Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

When In Rome ... Don’t Buy A Goldfish

I freely admit that until two years ago, I truly never got the whole pet-people connection. You know, the way people refer to their pets as “children”, the tongue kissing lovefests between dogs and their owners, the stores devoted to pet jewelry and clothing, even the blood hurling protests of PETA.

I just never understood what the hoohaa was about.

I mean, in my mind, animals fell far below me on the food chain, and in most instances the only accessory required was a fork and some A-1 sauce.

Well, then I got a dog - my first REAL pet in my whole life - ok, fine, at barely 8 pounds, she is more of a doggett - and I finally began to realize what it was all about. Through my baby (yes, she is my child now, shut your mouth) I have come to understand just how intelligent and loving an animal can be.

And yes, more often than not, you’ll find me happily swapping spit with her - even if she just ate a liver treat, licked her own ass - or both.

Animals are deserving of love, consideration, care. You‘ll brook no argument from me about that. (Although, some of them are still mainly deserving of charcoal, some salt and pepper and a steak knife...)

Apparently the fine people in Rome believe ALL pets have rights and by golly someone has got to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. And so was born a law providing punishment for any pet owner who endangers, neglects or abandons their pets.

Mind you, I said ALL pets.

It is now against the law to sentence your goldfish to a cylindrical Alcatraz - that’s right, no more round bowls. Reason? According to animal rights activists, the shape of the bowl causes the fish to - are you ready? - GO BLIND.

Good lord! Say it ain’t so! BLIND GOLDFISH! How will they work? Sew? Shop? Drive? Play soccer? Date?

Oh wait - for all I know the damned things are blind to begin with. I have yet to see one do much more than swim from one side of a bowl to another and trail poop behind.

Monica Cirinna, the councilor behind the by-law, defends it, "It's good to do whatever we can for our animals who in exchange for a little love fill our existence with their attention."

I agree Monica, but any goldfish I have ever owned didn‘t seem to know I was alive. Oh wait - that’s right - mine had a round bowl, ergo they were blind and could not see me.

She continued, "The civilization of a city can also be measured by this.”

Yes, yes it can. Oddly, you can use that same yardstick to measure exactly how far up its own ass the head of a society is jammed.

The northern Italian city of Turin passed a law in April to fine pet owners up to 500 euros ($597.7) if they do not walk their dogs at least three times a day.

THREE TIMES A DAY.

Listen, I’m all for pet exercise and fresh air, but my dog is not training for the Boston Marathon. Like most dogs, she excels at mimicking carpet all day long. Once around the block really does suffice.

Provisions in the new laws also exist to award “legal recognition” to those kind hearted animal lovers who feed the bazillion strays that damn near outnumber the people. I see. So they are being heralded for contributing to the delinquency of these street urchins? It seems, perhaps, a better use of that food money would be to spend it catching the strays and holding one big Neuter Ball (no pun intended, yeah, right) or Spay Spectacular. Feeding them constantly only gives them more energy to continue their orgiastic behavior, thus creating more stray animals for the bacchanal.

Kind of like Hugh Hefner and all those blondes that seem to multiply in each photo...

But back to the poor, blind, and possibly brain damaged (yes, some scientists claim goldfish are subjected to oxygen deficiency in those water filled orbs of death) goldfish. I suppose if it is true that these creatures are being tortured so badly that someone has to defend their honor, maybe we should think twice before plopping any more into round bowls.

Although, it is interesting to note, the law does not prohibit flushing them down one.

Water, Water Everywhere, But Not A Drop They’ll Drink

When you consider the types of advertisements, contests and slogans that are brought forth by the major beer companies, it is not too difficult to divine that their marketing gurus are one bong short of a frat party. Seriously, it’s not exactly a Nobel braintrust behind these concepts...

Beer Advertising Strategy 101: Any commercial with boobs will sell beer. If commercial has twins with boobs, will sell twice as much beer.

Sports Figures Are Cool, Beer Is Cool: Put cool sports figure and cool beer together, reap cold cash.

Beer Drinkers Can’t Play: Majority of lager likers are beer gutted non-athletes, so insure that each promotional contest involves finalists having to shoot a basket, hit a fastball or kick one through the uprights.

Beer Is Macho: Put a beer in Colin Farrell‘s hand - instant sales increase. Put a beer in Will Ferrell’s hand - not so much.

Given the predictability and juvenile approach to all promotional materials, I had to laugh out loud at the recent PR statement released by Anheuser-Busch regarding their decision to pull the game Bud Pong.  (OK, fine.  You know me too well.  I actually said something along the lines of "What a crock of shit...", but I did laugh when I said it.)

Pop open a cold one and relax with some boobs while I explain...

You see, Beer Pong is a game designed by the boys of Anheuser Kappa Drinksalot and heavily promoted to wholesalers, right down to the beer maker supplying tables, balls and glasses for Bud Pong competitions.

Object? Players on one team try to sink a ball into another team's liquid-filled cups. If successful, the opposing team must drink.

Drink what?

Well, let’s see, this is a game promoted by a beer manufacturer. On equipment provided by said manufacturer to the companies that distribute their product. These companies distribute said product to facilities where it may be legally consumed. That would leave out nursery schools and most convents...

With me so far?

So, game materials follow product to product consumption establishments - leading any sober or even mildly buzzed person to assume the game would best be played with BEER as the liquid in those cups.

Wrong.

Stop drinking now - I need your full attention...

Promotion guidelines apparently specify the use of WATER in the cups, not beer.

Um, yeah. And the game of quarters should be played with Kool Aid, not shots of tequila.

So, imagine their shock when bar patrons and college kids across the land ignored the instructions and forsook Evian in favor of tying one on?

In a statement, the maker of Budweiser said that "it has come to our attention that despite our explicit guidelines, there may have been instances where this promotion was not carried out in the manner it was intended."

Bad beer drinkers. Bad. Bad.

Give me a break. You do not label something Bud Pong thinking your core demographic is going to play it with water. It’s a drinking game for God's sake. And marketed to people who think nothing of routinely getting shitfaced and playing Jarts in the nude.

An additional statement released Tuesday declared, "as a company that has invested more than $500 million to promote responsible consumption among adults and to discourage abuse, we believe it is important that our intentions with Bud Pong not be misperceived."

Sure, and we all believe Phillip Morris doesn’t want us to smoke either.

Ah well - I guess it’s back to the drawing board for the frat boys. Bud Pong may not have panned out, but don’t fear, I’m sure in no time at all, they’ll come up with something equally exciting.

Boobminton, anyone?

Driving Miss Crazy

Since the days of Henry Ford, the automobile has been viewed as both a blessing and a bane.

A blessing in how it transformed transportation options, made the long distance delivery of perishable items possible, and how it opened up a new market for the makers of bumper stickers. (Prior to the fender, your "Our son Bubba is a star student at the One Room Schoolhouse" sticker would have to be applied to the backside of your horse, with little success.)

A bane in that it spelled the beginning of exhaust fumes, oil embargos and global warming. All important issues of course, but let us not forget what has suffered the greatest since the inception of four wheels and a backseat, has endured a mental four car pile-up, if you will . . . a mother’s sanity . . . and there is no driver’s side airbag big enough to protect it.

School is back in session and Moms are back in the driver’s seat. (I happen to be writing this piece in the van right now.) Not that we don’t drive during the summer, it’s just that Fall marks the period in which a Mom begins to live in the car.

Personally, it always reminds me just how far I am from the age of 16.

You know, when you couldn’t wait for the privilege of getting behind the wheel? Backing out of the driveway, music blaring, off to meet your friends someplace cool? Well, twenty three years, three children, four cars and three minivans go a long way in "driving home" a whole different perspective.

(Hang on, have to turn . . .)

Getting behind the wheel is no longer a privilege, it is a punishment. The walk towards the garage, The Green Mile. Strapping myself in is akin to the electric chair, only I will not be shocked with voltage, but with the non stop shrieks of my children.

(Carson, stop touching your sister!!!)

I can’t remember the last time the music was of my choosing. My children’s friends think I am cool because I know all the words to every Jesse McCartney, Gwen Stefani, A-Teens, Click 5, Lindsay Lohan song.

Let's put that statement into perspective, shall we?

In the Vietnam conflict, our troops blared rock-n-roll music at the enemy nonstop. But just because "Charlie" knew all the words to "Hang On Sloopy" does not mean he was happy about it.

(Don’t make me pull this van over!)

As for "heading off to meet your friends someplace cool"? The closest I get to "cool" is the frozen food section of the grocery store. The last friend I happened to bump into was another soccer Mom and we were both buying industrial strength tubes of Preparation H. We don’t stand on our heads when we drive you know. 

(I need three Happy Meals, two with hamburgers - ketchup only, one with nuggets - no sauce. Do you want anything?)

My backside, however, is not the only physical casualty of the car wars. I have technicolor bruises on my arms from the countless times I have been "Slug Bugged" by my daughters. You know, that stupid game whereby you see a VW Beetle, scream SLUG BUG and punch as many people as possible? 

(OUCH! Drat, Kendall is so good at this game!)

I try, but it is hard to drive in a straight line while punching people behind you. Luckily the police officer was a father, we compared bruises, and he let me off with a warning.

I often wish there was a gas company that would sponsor a Frequent Mileage program for Moms. God knows, if these were air miles, I have enough already to redeem for a free flight to the Moon.

(HOOONNNNNNKKKKK!!! $%%^#@ teenage drivers! - pardon me.)

Now where were we? Ahh yes, the Moon which is 221,460 miles away. By my calculations, since giving birth I have driven enough miles to be approximately halfway there. Makes me wish I had installed a thruster and packed some Tang.

The sad fact is that my oldest is just thirteen, which means at least three more years of ferrying her everywhere. Multiply that by two younger sisters and I believe I shall reach lunar orbit by 2009.

Have I lost my mind? Not yet, but I admit that spending all this time trapped in my van is driving me crazy.

(Come on! The light’s green! GO! GO! GO! *(&^#@ Idiot! Learn to drive or get off my road!!!!)

Luckily, as my daughter loves to point out, "It’s a short drive, Mom."

The "Lease" of My Worries

I’m in the middle of a move.

And no, I don’t mean you caught me in the bathroom. (You really are sick, you know that, don’t you?)

What I mean is my family and I are moving. Just within the same state, but it has been a long time in coming. Forget all the hype you hear about the great “housing bubble” in real estate. It simply doesn’t exist here in Texas. If anything, we have “housing gas” - a market so bloated and distended with both new home construction and resale homes that it resembles brick and mortar constipation.

With the exception of a three month period at the beginning of the year, our home has been on the market for over 17 months.

SEVENTEEN MONTHS.

Our moving has become almost a joke among friends and my children have begun to think the For sale sign has just been a ruse to make them keep their rooms clean.

Well, we finally have a buyer and a contract.

Yippee.

Don't get me wrong, I am excited to be selling this McMansion after so many months. There's just one problem. You see, I have steadfastly refused to even scout out areas in our new city up to now - cut me some slack. I know me, and I’m compulsive enough to have fallen in love with the "perfect" house and ended up having to pay two mortgages...not to mention the hospital bill that would surely have been run up after the vein in my head exploded.

No, I have not even begun the house hunt, so while my husband continues to live the bachelor life in an apartment in Austin, the girls and I will be moving into a rental home here in Dallas for the time being. This will allow us to meet the buyer’s closing date and also keep the girls situated in their schools and activities with the least amount of upheaval.

Yes, I know I'm a saint. Contact the Vatican immediately.

And so, with the offer from the buyers, I began the search for said rental home. I spoke with offensive realtors (if their clients only knew how many people they turn off...), answered ads in the paper (for houses, you perv, not personals), and finally pulled up Craigslist online.

For the uneducated, Craigslist.com is a city by city vault of personals, housing, swaps, for sale, etc - check it out next time you are looking for a three legged cat with one ear and an irritable bowel - I'm sure there's one on there...

Anyway, not needing a disabled feline, I searched for rental properties. It was there that I struck gold.

You know, in all my travels to Vegas, I have never struck it rich, but in the whole landlord-tenant crapshoot, I seem to have hit the jackpot.

A friendly husband and wife who have relocated out west, looking to rent their home here in Dallas. The house is clean, well taken care of, no sign of it having been a former Meth Lab...perfect.

We hit it off via email and I met the wife in person this past week. I am happy to say their home is going to be our home for the upcoming months.

That being said, there are the legalities to consider, ie: The Lease Agreement.

(Insert Jaws theme music here...)

Fine. That’s a normal, expected part of an arrangement like this one. The husband emailed me a copy, apologizing full speed ahead for the extensive legalese and inviting me to cross out whatever I wanted.

Unfortunately - crossing things out just isn’t as much fun for me as commenting on them, so this is what I sent back - each section heading is taken directly from the lease agreement:

LEASE PAYMENTS: We’re friends now, right? Can I scratch out the part about $----? Fine, fine - I'll leave that in...

(Note to reader: No, you people do not need to know how much I pay in rent a month. We don't know each other that well.)

SECURITY DEPOSIT: I promise I shant "breach" in order to not "forfeit".

DEFAULTS: "If Tenant fails to fulfill any obligation under this lease"...then the first runner up will assume the duties of Miss America...

QUIET ENJOYMENT: Don't call after 8pm - I go to bed early

POSSESSION AND SURRENDER: On the last day of the lease, I shall come out with my hands up - peaceably

DANGEROUS MATERIALS: Crap - now what am I going to do with all this C4?

ALTERATIONS & IMPROVEMENTS: I promise not to raise the hem or take in the seams on your house.

DAMAGE TO PREMISES: As I understand it, I am protected from paying rent following all acts of God: Tornedos, hurricanes, monsoons, exploding toilets?

MAINTENANCE & REPAIR: I shall get the house's oil changed every 3,000 miles and rotate the tires every couple months too.

RIGHT OF INSPECTION: The barracks shall always be presentable and we shall stand at attention and salute should you pop back from AZ for a surprise inspection, SIR!

HOLDOVER: I'm lousy at poker. Should I hold my Kings?

SECURITY: I shall provide you with the secret code to disarming our 8 pound dog Oreo -- T-R-E-A-T

SEVERABILITY: I promise not to lop off any part of my anatomy while in the house, nor bury said anatomy in the backyard.

INSURANCE: Note to self...Call State Farm in morning. Can't risk losing the Gamecube or my Sopranos DVD collection....

BINDING EFFECT: Isn't that what happens when you eat too much cheese?

GOVERNING LAW: Laws of the State of Texas - ok, remind me again - isn't that "Whoever has the biggest gun wins?"

CUMULATIVE RIGHTS: I earn points? Like with my Kroger card?

WAIVER: I promise to be a friendly neighbor and waver at anyone who passes by.

DISPLAY OF SIGNS: "FOR SALE" and "FOR RENT" signs are fine with me, but hold off on the "Linda's House of Delight" one, ok?

LIQUID-FILLED FURNITURE: What?!?! You mean I can't have my groovy waterbed from 1970? But it goes so well with my lava lamps and lovebeads!

INDEMNIFICATION: Doesn't that mean poop your pants? Oh wait, that would be InDenimfecation.

LEGAL FEES: Does this mean I bail you out of jail/you bail me out of jail? Cool.

Seeing as how we have hit it off so well, I included these Additional Terms & Conditions: Landlord shall hereby agree to tolerate regular emails from tenant just for the simple reason that she enjoys chatting with them. Landlord shall also endure occasional snapshots, ie: Christmas, etc, of tenants enjoying the home. Landlord shall exchange recipes, stock tips, and stupid jokes on a regular basis with Tenant.

Seriously, in terms of Landlords, I have won the human being lottery, so while they may start to question having rented their home to a certified nutcase like me, signing this document is truly the “lease” of my worries!

You’ll have to excuse me now - I have boxes to pack and muscles to pull.

Inside The Box

Francisco Valle-Victorino died yesterday.

And his death gives me pause.

Just who is Valle-Victorino, you ask? Some famed painter? Sure his name sounds artistic, but no, Francisco was not an artist. Was he a heroic figure in the ERA in Spain? Not quite. Francisco was a champion, but not on foreign soil. OK, so who is Francisco Valle-Victorino and why should I have heard of him? you are now asking.

Actually there is no reason you should know who he is. Maybe you would have heard of him sometime in the future, but not now, for all his promise, potential and possibilities have gone with him.

You see, Francisco Valle-Victorino was a 17 year old soccer player in Louisville, Kentucky, who died yesterday morning after taking a direct ball hit while goalieing for his school team during a Monday game.

Perhaps, like you, I would have looked right past any news tidbit about him too, but I have two daughters - avid soccer players, both. And one of them is a goalie. That is why his death caught my attention.

Soccer is an exciting sport. And no, I am not even thinking about the kind played on Spanish television where the announcer lives only to scream, “Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!“

Frankly, that’s stupid. So stop.

Rather I am referring to the level of soccer played around the world by children as young as 4, up through high school. For me I love watching my kids become stronger players from one season to the next - growing more confident, fearless and intelligent about the game.

My twelve year old has played for six seasons now and has morphed from a frightened rabbit on the field (I don’t blame her - she is very small for her age - I would be afraid of some of these two ton 12 year olds barreling down the field) to a decisive, unafraid, unrelenting force. So committed to “sticking” (not backing down when advancing on the ball in the face of opposition) that one coach nicknamed her “The Little Ball of Hate”. The worst thing the other team can do is write her off because of her size. The second they do that, they are done for.

And while I am incredibly proud of her and excited to watch her play each game, it is my nine year old who sprang directly to mind when I read of Francisco’s death.

Carson is a goalie. No, scratch that. Carson is a born goalie. For while one can learn the technical pieces of the goalie puzzle, no one can teach the fearlessness and recklessness one truly needs to play the box.

As my husband, a collegiate soccer player in his youth, has told me, Goalies are a little bit crazy.

And he’s right. Carson is more than a bit crazy in her daily life - she is spontaneous, energetic, a kook. On the field, it serves her well. Whatever “crazy” switch gets flipped in her head, she rocks. Throwing her body across the goal, making spilt second decisions, and diving for the ball - even when a foot is coming straight at it, and her head.

It is in those moments that I find myself doing an odd combination of things: Cheering with pride (That’s MY daughter!) holding my breath (will she, won’t she save it?), and fervently praying (Dear God, PLEASE don’t let her get kicked in the head.)

As any soccer parent knows, it is rare for a game to be completed in which someone hasn‘t stopped the ball with their face or groin or hasn’t had a train wreck with another player, resulting in everyone else on the field “taking a knee” while the referee and coach assess the possible injuries.

It happens. It’s essentially a game in which the sub-game of chicken is played repeatedly - who can get to the ball first? Who will pull back before impacting someone else head-on? Who is standing in the wrong place when someone boots the ball with all their might...right into that person's stomach or head?

Francisco, at 17, had played the game for enough years to have become accustomed to the bumps and bruises of his position. His parents had adjusted to the terminal sense of stress during each one hour game.

After all - how bad could an injury be anyway?

Sadly, Francisco dove for a ball at the same moment an opposing team player gave it a solid kick - it slammed into his throat and he collapsed - Francisco died at the hospital.

At his funeral he will trade playing in one box for a permanent resting place in another.

Yes, I know these occurrences are rare. Yes, I know that 17 year olds kick harder than 9 year olds. And yes, I know that I cannot shield my children from every possible accident in life. 

I know these things as much as I know that after today, we will probably never hear of Francisco again.

Francisco Valle-Victorino was not a hero, a renowned artist or even a famous sports figure.  But from this day forward, for as many years as she chooses to play, every time my daughter dons her jersey and gloves to enter the box, I will pause to think of him and say a prayer for them both.

In memory of Francisco Valle-Victorino.

Southeast Asia: Finding Faith In The Rubble

We have all experienced moments when we are jarred from our sleep. Whether it is booming thunder, a passing siren, a sick child in need of Mommy/Daddy comfort, or a frightening nightmare. Startled awake, our hearts beat slightly faster, we live that brief second of confusion and then our bodies wish desperately to be put back to sleep.

And for most, sleep resumes.

There will be no respite found in sleep for the people of South Asia. The survivors of that devastating earthquake awoke to a nightmare that continues to grow in scale and horror. And they now are now caught in a twilight of despair and desperation from which they cannot awake.

The magnitude of the destruction, being displayed on our TV screens is surreal. The numbers of dead being reported and updated hourly - currently estimated at 30,000 - simply unfathomable. And as is the case in all human tragedies, such as the recent tsunami and hurricanes, the questions have again been asked by many: How could God allow this to happen? And where was He when these people needed Him most?

Devastation this complete can shake a body’s faith to the core. Children, whose lives had barely begun, snuffed out as quickly as a candle flame. Mothers, Fathers, grandparents never even having the opportunity to try to protect their young ones. Tens of thousands taken in the blink of an eye.

Yet even in the rubble of our own emotions, as we work to process the enormity, our faith still resides, whole, unscathed, unblemished. For one simple reason . . .

God is always there.

It is in that simple statement that we unearth our own beliefs and move forward. In those four small words, that we excavate our hurt and begin to heal.

I have stated here before that while I believe in God, I do not believe in religion. I completely respect people who make church going a regular part of their lives, but I personally do not believe I need to be a ticket holder with a reserved seat in a Sunday pew to have an audience with God. And having been raised in one, I no longer wish to belong to a single group which believes they are doing it right and everyone else is doing it wrong.

In that same vein, I do not believe in the "God" that so many worship in their churches and cathedrals. I do not believe I should fear God, that God has a "higher purpose" for a baby dying in a car accident. That somehow a friend with breast cancer is a "divine sign" of some sort. Or that 30,000 people dying in Asia, or 1,100 in the southeast United States, or 125,000 in the tsunami region is all "part of a plan". That this is "God at work".

Rather, I categorize all these things under the simple heading: "Shit Happens."

God did not deliver this earthquake. A fault line deep in the Earth’s crust did that. I do believe though that God delivered the victims to His glory. God did not mete out a punishment. These people, like the 250 young girls smashed to death in their school dorm, had done nothing wrong. But God was there to meet them all. And God did not ask for their arrival, yet He welcomed them Home immediately. How do I know this? Because. . .

God is always there.

God is in the spirit of the survivors, stifling their own tears to help search for more lives. God is in every breath they take as they now live a future of loss and pain. God is in the helping hands of all those reaching out to assist in their struggles. And God is in that feeling in your heart, the one aching for the agony of others you do not even know. That is God at work.

His greatness is on full display. And when we are all able to wipe the tears from our eyes, we will see that God is where He has always been . . .

God is always there.

Will Physician Assisted Suicide Die In Supreme Court?

Some might look at me odd after I write my next line, and that’s ok. It’s a free country - stare away. Here it is:

I have always thought that Dr. Jack Kevorkian was a hero.

Name ring a bell? While it has been several years since he and his “death machine” made any headlines, his fight to give the terminally ill the right to die is back on the front pages of the papers and the front steps of the Supreme Court.

A quick refresher for those of you who have packed this information away on a back shelf in your brains...

Dr. Jack Kevorkian emerged in the late 1980s when he championed euthanasia - the compassionate ending of another’s suffering; what we routinely do with our sick and beloved pets. Prior to his coming on the scene, options for pain ridden patients were few, a shotgun or a handful of pills in the mouth being the most common, albeit messy, options.

In 1989 though, he took suicide high-tech with the “Thanatron,” a suicide machine for the 21st century. The Thanatron did away with all the messy brain splatter of a shotgun blast, making suicide as painless as the touch of a button. The device, made with $30 worth of spare parts - the kind of thing an industrious or bored 12 year old could throw together - enabled the patient to trigger the mechanism themselves, thus releasing lethal poison into an IV tube.

Now obviously, that caused more than a tad of controversy and had all those same Right To Lifers’ - (you know, the ones who oppose abortion but support the killing of abortion doctors?) - panties in a wad. They wanted his head on a pike. How dare he help people kill themselves?

I must pause in our history lesson to ask: Whose business is it anyway? It is one thing to intercede when a misguided, distraught or lost teen is contemplating ending their life over a paramour or bad grade, but we are talking about grown men and women who are suffering. Suffering pain that is unimaginable to anyone who has not experienced their organs being eaten away.

Don’t they have a right to say when enough is enough?

I think so. And so did Dr. Kevorkian, who despite the many legal wranglings he found himself drawn into, managed to assist 130 people before the judicial system managed to jail him. He had televised a lethal injection, and as he had administered the shot, they were able to make a murder charge stick.

And to this day, he sits in prison, Dr. K, who assisted 130 grateful people who embraced being able to choose their own deaths and in die with dignity. (Well, as much dignity as one can garner when their death is a National Enquirer headline.)

Fast forward to today. The fight is on inside the Supreme Court, with America’s newest Chief Justice, John Roberts, looking to tear apart Oregon’s assisted suicide law, (which allows doctors to prescribe lethal doses of drugs to terminally ill patients), citing the federal government's tough regulation of addictive drugs.

You see, after Dr. K and the attention he drew to the issue, Oregon became the first state to allow physician assisted suicide. It is also currently the only state that lets dying patients take control of their death, allowing them the option of obtaining lethal doses of medication from their doctors. In fact voters in Oregon have twice endorsed doctor-assisted suicide, despite the Bush administration aggressively challenging the state law.

Oregonians, and all US citizens by extension, now face having the Supreme Court rule that we do not have eminent domain over our own bodies. That we should be made to suffer to the very last breath our bodies can suck in. That despite incurable illness and the prospect of a searing, crippling, painful deterioration, an individual has no recourse, no right, to ask that their suffering be terminated.

Basically, that we are not deserving of the same humane treatment we extend to household pets and livestock every single day.

It infuriates me that the government feels it somehow should have a say in what is an intensely emotional, personal and gut wrenching decision in a family’s life. Their intrusion in the Terri Schiavo case was inexcusable and thankfully shot down by the judicial system. I only hope the Supreme Court’s decision follows suit.

But considering the conservativism of the new Chief Justice, the Bible banging support of the current administration and the number of Right To Lifers who think they know better than the individuals actually involved, I very much fear Oregon will be stripped of its law.

Those against it preach that it will be abused, that people will start killing themselves willy-nilly. Bullshit. Oregon has had this law on the books since 1997 and only 208 people have availed themselves of the right to ask their doctor to help end their suffering.

They also preach that it is against God’s laws to kill oneself. Fine - then let God deal with the person. But YOU stay the hell out of it.

I am staunchly Pro-choice. In both the beginning of a life and the ending of one. I make no secret of that. While personally, abortion would never be my choice, it would be my choice to make. Not someone else’s. And to all those who picket abortion clinics and shoot at the doctors inside, I say this: Until you are ready to not only welcome into your homes and support the people seeking an abortion, but to adopt, love and raise the children that come of the pregnancies, shut the f*ck up. It is none of your business.

And if you protest based on God? Again, He’ll deal with the person when the time comes. Read your Bibles, especially the “Judge not, lest ye be judged” part. You all always seem to conveniently overlook the passages that might incriminate your own actions.

I hope that I never have to look into the face of a loved one who is drowning in pain, yet cannot choose to die on their own terms. I pray I never have to suffer the fate of feeling my body being eaten from the inside out, with nowhere to turn to end my suffering.

This is a personal decision. Not a political one. This has to do with quality of life, not quantity. Yes, doctors take an oath to “do no harm”, but in prolonging an obvious agony, aren‘t they being forced to do just that? They need, we need, to know there is recourse, that we can show compassion and offer a fellow human being a humane end to their suffering, or God forbid, our own.

Because right now, and I daresay Dr. Kevorkian would agree, in 49 states, the phrase, “you wouldn’t treat a dog like that” has never been more apropos.