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Wednesday, November 19th 2008

9:37 PM

French for Song

Whoopie Goldberg called it the What the Hell? moment. That's what she said when she found out that the CEOs of the three top auto industries had taken private jets into DC this week to whine and beg for public funds.

I wrote about this on my other blog over at the newspaper, http://blogs.fayobserver.com/editorial/2008/11/19/whiners-beggars/

And believe it or not, a fellow from Michigan who works in the industry said that it's unreasonable to expect CEOs to travel commercially, like all of us other taxpayers, because, by golly, commercial flights don't go into Kokomo and we can't expect CEOs to fly commercial because they could rub shoulders with the very riff-raff public whose tax dollars they are currently begging for.

I think they ought to be given prison terms. Not our tax dollars.

Call it highway robbery.

If that isn't news enough to send a girl reaching for the ibuprofren, I got a call today from a fellow who said he couldn't get anyone else to listen to him. (Funny, I've had that problem).

Then he began to explain to me why Jeffrey McDonald is not guilty of murdering his wife and how he knows that: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeffrey_R._MacDonald

Listen. Over the past six months there have been several spousal murders in this town. I can't keep up with the ones happening today, much less the ones that happened back when even I sported a Farrah Fawcett hair cut.

The fellow went on, unabated, without pausing for a breath, for so long that I finally put the phone receiver down next to the computer and let him rant for a good 15 mintues. He never took a breath.

I'm telling you what. Some people have too much time on their hands.

I visited a new dentist today. Changing dentists is a real committment. I've been seeing the same one for so long, he's more faithful about sending me a birthday card than my own mother.

But he's in Oregon and I'm in North Carolina.

So the gal who welcomed me said, "Hi, I'm Shantel."

I about cracked up laughing.

When I was 15, I read a book, a story, something about a girl named Shantel. I thought it was such a beautiful name that I decided right then and there that if I ever had a girl I was going to name her Shantel.

Shantel Love.

I told the dental assistant that.

"Was it a Reader's Digest story?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. Could've been."

"That's where my mother got the name. From a Reader's Digest story," she said.

"How old is your mother?"

"54."

"I'm 52. I bet we read the same story."

Only thing is I outgrew the name. And Shantel's mother didn't. (Girls, you can send me a Starbuck's card and thank you notes.)

"Everytime I call to make an hair appointment they ask me if I'm African-American," Shantel said.

She's not.

Her married name is Shantel Leigh Lizzer.

When she was in school the kids would drawl out that vowel sound to a "Shantel Lay." Then giggle hysterically.

But most of her friends just call her Shan now.

"Unless they are mad with me. I can always tell when my husband is mad with me. He'll yell out SHANTEL! and I know, uh-oh, I'm in trouble again."

It's the American version of the French name for Song.

Shantel Love.

Definitely reminiscent of the 1970s hippie and Volkswagon Bug days, huh?  

 


 

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