Crunchy Floor and Other Woes

Well, this is it, post number 200! And what a sad little post it will be. Prepare yourself for the crushing disappointment. But I think I see a bit of crepe paper and a new years horn and the sound of three hands clapping.

I'll start with the crunchy floor which might explain the broken toe, but that could be a stretch, since I have no recollection of an actual thing I stepped on with my morning bare feet, to race to the toilet to pee. I must have fallen asleep before emptying my bladder last night. So, in racing to the bathroom this morning, I broke my little toe of my left foot. Every injury to my ankle or foot has been this clumsy left foot. This is, at least, the third time I broke that damn left little toe. So the rest of the run was a hobble, accompanied by much moaning and swearing. And I keep retracing ,what I imagine, was my route through this small house--really only one big room, save for the bathroom greenhouse combo--more on that later. There are several possible toe breaking obstacles. I might take pictures to illustrate the hazards of cramming too much big furniture into a tiny space.

Then there is the situation of the recurring morning headache. (Fuck you Petro, I will not, so just shut up.) Before I can even sit all the way up I am grabbing the 800mg ibuprofen and opening my throat as wide as it will go, to swallow, with lots of stale, warm water, that first horse pill of the day. I'm beginning to think the morning migraine is a result of oxygen deprivation during the night because I have sleep apnea. And the solution to this problem is an oxygen tank in the closet. A few hits before bed, and a couple upon awaking. (Shut up you little bastard. I will not, will not, will not.) Anyway, I'm sitting on the toilet with a broken little toe and a roaring headache, and the floor is crunchy. That's for starters.

I don't remember if I told you this, but a couple of weeks ago or three, I had a sore middle finger... Ahh, it's coming back to me. I did write about it. Well, it might be karma after all. And it's definitely staph. And it's back! Same finger--left middle finger. That's the arm that you rest with your bent elbow out the open window, hand in the car. Just in case you need to flip someone off. Honestly I gave it up years ago. Oh, you have air conditioning? Well fuck me! I had no idea. My car was new in 1986. It had air conditioning then, heat too. But I digress. I'm thinking I should just go to the insta-care again, where three or four weeks ago I went to get it lanced, and where they got the culture to determine what kind of infection it was. Too convoluted for you? Well, try to keep up, please. You should have been able to tell from the title of this moan that you were in for a bit of complaining. You want artful complaining? You try it with a broken toe and a headache, and now the fucking swamp cooler is starting to overheat. I must get some small motor lube for it's two motors. Fuck me again. Maybe one of my neighbors has a bit they'll loan me. As I recall you put a bit of oil in all the little round holes in all those hard to reach places--which is why the handyman removed the entire motor prior to lubing last year, just before he told me he was retiring and stopped taking my calls. I do not remove it from is tight little space, but spray it's holes with WD 40, and listen to the growing whine. If the dog starts looking pained, I know it's starting to reach unbearably high pitch and about to burst into flame, and must be shut down for at least an hour. Well, a half hour is about all I can take today. On top of everything else it's a scorcher. Must I go on?

Vacuuming is out of the question.

A Bush By Any Other Name

I was supposed to be writing. You know, serious, real writing. After I finished, or thought I finished, The End of Love, one of the commenters wondered if I shouldn't put some meat on the bones of poor Junior. Then a new commenter, a man I'd never seen around these parts, suggested that I was awfully hard on the poor guy. Had Judith tried an intervention for Junior? Obviously one doesn't leave a dying drunk without trying everything to save him. Forget love, what about human compassion and kindness, and simple human decency. Junior? Really? Okay, let's give Junior's side of the story, or at least the early years or even just the first couple of months. That should set the stage for what comes later for Junior, right?

So I started, and it was interesting going for awhile looking at the world through Junior's eyes. But dammit, Junior doesn't really interest me that much anymore. I got over Junior pretty fast. I stepped over him on the way out the door. What got me interested again was when, in giving the back story on Junior, my focus turned to Judith, and what they hell was she thinking to leave her husband... Well, that's not hard to figure out. That's the problem with all of the Judith stories. What the hell was Judith thinking to end up with this schmuck? That's a big question for me. But I think now I know the answer. It's complicated psychological stuff. But to the outsider, it's a head smacking question. How could she end up with this guy??? Why did she do it? And then I got bored with her story, and went looking for diversion. So much for work.

I went to visit Dcup's where I'm always entertained, and challenged, or moved, and what did I find but a serious discussion of vaginas. Having had one all my life I thought I knew almost everything there was to know about the vagina, but I know so very little, it turns out. This might have been part of Judith's problem. She knew so little about her own vagina.

When I was little, it was called a twat. In my house I had heard someone refer to what I knew of the place I pee peed from as a twat. We lived in Texas. I guess that explains something, but I pronounced the word tock. So for my very early years it was my tock. As in tick tock. When I was in need of relieving my bladder it was my tock that needed attention--I knew nothing of bladders.

I think what started the interest in vaginas, as a subject at Dcups, was the revelation that there is a booming new business amongst the most famous and renowned plastic surgeons in Vaginal Reconstruction. This goes way beyond tending to the bush. This is much more than mere grooming. We're talking vaginal ideal. Think of that for a moment. VAGINAL IDEAL!!!! What does it look like, you might ask? Well it's small and pink and it's clit peeks out at you and probably winks and smiles. Open wide, but not too wide. Show pink. Like a nine year old. Apparently internet porn has made the fashionable pussy, the pussy that looks like a little girls. This creates lots of jobs. Since women of sex having age don't have little pink pussies. God for fucking bid that you've had a kid or three, it is this very motherfucking fact that creates this need for women who wax other women's twats. You need a housekeeper and a what!!? And if that wasn't bad enough, there is now the burning need for plastic surgeons to make them look virginal again. Well that's a relief. Create a need, and then the need creates a demand, and that creates the Specialists to fill the need. Capitalism at work. Isn't America a wonderful place.

P.S. Tomorrow will be my 200 post in six months of blogging. Scary, huh?

Kitchen window

Living Alone

I finally have the incredible luxury to do whatever I want. My time is my own. I have no set schedule: can stay up as late as I wish, sleep in as late as I can, eat when I'm hungry, and don't have to worry about the needs of anyone who expects me to feed them, talk to them, listen to them, or to do what they want when I don't. I consider this a luxury. Others might consider it a lonely, sad, wasted life. For a writer, time to be alone with something to say is like food for the soul. Other's might find my solitary life dull beyond belief. I luxuriate in it. I have achieved my life's ambition--to live a quiet, peaceful, solitary life with time to write.

I have friends who come to visit me, but they all know that dropping in on me is not the thing to do. I need a little warning that company is coming. My cottage is not accessible without coming through a locked gate with Roscoe in the yard. Roscoe is the big, yellow Lab you've seen in photos I post on days when I have nothing to say and still want to hear from you. Some of you have commented that Roscoe looks like the sort of sweetie who would welcome anyone--this is not the case. Roscoe is the best guard dog I have ever known. He hates all men just on general principle. If I have scheduled work on the house, and have a strange man coming over, he has to call me when he arrives out front, so I can meet him at the gate. Roscoe will be aggressive toward strange men, so it is important that a man coming into the yard listen to my instructions. I say, "Don't look at Roscoe. Talk directly to me. As long as I seem unalarmed by your presence, Roscoe will behave. He minds me, but don't try to pet him. Don't talk to him. He's a guard dog. It's his job to protect. As long as I don't seem worried about you, he won't be aggressive. Some men will not come into the yard even after I assure them that if they follow my instructions they will be safe. I'm fine with that. Better they should be afraid to enter the property, than think they can ignore my warnings about Roscoe. And if they won't take my instructions about a dog, they won't listen to what I want them to do on the house, won't take me seriously.

Cyrus, though huge and scary looking, is the gentlest dog I've ever known. His nine years as a shelter dog has left it's mark on him. From his behavior, I'd say he probably had some very hard times. He wears the scars of battle with other dogs. He's terrified of any sound that might be gunshot. This coming month is going to be hard on Cryus. The occasional firework is popping off almost every night now. And in Utah we have two holidays that require huge fireworks displays and they are in my vicinity. He was probably kenneled most of the time. So, for Cyrus, my small house is probably like a very luxurious kennel with company. He has three beds: one by my computer, and one on either side of my bed. He is content to hang with me. The only time he willingly leaves the house is when I get up in the morning. I fix myself my first latte of the morning, grab my smokes and out we go. He does what he needs to do and then wants to go quickly back into the house. I fix his breakfast and give him his morning meds. Then usually I sit down in front of the computer.

I get email alerts from several news sources, so the minute I touch the space bar about six emails await my perusal. I check the blog. I check my heddaspam email. If nothing's urgent there, I turn on MSNBC and check the days news stories. Usually this is a huge disappointment since Contessa Brewer or Bruster or whatever the fuck her name is, is always annoying to me. I'm not sure what it is about her--maybe it's her voice, or her long hair, or her slightly vapid way of covering a particular story--but whatever it is, I find myself saying , "Shut the fuck up!" at least a couple of times every half hour.

I take a break from this strenuous schedule mid-day for a walk with Cyrus. He doesn't want to leave the house, but he is obedient. I say, "Let's go for a walk, Cyrus." He pretends he doesn't hear me, but when I put my straw hat on, grab a couple of grocery bags and his leash, he gets up and follows me out, but he will not leave the yard unless he's on leash. He walks well with me, no pulling or resistance. He's a good dog.

So, there you have it, my small life. Oddly, it is you I find most interesting. Your interests, your lives, your passions that are most engaging to me these days. I envy some of you your skills with this technology. Dcup, at Politits, has the most beautiful site. She not only writes well, she is also a terrific photographer and graphic artist. I have the feeling she does everything well. She's a wife, mother, writer, cook, photographer, artist and working woman. If that old Helen Reddy song, I Am Woman, applied to anyone, it is Dcup:

You can bend but never break me
'cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul

The Deck, The Porch, The Great Outdoors and Other Distractions

This is a distraction so we can talk of anything. So, time to speak up, make your indecent proposals, talk politics or books, or general complaining. knock yourself out.

Migraine Sunday

Two flies buzz around quick and darting. I'm trying to sleep away a migraine and the damned things keep lighting on my face. I pull the sheet over my face and try to go back to sleep. Cyrus snaps at one, but is not quite fast enough. It's hot in the house and finally I give up and roll out of bed. I have been too interested in blogging to clean my house for over a week. Small spaces need order. This is now no longer ordered. Must make progress. After I find a hammer and smash one of my toes so my headache isn't the focus anymore, I might start working on creating a little order and beauty. Until then I'm going to show you my dirty little house from the comfort of my bed. Arrgh. Pain.

A Bit of Domesticity

There is really nothing to say. I just wanted to bring you in to my small domestic life. These days that includes cornbread, espresso, and some concoction for dinner. Always involves a cast- iron skillet with melted butter....

Not yet a vegetarian there will be meat. I have just begun to bore you with the small details of daily life.

Soon I will get back to Judith and Junior Blue. We're not through with him yet. The man needs meat on the bone, back story so to speak. He is husband number three. I have skipped husband number one and two. Nick, the history professor, has requested an accounting of husband one and two. Someday. Maybe. If I'm feeling really brave.

Inside Looking Out

I Have Done It In Under Twenty Four Hours.

I thought I was writing it here, but like the good little student I am, I was actually writing it as a new post under Savage Stories. It's called "The End of Love." Labeled Dorothy Parker, Leonard Cohan, and Stella.

Since I did this in such a short time, it probably needs editing. All writers need editors. I am my only editor. This is not ideal. If you want to help, jump right in there with the comments. If I misspelled something, despite the functioning spellcheck, feel free to point it out, but please be specific. Randal is a perfectionist in his own writing. He trusts himself, or else his wife is his editor. I need a good editor. And an agent, and a publisher who would provide the sorely needed editor.

"Big Blond"

This is the first time I've read Dorothy Parker's brilliant short story Big Blond. As I was reading it I kept think of the many versions of Big Blond I could write. Not just my own, but those of women I've known.

I think I've written a short version of the failed suicide attempt and the pain of finding yourself alive that comes after in Maggy. The chapter is called Crazy. It is for me, always the back story that I need. I want the map of how you got to be "Big Blond." How did I? It's a crazy childhood and a strange culture that gets a woman to that location. I have model friends in their early fifties by now who have gone MIA. Maybe into their Big Blond faze. I hope not, but fear it. Now I am again inspired to write more short stories. It was husband number three's metier, sacred territory for him. It took me twenty years after leaving him to dare to try. Still Life was my first attempt. I'm getting braver all the time. I'm itching to kick my drunken ex while he's in a drunken coma after pissing the bed. I'm wearing high heeled boots. My name is Judith Blue. His is Junior. We live in Springfield, Missouri, which I pronounce misery. It's in the works.

Honeysuckle Summer Evening

Mint and white roses with aspen and a wall of creeping Jenny in the background on the fence. The familiar garden path from the cottage to the maim house. And two panes out of three of the greenhouse--one pane with a trellis leaning and covered with honeysuckle, and reflected in the glass the incredible invisible woman. This is a very peaceful place.

There is a tangle of honeysuckle covering the open bathroom window and when the breeze blows, the scent of honeysuckle fills the room. The glass needs cleaning, the vines pulled some from behind the trellis and the grill over the bathroom window.

The weeds need to be pulled from the spaces between the stones. But I am lazy, and it will wait.



Anyone care to take bets on who gets the job of hosting Meet the Press? We've had the week long wake. It's a fair question to ask. Let's get on with it.

Can the Funeral End Now?

I'm going into a little seclusion, staying in, reading Dorothy Parker, hoping the long deification of Tim Russert will finally end soon, so we can get on with the business of electing a President to clean up the mess left by the eight years of Republican rule. Notice I didn't say governance?

Tim must have been a swell guy, but honestly I can't ever remember anything lasting this long in the way of State Funerals. So goodbye Tim. Now it's time to move off the stage, and let the living get on with living.

It's getting hot here. Swamp cooler weather. (This is the kind of thing I need a man for). I can appreciate a man's many talents, like writing poetry and such, but if he can't hook up the swamp cooler and hang the hammock, well... Not so much. My one big love could play any musical instrument, well even, could compose and write songs, could, in fact, do anything, and do it well, and was smart, too, but... I need to live alone. Short visits are fine, so long as my guest is willing to sleep in the hammock alone, or get a hotel room. And in the hottest of weather, it's almost always cool in the deep shade of the gazebo. Then, late in the evening, the breeze that blows down Emigration Canyon, brings the scent of honeysuckle into the house through open windows.

My Love Tells Me

My love tells me I snore
Make sounds like a Tuva singer and the sonar sound of mating dolphin
At odd intervals of no breathing, counted fourteen seconds
Total silence, no intake or exhalation of air, no breathing then
A lung shattering, vibrating, long, tuval gasp
Then the otherworldly dolphin squeal
This seems to emanate from the back of my nose so
It would be called nasal
He has tape recorded this sound
He isn’t exaggerating
My love tells me
It’s a deal killer.

Just One Damn Thing After Another

I've had a series of computing problems that would stump the skilled among you, but stopped me in my tracks. I was posting the final chapters of the novel Maggy and the chapter part of my layout vanished along with all the thirty something chapters already linked. For most of you this might not be a big deal, for me it requires a visit with my charming, talented, handsome (I'm sure from his voice) Administrator, Phillip, who lives in San Francisco and manages companies' computer problems for a living. We have become unlikely friends, I, the computer illiterate, and he, the umber mensch of computer wizardry. He hates politics and political writing, he hates a lot of what I write about, and yet he loves my writing. Well, sometimes he loves my writing. But he is a patient and kind teacher and so generous with his time. When I told him I lost my chapters element from my novel blog he came over and restored it. Somehow, somewhere he found the list of chapters I'd linked so far and set me up to restore the list. Then off he went to watch basketball and drink beer. I linked almost thirty chapters and then decided to stop to fix myself something to eat. Then a brief walk for Cyrus and me. When I got home I watched a few minutes of TV and during those few minutes, for a brief few seconds I had a power outage. Alarmed, I went to my computer and it started up again. I signed in and tried to restore what I'd been working on and could not activate any of my functions. No Ichat, no Camino, no Utah Savage, no chapters. Phillip was not available and so I went to bed and sucked my thumb. No, not quite, I watched old reruns of Lawn Order, which is a version of thumb sucking for me.

This morning I emailed Phillip, but he was busy. The Unconventional Conventionist emailed me offering to help. Then the crucial question, mac or not mac? Brand new Imac, I proudly said. "Too bad, no can help." It really is the thought that counts. Just the offer when you're in distress is helpful. Thanks UC, I will forever think of you as a gentleman. Chivalrous and kind. Generous and good hearted.

Phillip called me in the afternoon walking to one of his clients to see what what my problem was. Said he'd call as soon as he got home. Longer story a little shorter, after hours of work restoring my functions and bidding me good night, all is well again and the book is finished. The charming Unconventional one performed a solo piece on the piano with rolling lyrics for the chapter Body Warmth. I need Phillips help to link that. There are more pictures for the book--I will add them slowly. I need to unlink some things and link others, but basically the book is done. The last chapter, The End Of Life As We Know It, is huge and probably should be published in it's own location as a novella.

I'm now hoping a literary agent will read and like it. If you know anyone who fits that description, let me know.

June Sunday

Father's Day

"Kid's see through you," he said. ( Mother or father, you should know this--kid's see through you.) I have heard this said about Tim Russert, in the shocking aftermath of his sudden death Friday. Tim Russert will be remembered by so many of his colleagues as a man who encouraged them to be good fathers, good mother's, since it is that job that matters most. That job that will have the most lasting legacy, that will change the world, that will pass love into the future. That job is the one that will change a life, and then the lives that flow out from that life.

I am frightened about what the loss of Tim Russert might mean for the political season to come. Could one man matter so much? How will we know?

But what moves me most right now, are the stories his colleagues tell of Tim Russert the son, and Tim Russert the father. And it is this aspect of Tim Russert, the man, both father and son, that has moved me most.


Father's Day was always a difficult day for me. I had not one bad father, but two. Abandoned by both. With never a backward look as far as I knew. No birthday gift, or card, or call for an abandoned daughter. A silence so profound for me, it was deafening. It made me sad, and lonely at first. It made me feel unloved. And finally it made me angry. It wounded me, and so profoundly, it damaged every relationship with every man to come later in my life. The little girl who got left by her daddies, left every man to come after. I became the woman who leaves.

I left my first love, just when I knew I loved him. I married men I didn't love and left them, too. I made love without loving. What did I know of love? What did I know of men? That no matter how much you loved them, they'd leave you? I knew that no matter how much you needed them, they would leave and never look back. And this is the woman I became.

I got pregnant once in my mid twenties. Pregnant by a man I feared. How can you love a man you fear? A better question might be, how can you make love to a man you fear? But that's a longer story. For now, I'll simply say, I knew I did not want this man to be my child's father. I did not want to be tied to this man for the rest of my life, trying to force him to be a good father. What did I know of good fathers? And I worried that I would not be able to protect a child of mine from the wound that broke and hardened my heart. And so (pre Roe v Wade), I chose to have an abortion. I can't really say I regretted the choice I made. Because, late in life, grown up daughters have found me.

Now one of my daughters is having nightmares that there are tanks in the streets, a knock at the door, a gun to her head. Apocalyptic nightmares, recurring. And in the last few days she said in passing, that her father has been calling her. Her father, the man who walked out on her and her little brother when they were small, leaving her mother to raise them alone. He fathered other children. Left them, too. Now that she is almost thirty, this fatally flawed father wants to talk to his daughter. There is desperation in his plea. She does not answer the phone. She does not return the calls. He texts her, he pleads. He wants to bring her back to God, he says. She listens but doesn't hear. And now I believe I understand the nature of her dreams. The unwanted invader at the door, forcing in his way. The gun in the face.

A father's abandonment leaves a wound that might not heal. It might leave you childless, alone. It might hold you hostage a lifetime. Fathers, your kids see through you.

Tim Russert Dies Today at 58

That Was Then, This Is Now

Sort of. With the little tricks of the trade, the special effects of Iphoto, the clean hair, the glasses that disguise the circles under the eyes, the crows feet, we pick ourselves apart. A little make up. A little photoshop magic and I might not be so bad. Notice I didn't say look?

The first thing that happened this morning was the usual ritual of coffee to take outside with Cyrus. I smoke, and sip at a little metal cafe table, back to the wall off glass that is the greenhouse part of the cottage. I face South, morning sun well up. Cryus does what Cyrus does then runs like a happy bear up the steps to stand before the door waiting for the next exciting part of our morning together. Breakfast for Cyrus. A bit of news for me and then a bath. It's too cold this morning for a shower. This is the first June of my life in Salt Lake I remember being cold on my birthday. So a hot bath. And the ritual of moisturizer, deodorant, brush teeth, dry hair, it's all so dull. I take Cyrus for a walk. We walk the alleys so I don't have to be pleasant.

Another home-made latte, another smoke, and the phone rings, twice before I pick it up. I answer, it's Tom, first love, last love, calling to wish me a happy birthday. No small effort since he's calling from Costa Rica, and the first time the phone rang, I said hello, and there was silence, so I hung up. He asked me if men follow me around because I smell so good. I said, "I see no men on a day to day basis, so no, no men follow me around." But when last men did, I tried to scare then off. I was quite successful. Men have called me things like, "edgy," which is, I guess, a nicer way of saying, "she's such a bitch." If worst came to worst, I could always say, "I'm just not into guys." But now, these days I'm pretty much a ghost of a woman. I walk among you on shopping day and you don't even know I'm there.

Nick, the history professor, brings me flowers, lilies. My favorite cut flower. They last and smell good. He brings me presents and a card in a leopard print bag. The man has class. In the bag are two books and the card. And one of the books is the Complete Stories of Dorothy Parker. Thanks Stella, since you told me my writing reminds you of Dorothy Parker, I needed to know who I'm channeling. It's a gaping hole in my education. I have read all of Colette, but not our own Dorothy Parker. And another book I'm sure to love, since we share the same taste in literature. And the card is perfection. I will try to get Melea to scan it for me. How is it possible I have a male friend this sweet and generous. He's taking me to lunch and has offered to take me to a nice, expensive new Italian restaurant, but I want to eat cheap Mexican food in a place where we will be the only ones speaking English. There will be a TV in the background with a Mexican soap opera playing and music from the jukebox will compete for dominance. We sit across the small room from four guys, probably in their mid twenties speaking Spanish loudly. Unless I gaze out the window, I could be in almost any Mexican town. It's as if we're on vacation for a moment--which is all I could take of vacationing anymore--too much work.

He pays while I stand outside smoking. Then we walk across the parking lot to the Spoons and Spices. I buy a couple of small items, he browses the fancy cookware. We talk about our own ancient history. Last time we went to a movie he asked me about my second husband. The one I never talk about. I said I'd try to write about him, but haven't got very far with that story. It is one of the darkest periods of my history as an adult woman, and I'd rather not think about it. But I am in favor of full disclosure. If only to edify myself. What made me do it? Why did I marry him? And now that unfinished story is like a wound that won't heal. So I guess I'll have to work on that.

Thanks to all who came to comment, and those of you who sent me email. There are two men in my blogging life who I have a little thing for. Randal, you know who you are. I know you're spoken for, and too young for me anyway, but still..... And you, Mr. Unconventional? Yes you are. A most extraordinarily talented and generous man. Just those qualities make you unconventional, but come August we'll see what kind of Conventioneer you are.

It's been a lovely birthday, and now I have to take Cyrus for a walk.

It's My Birthday, And I'll Cry If I Want To!

I started blogging six months ago, and when I started this blogging thing, I didn't think I'd have much to say. Now I'm kind of bummed that I haven't made it to that magic number of 200 blog entries. But, if I keep padding my entries like I did a few days ago, I might reach it by the end of the month, but that's really just cheating. Speaking of cheating, my mother told me I was born on D Day, June 12, 1944. I believed her until I took my first history class from my friend the history professor, to whom I bragged about being born on D Day. Imagine my embarrassment to discover that I believed that heinous bitch all those years. Granted, I was an early admissions student, and so was only seventeen, but by then I should have learned not to trust her about anything. And though I did take history in high school, Hazel Witcomb, my history teacher, spent so much time making me feel like shit (I was getting excused from her class to go rehearse for the school play) by lecturing me on being pretty and my thinking I could skate through life on my looks. She managed to reduce me to tears so often, I learned nothing in her history class except to fear the wrath of Miss Whitcomb. But she did, however, teach me to expect a raft of shit about the way I looked from just about everybody. And when I look back over my life, I'm amazed how accurate this expectation turned out to be. That is, until I turned sixty. Then I became completely invisible. And it's odd what a comfort that's been. I don't make the slightest effort anymore, since it would be a waste of time--I'd still be invisible. And that too has been a comfort. Now I save a lot of money, since I no longer buy cosmetics, or go to a stylist to have my hair done--I cut it myself. And I don't read fashion magazines, so I don't know how shitty and out of fashion my clothes look. All I require of my clothes these days is that they're comfortable and appropriate for the season. This really simplifies a lot of things.

Odd that now all my dreams are of when I looked like this, (see above) at seventeen, an early admissions student at the University of Utah and was free, at last, from my family. In my dreams I'm already living in Italy and traveling around on location shoots. In reality I was working three jobs and going to school. Dreams are where it's at. I did get to Italy. I did travel around on location shoots. More pictures of my dreamy life will be posted in the novel, Maggy.

Please email Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reed

contact@wexlerforcongress.com

I've been writing letters to the DNC and specific Senator's and members of the House over the past primary season. So I am on many lists of suckers to go to for a signature on a petition or to ask for money. This was what I received in my first email of the day, yesterday. It was the first thing I did. I signed this petition, and then went about my business of working in the garden, but I will copy it here and hope you take your own action. it is probably too lay, but maybe not. It's never too late to speak out. In my own email attached to this petition I expressed my outrage at Speaker Pelosi for her cowardice in taking impeachment off the table in order to get the approval of enough Republicans to become Speaker of the House. Please take your own kind of action.

Dear Concerned Citizen,
Our effort to hold the Bush/Cheney Administration accountable has taken another dramatic step forward. Last night, Congressman Dennis Kucinich introduced the first Articles of Impeachment ever to be introduced against President Bush. It includes, in total, thirty-five Articles detailing this Administration's blatant abuse of power. Today, I enthusiastically co-sponsored this vitally important bill.

I am grateful for Dennis' leadership on this issue and for the steadfast support that countless Americans have given to both of our efforts to redeem our government and expose the crimes of Bush and Cheney.

I will now expand my efforts to secure impeachment hearings in the Judiciary Committee for these new Articles of Impeachment against President George W. Bush.

Many of the charges against President Bush are well known – and would shock the conscience of everyday Americans if only the national media would be willing to report on these stark facts.

The Articles present a stunning narrative of offenses that have go well beyond previous crimes committed by any US chief executive. In fact no President or Vice President in history has done more to undermine our constitution.

These charges are broad, with 35 separate allegations including the deliberate lies regarding WMDs that led us to war and the approval of illegal wiretapping of American citizens. The Articles also include new allegations of high crimes – including the explicit approval for high Administration officials to violate treaties and US law banning the use of torture.

The Democratic Party gained a majority in the House and Senate due in large part to our promises to end the corruption of the Republican majority and to hold the Administration accountable to the law. This courageous bill is a crucial step towards fulfilling this promise, but – like the Articles against Cheney – they require your support to convince Democrats and open-minded Republicans to support this bold but necessary action.

Time is running out so we must work together to spread the message and apply pressure.

First, please encourage your friends and family members to sign up at WexlerWantsHearings.com – as it will allow us to keep in touch with you and speak to a wider audience. If you haven't yet put in your phone and address, please sign up again, as we will be doing telephone town halls in the near future.

Second, call your representative and urge them to support Impeachment hearings.

Finally, contact newspapers, news stations, and your favorite bloggers and urge them to report on this movement. We need to keep Impeachment a significant news story until the Democratic leadership sees the value in it.

McClellan Agrees to Testify:

I was pleased to inform you yesterday that Judiciary Committee Chairman Conyers met my call to have Former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan testify under oath. I am thrilled to inform you that McClellan has agreed to testify on June 20th at 10AM. This will be the first step in what we hope will be ongoing and deepening examinations of the stark evidence and charges against both President Bush and Vice President Cheney.

Thank you for your continued passion and advocacy. Your support means so much to me.

Sincerely,

Congressman Robert Wexler

Big House Patio and Hammock

This is the back yard patio area for the big house. The hammock is a purchase I made on a trip to Costa Rica. Yard furniture is picked up at at yard sales--odds and ends. You can't really see this, but in the background is a wall of mock-orange--sweet smell, no fruit. If I had the resources I put an adobe wall around the entire back property like homes in Mexico. It's fenced and locked and guarded by two great dogs, but it's the living indoors/outdoors aspect of an adobe enclosure that appeals to me. My property is not near heavily trafficked streets, so it's quiet. And the forested quality to the back yard makes you feel as if your living in the country, when, in fact, we are in the middle of it all. Country living in the heart of an urban neighborhood.

Today I plan on working in the garden in front of my deck on the cottage. Get out the blower and clean up all the messy downfall from the weekend rains. I'm ready to beautify the gazebo, clean everything up for party season.

Bicycle Awaits Lazy Woman

This is a view of my bicycle leaning against the gazebo.
Today is a day of easy domesticity
A little grocery shopping
A walk for Cyrus
A nap if I'm so inclined
The joys of early summer

Roscoe Guards the Door

Roscoe guards my cottage door.
The wall of green is Wisteria covering the gazebo.
Lazy Monday

Just Saying.....

I was just making suggestions as examples, but lets say Hillary at Health and Human Services; John Edwards at Labor; Al Gore (if he wanted it ) at EPA; Chuck Hagel at Homeland Security, Bill Richardson at Interior or maybe State, Jim Webb at Defense. The idea is to put together a great team and let the team run for president. With Obama as the team leader. Lots to be learned from Lincoln here.

This was emailed to me this afternoon from my matinee date for really good movies. We are old friends--have known each other at least forty five years. His was my favorite history professor at the University of Utah. He married one of my best friends. His son was born on my birthday, June 12, and died when he was six years old in a tragic accident. The history professor went in the Peace Corps and then moved on to DC during the eighties and stayed. When he retired a couple of years ago, he came back to Salt Lake. We started going to movies and talking politics and history.

He told me this idea last night in a phone conversation. I loved it. It's a brilliant idea. I asked, "Who would you like to see run with him as Vice President?" He said, "Ed Rendell." Wow!

What do you think?

The Best Speech of Her Life

Today Hillary Clinton redeemed herself and assured herself a lasting place of leadership in the democratic party. It was the speech she should have given the night Barack achieved the number of delegates needed to clinch the nomination, but better late than never. She has again promised to campaign her heart out for his victory in November. It was a moving, powerful speech. If she had congratulated Barack Obama every time he won a primary state, she might not have had to give this speech today. It was her lack of grace throughout this long primary season that alienated me. I am her demographic, and I am not alone in having abandoned her because of her behavior throughout the campaign season. There are niceties to be observed. Small gestures to make at every loss, every win. It was this absence of graciousness that alienated me and many other women.

One of the problems with her campaign was a massive dismissal and diminution of Senator Obama's achievements and accomplishments throughout his life. It was her giving the republicans the ads they will use against him in the general election that made me so angry at her. She put herself side by side with John McCain, and Senator Obama on the other, as if he had no stature, no right to challenge them. Experience versus Change. Well, it all depends on the kind of experience and the kind of change, doesn't it?

Her judgement has been a problem for me all along. It was her failure to work collegially to give us universal health care when she first had the chance to make that a reality. It was her vote for the Iraq war resolution without reading the intelligence reports that made me question her competence to govern. It was her justification and rationalization for that vote that made me wonder if she wasn't the wrong person to lead us forward. It was the lies, and her dismissal of her lies when she was called on them, that made me question not just her judgement, but her integrity, her respect for us, the electorate, that finally made me dislike her on a visceral level.

But today she gave a speech that just might rehabilitate her career as a leader to be respected again. I'll watch with hope, and wish her well.

Lard Ass

Well ass might not be the right word. Gut might be more accurate, gut and thighs. I blame my weight gains on "drug weight." Having lived my late adult life on bipolar drugs, I have become accustomed to the ups and down of drug weight. For a long season last year at this time I was taken off antidepressants--my moods stabilized by a mood stabilizer. I lost forty pounds fairly rapidly. Antidepressants are notorious for weight gain and is one of the reasons it is difficult keep women on them. I have come to the conclusion that I'd rather be a little fat and happy than bone thin and depressed. I did well for a long time just mood stabilized. But then came the inevitable symptoms of depression creeping in on tiny cats paws. Irritability is the first clue. The inability to sleep is another--either that or sleeping all the time.

My young friend Melea, comes to visit three or four times a week. So she notices the things I eat. Lately for breakfast I've been having corn bread and cantaloupe--it's fetish eating, I know, but healthy, I thought. The corn bread comforts the Texas girl in me, and the cantaloupe is fruit for god's sake. I heat my rather large slice of corn bread for a few seconds, then slather it with butter which melts nicely on the warm, fragrant corn bread, and then fill the rest of the plate with cantaloupe pieces--enough so that each bite of corn bread is followed by the cool sweet taste of cantaloupe.

So last time Melea was here, I was bitching about the weigh-in at the doctor's office--146 lbs. Ack! 120 is my ideal weight, 130 isn't bad, but 146 is fat. I'm shrinking from my models height of 5'8"--probably down to 5'6 1/2". So the 146 doesn't look the same on me as it would have when I was taller. The main problem is that last years clothes do not fit. Fortunately I keep a pair of fat jeans for just this sort of occasion. So while Melea listened to me bitch about my gut, she got one of my little boxes of Jiffy Corn Bread Mix out of my cupboard and read the ingredients. Lard was the third ingredient. And I must say, coming from Texas where good cooks know the value of lard, I wasn't horrified like Melea was. She is just a boneless, skinless grilled chicken breast short of vegetarianism. She doesn't make pie pastry, or pastry of any kind. But I know that pie pastry is best made with lard, not butter, though butter is an OK
substitute.

Then there is the lack of real exercise. Yeah, I take my old dog for a walk or two a day, but these are not long walks--designed more to keep joints working than walk-off fat. And then I sit at my computer reading blogs and news papers, waiting for the major news shows to start. Usually this would be the season I'd be obsessed with my garden, but it's been cold and rainy. And since I got Cyrus, I've noticed that he hates the vacuum cleaner--giving me just the excuse I need not to vacuum clean. Then yesterday I had to get together some papers for the financial aid folks at Intermountain Health Care Hospital billing department. I have a big filing cabinet, and finding things isn't all that hard, but once I pull stuff out of files, they tend to get pilled up on one surface or another, not to get filed again until some cleaning frenzy forces me to get organized again. Well today's the day. First I'll have my warm buttery cornbread with it's compliment of ice cold, peeled. bite sized cantaloupe, then I'll get my lard ass in gear and clean this place. And if I have any time left over, I'm going to the thrift store to buy a new spring wardrobe, sized 12 probably.

Normal Rhythm

I'm in normal rhythm. Enraged, but normal rhythm. This is as it should be. My cardiologist is a recent California transplant. He shares my outrage. He can't talk to anyone in his department because they're all republicans. They did an EKG and my rhythm is normal. Then he and I talked politics. It was enormously therapeutic. I wonder how he'll work it into the bill.

So, here's the question. What does she, what does she, the hard working, the hard working white woman with millions of supporters WANT??!!! And so, tell us Hillary what do you want??!!! Are you entitled to anything you want? And, haven't we heard you say in many settings and reported on over and over, your fierce declaration that you will support with all your heart and energy for the nominee, whoever that nominee is.

My cardiologist and I agree that Jim Webb would be a great choice for Vice President.

Fury

I am so angry today I can barely function. I had my reasons for changing my support from Hillary to Barack. This switch happened right after one of the early primary states, and has been reinforced in every primary state since. Now I loathe her. And after last night's insulting performance by Hillary, I am shaking with rage. It is one more reason not to offer her the Vice Presidential spot. Her hubris knows no bounds. She is so convinced she deserves, is entitled to, and has the votes to be the President, it must be so. Well, not so much Hillary. Now she can go fuck herself.

I'm on my way to the cardiologist. It's a check-up to see what needs to be done next and when. I'll bet my blood pressure is sky high today. My anger feels like a bipolar rage--the transitioning from OK to not OK. Hopefully by the time I get back home, Hillary will have come to her senses and backed off making any more demands that she deserves to be Veep. If she doesn't, I hope Barack tells her to go fuck herself.

Barack Wins Nomination But Hillary throws Her Own Victory Party

It's over. Barack won.

But Hillary throws her own victory party claiming she has the popular vote. Hillary tells news sources she is open to taking Veep position despite the fact that it has not bee offered. Hillary gives speech asking her supporters to go to Hillary.com to contribute to her campaign.

Hillary has no honor, no grace, no since of shame or proportion. Hillary has ego. Hillary has a viscous, petty, nasty, drive to get her way, no matter the cost to the party. Hillary believes she is the party and it's owed to her. Hillary has a sense of entitlement that knows no bounds.

Hillary has promised to deliver her supporters no matter who wins the nomination. Hilary claims she wants party unity. Is Hillary a lair?

Dream Team: written five, long, hard months of rancor and last minute ploys to change the rules

I though right from the beginning that Barack and Hillary would be the dream team. When I started this dream I was still a Clinton supporter. I still love the Clintons. My decision to switch my support from Hillary to Barack was not because I grew tired of the Clintons, it was that I grew tired of the press coverage of Hillary, of the prospect of another political campaign with the press bringing up Ken Starr and Newt Gingrich’s greatest hits. The prospect of vitriol and mud slinging on a scale and at a volume we haven’t even imagined yet, makes me weep for what we have become—alienated and cynical. I am tired of the stridency of the press calling Hillary strident. I am tired of the press guffawing about Hillary’s cackle. None of this is Hillary’s fault, and I’m not sure she will ever be able to change the way the old white men who are the political pundits cover her, see her, talk about her.

And then there was South Carolina. I know that the large population of African American’s living and voting in South Carolina gave Barack Obama a slight edge, but what happened there made it possible for me to imagine a different democratic party—a party of unity and change—real change. It was the young people who were so energized by his candidacy that pleased me most. Without them engaged in the political process none of this matters very much—they are our future. Without them knowing the issues that will matter in their lives, this is all a pretty empty process, and they will remain disaffected. So this just might be the first time since the late years of the Vietnam war when young people are going to change the politics as usual we have become so accustomed to. It’s change long overdue.

Buzz

Yesterday it was reported that the Clintons had returned to their home in New York. Staffers had been told to get their expense accounts in order (with receipts) and turn them in by the end of the week. And that the Clintons would be having a large gathering, a party, if you will,--sounds more like a wake to me but what do I know--and anyone on the staff who wanted to attend would get one way airfare to New York for the party. The caveat was, a trip home, or another Clinton event, but not both. One way ticket. Hum. I'd be choosing the trip home to work on my resume, but that's the kind of cold hearted, pragmatist bitch I am.

It is assumed that Barack Obama will have enough delegates at the end of the these two North West primaries tonight, plus the Supers that will come rolling in today, to have the nomination in hand. Some naive pundits have conjectured that part of the reason for the timing of Hillary's big party in New York tonight will be to congratulate Barack and call for Party unity. And I'm thinking "Hell no! That bitch is going to rain on his parade." But I'm a cynic, what else would I think, having watched the Clinton campaign change the goal posts every time she doesn't get the outcome she expected or thinks she's entitled to, and believes she has the power and the political juice to manipulate, to game the system.

Harold Ickes, Hillary's Karl Rove, finally set the record straight this morning after the Associated Press wrote a piece saying Hillary will give a concession speech tonight. Hell no! "She is honoring her loyal supporters, her superb staff, bla bla bla." It is an adoration for Hillary party. Just not enough adoration to pay the airfare home for her loyal staffers. No, Hillary is going to rain on Barack's parade. Way to go girl! This is just another example of the many reasons we have come to loath you. Graciousness is not your long suit. Gamesmanship is your thing. And remind us please, what is it you want? The veep job? To be one of the Supremes? Attorney General? Because your charm is wooing us into wishing some kind of political oblivion for you.

Beware The Flipping of The Bird

My heinous mother taught me many wondrous things when I was very young. How to swear in the most offensive way possible--mostly employing the F-bomb creatively. How to smoke a cigarette like a lady, how to mix the basic cocktails, and how and when to flip the bird. All of this when I was five. I made many adults laugh, cringe, and say "thank you my dear," when I handed them their highball. These early lessons were never unlearned. But I'm beginning to think there might be payback for the bird flipping I employed so effectively on the road. I gave it up once some guy pulled a gun on me from his glovebox as I passed him doing eighty five in a fifty mile zone. But now I have just returned from the nearest Insta-Care where my middle finger was lanced to relieve an abscess of unknown origin. The only good thing I have to report about this experience is the great drugs they prescribed to alleviate the pain this dark red swollen middle digit has caused me. But once that guy pulled his pistol and aimed it at my head as I sped past on his left side, I decided to forgo the momentary pleasure this gesture provided. I don't scream "Fuck You, Moron," anymore, except at home when watching "news" events. So, since I gave up flipping the bird long ago, could this abscess be karmic payback?

By Wednesday

Harold Ickes helped write the rules he now wants to break. They bent the rules pretty hard to give Harold what he wanted. And still he bitched and moaned. He was insulting to everyone and a rabble rouser to the Clinton supporters who were bussed in for the event. Harold Ickes is on the DNC Rules Committee and the rules he wrote to advantage his candidate now have been broken to advantage his candidate. Then he went on Meet The Press and whined some more about the process that he feels is so unfair to the woman who pays his checks.

And all afternoon I watched HRC rack up her huge win in Porto Rico, where they get to vote in the primary, but not in the general election. Big Woop. She has no path to victory unless all the remaining Super delegates go to her, when in fact, they have been leaving her like rats on a sinking ship. As I watched her give her long victory speech last night, the part that grabbed my attention was the big beg for money. Always with the big pitch for bringing in the bucks. I hope the Clinton's had a nice vacation, but now I really don't want to ever have to see them again.

Harold Ickes Makes Me Sick

Harold Ickes was the only real spectacle out of the DNC Rules Committee. Just saying his name makes me gag a little. He has said Hillary Clinton has instructed him to take the ruling today to the Credentials Committee. Big fucking deal, Harold. You've lost, and I hope by your embarrassing performance today, you've lost your job as well. If Hillary wanted reconciliation for the Democratic party, she could have had it today, and maybe a shot at whatever job she wanted, short of Veep. But now, if I were Barack (thankfully for all of us I'm not), I'd tell her to go take a flying fuck. Ickes has just said the Clinton campaign is taking it to the floor of the convention. Now that's the way to get party unity--a brokered convention.

OK Nancy, OK Harry, bring those really big Supers in, and take us home, without our ever having to see or hear Harold Ickes again. Hillary, get your nominating speech in order, maybe that's your consolation prize.

Tennis Anyone?

Two views of the alley directly behind my little house.

Aspen and Star of Bethlehem

This is a view from the back drive by the alley. If you peer through the trees, you can see the outline of the gazebo. This was taken a month ago when the vines on the gazebo had not leafed out.

Old Romantic

My ex, first love, last love, called from LAX last night to say he was headed back to Costa Rica to see his dentist. It's cheaper to fly round trip to have the work done there, than have it done in Santa Barbara where he's been hanging out with his second ex-wife. I am amazed that they have moved past the hating each other faze to the living in the same house together again. Wonder's seem never to cease. He said to watch for a package. And today arrived the package. Two bottles of my favorite perfume, habanita by Molinard. I gave up wearing it years ago, when I stopped flying to big cities in foreign countries with fancy duty free stores at the airports. It was my signature fragrance for all the years he and I were together. We haven't lived together in many years. He has come to visit, usually sometime around my birthday. This gift is an early birthday present. Included with the fragrance was a sheet of yellow legal paper with a note in his unmistakable hand. He says he looks forward to smelling me. Now that's romantic.

Cyrus at Rest

This is my nine year old Rottie/Mastiff/Shepherd mix who spent his nine years in a shelter. This is his first dog bed. He has three of them now, and he hates to leave the house unless it's the morning ritual, or I have a leash in my hand and my hat on. Cyrus loves his little house.

Roscoe is Raped

Roscoe, minding his own business, is assaulted by the amorous Segundo. No arrest yet. Roscoe refuses to press charges, despite the abundant evidence that he did nothing to provoke the rape. This crime took place in my back yard. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Utah Savage at Home, Without Words for Once, Cause Dusty Stole My Man Keith

A Happy Ablation to You, Too. Just What I Wanted for My Birthday

Not angioplasty, but ablation. This is the second procedure and will be scheduled when I go to see the Cardiologist next Wednesday. It will require general anesthesia, which is the only part of this procedure that scares me. I don't like to be intubated and all anesthesia makes me vomit. So, other than that, the fact that they ram a laser up your femoral artery to zap a nerve in your heart scares me not a bit. I am perfectly clotted. Not too clotted, and not too clottless. Clotted just right. It's all this clean living. I celebrated by eating ten peanut butter cookies. And chain smoking. Why fuck with what got me this far.

Scott McClellen has made my day, and many to come. Thank you Scott for your gutlessness when it counted. The mothers of more than four thousand dead soldiers will curse you forever. But we, who want to see your ex-boss and all his minions and co-conspirators jailed forever at Gitmo, now have real hope. And John McCain can retire and live off his wife, the beer heiress, until he croaks, which shouldn't be long now.

Time Off

I started blogging in January with really poor computing skills. I resisted getting an internet hook up of any kind, since all I needed my computer for was finishing the book I had roughly written and which sat gathering electronic dust as it awaited the final chapter and another edit or two. I thought being "on line" would be a distraction. I then had a Dell PC I bought five years ago and a good printer, so who needed internet. The only one who did use the internet connection when I last had one, was Charlie, my first and last love. And all Charlie used it for whenever I was around my own place and noticed, was for internet porn.

I have never been one of the women who likes porn in any form. I like movies with erotic content, sometimes scenes from books turn me on, but one woman's erotic content is another's ick! And I have heard women say they like porn. But I have never actually met one. Maybe gay women like lesbian porn, but what is a turn on for the men I've known, pornographically speaking, has never turned me on. It has embarrassed me, bored me, annoyed me, disgusted me, but never turned me on.

I read what was thought to be pornographic by a lot of "good Christian people," the book, Lolita, by Vladamir Nabokov, when I was twelve. It was banned in the States, but was smuggled into the country by thousands of American tourists with taste in 1955, the year it was published in France. My parent's were the first on our mostly Mormon block to actually have read the book the year after it first came out. I read it shortly after they did, by finding it's hiding place in my dad's sock drawer. My dad was a student at the University of Utah working on his PhD in Experimental Psychology. My mother was a working wife too sophisticated for her time. And to me, her only child she was Maggy, indifferent mother. Sometimes even hostile. We had a love/hate relationship, right up until the bitter end.

My father and I had an altogether different relationship. But by the time I read Lolita, it had turned into wholesome by contrast to it's past odd and inappropriate closeness. We were not a typical household, by anybody's standards. Not by any time's. We were a familial aberration. We were perversity personified. My very young life was pornographic. So pornography holds no charms for me.

The novel Maggy is my work of "Autobiographical Realism." My third husband was a writer. A real writer. I asked him early on, before I'd actually read anything of his, what his style was. He said, "Autobiographical Realism." He was a short story writer, finishing his Master's Degree at the U of Utah, on a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship, when I met him. We took a class together. It was a graduate seminar in English Lit. and the only plays I remember reading that summer were Pinter's, so it was probably something like, The Plays of Harold Pinter. I was married to husband number two when I met husband number three, the writer. Anyway, if you asked me what my style as a writer is, I would tell you, "Autobiographical Realism." It could also be called "Memoir."

All this, to say simply, I'm getting my novel finished and posted, cause I have an angioplasty coming up, and don't want to leave it unfinished, and I do want it published, if only on my own blog site, if only for my own egotistical amusement. If only to say to myself, "I have finished it."

Want to talk, leave me a comment. Want to get personal, send me an email. Want to get to know me better, start reading the novel--so far, there are twenty something, or thirty something already posted and linked chapters and in the proper order. Otherwise, I'll see you next week, or when Hillary gives up. Whichever one comes first.

Linda Sama where are you?

Linda you and anitaxaanaxnow have gone AWOL. You two were the way I started my day. Get coffee, take handful of meds., take god (I mean dog) and first perfect cigarette of the day outside for dog to pee, then hit the blogs. Am I an addict? Is this a gateway drug? Then start down my blog roll. And I hate that I can't leave you a message. I hate that I only see you now and then, here and there. You were an inspiration to me. I got my first award from you. Fuck woman, then you leave us with our angst. What happened to solidarity? We would march shoulder to shoulder to Washington to take back our government, to protest the war. Now who will lead us? How about an email with return address?

The Ticket

This is my pick. It balances the ticket in every way. Webb counters the argument that Barack lacks military credentials. Webb is liberal for a Republican and conservative for a Democrat. He has crossover appeal and he reassures the cracker's, the rednecks, the hillbillies, that all important, white, umm, that hardworking white, that rural, gun toting, hard working, whiskey making, I mean boilermaker drinking, hard working white southern, you know who I mean, those nice, hard working, rural, backwoods, white voters.

Gone Sicky

I haven't felt well for a long time. Roughly a month ago I got one possible answer--I am in atrial fibrillation. My resting heart rate is marathon runner's range after a marathon. And my blood pressure starts high in the morning, which makes me feel oddly energetic, and then crashes sometime in the mid afternoon, leaving me fainting and weak. I have what in my grandmother's day was called malignant hypertension. Now they just call it high blood-pressure. Mine was diagnosed in my late teens, about the same time I started experiencing the symptoms of PTSD, anxiety disorder, and severe depression, and then eventually bipolar disorder.

I have been on a huge number of blood-pressure medications over my lifetime. The hypertension is a family trait on my mother's side of the family. But on both sides of my family, it is the heart that finally kills you. It is a family of broken hearts. The men all die suddenly of massive coronary events, going along, feeling fine, and then blam, dead instantly, and in some cases young--my oldest half-brother had his big event in his mid forties. The women in my mother's family have not faired as well--they all have small strokes that eventually leave them with what is called vascular dementia. It is very like Alzheimer's disease. And ends the same way.

My fibrillation which was pretty much asymptomatic, got picked up when I visited my doctor about some routine blood-work that was not great news. Because I have this family history, and am on blood pressure medications, my doctor always checks, and this last time my blood-pressure was so hinky, they did an EKG, which showed the arterial fibrillation.

So with the referral to a cardiologist, I got the full treatment--echo cardiogram (fibrillating like crazy), visit to the cardiologist and another EKG, still fibrillating, a whole array of new medications, a procedure to check for blood clots in the heart (No blood clots) then the paddling several times to try to shock my heart back into normal rhythm. No luck with that, only burns and bruises on my chest and back, and another batch of drugs to get me ready for an angioplasty. So I have a small window of feeling well each day. I start the day feeling well enough to write, brain seems to be in order, but by mid-afternoon I start to crash. My brain stops working so well, I begin to feel like I might faint, so I work my way across the room to my bed and after taking my afternoon hand-full of meds., I gradually begin to come back to physical functioning, but my brain doesn't work as well. So learning things is more difficult. I have been trying to learn to link, so I can become a full-fledged, functioning member of the smart, savvy blogging community.

I only started blogging in January, and did not have great computer skills to begin with. I have a wonderful Administrator who has been kind enough to teach me what I've been able to learn, and who has tricked out my blog, so my creative writing sites are linked and the chapters of my book, Maggy, are linked and the book can be read chapter after horrifying chapter. But he's been trying to teach me to do these things for myself, to make me less dependent, more skilled. I worry that he will give up on me, since I learn so slowly the simple things he has so patiently been trying to teach me. Nothing new seems to stick in my brain. I want to make him a lovely care package to thank him for the time, the patience, the friendship and generosity, but I don't feel well enough to venture out and get the tin for the two kinds of homemade cookies he craves. It will all work out, one way or another. But for the time being I will remain merely a writer with no tricks up my sleeve, and settle for editing the final chapters of the book in preparation for learning how to post and link them.

And if I get boring in this period of brainlessness, I can only hope you will seek entertainment by reading the book, leaving me breadcrumbs to let me know you've stopped by.

Weeds

Dandelions have taken over my parking strip in front of the house. I mow and two days later the dandelions have grown six inches, and the lawn looks worse than before I mowed. So today I'm out there on my knees making bruises in my palms trying to dig dandelions from the dry, yes dry, hard clay that is our dirt here in northern Utah. Despite three days of cold rain, my lawn is bone dry because of all the shade trees. Shade is important when you don't have central air conditioning. Besides, I'd rather live in a forest, if I can't have ocean and beach, than a sunny expanse of lawn that must be watered and weeded constantly. I have refused to install a sprinkler system and water the old fashioned way, by hauling the hose around and setting the lawn-bird to get just what I'm aiming for. I have friends who spend half the summer repairing broken sprinkler heads due to running over them with a lawnmower. Fuck that I say. I'd rather keep just the trees and flower beds alive. And when the lawn has finally died, I'll Xerisscape the whole damn thing--nothing but shade loving Vinca major. Saves water and requires almost no care.

My only contact with the world of politics today is reading your comments and blogs. Oh, and I did watch Meet the Press, but can't remember a damn thing. Must be all those years of pot smoking. I can remember things from the long dead past, but not so much the short term. Which might explain why I'm having so much trouble learning how to Link.