I read an article in the LA Times about a man in Nigeria who has married 107 women and fathered 185 children. WHAT IN THE WORLD?????
This Nigerian man is also a faith healer and will not allow his wives or children to go to the doctor or use any medicine when they fall ill. He claims the angel Gabriel told him to marry all his wives and that if God can give him all these wives and children He can also take them away when He wants to. Many of them have died of easily curable sicknesses.
Apparently all his wives are content and many of them are fiercly loyal. He has divorced twelve of his wives because of disobedience, and yet he himself is disobedient to the government and Islamic leaders who demand he divorce all but 4 of his wives, which is all the Koran allows. When he was arrested for his disobedience, his wives protested for his relaease and testified in court that he takes care of them well, and they are happy - so the government and church dropped the charges and he was released.
I have heard numerous men complain about managing with just one wife. Of course my husband is very content with me and never says things like that (to my face). How does this faith healer manage to maintain this household of almost 300?? Here are some of the elements of his success:
1) He has a 4-storey, 89-room home taking up a full city block (everyone has their space).
2) He has a large compound surrounding his home, in which his followers live and help run the household. This includes a large number of personal aides that do his every bidding and treat him like a god (lots of servants and blind obedience).
3) He has an intercom system where he can talk into his microphone and speakers on every floor and facing out into the compound and even the street blare out his words, requests, demands, etc. (easy means of communicating so all can hear and no one can claim they didn't know what he wanted them to do - I think I need an intercom in my house).
4) If a wife is disobedient he divorces her and simply finds a new one every week or so (anyone starting to feel like he treats his wives like Kleenex? Use them up, wear them out, make them obey, or get rid of them - whatever works).
I am a believer in "Live and Let Live" and am usually the type of person who thinks that if someone is minding their own business and their life does not break any major laws and they don't try to force me to do what they think I should, then I can mind my own business too.
But I do feel I have to say that I am appalled at the fact that he will not get medical treatment for his wives and children. I feel that God has aided and led many scientists and doctors to develop the medical treatments offered today; to ignore that is like saying you do not want a gift someone has offered you.
As to his numerous wives???: although I do believe in personal revelation I am extrememly skeptical, to say the least, that the Angel Gabriel actually visited him and told him God wanted him to take all these wives. I think that what he is doing is bogus and ridiculous, but if they are happy so be it. I am happy to let God be his judge.
So, what do you think about this man and his life and wives???
Friday, May 13, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Weelky Awesome Person
I have decided, like a friend of mine, to honor one person a week that I think is or was (death does not disqualify you) an awesome person. My friend has the coolest ideas.
This week I want to honor Milton Hershey (1857 - 1945), the creator of Hershey's milk chocolate.
Now that fact that he created one of my favorite fatties (see previous blog) is enough reason to honor him, but I have a better reason (one with substance). Milton Hershey suceeded at building his chocolate empire after utterly failing as a confectioner, not once, but twice. So Milton I honor you for your PERSEVERANCE.
It all began after years of struggling and failure in school, So his parents decided to apprentice to a printer at the age of 14. This too was a utter failure. He then was able to secure another apprenticeship as a confectioner. After learning this trade that he loved, he decdided to open his own confectioner's shop. He borrowed money from his uncles and set up shop. He struggled in vain to make a profit, and ultimately his business failed.
He thought that maybe he needed a change of scenery, and so he left his home in Pennsylvania and moved to New York. With more borrowed money from his uncles he set up shop again, and struggled and failed again. His parents told him to give up and come home; he could always work on one of his uncle's farms. Milton persisted, though and went to Denver, Colorado where he worked for a time at a large candy factory.
After his Colorado experience, he decided that what he needed to do was specialize in one type of candy so as to maximize his profits. He moved back home and went to see his uncles. They, however, told him they would give him no more money and to give up his dream. Undeterred, Milton convinced a local banker to give him a 90-day loan. He was on his way. He was going to build his caramel empire (that's right I said CARAMEL - not chocolate).
Milton worked hard and specialized in his caramels (which he had learned to make so well while in Colorado - I knew I liked Colorado.) He built a hugely successful business that he later sold in 1900 for $1,000,000 to the American Caramel Co. $1,000,000 back then was a vast fortune! He was set for life and could retire and travel the world. He decided, however, to start a new company and a town along with it: Hershey, Pennsylvania - where he built a giant chocolate company that makes the best chocolates in the USA and maybe the world!
Thanks for persevering Milton - the world is a yummier place because of you!
This week I want to honor Milton Hershey (1857 - 1945), the creator of Hershey's milk chocolate.
Now that fact that he created one of my favorite fatties (see previous blog) is enough reason to honor him, but I have a better reason (one with substance). Milton Hershey suceeded at building his chocolate empire after utterly failing as a confectioner, not once, but twice. So Milton I honor you for your PERSEVERANCE.
It all began after years of struggling and failure in school, So his parents decided to apprentice to a printer at the age of 14. This too was a utter failure. He then was able to secure another apprenticeship as a confectioner. After learning this trade that he loved, he decdided to open his own confectioner's shop. He borrowed money from his uncles and set up shop. He struggled in vain to make a profit, and ultimately his business failed.
He thought that maybe he needed a change of scenery, and so he left his home in Pennsylvania and moved to New York. With more borrowed money from his uncles he set up shop again, and struggled and failed again. His parents told him to give up and come home; he could always work on one of his uncle's farms. Milton persisted, though and went to Denver, Colorado where he worked for a time at a large candy factory.
After his Colorado experience, he decided that what he needed to do was specialize in one type of candy so as to maximize his profits. He moved back home and went to see his uncles. They, however, told him they would give him no more money and to give up his dream. Undeterred, Milton convinced a local banker to give him a 90-day loan. He was on his way. He was going to build his caramel empire (that's right I said CARAMEL - not chocolate).
Milton worked hard and specialized in his caramels (which he had learned to make so well while in Colorado - I knew I liked Colorado.) He built a hugely successful business that he later sold in 1900 for $1,000,000 to the American Caramel Co. $1,000,000 back then was a vast fortune! He was set for life and could retire and travel the world. He decided, however, to start a new company and a town along with it: Hershey, Pennsylvania - where he built a giant chocolate company that makes the best chocolates in the USA and maybe the world!
Thanks for persevering Milton - the world is a yummier place because of you!
Cats vs. Dogs
Growing up I had always considred myself a "dog person"; I used to hate cats and take significant pleasure in their discomfort. I have no idea why this was the case other than the fact that they make me sneeze. Maybe it could also be the trauma assosciated with the fact that when I was a baby the kitten we had would sit at the end of my crib and everytime I moved my feet it would scratch them. (This is probably totally unfounded as I have no recollection of this at all and only knew of it because my Mom told me about it. Maybe it was even my sister that was the one getting scratched - can't remember.)
Over time I have come to realize that I am not a dog person at all! My mother is a dog person and as such we always had at least one dog in the family. I thought back on this and realized that even while I was thus fooling myself that I was a dog person (simply because my family had always owned a dog)I never really liked most of the dogs we had. I even detested some of them. Yes Bonnie Bell, I'm talking about you!!!
Over the last year or so I had begun to fool myself again. I began to think I was deep down a cat person.
We have a very nice cat who eats all of our mice and is very useful. He usually keeps to himself and doesn't meow very much and will happily sleep outside and as such I have had little or no trouble with cat allergies. Recently, however, he has started to assert his "rights" a bit more. He will meow louder for food when hungry, he will constantly try to stay inside all day long, and will most annoyingly walk right between my legs when I walk. He has never been taught to be an indoor cat so if I forget he is in the house he usually leaves us a present somewhere. Beginning to irritate!!!
So I get to thinking again. Am I a cat person or a dog person? I have spent time pondering this (since it is such a weighty matter you know). The result? ... wait for it ... I AM NEITHER!
It was an epiphany for me. I realized that for the most part, I dislike animals. Kind of like when I had another epiphany a few years back and realized that for the most part I dislike other people's children. But that's a different story.
So when I see our cat, I smile at him because he eats the mice but am freed of the burden of thinking I have to like him. I think back on the "dog years" and of enduring face-lickings, and not being able to play in the back yard for fear of the silent, squishy, stink-bombs hidden in the grass and I smile because there is nothing that would EVER make me get a dog. And that's okay.
So I say to the world: You don't have to be a dog person or a cat person. You can happily and gratefully be neither. Come join the ranks of the animal tolerators, and know that your home is a slobber-free, poop-free, pet-hair-free zone and breath a deep satisifying breath with me.
Over time I have come to realize that I am not a dog person at all! My mother is a dog person and as such we always had at least one dog in the family. I thought back on this and realized that even while I was thus fooling myself that I was a dog person (simply because my family had always owned a dog)I never really liked most of the dogs we had. I even detested some of them. Yes Bonnie Bell, I'm talking about you!!!
Over the last year or so I had begun to fool myself again. I began to think I was deep down a cat person.
We have a very nice cat who eats all of our mice and is very useful. He usually keeps to himself and doesn't meow very much and will happily sleep outside and as such I have had little or no trouble with cat allergies. Recently, however, he has started to assert his "rights" a bit more. He will meow louder for food when hungry, he will constantly try to stay inside all day long, and will most annoyingly walk right between my legs when I walk. He has never been taught to be an indoor cat so if I forget he is in the house he usually leaves us a present somewhere. Beginning to irritate!!!
So I get to thinking again. Am I a cat person or a dog person? I have spent time pondering this (since it is such a weighty matter you know). The result? ... wait for it ... I AM NEITHER!
It was an epiphany for me. I realized that for the most part, I dislike animals. Kind of like when I had another epiphany a few years back and realized that for the most part I dislike other people's children. But that's a different story.
So when I see our cat, I smile at him because he eats the mice but am freed of the burden of thinking I have to like him. I think back on the "dog years" and of enduring face-lickings, and not being able to play in the back yard for fear of the silent, squishy, stink-bombs hidden in the grass and I smile because there is nothing that would EVER make me get a dog. And that's okay.
So I say to the world: You don't have to be a dog person or a cat person. You can happily and gratefully be neither. Come join the ranks of the animal tolerators, and know that your home is a slobber-free, poop-free, pet-hair-free zone and breath a deep satisifying breath with me.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Of Yoga and Kids
I was recently introduced to Yoga by a friend. I have always been amazed by people who could do yoga and still be in one piece afterwards. My friend was very sold on the benefits of yoga so I tried it with her a couple times and then I dowloaded some yoga workouts from the internet and tried it out on my own. I have found it quite refreshing, rejuvenating, and enjoyable, but I have a tendency to feel highly self-concious when doing yoga. Here's why:
1) I am overweight, out of shape, and accident prone.
2) I have always found it funny to tease or joke about people I would call "granola" or "crunchy". This includes (but is not limited to) those who: are vegetarians; wear sandals in winter; use recycled or recyclable anything; anyone and anything associated with saving the whales, the planet, or whatever is the current endangered fad; and ... those who do yoga. My kids are very quick to pick up on my hypocrisy and it is only a matter of time before one of them teases me and calls me "granola" or "crunchy."
3) One morning my youngest woke and quietly tiptoed into the room where I was doing yoga and sat silently watching me. When I was in a particularly exposed pose trying hard to keep my balance and focus, my son says cheerfully, "big butt coming thru," and slaps my rear end. Before you gasp in shock at his behavior, you need to know that I taught him that phrase by jokingly saying it whenever I squeeze my way into or onto something (like when there is no room on the couch but I want to cuddle between my boys so I say it and force my way in.)
So, now I do my yoga when my husband is at work and the kids are all at school. I close all the curtains, lock the doors and get crunchy!
1) I am overweight, out of shape, and accident prone.
2) I have always found it funny to tease or joke about people I would call "granola" or "crunchy". This includes (but is not limited to) those who: are vegetarians; wear sandals in winter; use recycled or recyclable anything; anyone and anything associated with saving the whales, the planet, or whatever is the current endangered fad; and ... those who do yoga. My kids are very quick to pick up on my hypocrisy and it is only a matter of time before one of them teases me and calls me "granola" or "crunchy."
3) One morning my youngest woke and quietly tiptoed into the room where I was doing yoga and sat silently watching me. When I was in a particularly exposed pose trying hard to keep my balance and focus, my son says cheerfully, "big butt coming thru," and slaps my rear end. Before you gasp in shock at his behavior, you need to know that I taught him that phrase by jokingly saying it whenever I squeeze my way into or onto something (like when there is no room on the couch but I want to cuddle between my boys so I say it and force my way in.)
So, now I do my yoga when my husband is at work and the kids are all at school. I close all the curtains, lock the doors and get crunchy!
What Books Are in Your Bomb Shelter
I recently read a friend's blog where she asked what books would we put in our bomb shelter. If I were to have to retreat to a bomb shelter (as if there are any in Samoa) it would presumably be because of an end of the world type of scenario. I thought about this and determined that it isn't just about me, but about my kids and future generations right??? What would I deem valuable enough to save for myself and future generations?
Here's my list:
1. My scriptures.
2. The Laura Ingall's Wilder Books (I love history, especially American history. I love the stories of the American frontier and all of her practical pioneering info.)
3. The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom (Like I said, I love history and her book is such an inspiring one about loving our fellow men even when faced with the horror of the Holocaust.)
4. Little Women, Little Men, & Jo's Boys all by Louisa May Alcott
5. Helen Keller's The Story of My Life
6. Best Loved Plays of William Shakespeare (mostly for posterity and because so many of his words are woven into our past and present culture. To understand ourselves we must know Shakespeare.)
7. Cheaper By the Dozen & Belles On Their Toes by Frank B. Gilbreth Jr. & Ernestine Gilbreth Carey (wonderfully funny and practical.)
8. James Herriot's books about his life experiences as a vet in the highlands of Yorkshire.
9. Sense & Sensibility, Emma, Pride & Prejudice, and Persuasion all by Jane Austen
10. Harry Potter series (we all need some magic and fantasy in our lives).
I would also make sure I threw in a good Dictionary so I can continue to say, "Look it up, the dictionary is right there" when my children ask me "what does that mean?" and "how do you spell that?"
So, I will pose the same question my friend did: What books would you have in your bomb shelter?
Here's my list:
1. My scriptures.
2. The Laura Ingall's Wilder Books (I love history, especially American history. I love the stories of the American frontier and all of her practical pioneering info.)
3. The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom (Like I said, I love history and her book is such an inspiring one about loving our fellow men even when faced with the horror of the Holocaust.)
4. Little Women, Little Men, & Jo's Boys all by Louisa May Alcott
5. Helen Keller's The Story of My Life
6. Best Loved Plays of William Shakespeare (mostly for posterity and because so many of his words are woven into our past and present culture. To understand ourselves we must know Shakespeare.)
7. Cheaper By the Dozen & Belles On Their Toes by Frank B. Gilbreth Jr. & Ernestine Gilbreth Carey (wonderfully funny and practical.)
8. James Herriot's books about his life experiences as a vet in the highlands of Yorkshire.
9. Sense & Sensibility, Emma, Pride & Prejudice, and Persuasion all by Jane Austen
10. Harry Potter series (we all need some magic and fantasy in our lives).
I would also make sure I threw in a good Dictionary so I can continue to say, "Look it up, the dictionary is right there" when my children ask me "what does that mean?" and "how do you spell that?"
So, I will pose the same question my friend did: What books would you have in your bomb shelter?
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Trail of Smears
I love history. I remember studying the massacre of Cherokee Indians (Native Americans for the PC people) as they were forcibly removed from their lands and made to march thousands of miles away to an Indian reservation. This event later came to be known as the Trail of Tears. It was a sad time and I feel a special sadness when I think of it because I have some Cherokee ancestry.
Today though, I am talking of another trail. This one is also filled with murder, gore and carnage. But this time I am the perpetrator of these deadly deeds. I speak of the snail trails in my garden beds.
This past Saturday we harvested our sweet potatoes and in the process found hundreds of snails and slugs. These aren’t just the cute little garden snails but they are the invasive species of African Snails that have decimated my previous pepper and cabbage crops. They can grow to be very large and I found one that measured from the base of my thumb to the base of my pinky finger (the diagonal width of my palm).
I took the biggest rock I could find (one that had rough edges to make it easier to crack their shells) and started smashing snails like a possessed person. I discovered their nurseries and egg clutches and smashed them all. I stopped counting at two hundred snails and never even started counting the slugs. I just went on a murderous frenzy, smashing and crushing my enemies.
Before I was half done the flies were buzzing loudly and the sun had risen enough to make it very hot! Did this stop me? Are you kidding??? I was taking revenge for all my poor defenseless pepper plants and cabbages that they selfishly ate and then pooped all over my garden!
I confess this murderous streak in me is most definitely not hereditary. I remember my mother was always so kind to animals, even insects. When a stray wasp or bee got into the house she would have one of us kids get a cup and paper plate to catch the poor thing in and release it outside. I am usually of the philosophy that if it is in my house then it is fair game, but if it is outside I will not hurt it. But, snails and slugs are another story.
While on my murder spree I had discarded my shoes with reckless abandon and cared only for the next kill. I tell you I was possessed. When I could find no more snails I stood up from my crouching position to hunt somewhere else and stepped right onto the squishy remains of the largest snail. Its juices splattered all over my feet, and oozed up between my toes. Hopping on one foot I made it to the hose to wash my feet, but the snail remains were very sticky thanks to the heat of the sun. I thought I heard the new Sugarland song playing somewhere: “Uh oh, uh oh, stuck like glue; you and me baby we’re stuck like glue.”
“Get off you sticky piece of goo!” I grumbled.
My husband (with his impeccable sense of timing) walks around the back of the house to see me hopping about, spraying water from the hose everywhere but where I needed it, all the time mumbling and grumbling.
“Murder is a messy business,” he quips and strolls inside the house leaving me to wrestle with the snail goo still lingering on my foot.
I smear my foot on the grass thinking, “why didn’t I just do that in the first place?” Then, just to make sure no slug or snail escapes my wrath, I sprinkle Slug Out all around my new pepper seedlings.
That night I dream of huge killer slugs and snails dragging me off to snail jail and banging me on the head with rocks. Not really, but it sounded like a good ending. I slept like a baby knowing that my garden was a lot safer than it had been the day before.
Today though, I am talking of another trail. This one is also filled with murder, gore and carnage. But this time I am the perpetrator of these deadly deeds. I speak of the snail trails in my garden beds.
This past Saturday we harvested our sweet potatoes and in the process found hundreds of snails and slugs. These aren’t just the cute little garden snails but they are the invasive species of African Snails that have decimated my previous pepper and cabbage crops. They can grow to be very large and I found one that measured from the base of my thumb to the base of my pinky finger (the diagonal width of my palm).
I took the biggest rock I could find (one that had rough edges to make it easier to crack their shells) and started smashing snails like a possessed person. I discovered their nurseries and egg clutches and smashed them all. I stopped counting at two hundred snails and never even started counting the slugs. I just went on a murderous frenzy, smashing and crushing my enemies.
Before I was half done the flies were buzzing loudly and the sun had risen enough to make it very hot! Did this stop me? Are you kidding??? I was taking revenge for all my poor defenseless pepper plants and cabbages that they selfishly ate and then pooped all over my garden!
I confess this murderous streak in me is most definitely not hereditary. I remember my mother was always so kind to animals, even insects. When a stray wasp or bee got into the house she would have one of us kids get a cup and paper plate to catch the poor thing in and release it outside. I am usually of the philosophy that if it is in my house then it is fair game, but if it is outside I will not hurt it. But, snails and slugs are another story.
While on my murder spree I had discarded my shoes with reckless abandon and cared only for the next kill. I tell you I was possessed. When I could find no more snails I stood up from my crouching position to hunt somewhere else and stepped right onto the squishy remains of the largest snail. Its juices splattered all over my feet, and oozed up between my toes. Hopping on one foot I made it to the hose to wash my feet, but the snail remains were very sticky thanks to the heat of the sun. I thought I heard the new Sugarland song playing somewhere: “Uh oh, uh oh, stuck like glue; you and me baby we’re stuck like glue.”
“Get off you sticky piece of goo!” I grumbled.
My husband (with his impeccable sense of timing) walks around the back of the house to see me hopping about, spraying water from the hose everywhere but where I needed it, all the time mumbling and grumbling.
“Murder is a messy business,” he quips and strolls inside the house leaving me to wrestle with the snail goo still lingering on my foot.
I smear my foot on the grass thinking, “why didn’t I just do that in the first place?” Then, just to make sure no slug or snail escapes my wrath, I sprinkle Slug Out all around my new pepper seedlings.
That night I dream of huge killer slugs and snails dragging me off to snail jail and banging me on the head with rocks. Not really, but it sounded like a good ending. I slept like a baby knowing that my garden was a lot safer than it had been the day before.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Girly Side
I have written previously about high school with much nostalgia. Today however I want to touch on something that boggles my mind. It’s the girly drama associated with high school. Having been a tomboy growing up I do not remember being involved in this side of high school life much because it seemed so RIDICULOUS that I didn’t waste my time on it.
Here’s what brought this up:
My teenage daughter comes home from school and says that she has bad news. I brace myself as thoughts of flunked tests, bad grades, or fights flood my brain. “Who did she hit? Is she suspended from school? Is she going to pass math?”
She then announces that one of her best friends is going out with her other best friend’s boyfriend who never officially broke up with best friend #2 before going out with best friend #1. So BF2 said to take BF1’s initial out of their group sign and BF1 says to refer to her just as her classmate and not her friend because she has joined another group [clique]. Then a girl from BF1’s new group starts “talking trash” about my daughter so my daughter says she hates BF1 forever, and to make it worse the scummy boyfriend (who somehow has escaped blame in all this drama) is a relative of ours so BF2 is now also mad at my daughter because it was her 10th cousin five times removed that treated BF2 like trash (but no blame directed to the player boyfriend).
So, my daughter no longer has any best friends but she has a new enemy, and her cousin is a putz. Her life sucks she says. No wonder she can’t pass math; she spends all her time thinking and worrying about this sort of RUBBISH!
I told her to tell her two former best friends to jump in a lake, slap her cousin in the face (because someone should), and forget about the trash-talking girl. Somewhere along the way as I was dispensing this valuable (and very good if I might add) advice, her eyes glazed over. I lost her.
So … never mind, tomorrow they will all be friends again and the cousin will probably be dating the trash-talking girl.
Now I remember why I have never wanted to go to any of my high school reunions.
Here’s what brought this up:
My teenage daughter comes home from school and says that she has bad news. I brace myself as thoughts of flunked tests, bad grades, or fights flood my brain. “Who did she hit? Is she suspended from school? Is she going to pass math?”
She then announces that one of her best friends is going out with her other best friend’s boyfriend who never officially broke up with best friend #2 before going out with best friend #1. So BF2 said to take BF1’s initial out of their group sign and BF1 says to refer to her just as her classmate and not her friend because she has joined another group [clique]. Then a girl from BF1’s new group starts “talking trash” about my daughter so my daughter says she hates BF1 forever, and to make it worse the scummy boyfriend (who somehow has escaped blame in all this drama) is a relative of ours so BF2 is now also mad at my daughter because it was her 10th cousin five times removed that treated BF2 like trash (but no blame directed to the player boyfriend).
So, my daughter no longer has any best friends but she has a new enemy, and her cousin is a putz. Her life sucks she says. No wonder she can’t pass math; she spends all her time thinking and worrying about this sort of RUBBISH!
I told her to tell her two former best friends to jump in a lake, slap her cousin in the face (because someone should), and forget about the trash-talking girl. Somewhere along the way as I was dispensing this valuable (and very good if I might add) advice, her eyes glazed over. I lost her.
So … never mind, tomorrow they will all be friends again and the cousin will probably be dating the trash-talking girl.
Now I remember why I have never wanted to go to any of my high school reunions.
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