Monday

Quotables-"Pajamaline", Partial Birth Abortion, Voter Photo ID's; Fiction-"The BEST Valentine's Gift"

Blogcritics Feature Stories of the Week

  • Black History Month: Necessary and Compelling Reasons to Celebrate It
  • Marilyn Monroe's Memory Defrauded in Long Beach - The Truth Is Here
  • CD Review: Foo Fighters - In Your Honor
  • Movie Review: Transamerica
  • Cartoon Controversy: Are Those Most Offended Least Familiar With Islamic History?
  • Richard Thompson: He's Missing the Stew

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    Voter Reform

    It's very important for yon reader to pay attention.

    For as we walk softly through our lives we perform actions that require photo identification constantly. Should a cop stop our speeding vehicle, we must produce a driver's license with, guess what...a picture of our fine selves.

    Debit cards required photo ID. Student ID's require a photo. There's an entire industry based on producing pictures for visas.

    We're used to this sort of thing is what I'm saying here.

    So why, what with that 2000 election and the many dead who vote across the land, is requiring a photo ID for voting the subject of such contention?

    This is why we must pay attention. Pay attention to just who is fighting against such a requirement. A requirement that leaves those of us who vote just one time and are still alive shrugging our shoulders in acceptance.

    In fact, I'm amazed that so far only seven states now require photo ID to vote. I note they are mostly red states.

    I'll tell you who's going to protest against voter photo ID requirements. Count on Al Sharpton to throw up a fuss. This man makes a handsome living by delivering needed votes for whatever carpetbagger wants to be Senator from New York.

    Jesse Jackson for sure. Jesse will even hire buses and port several hundred protesters to states daring to enact this common sense measure. They'll call it discrimination, a throwback to the days when African Americans had to fight snarling dogs to get at the voting booth. Though those same bus passengers likely often produce a photo ID for all manner of everyday transactions.

    Pay attention to what states actually enact a voter photo ID. I'll wager we won't see the following states chasing this legislation: Pennsylvania, Illinois, Wisconsin, New Mexico.

    States that have large populations living on Indian reservations, probably not. There are entire industries that revolve around getting Native Americans, many of them dead, on the voter rolls.

    The vast majority of Americans favor photograph voter identification. Georgia, in fact, referenced in the below quotable from Chuck Muth, is making the process extremely easy, even providing transportation to a voter registration center for those without transportation or in some cases, will come to a potential voter's home.

    The picture is a ha-ha I know but it's just how slap-happy I feel about the furor over voter photo identification. It's nonsensical; a joke.

    Our constitution will not allow the federal government to pass a voter photo identification law. These laws must be passed by state governments and some states rather like having the ability to, ah, shall we say, manipulate the vote.

    GEORGIA ON MY MIND

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    "Georgia's Republican lawmakers believe the integrity of elections is more important than voter convenience. They want voters to produce photo identification at every election. So this week, they passed a bill to make Georgia the seventh state to require that voters show photo ID at the polls (Florida, Hawaii, Indiana, Louisiana, South Carolina and South Dakota are the others). On Thursday, Republican Gov. Sonny Perdue signed the bill into law."

    - Las Vegas Review Journal, 1/28/06

    ”Pajamaline”

    Heh.

    Seems Paul Mirengoff, founder of the very popular political site, Powerline, interviewed Dick Durbin, Senator from Illinois and very vocal during the hearings about the administration’s NSA intercept program.

    On behalf of Pajamas Media, a new blog venture which Mirengoff if a participant, Paul asked Durbin the most basic of questions. Paraphrased, Mirengoff asked Durbin that if he thought the NSA intercept program to be illegal, why didn’t he and his fellow Lords in the House of Lords (a.k.a. The Senate) just pass a law making it illegal?

    An excellent question in that the House of Lords has absolutely no power, read my lips, to wage a war. We have a Commander-in-Chief has defined in our constitution for a reason. How effective would a war be if waged by 100 Leaping Lords and 500 plus Reps in the House of Representatives?

    The House of Lords cannot pass a law as Mirengoff inquired of Durbin because that would be a violation of this country’s separation of powers. Remember third grade civics? There’s an executive branch, a legislative branch and a judicial branch. Such a law would be ran, not walked, directly to the Supreme Court and likely, if the Justices know their third-grade civics, be declared unconstitutional.

    So why are the Lords pontificating all about this NSA program if they can’t do a thing about it, as posed by the question by Mirengoff? Not that any other of the mainstream journalists would pose such a question what with getting their information by faxed talking points, bothered to asked such a pointed question.

    It’s a simple fact that even the blind can see. The Lords are uppity that this country’s Commander-in-Chief is doing his job as required by our constitution and not consulting them for political points as they desire. They’re just making sound and sight bites for the midterm elections is what I’m saying here.

    Although the President did inform the leaders- of both parties- of the Senate Intelligence Committee, about the NSA program. Informed them at least eight times as I understand it. But no, the Lords of the minority party that were consulted now say they were fooled and the House of Lords now wants all Lords informed so that the stupid ones who failed to see a sound bite when it smacked them in the faces can immediately run to the NY Times and spill the secrets.

    It was a refreshing breeze when blogger Mirengoff put Durbin on the spot by asking the question every other reporter present should have asked long ago.

    On the matter of the blogger who confused Lord Durbin so that he swore he would look up “Pajamaline” just as soon as could, we have the following quote from National Review:
    "The 'who do you work for' defense isn't going to work anymore, but my guess is that politicians will be using it more often as bloggers start doing original reporting and covering live events. Why? Because bloggers often come from the ranks of working professionals — in this case, a lawyer — and will be drawn to covering areas where they can legitimately claim some expertise. Professional journalists are asked to jump from issue to issue, often with little time to study in between. When I covered the WTO ministerial in Hong Kong, I noticed that the most challenging questions came from writers for trade publications who knew the issues cold. Bloggers combine that expertise with a passion for politics, and that can lead to some very challenging questions for politicians."


    We especially loved Mirengoff’s response to Durbin’s challenge of his credentials.

    “Dan Rather knows us,” Mirengoff responded.

    Heh.

    The video of the Durbin questioning by Mirengoff can be found on the Pajamas Media site.

    No Words Needed

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    Poignant and Worth Repeating

    President Bush quoted Clay during the recent State of the Union speech. The words are beautiful. The author died protecting every one of us.
    AMONG THE GREATEST AMERICAN HEROES

    "I faced death with the secure knowledge that you would not have to. Never falter! Don't hesitate to honor and support those of us who have the honor of protecting that which is worth protecting."

    - Marine Staff Sergeant Dan Clay, who was killed last year fighting in Fallujah, in a letter to his family which was highlighted in President Bush's State of the Union address this week

    The Base is Angry

    It’s always been considered that Republicans were the party of government spending restraint. This particular set of congress critters representing the GOP seem to have lost that mission.

    The Republican base, as it were, is angry.

    From Muth’s News & Views:
    GOP CONGRESS ON STEROIDS

    "Congress under Republican control has increased earmarks 873 percent in a decade."

    - Columnist George Will

    Partial Birth Abortion Upheld by 9TH Circuit

    The legislators, ladies and gems, keep trying to stop the practice of partial birth abortion. A procedure where babies are murdered in their mothers’ wombs through insertion of a long needle into their brains. Partial birth abortions are done all the way up through the day of birth if required.

    The un-elected Justices, beginning with Roe vs. Wade, seem to think legislating abortion is their job. Not that the voters couldn’t decide such a thing, what a concept. So the 9th circuit of the federal court continues to uphold the practice of partial birth abortion.

    Give them time. Soon enough it will be permissible to kill a five-year-old, hey we’ll call it “after birth abortion”. This will be especially permissible in the case where the five-year-old is dangerous to the “health of the mother”.

    From the AP:
    9TH CIRCUS UPHOLDS BARBARIC PROCEDURE

    "A federal appeals court ruled Tuesday that a congressional ban on a form of abortion is unconstitutional. A three-judge panel for the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals upheld a lower court's ruling in June 2004, saying the ban on partial-birth abortions lacks an exception for when a woman's health is at stake. The ruling also called the ban 'impermissibly vague.'"

    - Associated Press, 1/31/06

    Leaving With a Smile

    Erma, we miss you.

    Image hosted by Photobucket.comMy second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being, hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.

    -Erma Bombeck-


    More Notable/Quotables HERE

     Posted by Hello


    The Best Valentine Gift

    Wes is a good man. I knew this even before our wedding three years ago. What I didn't know until after a year of marriage is that he was practical beyond all expectations of normalcy. His gifts would leave me exasperated, frustrated and angry at his one track mind. Until that Valentine's day when Wes' gift would save my life.

    I should have had some sort of clue during our year long courtship and engagement. At the time, I thought him to be solicitous and concerned.
    "I really hope you like it," Wes had said, as he handed me two perfectly square packages. It was our first Christmas together as an official couple. We had dated, dreamed and fell in love in the prior three months.
    We met at the university snack bar. After a brief discussion and some shared pizza, we learned that each of us was scheduled to graduate the following Spring. We then agreed to meet for a date on the following Thursday for a movie and a coke. And at the end of this comfortable evening, we both knew that we would be a permanent pair.
    Strange that after only a few hours together we should both make such a realization. It wasn't as if a cupid lightening bolt suddenly struck us both senseless. It was more a comfortable knowledge, began when we discovered that our mutual goal was to become teachers, get married, and raise a family. This tidbit became concluded after the first hour. After the second hour, we both had silently but firmly decided just who would be the spouse with whom we would raise our families. And here he/she was sitting right across the table.

    I lived in an off-campus apartment . Wes lived in the college dormitory. By the time that first Christmas arrived, we had decided we would be married the following June, right after our own graduations. We would both live in our current situation until we were married and could get an apartment together. All of our other life plans were expected to follow in an orderly fashion.
    I admired the neat wrapping of Wes' offered Christmas gifts. Men rarely made a fuss of wrapping presents, but Wes had taken some time to wrap the two gifts. The gifts appeared to be of identical size and ostensibly to be two gifts of the same item. I wondered what he could possibly give me that I would need two of.
    I carefully unwrapped the first square-shaped gift. Wes took the discarded wrapping paper and folded it neat and flat. He wasn't exactly cheap, my practical Wes, but he firmly believed in recycling-if not from an environmental motive.
    It was a smoke detector.
    "Well thank you, Wes," I said with feigned delight.
    Goodness, was all I could think, a smoke detector? And now I would have to open the second present, which I already knew to be ANOTHER smoke detector.
    We had already agreed to hold our gift-giving to a minimum. Wes and I were on a sturdy budget that had us saving our dimes for our wedding and new life together.
    I, as practical a soul as ever walked, had respected the budget when I purchased Wes' gift. I noticed that Wes love pistachio nuts. He would forever grab one of those little cellophane packages from the candy rack in the campus store. The little packages would yield about twenty pistachio nuts, and this for a cost of over 29 cents! I figured those pistachio nuts to cost maybe $78 a pound.

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    Strangely, and two months before Christmas, a catalog arrived at my apartment that offered nuts in bulk. I flipped the pages, then stopped when I noticed a five pound bag of pistachio nuts, attractively packaged in a green burlap bag tied with a bright, red, felt ribbon. The cost of the entire bag was $35. Pistachios weren't an inexpensive nut treat, but this purchase bought the price down to about $7 a pound. I was smug at my selection of a treat that Wes so enjoyed and well within our agreed-upon $50 limit.
    The smoke detectors, in fact, exceeded the limit.
    "I notice the only smoke detector you have is that one by the foyer. At a minimum you should have one in your bedroom and another in the long hallway. I will put them up for you tonight."
    I had listened to Wes' explanation thoughtfully. By now I had opened the second gift, and it was, surprise, another smoke detector.
    It was Wes' practicality and protective mannerism that caused me to love him as quickly and surely as I had. He would regularly check the tires, seatbelts and brakes of my ratty Plymouth. He insisted I eschew spiked heels for more steady and chunky heels. He warned me to watch the puddles, mind the steps and avoid the potholes. The lunch meat, he would explain, must be placed back into the refrigerator quickly, lest it spoil.

    So I did have a clue by the time I married Wes. The smoke detectors were the first clue. The Valentine's Day first-aid kit and birthday chain lock were others. The gifts were clues to Wes' personality and all signs that he would be a wonderful husband and protective father.

    It got to be a bit old after a while.

    Not that I wasn't happy. Indeed, I was totally at peace in my marriage to this thoughtful man who insisted I do not bake the turkey with the stuffing inside as a salmonella nursery. Wes was by no means an obsessed man. He was...well, just a careful one.
    It's not as if I were a wild and wooly woman, inclined to walk naked in the snow or eat raw beef with onions. I was from the solid and sensible midwest, the result of a breeding between a stalwart wheat farmer father and steady secretary mother. Indeed, for any other female than my own predictable self, Wes would have been quickly defused.

    His gifts of long flannel nightgowns were not taken as any sign of sexual boredom. Wes was a quiet and passionate lover, albeit religious about birth control and standards of cleanliness. We were living in a small drafty apartment in Michigan while we saved to purchase our first home. The nightgowns warded the chill and prevented colds.

    The cotton underwear was a start.
    It was a start and also a result of our first confrontation regarding Wes' worrisome ways to the elimination of life's delights. And that was just how I phrased it the birthday when he presented me with a spare tire.
    "That left rear tire is showing a lot of wear," Wes had told me, as he handed me a large tire-shaped object, bound-unbelievably-with spiral-wound packaging tape as if wrapping paper. A large bow was attached in a manner to create an appearance of a rubber wreath.
    I could not begin to feign delight at this husband who would hand me a large packaging-taped wrapped tire as a birthday gift.
    "You got me a TIRE for my birthday?" I shouted as Wes handed me his gift to await my surprise.
    "It's that left rear tire, hon...I am worried about a blowout..."
    Wes could have recited the bible just then, because I was a woman who had just received a tire for her birthday and I was looking for bear.
    "A tire, Wes. Jesus Christ you got me a tire for my birthday! Last Christmas you bought me a raincoat and a pair of galoshes. Valentine's Day you got me a fire extinguisher! Wes, I am a woman here! I might like some perfume. Or some underwear. It doesn't have to be expensive. It's like you don't think any about who I am and what I like. I could be a pet for Christ's sake!"
    Wes stood in front of me, holding the tire and looking very dejected. I felt like a huge pile of estrogen-laden crap.
    I walked over to my sorry sight of a husband, relieved him of his tire load, and took him in my arms.

    "I just want you to be safe and sound Jessie," Wes said quietly and gave me a soft kiss on the forehead. "My mother always told me I was such a worrywart. She told me I could smother somebody. According to Mom, I was born to worry. She told me I didn't walk until I was four...had me to all kinds of Doctors. Apparently I decided to get up and walk when my legs were not wobbly and apt to cause me to fall. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you. I'll do better, you wait and see."
    And he did do better.

    The underwear was definitely not Victoria's Secret. There was not a scrap of lace to be seen. They were, however, definitely women's underwear, a practical cotton and decorated with sprigs of roses. I thought them lovely.
    "I looked everywhere, Jessie. Women should wear cotton underwear, but I had a heck of a time finding 100% cotton and not some cotton blend."
    I admit that confession took some of the thrill out of the underwear gift. Now my strange husband was an expert on women's underwear? Still, it was better than a tire.
    The gifts now became more personal, but still bearing the Wes practical seal of approval. All perfume gifts were of a special blend and hypo-allergenic. Underwear gifts were always 100 % cotton in a variety of floral prints. A wool cap and scarf set came in my favorite color.
    We had been married two years when I finally had to confront Wes again on his generic gifts. Sure, we had graduated from tires to cotton underwear. But the gifts still carried no stamp of my own personal self, likes and dislikes.
    "Think of my hobbies, Wes. Think of the things that are uniquely me. Think of the pistachio nuts, Wes," I said, attempting to be calm as I held Wes' latest Valentine day gift of a set of road flares packaged in a felt case bearing my monogram.
    Wes was puzzled re the pistachios, and the woman in me explained.

    "I watched you, Wes. I knew you like pistachios. Then I looked around and found a way to give some to you as a gift. I know we are saving for a house, Wes...and I am just as dedicated as you to that goal. But I still can't believe you can't give me a gift that is about ME and not about your obsession with practicality or generic concept of a woman."
    Wes then pointed out the thoughtfully monogrammed felt case for the road flares and I threw my hands up with disgust.
    "I have hobbies, likes, dislikes...Wes. Pay attention! " was all I could mutter as I carried my personally monogrammed road flares to the trunk of my car.

    For my following birthday, Wes presented me with a set of thimbles.
    They were carefully wrapped in used-wrapping paper from a prior birthday. The ribbon was neatly tied, with the ribbon tails artfully curled from being run along the flat side of a pair of scissors.
    I was delighted with the thimbles as I was a prolific seamstress and had needle holes in my thumbs to prove it.
    The following Christmas, Wes presented with some flower-adorned face shields.
    As I held the face shields up to the light of the Christmas tree, I could not hide the puzzled look on my face.
    "It's for when you change the dirt in the potting soil of the plants," Wes explained. "I notice the dirt flies about and you really shouldn't be inhaling that stuff. Not to mention, Jessie," and here Wes became quite stern, "the bug spray you put on those plants that no doubt find their way up your nose also."
    Wes worried on about my asthma. But I was very careful in any situation that would aggravate my asthma or bring on an attack. In fact, I had only one asthma attack in the entire time I knew Wes, but it was a doozy.

    Wes and I were on an Interstate 76, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. The Interstate was in the process of construction to widen and add lanes. A large bulldozer came from nowhere and dumped a pile of dirt in a hole that was adjacent to our vehicle . A cloud of mud dust entered our opened windows to obliterate our vision and start my lungs to protest.
    I fought desperately to breathe, as Wes maneuvered for automobile escape from the dirt that invaded my lungs. I fumbled for my inhaler, blind from the dust and still-struggling for air. It took forty minutes to finally calm down my lungs, as Wes cut in and out of traffic in desperate attempts to move away from the construction dust. In another minute, Wes threatened to jump out of the car to flag down some help. It wasn't necessary. My lungs found their grip and Wes' maneuverings and our now closed automobile windows had prevented additional contamination.
    I was fine. Inhaling a gulp of pure dust would test the strongest of lungs. Mine, susceptible to shrunken alveoli that would leave me gasping, protested in spades. My inhaler had served its purpose.
    Okay, I reasoned, so the gifts still reeked of Wes' practical practicality. At least they were about ME, although who would have thought of buying face shields for an indoor gardener? Even one with a normally mild case of asthma?

    I began to dream of jewelry. I was too practical to desire large baubles of ostentasiousness. Just a tiny ruby on a tiny ring, I would ponder. Or perhaps a ruby nestled in a handsome setting on a gold chain to wear around my neck. I had always adored rubies and had some pretty but inexpensive pieces that my parents had purchased for me on several gift-giving occasions. Wes had not, in the three years we were married, even considered a gift of rubies. Rubies do not protect from bee stings, dog bites or stealthy pollen. It would not do for Wes to give rubies, yet I yearned for them.
    With some thoughtful shopping, one could purchase jewelry pieces...perhaps a colorful pin or a tiny pendant...with rubies that were priced within our budget. And I explained just this to the horrified Wes who could not conceive of a gem gift that offered no safety or practical use.

    "Come on, Wes. Gifts are supposed to be gifts! We've come a long way from the tires, Wes...but still. It's not like I'm asking you to over-extend our budget. Just a pin...or tiny necklace. I know rubies don't warn you of fires or prevent burglaries...but I adore them. Look at me, Wes. I'm not a nut who is demanding the Hope diamond. Just something special Wes...something I like but would never buy for myself. Just once in awhile, Wes...pretty please?"
    Wes listened thoughtfully to my harangue and considered the concept of jewelry and rubies. Grabbing his knees, Wes pulled himself up from our used sofa and declared:
    "Jessie...you just wait until Valentine's Day. You'll see...you shall have rubies and you WILL be surprised."
    I could only guess. Rubies on my face masks? Perhaps a ruby-dusted thimble? Maybe a ruby-colored tire...who knew with my husband of the one track mind? Still, I was anticipating Valentine's Day and my ruby gift as expected.

    And Wes himself was excited about the coming Valentine's Day. Wes and I might be perceived as two practical people who would normally eschew the Valentine's holiday as invented by Hallmark. Instead, we both adored this semi-holiday proclaimed for lovers and had regularly made it a special holiday just for the two of us.
    We couldn't afford to rent an Embassy suite with grand hot tubs. Our gifts, as previously delineated, were strictly kept within our agreed-upon budget. But we could do some special activities that cost no more than some labor and considered thought.
    Wes would bring me breakfast in bed. I would make his favorite meal of roast beef with a rich au jus gravy. We might splurge on a movie or rent some videos. That night, we would make glorious love, full of this wonderful day spent doing for each other. We had vowed that no matter how many children, pets or in-laws, Valentine's day would always be a day just for us. If Wes were to ever break down and give me any sort of ruby, it would definitely be on Valentine's day.

    "I can't wait for Valentine's day, Jessie. I got you the best gift. You will love it."
    I was skeptical when Wes uttered those words just two weeks before our special holiday. After three years of marriage, I still adored this man no mind his strange gifts. Wes was dedicated, dependable and, on some occasions, delightful. In spite of my grumblings about his worrisome ways, I admired how he foresaw potential problems and took action to leave me unfettered by such minutiae. No matter the tires, floral face-masks and cotton underwear...I never felt unloved or unprotected by my odd husband.

    I served breakfast in bed to Wes the Valentine's day I almost died but for Wes of the practical gifts. The prior week, Wes had advised me constantly that the Valentine's day was almost upon and that he had the most fabulous gift.
    Rubies...I thought....a piece of jewelry...even if with only the tiniest of gems. I was excited my own practical self.
    "Guess where we are going today?" Wes asked as he finished his breakfast of two poached eggs and lightly buttered toast.
    I deigned to guess. Wes offered that he would just drive us there and I would be surprised.
    A few hours later, we pulled up in front of the town's Washington monument.

    We lived in a small town, Wes and I, with only a modicum of "famous" landmarks. Our town's monument to George Washington was the most well-known, and then only the local people knew of it. The monument itself was a tall obelisk with a statue of the nation's founding father perched at the top. The neat thing about the monument was the climb to the top to the observation windows. From that vantage, we could see clear out over our tiny town to the hash-marked fields of wheat and corn beyond. Wes and I had climbed this monument on our wedding day, immediately after the ceremony and right before the reception, to gaze at the town and farms that would comprise the surrounds of our married life.
    I had forgotten all about the monument, and was delighted that Wes had chosen it as a site for our exchange of Valentine's Day gifts. I had purchased a pair of warm bedroom slippers for Wes to replace the ratty ones he would never consider to toss. For myself, I had visions of a beautiful pin, thoughtfully adorned with tiny rubies.
    We climbed the stairs of the monument, and were in front of the observation windows no more than five seconds when Wes took me tenderly in his arms.
    "Happy Valentine's Day, Jessie. You got to know I will always love you and only want to please you," Wes said, then gave me a long kiss. It was during the kiss that I began to cough for my life.
    A cloud of white dust had floated up from somewhere below to envelope our unaware and kissing selves. By the time the plaster dust went up my nose, the alveoli in my lungs had already constricted and refused to expand for air.
    While there can be nothing more frightening than furiously sucking air that would not come, the sight of a frantic husband trying to ascertain the problem at such a time would come close. I could not utter a sound but for tortured gulps. Desperate and about to pass out, I grabbed my pocketbook to grope for my inhaler. Only the damn thing wasn't there.
    Wes, by this time, had turned a ghastly shade of white as we played a life-and-death game of charades.
    "Jessie...Jessie..," Wes was shouting as a black cloud floated in front of his worried face. I continued to grope inside my pocketbook for my inhaler and prayed that Wes would stop his panic and perform some sort of assistance.
    Which he did.
    The white dust continued to swirl about us as Wes finally understood my predicament and grabbed my purse to look for the inhaler. He couldn't find it either.

    Lipsticks, compacts and hairbrushes flew from the purse to the floor as Wes searched frantically for my inhaler.
    "Jesus, Jessie...it's not here! How could you go off and leave your inhaler?" Wes shouted, still discarding the contents of the purse as I continued to gasp for air.
    "Wait a minute!" Wes shouted, as I finally fell to the floor in weakness. By now I was almost in a state of euphoria from oxygen deprivation and only bits and fragments of reality were registering on my brain. I definitely saw, though, Wes reach in his pocket and pull out a gaily wrapped gift.
    And even though my life's only goal at that moment was to draw a full breath of air, it also registered that Wes was furiously unwrapping the package carefully wrapped in red-heart paper.
    It's strange the things you think when you are dying. Because all I could think as my conscious narrowed to one tiny hole was that this nut of a husband was unwrapping my Valentine's gift while I was one minute from death.
    The black cloud overtook me before I could ascertain the contents of the gift. The last I remember before the cloud shut tight was something being shoved into my mouth and Wes' command to "breathe...Jessie...breathe."
    Shortly after, the black cloud opened a bit to reveal Wes' worried face as he pulled me to my feet. Hanging over his shoulder like a limp puppet, I was carried down the stairs of the monument, past the floor where the workmen were sandblasting, and out to the street. Wes carried me thus, the whole time holding an inhaler to my mouth and pressing the antihistamine into my lungs. When we reached the street, the black cloud was now a dark frame around my reality.
    Wes stood me up gently and we both cried that I could stand on my own and I could breathe...I could breathe!

    We walked slowly to a nearby bench. Wes sat me down gently while murmuring that everything was all right now...to just take some deep breaths.
    "I'm okay, Wes," I was finally able to say. I took a few more gulps of the blessed air augmented by a few squirts of my inhaler. Only there was definitely something strange about this inhaler. After a few more minutes, I was breathing normally and inquisitive about the inhaler that had definitely not been in my purse.
    Instead of a plastic holder for the antihistamine refill, the container was of stainless steel. The asthma medicine could easily be snapped into the holder and removed when empty. Not only had Wes purchased a stainless steel holder for the medicine, he had bought three refills of the antihistamine canister. My initials were engraved in Calligraphy on the stainless steel inhaler. Encrusted in the holder were three tiny but brightly shining red rubies.

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