collective ire on those who tempt our primal but evil side, and push for another ‘burning’, while they sit comfortably, with clean hands, on the sidelines?
Is it any wonder the President of The United States uses the term, “Witch Hunt”?
 

Discussion thread for the Whitaker hearing.
Hat tip to Volgarian, here is the C-SPAN LINK for the hearing: https://www.c-span.org/video/?457164-1/acting-attorney-general-whitaker-testifies-house-judiciary-committee
Chairman Jerry Nadler is the Head of Oversight for DOJ/FBI.
This will be the first of many hearings by the new Dem House and it looks like Jerry Nadler is trying to set the tone.
We understand many QTreepers will be following the testimony today, please feel free to make comments here.
Yes, we’re going to need BUCKETS of popcorn.

After the President’s SOTU, we’re all feeling the love. How about sharing the love for Valentine’s Day? The timing is perfect. We have one week to plan.
Remember when you were a kid and we all brought Valentines to other schoolmates? And some kids didn’t get as many as others? And when you HOPED you might get a special Valentine from a secret crush? Well, we’re all grown up, but this year, be generous with the Valentines. Think of the people who have been kind to you over the past year. An UNEXPECTED Valentine magnifies the impact. The payback comes as a surprise but it’s magnificent sight to behold.
Because we catered and did so many big parties, I had the same commercial accounts as florists. I really don’t like to pay retail prices and wholesale pricing means a bigger bang for the buck. I would often order the flowers for a wedding or party, and then hire a florist, off hours, for a set rate. It saved me and the bride, thousands of dollars. Win-win, right?
But I hair-brained idea for Valentine’s Day, which is easy for anyone to do. I had a reputation in town for being a little tough. Some MEN would send in a “sacrificial lamb” to deal with me, because they thought I was difficult or intractable. Scaredy cats! Nonetheless, I needed to soften my image a little. Valentine’s Day was an opportunity to make amends.
From a wholesale house, long stemmed red roses come in a bunch of 25 or 35 and they cost me about $25 for the bunch. I ordered two bunches of 35 each. One for me to give out and one for my husband to give out. I ordered 2 bunches of gypsophila, commonly known as baby’s breath. Now, I’m tall, so my arms are a little longer than most women, but the bunches of baby’s breath were so big, I couldn’t get my arms around them. Cost for a bunch of gypsophila was about $6.25/each. Then, I order 4-5 bunches of ‘leather-leaf fern’. Cost was about $1.50 each. These are the standard ingredients anyone would expect to see in a bud vase from a florist – but you don’t need the vases.
For about $70, I had supplies for 70 terrific Valentines, about $1.00 each. I ordered a bigger quantity from a wholesale house but the idea is easy to replicate with flowers from WalMart or any grocery store, which might cost you $2/each.
Roses come dry-packed, whether from a wholesale house or WalMart, and they need a little attention. Remove the outer petals, cut the stem at an angle, strip off the bottom leaves, and plunge into lukewarm water with an aspirin dissolved and a capful of bleach. Do this the night before and put the buckets of flowers in a cool place. Your roses will be in peak condition in the morning.
I wrapped each rose with a few sprigs of baby’s breath and leather-leaf, in a waxed tissue paper and tied with a big red bow, using inexpensive leftover red Christmas ribbon. If you don’t have waxed paper, dry the stem with a kitchen towel or wrap in Glad wrap. You really don’t need the expense of a water pic for each flower. Just make sure to put your tissue paper and bow in the center of the stem so you can plunge the bottom of the stems into a bucket of water while you deliver your Valentines.
Now, the fun begins, and I can’t begin to tell you how much fun you will have. By the time you are done, you will feel like Robin Hood, or Oprah, giving out cars….., all for about $1.00 a piece.
I had 35 for me and 35 for my husband. He delivered to women we knew and I delivered to men we knew. It will take you several hours to deliver.
He delivered Valentines to the tellers at the bank, the women in the office at the city, the lady who answers the phone at the police dept, the sec to our lawyer, the mom of the guys who own the lumber company, the ladies at the school office bldg, our son’s teachers, etc.
I had a blast delivering mine, because I got the old crusty guys, who NEVER expected to get a Valentine from any woman, let alone a rose with a bow.
My first choice was Leroy, the block-layer. He’s the biggest black man I’ve ever seen, and he blocks the sun when he enters a doorway. He wears a size 18 ring. Biggest hands – from picking up concrete blocks everyday. I love Leroy and he’s come to my defense more than once. I caught him on a jobsite, and in front of his men, asked him to be my Valentine, because our family loved him. I explained, “People don’t often take the time to say thank-you, enough. I pick you to be my Valentine because you’re a good man.” I fussed all over him and he deserved it. Stopped the whole crew. Leroy had tears in his eyes and picked me up to hug me.
My next choice was the CEO of the bank and a prominent lawyer in town, with whom I had crossed swords on more than one occasion. Never mind that he was in the church the day I was baptized as an infant, never mind he has 4 daughters as old as me……, he was squirrely and thought I was hitting on him. What a jerk. I hit him with my rose and made him feel about 2′ tall. I won.
My mailman, Mr. Charles-my favorite checker-guy at the grocery store, the guys at the lumber company, several of my police guys and fireman friends, Wayne – the old court clerk who adored my grandfather, men who were clients – strong masculine men who’ve never received a rose in their lives – blushed – and for the REST of the day, had to explain where the rose came from. PRICELESS!!!! They had to go and get a vase for my flower, and it became a big production in their offices. It made them feel handsome, appreciated, and walk a little taller. It was perfect.
I found the crew of bricklayer brothers and gave them all a Valentine. I found our roofer, and his father who was a roofer, and planted a big kiss on his cheek. I gave a rose to my excavator, the man who uses a grader like a surgeon uses a scalpel. He brought me vegetables for the next 10yrs. He adored me, because of that rose.
I found the mentally handicapped guy who swept the parking lot of a local fast food joint. Everyone in town knew him, and I gave him a rose. He handled it like it was breakable treasure. I don’t think he ever received a Valentine before…. from anyone.
I found our pediatrician, who was an Indian national, which necessitated an explanation of what a Valentine really is. That was a pretty interesting conversation. Our maintenance guy for the city school completely understood. I delivered to husbands of my girlfriends who worked in town, because they were all my “cousin” husbands. The Mayor put my rose in his teeth and danced. He felt special. And I located my minister, who was a good man, cause Valentine’s Day is about all kinds of love, right?
The best of all, though, was our HVAC subcontractor. We’ll call him “L” for this story. L was the kind of man you would want as your dad, grandfather or uncle. He was a multi-millionaire who wore the same three shirts. He was everything good about men, all rolled into one. He was crusty and hard on the outside, and such a good negotiator, he would have given President Trump a tough time. His favorite word was, “No!”, but inside, he was a teddy bear. I respected him and we understood each other. When we got married, I registered with a frilly local gift shop. His wife went in and dutifully bought me a crystal stem. I learned later on, “L” went back in, personally, to the prissy gift shop, and sent me 11 more. I loved him. He was the last one to whom I delivered a Valentine, and he saw me coming. He knew my car.
By the time I got to “L”, word was out in town as to what I was doing. He yelled at me across a field and said, “I was wondering if I was going to see you today…” I smiled all the way through my eyes but didn’t say anything as I walked a long way across a wet and muddy empty lot. “You know how much I love you ‘L'”, I said. “Awwwww,” and he threw his arms around me and hugged me like I was the daughter he never had. He whispered in my ear, “I love you, too”.
I went home that afternoon floating on air. Best Valentine’s Day ever. My husband’s experience was equally surprising. He found several women, friends to his mom, who lost their husbands….. and had not received a Valentine in years. He was kind of misty-eyed about it. Those damn onions…..
But something strange happened along the way….
For months, the effects of our Valentine’s Day reverberated. I never had to worry about a bankdraft charge. Our subcontractors showed up to work, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The school maintenance guy mowed half of my lawn and he even edged it! My minister’s sermon the next Sunday was about “All kinds of love”. I didn’t wait 10 minutes to see the pediatrician. Even the jerk of a lawyer was nice. After the Valentine, we “had an accord”. It was a psychological reciprocation overload, like a vaccination for the whole town.
If I had known all it took was a bunch of Valentines to make people happy, I would have done it long ago. Yet, we know it wasn’t the Valentines at all. The Valentines offered the opportunity, the excuse. It was a genuine thank-you, appreciation, friendship, expression of all kinds of love, and that we took the time to think about “you”, which made the difference.
No, we don’t tell our spouses or children we love them, enough. We don’t thank people, enough. We don’t appreciate good service or simple kindness, enough. We should. I can’t imagine what the impact would be….
Therefore, to everyone on this forum, thank YOU, and yes, I do love you all. You’ve made my life richer, and I learn something new, every single day. I do appreciate you all, and especially Wolfie, for allowing us to come together and revel in our successes and commiserate on bad days. Our camaraderie is real.
And please, this Valentine’s Day, think about my suggestion. Even better, come up with an idea of your own. Do something, anything, to make this Valentine’s Day memorable.
Hugs and Kisses, from our house to yours,
D++++

The Virginia Democrats are in shambles. To a casual observer, it’s hard to decide whether to laugh or cry. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? Well, perhaps it is more of a soap opera, because this story never ends and is chock full of Grade B drama.
Cast of Characters: Governor – Ralph S. Northam, Lt. Governor – Justin Fairfax, Dr. Vanessa Tyson – The victim, Katz Marshall & Banks – The Lawyers, and in a supporting role, appearing in Act 3, Mark Herring, The Attorney General for the Commonwealth of Virginia.
Governor – Ralph S. Northam. On January 30, 2019, Northam gave an interview to WTOP defending Virginia’s new sweeping laws on late term abortion, during which, his comments on abortion were rather offensive. Here is the 54 minute long video, so you can view his comments in context. A few days later, a photo appeared in Big League Politics which was from Northam’s East Virginia Medical School Yearbook, where two men were photoed, one in blackface, and one in a KKK outfit. Other MSM outlets rushed to confirm the photo as real.  Northam originally released an apology on February, 1, 2019, on the official Governor’s website seen here. Later in the evening, after scathing press, the Governor released a video statement where he apologized but would not resign.
“Northam faces a flurry of resignation calls from top Democrats and Republicans after the surfacing of a photo showing the embattled governor with another individual in blackface and a Ku Klux Klan attire in his 1984 Eastern Virginia Medical yearbook.” ~ Breitbart.
While the media swirled around Governor Northam, our attention turned to his natural successor, Lt. Governor Justin Fairfax.
Lt. Governor – Justin Fairfax. Within hours, we learned Fairfax had serious problems with a scandal of his own. Fairfax was immediately connected to Dr. Vanessa Tyson in a cryptic Facebook post where she wrote “campaign staffer who assaulted me during the Democratic Convention in 2004 was about to get a big promotion”. Fairfax released a statement. , which acknowledges the Washington Post has investigated these charges for months. Surprised? According to Kasie Hunt of MSNBC, Fairfax was in a private meeting last night and speaking to two sources who confirmed, Fairfax said of Dr. Tyson, “fuck that bitch”.  Fairfax has also inferred/accused his political superior, Governor Northam, of releasing the allegations from Tyson to smear him.
Dr. Vanessa Tyson – The victim, the accuser to Fairfax. Tyson, through her law firm, Katz Marshall & Banks, released a lengthy statement which can be read here.  According to Massachusetts law, this particular assault, forced oral penetration, fits the legal definition of “rape”. Yes, Katz, Marshall & Banks, is the same DC area law firm who represented Christine Blasey Ford 
The Washington Post – Who knew about the allegation surrounding Fairfax, allegedly investigated, allegedly could not corroborate, and thus, spiked the story. According to Heavy , Dr. Tyson “saw a news story about Fairfax, who was running for lieutenant governor.” Got that? She saw the photo – WHILE HE WAS RUNNING for office. Fairfax’s statement, above, clearly claims the Washington Post investigated the charges for months. Continuing in HEAVY, “She brought her story to The Washington Post but the paper declined to run it: “After The Washington Post decided in March 2018 not to run my story, I felt powerless, frustrated, and completely drained.”” Thus, we know, The Washington Post was involved in this story from BEFORE the November 2017 election until they notified Dr. Tyson they would not run the story in March of 2018.
Got that? From at least November of 2017 – March of 2018, the Washington Post had juicy information about a sex scandal for a potential Lt Governor of Virginia, which they CLAIM they could not corroborate and refused to run the story.
That’s called precedent, or a establishment of a pattern of behavior to confirm sourcing and responsible journalism. This is the kind of cautious reporting we should expect from reliable and prestigious media —- like The Washington Post once was. So, why did The Washington Post change procedure 180 degrees, throw caution to the wind, and report salacious and unverified accusations of high school gang rape, when it came to Justice Kavanaugh? Three MONTHS later?
There’s the $64,000 question, folks.
With the Governor and the Lt.Governor embroiled in controversy, we turn our attention to the Attorney General of Virginia, Mark Herring, who would be next in the line of succession. Yet again, we have a problem. Today, Mark Herring admitted to wearing blackface as part of a costume in college. What do the Dems of Virgina do now?
Herring was 19yrs old and the event happened in 1980. Herring claims he and two friends dressed up like rappers and went to a party. Allegedly, they admired the rapper Kurtis Blow. Now, I graduated high school in 1980, and rap was not a big thing at the time. Yet, I checked, and Kurtis Blow did have a song, “The Breaks” which reached #87 on the Billboard top 100 list in 1980. Here’s the youtube video.
Herring plans/planned (?) on running for Governor of Virginia in 2021, and he also issued a statement about the incident, seen on his official Twitter account, here.
We should all, TUNE IN TOMORROW, as the sands of the hour glass shift through time, to see what happens with the Virginia Dems, the Bold, but the not so beautiful.