Bacon Brownies Take Manhattan

For those who have been following the Bacon Brownie saga, you know there has been controversy about ingredients (proven to be slanderous and false allegations) and epic successes (Gov. Rick Perry ate two and raved about them).

The story continues Fourth of July week when Jennie (@beautiflywings) and I travel to Manhattan to teach Jedediah Bila of Fox News how to create this coveted confection.

But we need YOUR help! We can’t go this alone. We are asking you to partner with us in this journey. However much or little you are able to donate, we are truly grateful. We will be chronicling this adventure with blog posts, video, and, of course, pictures.

Donate here using my email address MissRuth1021@gmail.com.

Thank you and God bless!

New Shenanigans Next Monday

Rough week + sickness = break. Go back and revisit our other episodes and join us next Monday.
http://opendoorpolitics.wordpress.com/2013/04/22/well-be-back-to-our-regularly-scheduled-shenanigans-next-monday/

One Year

Today, April 13th, marks the one year anniversary of being a published writer for Misfit Politics. If you have no clue what that is stop now, click the link, and check them out. I’ll be here when you come back.

Are you back? Good. As I was saying, today is my blogging anniversary. It’s been an amazing year. I’ve traveled more than any other time in my life. I’ve met the most amazing people. Followed history-making stories. And worked with the best staff on the planet. Seriously, the Misfit staff has become family and they are the best group of people.

This journey started with a back problem, no joke. I was laid up for two days and bored. I didn’t have a t.v. or computer, just my dinky iPhone 3GS and a constant Twitter stream. I knew nothing of Echofon or Tweetdeck or lists or any fancy social media at the time. While staving off boredom and attempting to ignore the pain I struck up conversations with random people on Twitter- one of them being a Misfit Politics contributor. The rest fell into place and on Friday, April 13th, 2012 my first post went up. Go ahead and take a moment to stop and read it here.

This journey has blown my mind. Really, it has. I keep saying, “Life is an adventure, go live it,” and the past 12 months have been no exception. I’ve tucked several states under my belt, stayed in gorgeous hotels, created recipes with which I fed famous politicians and activists, mourned, rejoiced, nearly fainted, created a calendar, upgraded my tech, and experienced so much more than I have the space to write or you have the time span to sit and read. I am very blessed to have been given the chance to pick up a dream I had laid down for 10 years.

Here’s to the first year. To all the moments that have inspired me. Here’s to late nights. To staring at a computer for eight hours at work then going home to stare at my laptop for another 6+ hours. Here’s to the untold amounts of caffeine that have fueled the every crazy conference, event, weekend, news cycle, and epic rant. To the wifi hotspots that have been my saving grace when it came time to podcast at a random location.

Here’s the band of Misfits that took a chance on an unknown and have become home no matter what city I’m in. To the friends across the country who’ve held me up when grief struck me down. Here’s to passion that keeps me fighting. To the inspiration, no matter where it comes from. Here’s to the challenges that have made me better. To the mistakes that have taught me. Here’s to the victories that have sent me soaring. To the defeats that have humbled me.

Here’s to years to come. To the adventures that are yet to be embraced.

Close To Home; My 2A Case.

So stuff just got real.

I live in the ghetto and I know the stats but have put off purchasing a firearm because of money and, well- as lame as an excuse as it is- time.

Today a guy impersonating a security salesman came to my door asking questions and telling me his company was working with the police to give us free security systems because of the recent crime wave in the area (it’s not more than usual).

After thinking things over I called the non-emergency line to the police and told them what happened. I was informed this guy is not working with the police and the company he claimed to represent was bought out a couple years ago and goes by another name. The officer also said I should have called 911 on the spot and if he comes back around, to do so.

We hear it all the time, but hear it again: Do NOT wait until something bad happens before you decide to protect your home. Get that firearm now while you have the luxury of feeling secure.

As for me, your prayers are appreciated tonight. And I have a very large shovel by my bed.

The Open Door Episode 13

Have you seen the latest episode of The Open Door? Hating Breitbart director, Andrew Marcus hung out with us. Check it out and go follow his work.

http://opendoorpolitics.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/the-open-door-episode-13-guest-andrew-marcus-director-of-hating-breitbart/

Racially Profiled

On my way home from choir rehearsal a teen-aged punk waddled up to my car while I was at a red light. This kid had his pants around his knees and his hoodie up over his head- in near 80 degree heat. It was 9:00 p.m. and dark enough for the few street lights around to be on. I was on the phone and did not respond when he walked straight up to the driver’s side and tried to get me to roll my window down. I did no such thing and drove off as soon as the light changed. See, I live in the ghetto. In Detroit I lived in the ghetto up there; I actually lived off of 8 Mile.

There are just some things you don’t do in these kinds of neighborhoods unless you’re goal is crime. Approaching a stranger’s car after dark is one of them. Had I been a man- white, black, Hispanic- or a woman- black or Hispanic- he wouldn’t have approached me. Not in this neighborhood. He saw my face and based on my skin color and unassuming 4-door modest car, he profiled me as “safe” to approach. I only got a glimpse of his face in the street light. His walk, clothes, and boldness told me all I needed to know for the time of day it was. Where I was at under the street lights my face was fully visible and that’s all he had to go on before approaching me. But which of us would be accused of racially profiling and racism? Me.

This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. The day I moved into my neighborhood in Detroit I took an innocent stroll to get the feel of everything (not wise on my part). As I walked down my street I saw heads poking between curtains, heard doors slam shut, and deadbolts thrown into place. I was the only pale person for several blocks and it seems the neighbors weren’t happy I’d moved in. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being racially profiled. I know for sure I’ll never get used to being accused of racial profiling when .001% of genetic make up is the furthest thing from my mind when sizing a person up.

Surviving Rape

There’s something about surviving rape that, if a person can heal- or at least begin to heal- makes them stronger. I’ll never say being raped is a good thing. I’ll never say that because it’s not true. I will say I am stronger for learning how to forgive and embrace life as precious.

When I was 15 I had my first real boyfriend. He was 18. I was a little overweight, painfully shy, awkward, and severely depressed. Life had already been a never-ending string of torture and abuse for me and I desperately wanted to to be loved by someone who’s affections I didn’t have to share with anyone else. To this end, I gave up my virginity to him thinking it would mean I would always have him and always be loved. I wasn’t ready and knew it before the deed even started. My parents didn’t really approve of me dating him because of his age but I begged and pleaded and somehow convinced them it would be ok and I was old enough to have such a mature boyfriend.

One summer day we were taking a drive around the back roads, winding past the corn fields, looking for a place to park. By this time he knew I would give “it” up to him any time he wanted. This day I didn’t want to. This day I just wanted to kiss him. This day I told him, “No.” This day he didn’t take, “No.” for an answer. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t threaten me. He just took it like he owned what was mine. I kept saying I didn’t want to- that this time I just didn’t feel like it- but he ignored every word I said and kept going. I stopped talking, turned my head to the side and waited. When he was done he told me he loved me and took me home. I broke up with him and let that be the end of it.

At 15 I couldn’t legally carry a firearm. Gun control is a moot point in this case. But, I think about how many women are old enough to legally purchase and carry a firearm but can’t because of the chipping away at our Constitutional rights by out of touch politicians. Politicians, who in their regal seats of power dictating from a secure place down to the rest of us, are playing with the lives of every American citizen. We become, first, victims of politicians then of criminals.