Breakup

As so many things are going dreadfully wrong for me--heart, bipolar disorder, teeth, economic health, I got a letter from my first boyfriend a couple of days ago, letting me know in no uncertain terms that yes, I am indeed a man hating asshole. When I say boyfriend, I mean childhood boyfriend. I was twelve; he was fifteen or sixteen. He says fifteen, but what's a year's difference at this point? I was still a child, he was a teenager. One could say, despite the fact that we are now both old, I might still be that same child and he that same teenager. It was my parents and his friends who were opposed to our relationship when we were our younger selves. Now it is, finally, his better judgement that he should breakup with me. I give so little, ask so much. I never initiate, I only respond. What's in it for him? Obviously very little. He has said to me and to his real intimates, that I am smart and well read as a justification for continuing his friendship with me. Good so far, but is that enough to carry on a long distance friendship for fifty two years? He has always been married to one woman or another in our adult lives, so I have never been the one to initiate communication. But at least I have always responded to his attempts to keep some kind of relationship alive. I'm capable of charm now and then, but anyone with bipolar disorder is a bit uneven in the charm department. And even before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, we both knew my childhood had left me damaged, if not purely crazy. So no matter how smart and well read I was, I was always difficult. But I did know enough to avoid interfering in his marriages, so I did not initiate contact, ever. I may have had shaky boundaries in the rest of my life, but one of the things that made our friendship possible was the fact that, though we were sexually exploratory in the childish part of our relationship, we never had sexual intercourse. So, in my mind, we had kept our relationship non-sexual throughout it's history. I was never a threat to any of his adult romantic relationships. That was not an accident of fate--it was a conscious decision. If we could say we loved one another, that love was never complicated or colored by sex.

What was he to me? Touchstone, anchor, bedrock. Is that enough for me to call him my friend? I think so. I require nothing of him that he has not offered. But once a thing is offered, I do ask that it be given. He suggests that I'm not appreciative of help given. Worse yet, I don't even acknowledge that it has been given. It was offered, not asked for, and offered again and again. It's help with my writing we're talking about. He was the one who first encouraged me to keep writing. He offered to help edit my novel. He read the first draft and made many suggestions that kept me going. This offer to help began probably twenty years ago. No doubt he is sick of the story by now. I am too. That's why editing is such a chore. Now that my heart and teeth have become a serious problem for me, just getting out of bed is dicy. I am no longer able to clean my tiny house without experiencing chest pain and nausea. I'm looking for a house cleaner. I'm trying to make it through today. Feed Cyrus and myself. Get him outside a couple of times so he can pee, etc. That's about it. Is it all about me? Do I hate all men? Do I have no friends? I think that's a tad harsh, but there may be some truth in it. If it's all true, I am my mother's daughter. Unlike my mother, I can say that I have loved. As little as I know how to love, given my childhood's lessons, I have loved. I have friends. Life long friends. Even though I am a recluse, I have friends. Are my friendships reciprocal? I believe they are, but you'd have to ask each of my friends if each feels that our friendship is satisfactorily reciprocated. Do I give as good as I get? Probably not. I'm a crazy recluse.

I am trying to get my affairs in order--trying to make sure this property goes to a friend, a woman who will love it as much as I have. A young woman who will find it the refuge and sanctuary that it has finally become to me. I want it to be an opportunity for a better life. I want to leave no burdens for anyone to deal with. And if all goes well for me, then, at least I have one less thing to do in the future. Maybe I'll be healed, and go on to live another fifteen or twenty years, mind still working and creative. I might yet learn to love a man in a way that feels like love to him, and doesn't harm me. That would be a wonderful outcome. But I'm trying to be prepared for whatever happens. I am in the early stages of heart failure. I'd submit that I have always been in heart failure, but only now is it about to kill me.

In Case You Missed This

From Salon this Morning:

Sarah Who???

Well, so much to cover in so little time. First off, who the hell is Sarah Palen? I want to hear from Cindy.

Loved the Dem Convention. Thought it was pretty much pitch perfect. Bubba did us proud, and even he was disciplined. Go Bubba. Claims to be ready to campaign. Hillary, too And Barack's speech was perfection. Enough! One of my favorite words in Italian was Basta! And Barack delivered that one word with the perfect inflection. Nicely done Dems! Chris Matthews is ready for the looney bin. I thought he was going to swing on Keith.

Now for the important stuff. the flabby valve problem is called Stenoses:

Diagnosis and Assessment of Valve Stenosis and Regurgitation and Coarctation of the Aorta with Doppler Ultrasound

valve stenosis • valve regurgitation • coarctation • Doppler echocardiography

ABSTRACT

ABSTRACT. With the use of Doppler ultrasound localized increases in blood flow velocities can be recorded and used to diagnose obstructions to blood flow. From the increase in maximal velocities the pressure drop across an obstruction can be calculated, both the peak instantaneous and the mean pressure drop. Regurgitations are diagnosed by recording reversal of blood flow across the valve. Semi-quantitative evaluation of the degree of regurgitation can be made by using both jet width, extension and intensity, as well as increase in forward flow velocity, reversal of flow in great vessels and influence on pressures. In coarctation of the aorta localized increase in velocity in the descending aorta can be shown and the pressure drop can be calculated. In some, more than one level of obstruction can be shown. In neonates the presence of a patent ductus arteriosus may mask the obstruction and a significant pressure drop may become apparent only when narrowing or closure of the duct occurs."

And it's regurgitating. Ick. The hole in the heart is called Patent Foramen Ovale.

Today I asked my Nurse Practitioner, who I had gone to see for a clotting factor test, "Am I fatigued, listless, and stupid because I'm depressed, or is it my heart?" She said, "It's your heart."

Tell No One, Ask No Questions

I went to a complicated French thriller this afternoon with Nick. A film made of a novel by an American mystery/thriller writer whose name I can't remember. The movie's called "Tell No One." I went partly because I always enjoy my time with Nick and partly because UC kicked my ass about going out and having some fun. I'll leave the movie reviewing to K and J. Nick brought home-made fresh peach and blueberry torte for me. What a guy. My admiration grows.

I set my alarm yesterday so I could wake up around eight and call the cardiologist's office to make sure my appointment was at 1:00 with (new to me) Dr. Whatsisname at the usual place. They put me on hold for forty-five minutes. Then came back and told me Dr. Whatisisname was always in Green River on Mondays. There was no record of my appointment. It will take two and a half weeks to get in to see him. He's the hole in the heart specialist--Mr. Fix it. This means moving my followup with Dr Weiss, the Heart Rhythm Specialist. I am going to need an ablation. But the hole in my heart complicates the ablation some.

My Nurse Practitioner, who is the real center of the swirl of specialists, the one monitoring all my meds, and getting all the records together in one place where she can both oversee and explain the problems to me, was the last medical person I talked to before I crashed. I was in getting my clotting factor checked. I asked her what else the stress test and echocardiogram, and the test for the hole in the heart revealed about the rest of my heart. She told me that my valves don't close. My heart walls have "thickened" due to a life-time of high blood pressure medications. The valves are loose and flabby--thickened. I didn't ask, "Is this a problem? " I know it can't be good. I didn't ask, "Can this be fixed?" I don't want to hear the answer to that. I think my heart's broken. It doesn't help with the depression. But everybody's got problems and most don't whine about it all the damn time. This is something I'm going to have to work on.

While I was with Nick today I felt a bit as if we were minor, but interesting, characters in a complicated French thriller penned by an American mystery writer. It was a very neo-post- rationalist noire, glaring sun in an urban landscape, moment. I was smoking.

Now I listen to the talking heads tell us what we think and what we feel according to the polls. If they're right, we're fucked.

Depression, the Dark Slide

Depression is a damn dark place, even with the sun shining brightly. People I love annoy me with their cheerfulness. Kindness feels like intrusion and reminds me how sick I am, how utterly incapable I am of returning even a smile. The list of things I have to do grows daily, and I don't make the slightest effort, because just feeding the dog and answering the phone takes all the energy that I can muster. If I knew how to turn the phone off I would. I don't cry, that would require too much effort. I leak tears. I leak tears because Martin Luther King is dead and we still are a racist country. I leak tears, because I no longer have the energy to kill myself, and yet tomorrow I go to see the other cardiologist, the one who knows what to do with the hole in my heart--and I know nothing can fix the hole in my heart. Oh you can probably patch it up, but I'll still have a hole in my heart.

Phillip, who has helped me so much, now scares me. His anger is righteous. And I'm such a coward, I don't have the balls to listen to him. I have turned off the Ichat. I have disappointed him, and he had such faith in me as a writer. He should be mad at me.

Larry, my oldest friend and first boyfriend, is mad at me, or maybe he has finally gotten fed up with trying to keep a friendship alive with a woman who might just slap him in the face for no good reason. Maybe it's because he loved Maggy once, too. Maybe it's because he's comfortable and happy without me. Maybe it's just because I'm never stable enough for him to get the timing right--is it safe to talk to her now? No. No, it's not.

Last time I wrote a post it was to say I was giving it a rest. I was starting the downward slide into depression, and thought if I laid off the daily blog post, I might at least retain a bit of credibility, a bit of good feeling from my fellow bloggers. I said I was going to edit, finish Maggy, finish writing some short stories. I thought I would give myself a break and clean the house, work in the yard, loose a couple of pounds, pull myself together. But I'm just hoping for oblivion. You might be thinking, "Snap out of it! Get up off your ass and do something." Good advise, but mine are deaf ears, so save your breath. Nothing you can say will get me out of this.

Last time I talked to my shrink, it was to ask permission to increase the dose of my daily antidepressant. She asked me if I was into real depression. I said, "No, I'm leaning that way, but I think I can head it off with a slight increase in my dosage." I was teetering on the brink and didn't quite know it then. I thought I could squeak by, slip past the darkest part and emerge smarter, brain engaged and still competent. I was wrong. I am depressed. And now, like every other bout I've had with depression, I'm afraid I'll never emerge from this place where even despair would be something. There is no competence now. No one shouting at me to get off my ass will move me. Only my dog's needs for food and the time outside to pee, will get me out of bed.

I have increased the dose of my doxepin to 100 mg--the standard dose. It might work given a bit of time, but till then I still have to go to the heart doctor tomorrow. I'm paying a friend to drive me there and ask the right questions and take notes. I know I'm not capable of doing it myself, and she needs the money.

Nick wants to take me to a movie on Tuesday. I'll go because he's the only man I know who doesn't get mad at me when I'm an asshole. He takes my word for it that I can't help myself. In the meantime, I'll be sleeping with any luck at all.

She's Going Down For Awhile

It doesn't take much to knock you off that narrow fence you try to traverse in your journey through life with bipolar disorder. It's a high wire act to hold so still, while moving forward. Any other illness or new medical condition can trip your wire. The introduction of medications that might or might not interfere with your bipolar drugs can do it. And then no matter how careful you are, how little you do to stimulate or muffle your senses, it can just happen for no good or bad reason. And if you always were crazy for other good and valid reasons, whose to say whether or not it's bipolar disorder or general craziness that's sending you over the edge? But over the edge, and it might take weeks or years for you to regain that tenuous balance again. Or never. Lose your mojo and you just might never get it back. It might be just like love. Risky business.

There are so many prohibitions and restrictions. At some point you might feel straight-jacketed while out and about. It's embarrassing to be seen so addled, so trussed up, but opened like the acid moment when you understand that you can see under the skin, into the cell.

The one thing that scares me most is losing the spark that feels creative in me. This is probably all an illusion, but it's my illusion, and thus, my reality. And once lost, how will I ever know if I have it back, and if it's back will it feel the same, be as good, work as well? I am told often to take it one day at a time. So I get through one day, and then another, but day after day, I find myself missing. The thing that makes me the person I enjoy being is gone, and I might never get it back. And then the question becomes, how long can I live without the spark that makes me who I am? So finally, if I can no longer be the person I really am--the person I get a kick out of, the person who delights and entertains me with her dark wit and hard won wisdom--then what the fuck's the point? When it finally becomes pointless, it's essentially hopeless. And when it's hopeless, well, you might as well be dead, since you're just taking up space. And then I start counting the ways I could make it happen. My final creative act. This is something I've been contemplating since my late teens. So don't hold your breath.

I had a reason to keep writing this thing. I thought I had something to say. Now I don't. Sometimes I write such shit it embarrasses even me. And I'm not all that easily embarrassed.

Phillip, how about you take over for awhile? Or we'll just go silent while I finish editing "Maggy." I have stories still to write, but they are fiction and will be worked on in their own space. And since you are Sitenoise, what the hell do you need with the trouble that is Utah Savage?

I've probably said this before, but it's been fun while it lasted. Sorry if I offended you, or hurt your feelings, or embarrassed you, too.

Best Cornbread Ever, Thanks Nick

All-Purpose Cornbread

Before preparing the baking dish or any of the other ingredients, measure out the frozen kernels and let them stand at room temperature until needed. When corn is in season, fresh cooked kernels can be substituted for the frozen corn. This recipe was developed with Quaker
yellow cornmeal; a stone-ground whole-grain cornmeal will work but will yield a drier and less tender cornbread. We prefer a Pyrex glass baking dish because it yields a nice golden-brown crust, but a metal baking dish (nonstick or traditional) will also work. The cornbread is
best served warm; leftovers can be wrapped in foil and reheated in a 350-degree oven for 10 to 15 minutes. Makes One 8-inch Square

1 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour , (7 1/2 ounces)
1 cup yellow cornmeal (5 1/2 ounces), see note
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
3/4 teaspoon table salt
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar (1 3/4 ounces)
3/4 cup frozen corn (3 1/2 ounces), thawed
1 cup buttermilk
2 large eggs
8 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 stick), melted and cooled slightly


1. Adjust oven rack to middle position; heat oven to 400 degrees. Spray 8-inch-square baking dish with nonstick cooking spray. Whisk flour, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in medium bowl until combined; set aside.

2. In food processor or blender, process brown sugar, thawed corn kernels, and buttermilk until combined, about 5 seconds. Add eggs and process until well combined (corn lumps will remain), about 5 seconds longer.

3. Using rubber spatula, make well in center of dry ingredients; pour wet ingredients into well. Begin folding dry ingredients into wet, giving mixture only a few turns to barely combine; add melted butter and continue folding until dry ingredients are just moistened. Pour batter into prepared baking dish; smooth surface with rubber spatula. Bake until deep golden brown and toothpick inserted in center comes out clean, 25 to 35 minutes. Cool on wire rack 10 minutes; invert cornbread onto wire rack, then turn right side up and continue to cool until warm, about 10 minutes longer. Cut into pieces and serve.





STEP BY STEP: Preparing Cornbread

1. Puree corn--along with brown sugar, buttermilk, and eggs--to
eliminate coarse texture of whole kernels.
2. Create well in center of dry ingredients, then pour in wet
ingredients, except for butter.

3. After a couple of initial folds, add warm melted butter.
4. Working quickly but gently, fold mixture together just until dry
ingredients are moistened.

Diana krall Again

The Girl In The Other Room

This is one of my favorite Krall songs. No video, but a great sound. It's often how I feel. Listening to the girl in the other room... A bit like being a voyeur of one's own life, yet not taking part. It's the passive observation, when all else fails, that gets me through the day. Breathe in, breathe out. The life I'm not living is the girl in the other room.

Freida Bee, Go To Your Room!

I read you. I know what's going on. And what the hell are you wasting money on douche for when you can make it for damn near nothing, and not contaminate the landfill for the next 2000 years with cheap plastic bottles? It's a little vinegar and a lot of water. Use a funnel, if you don't have a douche bag. Sorry boys, this is probably taking all the mystery out of the faintly vinaigrette scent of so many cunts you've visited in your travels. And just so you know, if a woman never has sex with a man, she will always smell fresh as a daisy. It's the cum you deposit that gives the pussy that fishy smell you're all so fond of telling jokes about.

Yes, Freida, you do sound manic. But not in a bad way. It's okay to tie the children up as long as your leave a cell phone. Yes, leave the fecking cell phone whenever possible. You are then free to ignore any calls in coming. Let the children take the calls. Use a phone booth to call you know who. That way the cops can't trace the call on your cell phone. Get my drift?

Laundry should be left till the last second. It should have that lived in smell. Otherwise why wash it?

And I always thought taking the garbage in and out was traditionally a manly job. Not the thing for you to be wasting time with. You have many more important things to do. Blogging is best done early. Unless, like me, it takes six hours for the brain to actually kick into gear and you don't get up till noon. But you sound manic enough to blog in your sleep, so no problem there. So, how's the Zoloft treating you?

Faux News Gives It To Us Straight

Diebold gets it right one more time.

Almost Blue

Diana Krall and husband Elvis Costello
Almost Blue

Because I'm almost blue.

This is too good to be true

[UPDATE] For those of you keeping score at home, there are no typos in this post.

Nedra Pickler, reporting for the AP on McCain’s vice presidential selection (emphasis added):

"His top contenders are said to include Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty and former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney. Less traditional choices mentioned include former Pennsylvania Gov. Tom Ridge, an abortion-rights supporter, and Connecticut Sen. Joe Lieberman, the Democratic vice presidential prick in 2000 who now is an independent."

via Daring Fireball

One Month's Unpaid Bills

Yes, only one month. I was supposed to tackle this pile of bills last night, and now it's almost 2:15 in the afternoon, and this is the first time today I have even glanced at it. I swear if I add one more piece of paper to this pile it will topple to the floor and them I will pick them up and dump them in the trash. This would give me so much pleasure, but would add extra charges for late payment, so... Today's the day I pay my fecking bills. I feel so very un-kick ass.

The two good things about putting off paying my bills is that once the bills are paid, I have to file all the portions that haven't been returned with the actual bill part--this makes it impossible for the recipients of my money to tell me they didn't get it on time or at all. Then once everything is filed, I must clean my house. I can't clean the surface of my dresser where the bills are stacked until I pay the bills. Work just makes more work and it never ends. Not a very kick ass sentiment, is it?

I have applied this same thought process with my garden this year. It's the do nothing approach to yard work. Since I have mostly trees and ground cover, I figure, if I do nothing, what lives will survive almost any kind of neglect and is then worth keeping. All the pansy ass plants that require tending to should die, since they are too damn candy-assed to deserve to live in a desert. Water is now for cooling the house, bathing and drinking, washing dishes. And the very rare scrubbing I give the floors. We are heading into hard times and must live as much like pioneers as possible.

The largest portion of my bills is medical. It was medical bills that forced me into bankruptcy in the first place. Until the heart went wacky, I was able to pay my portion of my medical bills just fine. Now the 30% Medicare doesn't pay is climbing every couple of weeks. And, sadly, the portion I can't pay is climbing with those totals. Oh well. Trickle down economics just trickles down so far. It does not trickle down this far. Never has, never will. And if McCain gets elected, it will only trickle up. He wants to put my medicare benefits in the Stock Market. I've been watching the market lately, and I have no confidence in the Market to manage my money, piddling as it is. It looks like a house of cards to me.

Anyone want to take bets on whether or not I get those bills paid today?

Thank You Diva Jood

Diva has given me an award. I don't know why--she has my vote already. I am to be the Chief Justice in her Court of Supremes, so why this? Why now? Diva, have you made a deal to give my job to UC? If you have, you'll see some kick ass, and it won't be blogging. I know LA like the back of my hand.
This Award originates from MammaDawg.

Thank you Diva, thank you MammaDawg. This is the Kick Ass Blogger award. So, I'm thinking I better get some kick ass in my blog. Lately all I seem to do is whine and complain. But, this will have to stop now. I must get all kick ass on you mothers.

The rules are the usual rules and we shall all follow them. Do you hear me? Ve must follow ze rules! Rule #1. Select five kick ass bloggers. Rule #2. Blurt out why you think they are deserving of this award--must have some kick ass in the blurting. Rule #3. Link us all together in some slightly sexual way. Rule #4. Acknowledge the originator of this award and also the lovely, generous, beautiful kick ass woman who is sending it your way. Rule # 5. Oh I forget. Get creative and make one up--but it better be kick ass. And must include signing Mr Linky. I tried, but Mr. Linky was not taking signatures today.

#1. e at StarSpangledHaggis.
She has recently taken to posting on the life political. Most interesting. She is so smart and funny I don't have any right to peek into her lovely, courageous life and comment! Who the hell am I to insert my opinions and observations on her parenting style, or her concerns for our collective future? But little stops me from expressing my opinion.

#2. Non, je ne regrettes rien.
She has moved her life to France, bought a house in a village and is renovating it. That's a kick ass woman. She has a living, breathing, sense of adventure. She has courage. She shares the minute details of her renovations and her reservation and doubts as well. All this she does in a country she has never lived in before, speaking a language that is not her own, and she writes so well about it all--the fear, the regrets, the courage to move forward. And when she finally gets a little strange nookie, I'm hoping for the frenchy details.

#3. Blueberry at Texas Oasis
She writes with wry humor about the small details of daily life as well as the big political issues of the day. She reads the good sources, and when she posts from a news source, does it with elegance. And she's a kick ass commenter. And in truth, we are sisters. We come out of the same raw, racist, cracker past. She's the good sister. I'm the bad one. But if she wanted to she could kick my ass.

#4. Stella at Swiftspeech
Stella always keeps me focused on the big picture and the little details that make it all so fucking scary sometimes. She remains steadfast in her focus on the life political. But her reading is broad enough to include me, and her comments often lead to the most interesting of threads. She was my first reader. She encouraged fiercely and pushed gently. She says I sometimes write like Dorothy Parker. I only hope Parker wasn't as crazy and inconsistent as I. Thanks Stella.

#5. Vigilante at The Vigil
I'm pretty sure some of the best political writing I've seen done at The Vigil is Emily's. But Vig was one of the other writers who encouraged me to keep at it right from the beginning. His blog is certainly kick ass and keep it honest. Smart and sometimes smart assed, Vig is also one of my favorite commenters on other's sites. I seldom see him on mine, as I have gone far afield and "off topic." Vig led me to Beach and for that I will always be grateful. Beach and I are related somehow. Thanks Vigilante. Also thanks for the spelling and punctuation instruction. As you know too well, I am not my own best editor.

Thank you for hearing me

Sinéad O'Connor

"Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me"

When I was a little kid I loved Saturday mornings because good things were on the radio. I'm so old now all I can remember about those days are Big John and Sparky and No School Today, and the song The Teddy Bear's Parade. It starts, "If you go out in the wood's today, you better not go alone.." One of you will find the rest of that song and sing it for me, I'll bet by the end of the day. It was always a good Saturday morning when I got to listen to Big John and Sparky, and sing the Teddy Bears Picnic song. It was my mother who I remember sang along with me. It was fun time we shared, and there was too little of that, so this Saturday morning ritual held great importance for me.

Now my Saturday morning radio fun time is the show on NPR called Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me. I am one of the lucky callers who once won Carl Kasell's voice on my answering machine. When the show came to Salt Lake 6 years ago or so I went to see it at Westminster College. Wait Wait combines the weeks political news and humor, with regular host Peter Sagal, call in contestants, and a group of three regular and rotating panelists, and a celebrity guest. Got to go, it's time for Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me.

P.S. An old voice talent friend of mine just called to tell me that his first radio job was in Wooster, introducing Big John and Sparky when he was nineteen. He could hum the Teddy Bears March, but could not remember the lyrics. Even so, Scott Shurian wins the prize today.

Time to Get On Board

A pre-convention memo to Hillary Clinton

Ignore your sniping campaign team. Smart advisors would tell you to give Barack Obama your undivided support from now until Election Day.

By Joe Conason

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Read more: Democratic Party, Bill Clinton, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Joe Conason, Opinion, Democratic National Convention, Barack Obama

Reuters/Jim Young

Sen. Barack Obama and Sen. Hillary Clinton at a joint appearance in Unity, N.H., June 27, 2008.

Aug. 15, 2008 | As a candidate in the primaries, you received a lot of truly useless advice from your high-priced helpers -- a situation highlighted this week by the embarrassing release of some of their confidential memorandums in the Atlantic magazine. From the beginning, your campaign seems to have been impervious to wise counsel -- even your own.

Russia v Georgia and U.S. "Outrage"

From Salon today:
Aug. 14, 2008 | "The run-up to the current chaos in the Caucasus should look quite familiar: Russia acted unilaterally rather than going through the U.N. Security Council. It used massive force against a small, weak adversary. It called for regime change in a country that had defied Moscow. It championed a separatist movement as a way of asserting dominance in a region it coveted.

Indeed, despite George W. Bush and Dick Cheney's howls of outrage at Russian aggression in Georgia and the disputed province of South Ossetia, the Bush administration set a deep precedent for Moscow's actions -- with its own systematic assault on international law over the past seven years. Now, the administration's condemnations of Russia ring hollow."

Thrift Store Shopping

In the interests of comfort and vanity I cleaned my closet and dumped every article of clothing that no longer fits and hasn't been worn in years into a lovely garbage bag and plopped it in the trunk of my junker jetta. Then it was off to the closest thrift store to deposit my contribution to some slim woman's wardrobe. In my case the nearest thrift store is the Deseret Industries (the thrift stores run by the Mormon church) in Sugar House. This is the store where women who donate their clothes in Park City, (the tony mountain ski town where movie stars buy mansions on the edge of the slopes of the most luxurious Deer Valley Ski Resort) end up. It takes big money to live in Park City, so the discarded clothing of Park City women is often very nice clothing. I have no idea why the Mormon church moves clothes dropped off in Park City to Sugar House, the neighborhood I live on the edge of, but I'm damn glad they do. It means when I pull into the parking lot of the Sugar House DI, I do it anticipating a semi-joyous shopping experience. And yesterday was a very good day at the thrift store.

I'm not of the generation that thinks of jeans as a fashion statement. But jeans are for me a winter necessity--I seldom wear them in the summer since they're not exactly cool (in the temperature sense) clothing. So to me jeans are just jeans. I would never spend $100. on a pair of jeans no matter how rich I might be. I don't think they're that comfortable even when they fit perfectly, nor do I think of them as fashion. I can hear groans of women all over the world who do consider jeans high fashion. Well, to each her own. But I did need a pair of jeans for utility purposes so jeans were on my list and I found a pair that fit perfectly for $6. Along with jeans, I needed some cotton knit pants to lounge around in all winter, since all last years cotton knit pants were smalls or mediums. I am now officially large and plan to stay that way. Shut up! I'm 5'7". I found two pair--a nice medium gray by French Dressing for $4. and a nice silky cotton pair in a black and white stripe from the Gap for $3. The gray pair still had it's original tag from the store and so did the Ann Taylor long sleeved black and white striped cotton knit boat necked T shirt--very frenchie looking for $5.

With the basics of a do nothing life taken care of, I went in search of something nice to wear to finish out the summer and transition into autumn. I love white handkerchief linen sleeveless shirts and found two absolutely gorgeous ones. My favorite of the two is by New York and Co. I like it best because it's made so beautifully--finished seams, well tailored to fit perfectly, and looks a bit dressy with anything and it cost $5. The second is also a bit dressy with a line of laddering lace down the front and across the yoke and it was $5. To wear with the white linen sleeveless shirts I found a Sea Island cotton shirt, in a great print in greens, with finished seams and bias cut, A line, just below the knee, and a perfect fit by Van Heusen for $4.

My favorite purchases were the least practical and will probably be worn least but were too beautiful to pass up. The top is another handkerchief linen top only this one is long sleeved and has an invisible side zipper that runs up one side under the arm. This top is completely bias cut, and is the most luscious color of tangerine. It's a Banana Republic piece and cost $5. And the last article of clothing is so gorgeous I can hardly believe my luck. It's a pair of pants from Ann Taylor, a vertical stripe of burgundy and cream, made like the kind of slacks Katherine Hepburn used to wear so beautifully. The kind of pants you'd have seen on an icon like Garbo, or Carole Lombard. The narrow waist band is hand sewn. The pants fit my ass perfectly and hang straight from the hip to hem, and move like tissue weight wool crepe, but are really a heavy silky rayon. They are what I always used to recommend women buy when spending big money on clothes--all season and well made. And the cost? $6. Grand total for all these purchases, under $50. Take that you retailers!

Please John, Please Choose Joe

I don't know who the Crypt Keeper is, but I think it's Joe Leiberman. I'll bet money, well money that isn't worth much anymore, that Joey boy will be the man who gets the job of whispering into McCain's ear from now until he and John lose the election in November. Oh how I hope so. He's a great war mongering warm-up act for John Old White Haired Guy. Old man shouts at cloud. Yeah man, great. Let's bomb Moscow! A leader we can assume will bomb everyone.

I have never been a Paris Hilton fan. I thought she was stupid, but that's just wrong. She's certainly smarter than John Old Wrinkled Dude. I'm waiting with great anticipation for Paris to make another ad giving us her foreign policy position. I'll bet it's better than John My Friends McCain's.

The Sanctity of Marriage

McCain Obtained Marriage License with Cindy While Still Married to First Wife

While the news about Edwards’ affair has become front-page news, little attention has been paid to a recent report in the Los Angeles Times that exposed new details about how John McCain’s first marriage ended after he started an affair with his current wife. The paper revealed that McCain obtained an Arizona marriage license on March 6, 1980 to marry Cindy Hensley, even though at the time he was still legally married to his first wife, Carol.

I stole this from Dcup and Democracy Now

Here is another example of man at his worst, and the general hypocrisy.

The Irresistible Lure of Strange Nookie

It's odd how a little strange nookie can bring the mighty down. "I did it because I could, and I thought I could get away with it. I didn't tell you, honey, because I thought it would make you mad. I was trying to keep my behavior from hurting you, darling. I love you. It meant nothing." These are words most women and a lot of men have heard in some variation by the time they're thirty or so. If not, he's probably really good at keeping his secrets secret, or you have agreed to an open relationship and complete discretion. So far, so good. But I bet it will bite you on the ass someday. Love can ruin the best marriages.

Love is strange in and of itself. And as some of my favorite books have demonstrated so beautifully, there are two or three entities in any love relationship. There is the lover. There is the beloved. And then there is the other beloved, that longed for other, the temptation. Honesty has very little place in love since none of the performers in this fascinating dance knows why they love the mysterious other and must pursue this person or resist another.

Ballad of the Sad Cafe the novella by Carson McCullers is the book that best and most quickly comes to mind when I ponder the mysteries of love. The ebb and flow of love, it's circularity, the pull and push back of love. Need is always a character in love. Neglect, arrogance and dishonesty are often the weapons of it's death.

Another of my favorites is Death in Venice by Thomas Mann. The love of the forbidden. The love you would ridicule in another, have ridiculed in another. The love that is your demise.

And oh, these days, how love or lust or curiosity or narcism has brought another mighty man lowdown. Sad it had to be the husband of Elizabeth Edwards.

A Great Jazz Quartet in the Neighbor's Backyard

I've never been much of a party person. In the thirty or forty years I've been on antidepressants and other bipolar drugs, alcohol has been off my radar. And since I'm the only smoker in any group these days, I never really feel welcome or comfortable. Plus, I'm a wallflower. I try to find someone I know and sit next to them and then never move. I don't mingle. So, parties hold no charm for me anymore.

This party was different. These are neighbors I'm very fond of, and it was their ten year wedding anniversary. That would have made it worth an appearance, a card, a bouquet of flowers. But the real draw for me was the news that there would be a jazz band. It's always been my favorite music. The party was scheduled from 7:00 to midnight, but the jazz was from 7:00 to 10:00. They set up under the portico in front of the garage, which is fairly close to my bedroom window. The band started assembling and tuning up at 6:45. I was curious to see how Cyrus would do, since in the warm-up phase the bass was a bit loud and the drums were popping. But the moment they swung into It's Wonderful, I knew Cryus would be fine. It is, after all, the music I listen to when I write. It's the music of my entire life. It's my soundtrack.

They covered Charlie Parker, most beautifully with I'll Remember April and Cherokee. They played the Coltrane versions of Giant Steps, and Lush Life. They played Oliver Nelson's Stolen Moments, Miles Davis' So What. And they did some of my favorites by Monk--Straight no Chaser, and April in Paris. The drummer was a kid who looked about nineteen. The bass player was the only one who looked like an old jazz player, the keyboardist was another kid, and the sax player looked all of twenty. He played tenor and alto sax plus flute. There was not a moment when they missed the swing, the timing, the mood, the feeling of the songs they played. They were great. And the best thing of all is this was their first gig together. I have rarely heard jazz players play so tightly and with such swinging joy.

And the food was good, too.

Not Exactly Better Than Ever, But She's Back

I'm not so irritable, and that in itself should be alarming. God knows there's so much to be irritated about, but I don't care. I'm doing my little chores and sleeping well. I'm even dreaming again. Let the world go to hell in a hand-basket. Me, I could care less.

I have contracted with a friend and neighbor to accompany me whenever I go see my cardiologist to take notes and ask questions.

Enigma sent me easy yoga links and if I could stay awake while relaxing, I'd be doing some yoga.

Freida Bee has inspired me to clean my closet of clothes that are too small and to forget forever that I might be that size again. Then I go in hunt of my transitioning from plump to fat clothes, mainly some form of muumuu or maternity clothes that will accommodate my gut. And I must buy a new bigger bra and several pair of fat and happy under pants.

I am diligently editing my novel, chapter by chapter. My goal is to work on a couple a day.

And I'm going to a party tonight. Imagine that. It's just next door, but still... There will be food, drink, grown ups and kids. It's a start.

The Way of the World, Ron Suskind's New Book

From Salon.com:

This is a piece about the forging of evidence to go to war. It's about providing "deniability" for Bush. It's about the new Way of the World.

Rage Update!

The afternoon at the hospital started out with one small tweak of my rage meter. The hospital I go to, to see my cardiologist, is new and maze-like. So I usually stop at the one place I can reliably find--The Heart Lung Center. I asked the woman at the desk directions to Dr. Weiss' office. She asked me if I just had an appointment with Dr. Weiss, or was I having a procedure done. I told her I was having a stress test. She said, "That might be done downstairs." She called downstairs, and no I was not scheduled for the test downstairs. Then she called the Heart Rhythm Center and got their answering service. They were at lunch and wouldn't be back until 1:30. My appointment was for 1:00 so this was the first real tweak of my rage button. Remember I had not had my latte, and I'm not doing well on Zoloft for my bipolar disorder. I can't sleep. Everything pisses me off.

When I got to the correct location, there was one lone receptionist at the desk. The first thing out of my mouth was, "Why would they schedule me for a stress test at 1:00 if everyone is at lunch until 1:30?!!" She said, "I don't know what you mean. The techs who do your stress test are here, and it will only be a moment."

They did take me back to get my stress test post haste. But once I was wired up, they did a pre-stress test echo cardiogram. The found something hinky and asked me if I had a lot of headaches. Yes, yes I do. I wake up with a headache almost every morning. Next question is would I mind if they do a couple of extra tests. No I don't mind. I want whatever they think they see to be definitively checked out. What they think they see is a hole in my heart that could be the culprit in my headaches, and might be bad enough to need repair. I say, "When they did the procedure to to check for clots in my heart, I remember being told there was a hole in my heart, but when I went to see the cardiologist there was nothing in the report on that procedure to indicate that they found a hole in my heart. No mention." Now I'm starting to get really pissed.

So they IV me to inject a dye in saline to follow it through my heart. This makes them decide to do another test. They take me all wired up with the IV in my arm to another room. They put some gadget on my head, screw it on tight at my temples and inject another dye. This confirms something and then they take me back for my stress test. Now I'm stressed. I chug away on the treadmill, huffing and puffing within a minute, but every three minutes they increase the incline and speed. My legs start burning, then my ass muscles start burning. "Can you hang in there, you're almost through." I gasp, "Yes," gasp, "I think so," gasp. I make it through that test but I'm light headed and chugging, gasping for air. Quick, hurry, get back on the table to do the post test echo-cardiogram. Once that's done, they send me to an empty room to wait for my cardiologist.

He takes forty minutes to get to me and my irritation is growing by the second. Remember, I like my cardiologist. He's an Obama liberal. But when he finally comes in I have steam shooting out my ears. My nostrils are flared and shooting fire. I'm wishing I had a shotgun in my purse.
He says, "You have a hole in your heart that might need repairing." I say, "Remember when I came in after the first procedure and told you I heard them say I had a hole in my heart, and when I asked you about it, you said there was nothing in the record about a hole in my heart, and that I must have 'thought' I heard that, but didn't really?" He says he remembers our conversation but there is nothing in the record to indicate that they did, in fact, find a hole in my heart. I said, "This is unacceptable. I consider this omission from my records negligent." Well, this is as close as I can get to blasting him with my imaginary shotgun. I tell him I'm having problems with the new antidepressant and am unusually irritable. He says, "please have your psychiatrist call me--I'll reassure her that the Doxepin wasn't the problem with the fibrillation."

He tells me he isn't the one to evaluate the seriousness of the hole, and that I need an appointment with another doctor who is the one to read that part of this testing and decide whether or not it requires repair. Bla bla bla. I can no longer listen. My brain has shut down, and now rage is all I feel. Funny how rage shuts down the rest of the brain functions. After he finishes his bla bla bla, he takes me into the area where I'm to wait for the receptionist to make an appointment with this other doctor. The desk is empty. The is no one in the hallways. I want to start screaming, "Jane, you ignorant slut. Where the fuck are you, you lazy, slovenly bitch!!!!" But thankfully don't. By the time I get out of the building I'm at swearing, screaming rage level.

When I get home, I eat a bite, fix my latte, and decide to call my shrink's office again and try to find out why she has taken so long to get back to me when I knew I'd lost my mojo, my sweet temperament, my ability to sleep at night and all fucking patience with everyone. I know it's the drug switch, and I want off Zoloft and back on Doxepin. Now! She gets me to stop screaming and is very patient, considering how angry and loud I am. She tells me to stop the Zoloft and to begin to go back on the Doxepin gradually. When I hang up I'm still furious, but with a bit of pacing, and some deep breathing, and watching Keith, I finally calm down.

In a couple of days when I'm not so irritable, I'll aim what fury I have left at Comcast, who has the nerve to call themselves Comcastic.

No Latte? Are They Crazy?

Today I have to go get a stress test. Yesterday the bitch, no I mean nurse, who gave me instructions for my stress test, ordered me to take no blood pressure medicine and no caffeine. Yes, I can eat something and take my other pills, but no LATTE? Jesus, how am I supposed to get the organism chugging into consciousness? I will report on this horror when I get home. But I'm betting the worst part of the stress test is the no latte part.

First Love Last Love

I got a late call from CTB, the first and last love, tonight. He's been reading my blog and wanted to talk. There is almost always some small favor he wants, but I'm still willing. You know what they say about that first love--it's always with you.

He is a great musician. He used to play jazz bass. It was when he was first becoming a bass player that I fell in love with him. Acoustic bass is a very sexy instrument--shaped like a woman and held in a full bodied embrace. Then he switched to electric bass and started playing country music in the western version of a honky-tonk, or as I called them, toilets. He drank too much in those days and his friends were not all that interesting. The charm wore thin. But the love remained.

Now he plays guitar. He is working toward virtuosity--not that tough for him. He can play any instrument. Tonight he recommended his new guitarist obsession. A man named Pierre Bensusan. So, for CTB and the rest of us, here is a little Pierre Bensusan

Is Our Government The Terrorist?

Bruce Ivens is the fall guy for the 2001 anthrax attacks. How convenient that he killed himself. What I remember about the anthrax attacks was that journalists were targeted and that postal workers died. It was a long time ago, and we were told by our government that the anthrax came from Iraq. One of the first justifications for targeting Iraq was it's ability to deliver weaponized anthrax to kill Americans. All of this makes me a bit suspicious that the man who was being targeted this time as the anthrax killer was Bruce Ivens and that he acted alone. It smells like a cover-up, and possibly a conspiracy to prevent the truth from ever being known. But I was never one of those people that bought the story that Kennedy was shot by Lee Harvey Oswald--the lone gunman.

J Edgar Hoover was the man in charge of the FBI at that time, and he had his reasons for wanting to get rid of Kennedy. Since those days the covert, intelligence gathering aspects of our government have grown like mushrooms in the dark. When G W Bush came into office he had his reasons for wanting to go to war with Iraq. It is no secret that "intelligence" was manufactured to scare the bejesus out of us and push the narrative that somehow Iraq was a bigger threat to us than the terrorists that came out of Saudi Arabia and took down the twin towers on 9/11.

I don't trust many news organizations anymore. But I do still have a bit of faith in NPR. This is one of their stories about the man who killed himself when he became a target in the anthrax "investigation."

Inquiring Minds Want To Know

Amy Chozick poses the question in The Wall Street Journal this brilliant and completely relevant question--Is Barack Obama too skinny to be President? Hard to Believe Some People thought the Wall Street Journal Would Go To Hell After Rupert Murdock Bought It.

While We're On the Subject of Writing

This was sent to me by my beloved friend and administrator, Phillip. It's perfect for so many reasons.

Giles Coren, to his editors at The Times (London) for removing the word “a” from the closing sentence of his review

Times subeditors reply to Giles Coren

Jane, you ignorant slut

The first time Peggy referred to me in her blog as "my Administrator", I said to her, with my voice to her ears, "That sounds a little cold and impersonal to me. I wish you wouldn't do that. It's not like you need to protect my identity."

She said, "You are my Administrator because I'm dumb and you take care of everything for me ...."

OK Peggy. Just like assholes, right?

Administrating is something I get paid to do, helping friends is not.

It's all like that. Makes me ....

Sad, really. I'll help anybody who deserves it; anybody I think is doing something worthwhile but doesn't know much about the technicalities. I do it a lot. I live doing it. I can get to a problem more quickly than a fucking problem. Spare me the cadence; milliseconds add up. Be kind, rewind. Simple as that. Are we clear sailor?

Online group therapy might be a wonderful thing but it's not on the list of things I am interested in, nor on the list of things I think publishers are interested in. I think it de-values Utah Savage. I think Peggy just got a bad case of the jitters and, sadly, retreated down the path of familiarity. Here's how it goes Peggy: we might get 5 minutes on the novel. If we're lucky, a couple minutes on the rest. Make it a money shot. She was a lot closer than she is letting on. But you'll have to ask her about that.

Lapdogs are great. They build confidence. Peggy likes you because you are more than that. (I think). Do with that what you will.

You are welcome to shoot slings and arrows my way. Be the first. I'm all over the place. You can figure it out.

I'm Thinking I Need A Shotgun

Utah is one of those groovy states where anyone can carry a gun. And you can get a great bargain at a pawnshop. Isn't that nice? I've had a little ladylike Browning automatic. It was a sweet little gun. I only used it once to get rid of an unwanted suitor. I didn't even have to shoot him. I just pointed it at his face and told him to get lost. He damn near crapped his pants. And I loved the fact that he was the guy who talked me into buying it, because he thought I needed protection. Yeah, protection from him.

I've fired almost every kind of gun that was around when I was growing up. I used to hunt rats at the dump when I was a little girl. The gun I learned to handle was a Luger. My father brought it back for my mother when he came home from soldiering in WWII. He was also the kind of man a woman needed protection from. When we ran, she took her gun. So when I was eight my new daddy took me to the dump in Willimina, Oregon to shoot rats. He thought a well rounded child should be able to handle a gun. I was a good shot. No fancy two handed bullshit for this little gunslinger. I stood square shouldered, left arm lose and relaxed, right arm extended, head turned to sight down the outstretched right arm and bam. Dead rat. I should have swung it that quarter arc and killed the rat leaning against the station wagon, puffing on his Camel and holding his beer bottle in his right hand. But I missed that opportunity.

I hunted all through my childhood and into my teens with my dad and grandfather. We hunted doves, and pheasant. We went to the gun club and shot skeet. We hunted porcupines at night at my grandfather's cabin, finding the game with a flashlight and then shooting them out of trees or as they waddled across a trail. It was another opportunity I missed to kill those two bastards.

I never bragged about my experience with guns. But when I started dating, guys always wanted to impress me with their macho shooting skill. I might pretend they needed to show me how to hold a rifle. I might miss the first couple of cans or bottles, and they would show me how good they were, how easy it was. Then I would take the rifle and wait while the young man so intent on teaching me his game, would set up the targets again, and when he got back out of range and almost to my side, I would take out every target before he could turn around and look. It was a jaw dropping experience for the young man who seldom asked me to go shooting with him again. I hunted rabbits alone. I was a right little savage.

Once I started taking acid and smoking pot I lost my taste for guns. I mellowed out. I was a fashion model and traveled where ever I wanted, staying long enough in one fashion capital or another to get an agent and make some money and then I was off again. It was an easy life. A young beauty is welcome anywhere. And oddly men always wanted to protect me. That is until I started marrying them. Strange how quickly a man who professes to love you can turn into an abusive prick once he thinks he owns you. I finally gave up on men who claimed to love me, and decided I preferred the occasional friend and a solitary life.

Today my old friend came over to bring me his home made corn bread. I peeled a chilled cantaloupe and sliced it and we shared a lovely lunch. We talked about politics like we always do, and the subject of the Supreme Court came up. We both hate that prick Antonin Gregory Scolia, the gangster of the current court. I also loathe Clarence Thomas, but he is merely an angry, vengeful man--not very smart and not terribly dangerous. But Scolia is a Cheney type gansta. It got us talking about the new ruling concerning gun laws, and got me to thinking I've always wanted a shotgun. It's the only gun I'd really want these days. I think there is nothing more chilling than the sound of a pump on a shotgun. That sound of someone getting ready to do some real damage. And I would imagine a woman with a shotgun could scare the crap out of any intruder. It's everyone's right to own and carry a gun in Utah. And I'm nothing if not a good citizen. And who knows when some asshole might decide to ignore the beware of dog signs and intrude on my privacy.

I'm Sorry

I'm not sleeping well and woke up inexplicably at 3 AM and decided to read a blog or two looking for inspiration. I read Liberality's post from yesterday and was amazed and delighted. I started scrolling backwards reading what she's been up to and was further amazed. Other people have real lives. Fancy that. I know Dcup has a huge real life and I've never been able to figure out how she does it. Not only do you guys have spouses, and kids, and jobs (and in Libs case, school) and write, you actually vacuum. Then you go visiting and say funny, smart things, like the perfect party guest. I've almost always been the wallflower at the party. So I'm in awe. The only party I've been throwing lately has been the most disgusting of all parties--the pity party. Well, I'm finally disgusted enough with myself to give it up. I'm calling my shrink today and telling her this latest drug change isn't working. I'd rather be fat than dull. Hell, I rather be dead than dull.

I owe my administrator a huge apology. No one has done more to help me master a few of the fundamentals of computing. His patience is astounding. He has been generous and for the most part very kind. Besides all of that I really like him. He's given me the world, and I've acted like a petulant child at a tiny bit of criticism. Yes, I am ashamed of myself. He has asked me to leave him out of my card game. And I will, once I state publicly what an ass I've been. I'm thin skinned beyond belief. I hate whiners and I'm a huge whiner. This leads to self-loathing. Duh. Circular and stupid. I'm climbing out of the hamster wheel and will attempt to peer out the window now and then.

Yesterday I got a lot of very good advise from the women who know when someone needs an intervention.

I've Lost My Mojo

Things are getting me down. I'm not sure what it is exactly, but it's depressing. It's probably a combination of things, but prior to my antidepressant change I was, despite all the other problems, enthusiastic and energetic. The final nail in my creative coffin was the email from my administrator, and I thought friend, who said, in essence, that I'm a bad writer. This is not an incentive to write. I spent my adult life either married to men or living with men who defined me as a bitch, and never lived with a man who took me seriously in any way except as a sexual object.

I grew up in a family that defined me as the problem, and all my family's ill treatment of me was deserved. I was the scapegoat in my family, and it took forty years of therapy to begin to turn the corner on that. I was told over and over to take responsibility for myself, even when I was a child. I was told that the terrible things done to me were my problem. So part of the reason I accept another's assessment of me as bad or childish or without talent is part of that legacy. My only value when I was younger was as an object to be used--either a good accessory or a piece of crap. So the bipolar roller coaster and the recent change of meds, the bad teeth, the bad ticker, the neurotic dog, are getting me down. I don't need anybody to feel sorry for me. I don't need pity or sympathy. But a gut kick isn't particularly helpful either. At my best I might be a bit of a drama queen. At my worst, I'm a limp rag, unable to think, or bathe, or feed myself. I nowhere my worst yet, but I could get there.

But I don't want to give this up. I want to get better at it. Bear with me. It may take awhile. And when I have the energy to write, I'll be trying to finish my last damn edit on the novel.

To Randal, Dcup, Diva, Liberality, DK Read, Enigma, Anita, and Unconventional Conventionist, and the rest of you, I'll be around, lurking and sulky for awhile. But once things settle down health wise, I'll be back wisecracking, and acting like a citizen who gives a shit again.

Dcup Understands Me

Well, this about sums up everything I love about jazz and a great torch singer. It doesn't hurt that the lyrics suite me perfectly. I'm a lucky woman to have a friend like you. And just for the record how did you find this perfect piece?

From My Administrator

I thought that this was a bit harsh. But the bad writing bit cuts very deep. Sends me back to the drawing board. Makes me deeply ashamed of myself. And I know I deserve the exhortation to write well. Bad writing should offend us all. My administrator sent this to me after reading, or trying to read a bit of the novel, and then asking me to fix something in the first chapter. My lack of editorial skill is shameful. But, it is my belief that a writer needs an editor--someone not so close to the story. Yes, this is a poor justification for sloppy writing. Yes, I'm often childish--I'd say I'm about twelve. A pissed off twelve year old.

From my Administrator to me in response to a couple of childish emails I sent to him.


"Peggy, darling, you know this is a piss poor message. It insults me, makes me think that you think I'm interested in, motivated by, childishness. I'm not. Maybe other people in your life are, or have been. Maybe it works on them. Do you respect them? Swearing doesn't make you tough. You can't continue to pretend that only prudishness would find this offensive. It's bad writing, simple as that. Bad writing offends me.

It's not a special case. It's a clear one. Anger, frustration ... oooh golly, the swear words make it so. Are you kidding me?

It's childish dumb and weak. It's not an "over use of the expletive."

And you can quote me on that.

I went to the Giants game tonight."

On Jul 26, 2008, at 7:50 PM, U.Savage wrote:

I could probably do some damage trying to fix this fucking problem. I want only Jabber available as an Ichat option. What is the Aim bullshit I can't get rid of.

For Non, Je Ne Regrettes Riene

Ne Me Quitte Pas, by Nina Simone

Stolen from Unconventional Conventionist

All it takes is one

Churlish in the Dog Days

I'm tired and pissed off and sad. And My Administrator is fed up with me. I have been experiencing these cardiac events, as my E Cardio heart monitor techs call them when I have to unload the days happenings into the phone. I don't notice the events, I just feel churlish, tired, and incapable of doing the simplest things--as if I left the house that is my brain, and some moron has inhabited it in my absence. And the weather isn't helping.

Over the past few days it's been 105 in the shade of the gazebo. And then out of nowhere a single cloud forms and then one crack of lightening and my house gets a surge that knocks out everything. Yes my friends, I did not own a surge protector. No, I just "forgot" to put it on my shopping list. No I'm not a complete moron, just a moron in some areas. Those parts of my brain not engaged in foraging for food and the fistfull of pills I take each day and finding a place that isn't out of my smokes, is about the limit of what I feel I can do at this particular point in my rush toward the grim reaper. I'm wired up like frankenstein, with a monitor hanging from my neck that's like wearing an especially ugly neckless that weighs too much--the wires dangle, and it's too hot to wear anything that would make this unsightly mess less visible, so I go around with wires hanging, and my monitor swinging jauntily from my tired neck. I'm fed up and very tired and really cranky.

After the second or third surge, my Administrator told me to "GET A GOOD SURGE PROTECTOR OR YOU WILL KILL YOUR COMPUTER, and in his tone was the last bit, but not exactly said, YOU MORON. I am grateful to my Administrator, and I'm obedient like a five year old to his shouted orders. So I got the most expensive surge protector I could find. I unplugged the tangle of cords, and reinstalled the important ones, and then BAM, another surge. Well, thank god, I was "protected." None of this makes me less cranky or surly or irritable. Part of this irritably is the result of the antidepressant change, and the heat isn't helping, and the heart going haywire several times a day for no fucking reason, and the extreme fatigue of it all. Could this be the big ennui that is old age and the approach of the sweetly smiling grim reaper creeping up on me? It's probably all of the above. But then, in response to a too desperate email and a couple of whiny emails I sent my Administrator followed by a day of silence from him, I got a very pissed off email back. I don't doubt that I deserved his scorn and impatience, but it hurt my feelings. And since I feel like one ragged exposed and overused nerve, I shut down my computer and took to bed.

And a damn good thing it was. A storm blew in and knocked the power out in the whole neighborhood. So, no fan, no swamp cooler, no TV, no lights, one candle, and fortunately one flashlight that worked. So after a night of too much time to think, and a restless sweaty sleep-- I'm in no better mood, but I will not yet give up the blogging, and I will continue to swear like a drunken sailor, and I will, eventually, slowly edit my fiction again.

PS . So to console myself, I made a luscious fresh peach cobbler because it's peach season, and I'm finally tired of cornbread.

Oh, and I almost forgot--the three molars on the lower right side of my jaw have become abscessed, and need to be pulled, cut out, whatever. But because of the heart thing and the big dose of blood thinners, I can't have this little painful problem dealt with. I can't afford it anyway. So I stay on antibiotics to keep the pain to a low simmer. Did I say I can't afford it? Medicare does not cover dental emergencies. But even if they did, I still couldn't get this last indignity taken care of.

The Look of Love

More of the luscious voice of Diana Krall

S'Wonderful

Diana Krall, S'Wonderful

Live in Paris

Peel Me A Grape

I said I was a fan of jazz since I was very young. I love the late greats and the newcomers, but this is my favorite female vocalist, pianist, and songwriter. Her name is Diana Krall and she is married to the very lucky Elvis Costello, or was last time I heard.

These great photos of Ms. Krall are a little eye candy for us all. So Randal, feast your eyes and please your ears. And yes, we want a lot, don't we?

So, peel me a grape. And I just might give you my cornbread recipe.

My Early Rock and Roll Pantheon of Greats

I went looking for each of these old rockers one by one and much to my delight found them all together on this gem--sounds like it was performed in Italy from the intro and early commentary as the stars take the stage. Let this old puppy load and the sit back and enjoy the early history of Rock and Roll--too bad Buddy Holly isn't in the mix, but alas, he was gone for good. Check out the mics that don't work, the cast of "minor" players and the crowd of white folks having a very good time. Here you have: BB King, Ray Charles, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis.

Ike and Tina Turner and the Ikettes

This is the first Rock performance up close and personal I ever saw. I was walking through the Union building at the University of Utah. I was a student and cutting through the hall behind the ballroom (which is a pretty overblown name for the small space--probably seating for a couple of hundred people and this is what I heard and saw. I know this performance isn't the one I saw, but it comes damn close. I stopped dead in my tracks and listened for a moment and then moved in closer. I saw Tina singing and Tina dancing that was a jaw dropping, spellbinding experience. They were doing Proud Mary and it looked like this only more vivid and sweat flying and those amazing legs of hers pumping, strutting across the stage with the lovely Ikettes behind her.

Glade, This One's For You

In taking Randal's challenge to chronicle my tastes in Rock Music, which was not ever really my taste in music, and to wish well a secret friend of mine, I give you Queen--who my rocker friend says is the most talented group of musicians in all of Rock History. Well, Glade, I have to admit, the guy can sing, and the rest of the band's not bad either. But I still love Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, and BB King better than I do the virtuoso white boys. Remember the saying, America, once you go black, you never go back.

A Challenge From Randal

A challenge from Randal Graves. Well, I'm willin', but I'm old and creaky and don't have your linky skills so this will take some time. However you do know my fondness for Little Feat and here they give you "Willin'"

And wait, wait, for Don't Bogart That Joint at the end. Nothing to do but listen. No video, so crank it up and go about your business. Unless you're at work, of course. Like you Randal. Me, I'll be vaporized and watching "news."

Barack in Berlin

The audacity of hope is alive and well in Berlin. A crowd of over 200,000, waving america flags and cheering, stands in stark contrast to the angry demonstrations on Bush's last visits to EU Capitols. Merkel looked so happy to shake the hand and speak to the possible next President of the United States, and know he won't molest her as Bush did in his last visit.

(I had to increase that number of cheering Germans from 100,000 to 200,000)

The About to Be Homeless

"The Stock Market got drunk, and now it has a hangover" George W. Bush said at a fundraiser in Texas.

And thousands wait for relief from Congress to forstal forclosures on their homes.

Thursday, July 24, 2008; Page A01

The homeowners started lining up at 4 a.m. yesterday, some, like Patricia Ephraim, coming for a second or third day.

This Story

• Huge Housing Bill Set to Become Law
• HIGHLIGHTS
• Thousands Flock for a Chance at Loan Relief
• Mortgage Owners Praise Event

View All Items in This Story

View Only Top Items in This Story

Please Sign This

It's time to Impeach George W Bush and Dick Cheney.

Might Makes Right

I am linking to the post from The team at Unconventional Conventionist for obvious reasons.
BushCo is the worst administration in American History. As John Oliver 'reported' last night on the Daily Show, "They are the biggest bunch of douche bags and assholes in recorded history!"

Thanks Freida Bee

From Freida Bee to me, and back attcha.

Oh how well you know me. I bow before you for this lovely tribute. And for nailing my taste to a tee.

T Boone Pickens--Oilman

Every time I see T Boone Pickens say "This is one problem we can't drill our way out of," in his ad, I grow ever more convinced even old oilmen know the Bush years and the prospect of McCain years have disastrous consequences for the planet our economy and our country. He promises more ads to come. Shit, anyone with half a brain knows four more years of this crap and we should start looking for a revolution or a run for the border.

Please Sign This Petition

The Latest From MoveOn.org

The Contessa

This is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on, published in Savage Stories

Junior saw her the first day of the seminar and made sure to get a seat directly across from her. It was a seminar on the plays of Harold Pinter. Junior was the English Department's only Woodrow Wilson Scholar. He also had a special grant from the Creative Writing Department, so he didn't really need to work. He could be a TA, but why? It cut into his free time. He had a William Morris agent--had since he was eighteen. First story he wrote got published in a collection of the Best Short Fiction, 1966. He's been writing and trying to find a better place to sleep. He doesn't worry about the deadline for a collection of stories, he writes fast. But he does need a place to flop. He also needs some blow.

Junior doesn't have to say a word in this seminar. The famous playwright is teaching. They drink beer together in the afternoon. They laugh together at the foolish things these Mormon kids say in class. They dish babes. The famous playwright has a new lover every semester. He's been married to the same woman almost thirty years. Imagine that. He has a son he doesn't talk about much. The famous playwright likes to gamble.

Junior starts to think of the beauty across from him two nights a week for three hours a night as The Contessa. He starts referring to her as The Contessa. Pretty soon other men are calling her The Contessa. She is the most vocal and confident of the students. She is prepared and perfectly willing to take on the Mormon grad students full frontal. The Contessa makes it easy on the famous Playwright. He only has to get her started and she runs the seminar smoothly. Soon there is a regular Tuesday night beer drinking group that takes the seminar into the late night. She is often there, sitting beside the famous playwright. Her name is Judith, but he finds himself still talking about her when she isn't there, as The Contessa. Judith doesn't seem to see him. He wonders if she's this semester's lover. He also finds out that Judith is married.

One early afternoon Junior pops his head into the famous professor's office on his way out for an afternoon of shooting smack. But his famous friend invites him to go have lunch with him, "My treat," he says. Junior is disappointed that his high will have to be postponed, but smiles and says, "Sure, thanks."

Strangely the famous playwright takes them downtown to a nice little hole in the wall restaurant called, "The Beanery." It's packed. They stand outside and chain smoke, waiting for a table to open up. It takes almost twenty minutes. But once seated, he sees The Contessa walking toward them smiling, with menus in hand. Her hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the nape of her gorgeous neck. She is tall, willowy, graceful, olive skin, dark hair. She's wearing a long skirt and sandals with straps that wrap around her ankles. She has beautiful feet. Is she wearing a bra or not? He's not sure, and so makes a study of watching her across the room. She is flawless and usually a bit aloof, yet now, oddly warm. When she approaches a table she's smiling, she seems patient, bends over a menu to point things out. She makes notes, smiles, turns away, and the smile is gone. What remains is a fierce, strong, beautiful woman in motion. Focus is what you see when she's not smiling. She comes back to take their order and calls them by name, "Junior, Henry, who let you boys out?" The famous playwright beams and says, "It's like a visit to Greece, and then having Melina Mercouri waits on you at a small cafe." She smiles and says, "I think more Anna Magnani, but then, who am I?" Junior blurts out, "You're The Contessa." She looks at him then and says, "Junior have you decided what you want?" He leers at her and says, "I'll have a Rose Tattoo." She turns and says over the shoulder, "Play amongst yourselves, and when you're ready to order food, let me know." The smile is gone.

Addictions

I have many habits--some good, some other''s call addictions, and some just plain bad. And if you don't like one of my habits, you call it an addiction. If you share my habit, you call it fun. If you share one of my bad habits, you empathize and understand, and probably share my addictions as well. I'm not saying, so stop holding your breath. My shrink reads my blog on occasion. Just often enough to scare me a little every three months or so.

I have a "fondness" for LawnOrder. Yes, I know, you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. It's what those, with a vaguely embarrassing fondness, like LawnOrder, call it--a fondness. I don't give a damn about my lawn. But old, oft watched episodes of Law and Order are soothing to me, especially the Major Case episodes with Vincent D'Onofrio, and I never remember how they end when I start watching an old episode. Sometimes I don't even the remember how they end even when they end. Melea makes fun of my addiction to LawnOrder. She makes fun of the acting of guest characters, and she doesn't understand my thing for Detective Goren, who is my type even when he's fat and looks like he smells bad. He's my type and that's enough. I like the actor I will always know as Big from Sex and the City, but I prefer D'Onofrio. I also like the Special Victims unit cast. Mariska Hargitay is, well, sexy, let's face it, even to me, but the barely controlled and scarily cool actor who plays her partner, was once a star of one of my favorite shows from HBO. about a prison--can't remember the name of it, but it was great and Meloni played a very scary guy down in the hole.

If Deadwood was in syndication anywhere I'd be watching it like a real addict. Who were the morons who decided to cancel that? I thought it was the best written show ever. And I loves me some good writing. Great casting, too. Award winning acting as well. Stupid fucking programming executives. I think I'll write a story about a woman driven to murdering an HBO programming executive because he was the stupid little prick who decided to cancel Deadwood. I'll call it Dead Wood.

Deadly Women

No, I''m not talking about the collection of short stories we are gathering. I'm talking about my heart monitor. The damn thing keeps going off. The first day I had it--no episodes. The first night I wore it, it went off three times. It makes a beep when it picks up an "event." Did this wake me up? Hell no. I slept through all three events. It will only hold four events, so in the morning I called it in, which loads the events on my record and then I start fresh. Yesterday during the day, I had three events, so before I went to sleep late last night (really early this morning) I called it in to clear it for the nights events. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that the connecter thingy had come loose and so it could not record my night time events. This morning I'm up to three events, and when I call the monitoring folks in Texas, I have to find out how to sleep with the thing without disconnecting it in my thrashing about in the night.

I have a friend (yes, you bastards, I do have friends) who says she'd rather have a heart attack than wear such a device. Well if we're talking a huge, life ending heart attack, so would I. Unfortunately, it's only the men in my family who get off that easy. The women all have the tiny strokes that eventually turn them into babies who shit their pants and can't speak, but are big enough to break you neck when you try to change their diapers. That is a fate worse than death to me, and short of quitting smoking, I'd do damn near anything to avoid this fate, including taking my own life. So this woman could turn deadly, if she discovers she's having those little tiny bleeds into the brain.

And on that cheery note, I'm going to start another story, where I knock off one more bastard from my past who so richly deserves it.

Lady Macbeth

Something to think about when it comes to Murder Most Foul:

Gail Gilmore
Guiseppi Verdi
Macbeth

Thank you Unconventional Conventionist

Dangerous Women Write

Well Randal, we now have twelve--as of now, a mere eight hours after I said twelve, we have fifteen stories in the collection. Ha! Take that you lazy writers! It was a little over a month ago Dcup and I decided to get this little project going. Well it's going great guns and other weapons. Are you scared yet you XY types? Well you should be. Once you read these stories, you will be looking at you wives in a whole new way. Thanks Ghost for the right song at the right time.

Dead Sound
I hear the sound of falling love
As I wonder where you are
Hits the ground with a dead sound
know you aint got far
You're too stupid and sissy like
To say that you want out
You make the eyes of a million girls
And you think you'll make them shout

Dead Sound

A Nation of Whiners?

The latest from MoveOn:

A Moment's Clarity

It's working. I think it's working. Life and energy, and clarity of vision.... Oh god, is this place dirty! As my focus returns, I swear there is actual fuzz. On the objet d'art, there appears to be light brown chick fuzz. No, no I'm not hallucinating, there is fuzz. And every lovely oak surface is dusty. I say this charitably. And it appears I have been eating in bed, as there is a brown stain on the edge of my top sheet that can only be chocolate ice cream. The surface of the kitchen table has smears of butter and a scattering of crumbs and is covered with a neat pile of mail--Melea brings it out and stacks it for me--She is the daughter who seems to love me best. Though it is, perhaps, the fact that she hasn't really seen me at my worst. Oh, she thinks she has, but no, no. She has not seen me at my worst.

I have friends at Face Book, or My Space or however you young people say it, type it. Whatever. Anyway, I have friends. So there Randal. Oh, by the way Randal, do you have an Agent I could borrow? We have a book that needs publishing. Na na, na na, na, na. Anybody have an Agent? We have several stories that I believe have great cinematic potential. And we have a diversity of cultures, ages, and voices. It's a really interesting book, and it's speeding to it's chilling conclusion. Among our writers we have four really great editors and that's a godsend for a good collaboration. Each writer knows what she intends to say. These are damn strong women, overworked and raising families, moving to France in one case. I am the least able editor, and the only writer who spends half her day stretched out in bed, watching any old crap on MSNBC or CNN. This is a shameless admission. Oh well.

So, aside from writing this rather manic gloat, I have changed my bed, washed my laundry, and begun the dusting. I washed two dog bed covers, my towels. Fascinating isn't it. I also got a heart monitor to wear for the next month. Just like a tiny EKG. Then I cleaned my fridge, and went to the grocery store. I thought for a few minutes yesterday, that I might have lost my apatite and would lose some weight, but sadly that's not likely. For dinner, I had three thick lamb chops and fresh, cut from the cob, Texas style, creamed corn--one of my long departed grandmother's delicacies. All in all it's been a good day. And if when you read this, it's complete gibberish, we'll know I'm not tuned up quite right yet.

Something For We The People

Send Karl Rove to Jail

I received this in my morning email alerts. Please pass it on. Let's see Karl face a little justice from the Justice Department he has worked so hard to politicize. Executive privilege my ass.

In My Travels

Yesterday when I was visiting sites I've missed napping as I adjusting to my bipolar drug change, while looking in on Franiam I found her post dedicated to this site and this post. It really resonates for me because I could so easily be homeless. Had I not taken care of my mother in her descent into dementia, and inherited her house, I very well might be homeless. Thanks to what began with the Reagan "revolution," we now have no facilities to care for those who cannot care for themselves. It will get worse. The mortgage meltdown, bank failures, a falling dollar, rising costs and gas prices rising almost daily, we are in deep dodo. I know this isn't news to any of you, but I am old enough to know that prior to Reagan we did not have a "homeless problem." I've talked about this before and not that long ago, but thanks to Franiam, we now have this site to educate us, and make it real in a way nothing else does, short of being homeless yourself. Please read this: Under the Overpass