I like the idea of men. I like men in the abstract. I like one man in the present real time and see him often. But he has seen me marry and divorce, love and leave, and in the end isolate myself from the company of men. We're old friends and are likely to remain old friends so long as we never try to live together.
I am heterosexual, though I have wished I weren't at times. Sadly, I can attest to the fact that sexual identity is not a choice, or I would be a lesbian. I gave it a try, and it isn't for me. Too bad, because I can't seen to find a man that I can actually live with. I must confess that the fault could be mine and not the men I've known, since I am a "difficult" woman. More on that later.
I have tried, god knows, I've tried to make it work with not just one, but three husbands, several relatively short term lovers, and even one very very long term lover. And when I leave them, as I have done, sometimes more than once, and in one case over and over, I know that it isn't really that there is something intrinsically wrong with the man I'm leaving, but that the relationship (not necessarily the man) doesn't give me what I need. Which brings up one question. What do I need? What did I want from a particular man that I wasn't getting? And the answers aren't easy to find. But my past, my long distant past, holds clues to that answer. If you've read my novel or any of the older stories you probably could answer that question for me, because all the clues are there.
So let me try to start at the beginning with a list.
1. My biological father had no use for me and made it clear to me that I was in the way. He did not leave us, but once my mother made a run for it, I never heard from him again.
2. My three much older brothers left home one at a time and never really looked back. I don't blame them at all. Given their age and gender, I too would have left and never looked back.
3. My second father, the one who adopted me and was my "real" parent for a year, then started sexually abusing me and kept at it for five years, told me I was too old for him when I turned eleven and started menstruating. You can imagine my confusion.
4. My mother was a narcissistic bitch who was from day one in competition for attention with her only child. And so, a very bad role model for what it is to be a woman.
5. I was very pretty. (there is no good or bad about that on its face, but with the other deficits of my family's collective psychosis turned out to be a very bad thing for the sensitive person I was to become) Too pretty for anyone to see much beyond the prettiness and see the person inside. I know very few people, men or women, who would feel sorry for a woman who was as pretty as I was, since envy and the comfort of dismissal make empathy impossible for the envious.
That's a pretty good start. So I begin with abandonment, then shift to abuse and then abandonment again where the significant men in my early life were concerned. Add to that the angry, competitive, hostile mother, and you have the making of a woman unable to bond or trust. So, I might be capable of loving, but never able to fully trust. I always believed that any man I loved would leave me (the early imprint) and so I left first. It was the only way I knew to avoid abandonment. Really very easy to understand laid out like that (like a patient etherized upon the table). So I do not dare to eat a peach. Unless alone, that is.
There is more on this subject. But not today. Today I am vacuuming.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Bill Evans on piano with basist Scott LaFaro, and drummer Paul Motian
Oh to have been young and in New York for this. Recorded live at the Village Vanguard in 1961. And check out the hands. Ahumm
Squirrels in The Attic, Part 11: The Savage Women
I am an old woman living in her converted garage so I can rent my house and afford to eat and pay my bills. But getting together the money to pay property taxes gets harder every year. And every trip to the grocery store costs more to buy less. I dread leaving my house. I have a full tank of gas in my van, and it might last the winter if I'm careful.
I have no credit cards. I filed for bankruptcy the last year of my mother's life. Caring for her had made working impossible, and it made my bipolar illness worse. She was too difficult for anyone. And I was her only living relative and had the legal, as well as moral, responsibility to care for her. Then suddenly, with all money gone, she finally qualified for Medicaid. And under Medicaid's watchful eyes we got a social worker, and meals on wheels, and three days a week an aid came to our house to bathe her and take her for a walk. And for the first time I slept for an hour without fear.
Early on in her dementia she saw her brother in the house and wanted me to make him go away. He had been dead for years. She wanted to sleep with me, and I could think of not a single thing on earth I would have hated more. Once I woke in the dark of early morning to find her standing looking down on me. How odd that my mother could still strike terror in my heart. Panic and terror was what I felt at the prospect of my mother in bed with me. I thought she might kill me. It was more probably a projection of my own dark wishes.
One morning in the deep of winter I went into her room to wake her, change her diaper, dress her, fix her breakfast. She wasn't in her bed. I searched the house and worried that she'd found the hidden key, and let herself out into the snow and freezing temperatures. But the key was in its place and all the doors were still locked. Than I ran through the house again, looking everywhere calling her name, while my dog Lucy searched with me. We went down to the basement, looked in her closet, under her bed, and finally I checked the attic where squirrels were nesting in the last of the shredded insulation and torn bits of paintings, scraps of summer dresses. And there she was, bedded down on the wood floor with the walnuts and the squirrels, her nightgown hiked around her hips, curled like a fetus. Sagging diaper leaking, her wrist cold to the touch. It was freezing in there with the uninsulated ceiling. I had trouble rousing her. I was afraid she might be dead at first, and for a moment I thought of leaving her there and going back to sleep. Then the moment passed, and I did my best to scoop her up and take her to her bed. I quickly changed her diaper, put her in a warm, clean nightgown and while I changed her like a sleeping baby, her eyes slitted open and glanced sideways at me and she said, "Lucy." Not a question. Lucy was her little sister. Lucy lived in Arkansas then, but had also been diagnosed with Vascular Dementia as well. My Aunt's lifelong companion was blind, and I wanted not to think about their reality. I tried not to think about the implications of my mother and her sister and their mother and all the Savage women who had something called Malignant Hypertension which, prior to blood pressure drugs had claimed all the women in my mother's line young--all with massive strokes, or heart attacks or they just dropped dead early with no apparent cause, until the advent of the treatment of high blood pressure with diuretics. And as the drugs got better we survived the strokes to end our days in nursing homes, drooling and vacant and wearing diapers.
I remember when, after my grandmother survived her second stroke, my mother and her sister swooped in, packed her shit, sold her house, and divvied up the jewelry between themselves. They left her in a Nursing home, never to visit again. I wasn't living in Salt Lake then, and I wasn't told about any of this until months after it was accomplished. I was horrified. Two daughters, both single, and neither for a moment considered caring for their mother.
Now I know why. They were smart. They each had a strong survival instinct. And grandmother was a drooling idiot. And I was a sentimental fool, who wanted to believe in the power of love to overcome distaste. Some kind of love. But they wanted to have their lives. And she, they said, would never know the difference. But still, didn't they owe her anything?
There is probably no one more sentimental about love and its absence than a child who never felt loved. We grow up craving it and never recognizing it since it feels so unfamiliar. And we seek the familiar because, though it might be abuse, it feels like the thing daddy called love. And if mother is withholding, we give everything to try to earn her love. And eventually nothing feels like love. And if you believe the family mythology that you were never good enough, you know you don't deserve love. So you work a little harder, sacrifice a little more. Until you live alone and she now needs you at last. And just when you can really help her, you turn into her dead sister, who she always hated anyway.
So I thawed her cold body, fed her broth, and tried so hard to be the good daughter. I know now that it wasn't for my mother that I was doing all this. It was for me. I wanted to see myself as the good daughter, since no one left alive would every know what I was, but me. It was my image of myself that so needed to believe despite the lifetime of abuse and criticism, that I was a good person, and good people take care of their dying parents.
She seemed no worse for her slumber with the squirrels. She was as active and odd that day as any other. She fought with me over the shit in her diaper, just like any other day. I had a number of concerns about her running around the house with poop in her pants. She had, in the recent past, taken to removing her poop and hiding it in the most inappropriate of places--and really, is there any appropriate place to hide poop but in the toilet? I found it along with a fork behind a sofa cushion. I found it under her pillow, and have to admit that I considered for a moment leaving it there. It was only my daily stripping her sheets and washing them that made this unworkable. She hid it in the dryer as I've said before. One never thinks to look into the dryer for shit before tossing in the days laundry to dry. Do you?
There were special nighttime diapers that were supposed to be able to absorb any amount of nighttime bed wetting. It's a lie--don't believe a word of that advertising. So every morning, once I managed to get her changed and dressed and fed, my next job was the daily bed stripping and sheet washing and bed making. So leaving her hidden turd under her pillow wasn't an option no matter how much it might please me to do it.
As the days went on like this, I found myself unable to remain awake in the afternoons. I set an alarm for every official moment of the day, but once the getting up and doing morning chores and the answering the door for the meals on wheels guy, after watching my mother eat her tuna sandwich with sloppy gusto, I would take us upstairs and lock us in my suite of rooms, where she could "type" on my computer for hours, while I drifted in and out of consciousness.
My mother had once been an executive secretary. There was a time when she could take dictation shorthand and type ninety words a minute with complete accuracy. Hoping for the best, I turned on the computer and pulled up an empty page. I typed a few words on the keyboard and watched her eyes light up as words appeared on the screen. She all but pushed me out of the way, eager to get to the typing. It seemed she had something to say. So for awhile I watched. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, gnarled knuckles, ravaged nails (but festooned with gaudy rings I could not pry off her fingers). Then she dropped the little finger of her left hand upon the z and the zzzzzzzzzs flew off her finger like sparks across the screen. Line after line of small z. I tried to show her that all the other letters were there, but she briskly pushed my hands away to very deliberatley place that finger lightly upon the z and leave it there. I moved to the small room off my office that held my bed and slipped away into the sleep of the damned.
I awoke to the slap of my mother's hand across my face, and her distress as she pointed at the wall behind my head. She looked at the wall and said her first words in days, and in obvious alarm, "Can't you hear that?" It was the squirrels scrabbling in the walls.
I have no credit cards. I filed for bankruptcy the last year of my mother's life. Caring for her had made working impossible, and it made my bipolar illness worse. She was too difficult for anyone. And I was her only living relative and had the legal, as well as moral, responsibility to care for her. Then suddenly, with all money gone, she finally qualified for Medicaid. And under Medicaid's watchful eyes we got a social worker, and meals on wheels, and three days a week an aid came to our house to bathe her and take her for a walk. And for the first time I slept for an hour without fear.
Early on in her dementia she saw her brother in the house and wanted me to make him go away. He had been dead for years. She wanted to sleep with me, and I could think of not a single thing on earth I would have hated more. Once I woke in the dark of early morning to find her standing looking down on me. How odd that my mother could still strike terror in my heart. Panic and terror was what I felt at the prospect of my mother in bed with me. I thought she might kill me. It was more probably a projection of my own dark wishes.
One morning in the deep of winter I went into her room to wake her, change her diaper, dress her, fix her breakfast. She wasn't in her bed. I searched the house and worried that she'd found the hidden key, and let herself out into the snow and freezing temperatures. But the key was in its place and all the doors were still locked. Than I ran through the house again, looking everywhere calling her name, while my dog Lucy searched with me. We went down to the basement, looked in her closet, under her bed, and finally I checked the attic where squirrels were nesting in the last of the shredded insulation and torn bits of paintings, scraps of summer dresses. And there she was, bedded down on the wood floor with the walnuts and the squirrels, her nightgown hiked around her hips, curled like a fetus. Sagging diaper leaking, her wrist cold to the touch. It was freezing in there with the uninsulated ceiling. I had trouble rousing her. I was afraid she might be dead at first, and for a moment I thought of leaving her there and going back to sleep. Then the moment passed, and I did my best to scoop her up and take her to her bed. I quickly changed her diaper, put her in a warm, clean nightgown and while I changed her like a sleeping baby, her eyes slitted open and glanced sideways at me and she said, "Lucy." Not a question. Lucy was her little sister. Lucy lived in Arkansas then, but had also been diagnosed with Vascular Dementia as well. My Aunt's lifelong companion was blind, and I wanted not to think about their reality. I tried not to think about the implications of my mother and her sister and their mother and all the Savage women who had something called Malignant Hypertension which, prior to blood pressure drugs had claimed all the women in my mother's line young--all with massive strokes, or heart attacks or they just dropped dead early with no apparent cause, until the advent of the treatment of high blood pressure with diuretics. And as the drugs got better we survived the strokes to end our days in nursing homes, drooling and vacant and wearing diapers.
I remember when, after my grandmother survived her second stroke, my mother and her sister swooped in, packed her shit, sold her house, and divvied up the jewelry between themselves. They left her in a Nursing home, never to visit again. I wasn't living in Salt Lake then, and I wasn't told about any of this until months after it was accomplished. I was horrified. Two daughters, both single, and neither for a moment considered caring for their mother.
Now I know why. They were smart. They each had a strong survival instinct. And grandmother was a drooling idiot. And I was a sentimental fool, who wanted to believe in the power of love to overcome distaste. Some kind of love. But they wanted to have their lives. And she, they said, would never know the difference. But still, didn't they owe her anything?
There is probably no one more sentimental about love and its absence than a child who never felt loved. We grow up craving it and never recognizing it since it feels so unfamiliar. And we seek the familiar because, though it might be abuse, it feels like the thing daddy called love. And if mother is withholding, we give everything to try to earn her love. And eventually nothing feels like love. And if you believe the family mythology that you were never good enough, you know you don't deserve love. So you work a little harder, sacrifice a little more. Until you live alone and she now needs you at last. And just when you can really help her, you turn into her dead sister, who she always hated anyway.
So I thawed her cold body, fed her broth, and tried so hard to be the good daughter. I know now that it wasn't for my mother that I was doing all this. It was for me. I wanted to see myself as the good daughter, since no one left alive would every know what I was, but me. It was my image of myself that so needed to believe despite the lifetime of abuse and criticism, that I was a good person, and good people take care of their dying parents.
She seemed no worse for her slumber with the squirrels. She was as active and odd that day as any other. She fought with me over the shit in her diaper, just like any other day. I had a number of concerns about her running around the house with poop in her pants. She had, in the recent past, taken to removing her poop and hiding it in the most inappropriate of places--and really, is there any appropriate place to hide poop but in the toilet? I found it along with a fork behind a sofa cushion. I found it under her pillow, and have to admit that I considered for a moment leaving it there. It was only my daily stripping her sheets and washing them that made this unworkable. She hid it in the dryer as I've said before. One never thinks to look into the dryer for shit before tossing in the days laundry to dry. Do you?
There were special nighttime diapers that were supposed to be able to absorb any amount of nighttime bed wetting. It's a lie--don't believe a word of that advertising. So every morning, once I managed to get her changed and dressed and fed, my next job was the daily bed stripping and sheet washing and bed making. So leaving her hidden turd under her pillow wasn't an option no matter how much it might please me to do it.
As the days went on like this, I found myself unable to remain awake in the afternoons. I set an alarm for every official moment of the day, but once the getting up and doing morning chores and the answering the door for the meals on wheels guy, after watching my mother eat her tuna sandwich with sloppy gusto, I would take us upstairs and lock us in my suite of rooms, where she could "type" on my computer for hours, while I drifted in and out of consciousness.
My mother had once been an executive secretary. There was a time when she could take dictation shorthand and type ninety words a minute with complete accuracy. Hoping for the best, I turned on the computer and pulled up an empty page. I typed a few words on the keyboard and watched her eyes light up as words appeared on the screen. She all but pushed me out of the way, eager to get to the typing. It seemed she had something to say. So for awhile I watched. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, gnarled knuckles, ravaged nails (but festooned with gaudy rings I could not pry off her fingers). Then she dropped the little finger of her left hand upon the z and the zzzzzzzzzs flew off her finger like sparks across the screen. Line after line of small z. I tried to show her that all the other letters were there, but she briskly pushed my hands away to very deliberatley place that finger lightly upon the z and leave it there. I moved to the small room off my office that held my bed and slipped away into the sleep of the damned.
I awoke to the slap of my mother's hand across my face, and her distress as she pointed at the wall behind my head. She looked at the wall and said her first words in days, and in obvious alarm, "Can't you hear that?" It was the squirrels scrabbling in the walls.
Bill Evans Trio: My Romance
(I am reposting this while I get my brain working again. Today isn't starting well. So, for awhile, lets ponder the troubles of my failed romance. It might be instructive.)
When I met Tom (the man I call first love/last love) he was just beginning to play the acoustic bass. I've always had a thing for bass players. There is something about the instrument--it's rather womanly looking, and the man playing it has it in an embrace between his legs. His arms are wrapped around her and he is fingering...
I like men with good hands, finger dexterity, and stamina. Bass players fit that bill, pianists, guitarists too. For a brief period of time, Tom used to ask me to sing to his bass or piano accompaniment. I was reluctant, but eventually gave it a try. I have a deep, smokey voice, fairly limited range, but almost perfect pitch and a great memory for the lyrics of jazz standards. Solo bass is one thing, bass and vocalist is another entirely. I would lead him through my vocal arrangement of My Romance in my key, and he would say, but that's not the right key, that's not the key it's written in. And I would say, but it's my key, my range. If you want me to sing with you, we will have to play it in my key. He would say, "Sing it. I'll follow." And we would run through the song over and over, and just when I would get comfortable with the arrangement, relax and really start enjoying myself, he would change it up, get loose and start throwing in a bit of bass virtuosity. Without warning, he would play a solo in the middle of a duet. It ruined everything for me as a singer. And then I refused to sing for him. It's a metaphor for what went wrong with us.
For Simstone, Who Will Understand Why
If you want to know more about Simstone, the link is in the title.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I Have Been Tagged by Boarder Explorer
Boarder Explorer (whose blog is linked in the title) has challenged me to abide by these very difficult rules. I chaff at rules, wanting to modify them to suit my needs or taste, but the rules are the rules and must be obeyed. I have a very hard time fnding an entire album I like all the way through. This is one of the reasons I love ITunes, since it allows me to buy only the songs I love. But I will try to extrapolate from the songs I've purchased recently what albums I would currently pick. But my taste in music is pretty lopsidedly tilted toward a category that is missing in this list. So that will end up being my "if I would only have one" category pick.
THE RULES:
1. Post your list of the seven best albums, the seven bloggers you will tag, a copy of these rules, and a link back to this page.
2. Each person tagged will put a URL to their Blogger Album Project post along with a list of the seven best albums in the comment section HERE.
3. Feel free to post the “I Contributed to the Blogger Album Project” Award Graphic on your sidebar, along with a link back to this page.
4. Post a link back to the blogger who tagged you.
But first, will someone help me find my URL and help me transport this over to here?
MY SEVEN ALBUMS:
* Latin: Moriza, Meu Fado Meu
* Blues: My blues roots go as far back as Howlin' Wolf, but when I look at my faves it's Eric Clapton, Live at the Fillmore doing Crossroads:
* Pop: And to satisfy many of my musical joneses, I give you my version of pop: Amy "trainwreck" Winehouse singing the title song form her album of the same name Love is a Losing Game
* Country: Amy Lavere's Anchors and Anvils with one song favored above all others
* Soundtracks: Randy Newman's lovely score for Pleasantville
* Folk: The McGarrigals and Rufus Wainwrigit Songs of the Civil War, and my favorite song, Hard Times Come Again No More
If I could have only one album: Diana Krall, The Girl in the Other Room
1. Dcup at Politits. Don't hate me for this. It just might be what you need right now. You never know.
2.Linda at Vulture Peak Muse, because there is more to life than visual art, though we all loves us some visual art
3. Nan, at All The Good Name Were Taken, because I want to know more.
4. Beach at Life and Times of a Carolina Parrothead, and it can't all be Jimmy Buffet
5. James our Average Patriot, because I want to know what a happy man listens to.
6. Mathman, because is is something of a mystery and I want to know what she posts and what he posts
7.Linda Sama the ageless hippie chick, because she's my sister and I want to know how related we really are--call it sibling rivalry
There are three omissions from this meme. There should be a jazz category, a rock category, and a classical category. Just saying.
THE RULES:
1. Post your list of the seven best albums, the seven bloggers you will tag, a copy of these rules, and a link back to this page.
2. Each person tagged will put a URL to their Blogger Album Project post along with a list of the seven best albums in the comment section HERE.
3. Feel free to post the “I Contributed to the Blogger Album Project” Award Graphic on your sidebar, along with a link back to this page.
4. Post a link back to the blogger who tagged you.
But first, will someone help me find my URL and help me transport this over to here?
MY SEVEN ALBUMS:
* Latin: Moriza, Meu Fado Meu
* Blues: My blues roots go as far back as Howlin' Wolf, but when I look at my faves it's Eric Clapton, Live at the Fillmore doing Crossroads:
* Pop: And to satisfy many of my musical joneses, I give you my version of pop: Amy "trainwreck" Winehouse singing the title song form her album of the same name Love is a Losing Game
* Country: Amy Lavere's Anchors and Anvils with one song favored above all others
* Soundtracks: Randy Newman's lovely score for Pleasantville
* Folk: The McGarrigals and Rufus Wainwrigit Songs of the Civil War, and my favorite song, Hard Times Come Again No More
If I could have only one album: Diana Krall, The Girl in the Other Room
1. Dcup at Politits. Don't hate me for this. It just might be what you need right now. You never know.
2.Linda at Vulture Peak Muse, because there is more to life than visual art, though we all loves us some visual art
3. Nan, at All The Good Name Were Taken, because I want to know more.
4. Beach at Life and Times of a Carolina Parrothead, and it can't all be Jimmy Buffet
5. James our Average Patriot, because I want to know what a happy man listens to.
6. Mathman, because is is something of a mystery and I want to know what she posts and what he posts
7.Linda Sama the ageless hippie chick, because she's my sister and I want to know how related we really are--call it sibling rivalry
There are three omissions from this meme. There should be a jazz category, a rock category, and a classical category. Just saying.
Liberality
I stole these maps today from Liberality. But before I found these maps at Lib's place I also found a button I had to have, and a vote I could make in favor of Unions, and a poem by Allen Ginsberg I hadn't read before. She has been remaking herself or at least the part of her self that is her blog. It is gorgeous. Go go see for yourself.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Special Needs
My dog, Cyrus' Veterinarian is the House Call Vet. He calls Cyrus a Special Needs dog. Those of you who've been reading me for awhile have heard Cyrus' story before, so if you know all this, skip this part. Cyrus was either born in a "shelter" or was dropped off there when he was very young. He's a lovely Rottie mix but spent his first nine years in that "shelter." I put quotes around the word shelter in this context, because there is some question as to whether the woman who ran the shelter was running a legitimate shelter or was just a hoarder and animals were part of what she was hoarding.
At first her house and shelter was located in a suburban part of Tucson. As the number of pets grew, so did the discontent of her neighbors. She was reported to authorities and eventually moved her shelter to an area in the desert about 200 miles from any populated area, and thus it was also 200 miles from a veterinarian or doctor. She was in her late forties when this move happened. Her records were sketchy, so not much is known about the health care or behavioral problems of her animals. When she was in her mid fifties she died suddenly. Her family kept calling and getting no answer or return call. They eventually called the authorities and it was discovered that she was dead and all her animals were in desperate straits. That's when Best Friends stepped in and rescued all her animals.
At this point Cyrus probably got his first real medical attention. He was bathed and groomed, probably for the first time in his life. He was anesthetized and given a thorough going over. His teeth were cleaned and a few extractions were done. It was discovered that he had arthritis in his hips and that one of his legs was at risk of needing an ACL repair. They discovered a thyroid problem. And true to any creature with a thyroid problem he was over-weight. He was ID chipped. He was found to be a sweet natured dog, and with a little socialization was deemed ready for adoption. But Cyrus would need just the right home. Cyrus was depressed.
It's hard to find people who will take an old dog. Most people want a puppy. Or if not a puppy, a well trained one or two year old. But I love old dogs. I'm a bit of an old dog myself. So after many calls and much time spent on the internet, we arranged a day when they were having an adoption event at one of the suburban Petcos. They did not tell me the size or breed of Cyrus. The reason for this oversight is that they had arranged for me to adopt another dog, who, at the last moment, exhibited behavior that make her unadoptable, so Cyrus was a bit of a last minute substitution. And in truth, I think they were afraid I would say no to such an enormous dog with health problems. His medication costs very close to $100. a month. Now I've added supplements to his diet, which brings the monthly pill cost to over $100 a month. This is a wild extravagance, but I would go without cable TV if my budget got that tight, and it is close to that now.
When I first saw Cyrus he looked depressed. In the midst of Petco, surrounded by thirty other animals there for the adoption event, he was lying flattened, head down. The only indication that he wasn't sleeping was the open eyes, tracking the activity. When I told the woman from Best Friends my name, she started crying. She reached across the table and hugged me. "We are so grateful to you. So few people will take an older dog. But you will really love this dog."
Best Friends gave me a two month supply of his meds. and about a weeks supply of his food. They'd had him on Kirkland kibble and mixed it with a bit of canned food to moisten it some. He was on a diet, so I was told exactly how much to feed him twice a day. So far so good. He came with me without any resistance, but I thought right then that Cyrus was a profoundly depressed dog. I had his medical records, complete with dental x-rays and copious notes--all of which has been very helpful to the House Call Vet.
I'm something of a recluse. I have my own mental health issues, and one of them is that I feel slightly agoraphobic when I leave my property. It's doable but I'm never completely at ease out in the larger world. This is probably a result of early abuse. I always preferred to play alone in my room and was forced to go outside to play with other children. Bipolar disorder has probably made this tendency toward agoraphobia more pronounced. But with Cyrus, I felt it was important to take him for a short walk twice a day. He was docile on his leash and would walk with me very nicely. He seemed interested in his surroundings, did a lot of pee trumping, and paid close attention to his environment. He was nice when we passed other dogs out walking with their people. And then one day while we were out, we heard what sounded like gunshot. Cyrus turned and started to drag me back home. He weighs about the same as I, so when he is pulling on the leash, I am the one being led. There is almost no stopping him. I did manage to get him to stop. I crouched down beside his head and talked calmly to him. He was trembling all over. And I then realized that he was not able to listen because he was terrified. We came home very quickly and he has refused to budge from the property ever since. He will go outside to do his dogie business, morning and night, but that's it.
The month of July was a nightmare for Cyrus. I contacted Best Friends and talked with their trainer. She said to put him on Melatonin and sent me an article about dogs with fear problems. We have no idea if Cyrus was ever shot at or if it's just the "normal" fear of a dog who is noise sensitive, but Cyrus and I are two of a kind. Both Best Friends and our House Call Vet have assured me that I have not made Cyrus crazy. Cyrus was raised in a crazy situation. He has lots of face scars so has probably been in some nasty dog fights--too many dogs in a too small area with too little supervision or training. And now if Cyrus is outside for his first pee of the day and has just lifted his leg, and a car off in the distance backfires, Cyrus cuts that stream and runs to the house. He will not go outside under any circumstances if I close the door behind me when we get outside--he simply wheels around and puts his face to the door, waiting for me to open it. In order to get him to go outside, I must go ahead of him, the door must remain open, and as soon as he's done he runs into the house and flops down on his bed.
Our Vet has reassured me that I am probably the perfect person for Cyrus. Cyrus seems happy enough to be in what must seem like a very luxurious kennel here in the little house with me. He has one large dog bed next to my bed and one near my computer table. He and Roscoe (Melea's big yellow Lab) spends three or four days with us when Melea is at work or out for the evening and the two dogs get along swimmingly. Roscoe likes to lick Cyrus' face which sometimes sends Roscoe into an air-humping frenzy.
For the first four or five months Cyrus was with me I never heard him make any noise at all. No bark, no growl. But now if someone comes to my door, Cyrus sits up and barks very authoritatively. So I now have a very large guard dog in the house, and Roscoe is the guard dog that keeps anyone who doesn't know us from entering the property without an escort from either me or Melea.
So the crazy old woman has a crazy old dog and we comfort one another.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Part 1: The Back Story on " Squirrels In The Attic"
The squirrels have it coming. They started their invasion ten years ago. At least. At first I was preoccupied with other things, but I knew they were there. I could hear them at night. I would awaken at three to hear what sounded like bowling above my head. The chittering of squirrelly pick up lines. The scolding of young. I could hear them in the walls. Finally I worked up the courage to look in the attic and found that they had started tearing the insulation off the attic ceiling and had filled all my best boots with walnuts. And not just content with my boots and shoes, they had started to shred my old paintings. Motherfuckers!
After a month or so of cleaning up the mess they'd made, stripping off the rest of the insulation, sweeping up squirrel nesting sites, bagging over a hundred pounds of walnuts, I set traps. Humane traps. Expensive humane traps-- guilted into it by a friend. And as it turned out she also had a trap. I caught three. Tom had stopped by for a month or so, and while he was here he took the trapped squirrels away to release them elsewhere. Then he was gone, back to Costa Rica. And he'd barely pulled out of the driveway when the next family of squirrels on line for life in the big house moved in.
Then came my mother's final madness and with it my own. So dealing with the squirrels was more than I could handle what with the hallucinations. A year or two of changing the diapers of a eighty something year old infant who weighted more than I, had pushed me over the edge. A woman who fought with all her might to keep her poopie diaper firmly on her dirty butt, and who ran howling through the house and then hid her turds carefully in the dryer, Shhhh, it's a secret--well it captured my imagination and the rest of my senses and all my time. Old black men took up residence inside my head, and they sang (if you could call it that) gangsta rap of the vilest sort--not the sort of thing I had ever liked. I love the blues and these well dressed and dignified old black men looked like Blues Men. Gangsta Rap day and night. But it did drown out the sounds of the squirrels for awhile.
My mother was taken away by a friend of mine to a nursing home that would be, sadly, temporary, the day I went into the luny bin that last time. And when I got out, though I'm sure it didn't actually happen, I felt as if I had been lobotomized. And I suppose in a way I had. I do not remember shock therapy, but I couldn't swear it wasn't part of the treatment. But then wouldn't somebody have to have signed off on it? I did after all call 911 on myself. So wouldn't that be thought of as self-commitment? I remember signing nothing, but once they decided that I was psychotic, maybe they didn't need my permission to do anything. And would I remember shock treatments? Probably not. But when I did come out of the hospital, I was lost in a city as familiar as the map of grief etched on my own sad face. I mean lost close to home. Every trip involved taking a directory and street maps. This is a simple place in which to orient yourself directionally. The mountains are to the east. The Great Salt Lake and the Salt Flats to the west. And once you know that, the rest should just fall into place. I started having to re-memorize my place in this world. And I sunk into a depression I thought was going to kill me.
I was taking Depakote, and Geodone, and Zoloft, and Neurontin. But I was not exactly stable, unless a steady decline is called stable. My progress did all go in one direction. It wasn't so precipitous as to feel like I was tipping over, but each day I lost a little more energy and slept a little more.
The cottony sleep of the profoundly depressed is like the sleep of the enchanted. Like an evil spell cast to make you sleep for a hundred years. And when you emerge to pee and weep and drink some water, it's back to bed you go. I could sometimes hear the squirrels in the attic, but I hadn't the energy to deal in any effective way with them.
This was not intended as the definitive work on the invasion of the squirrels, but ten long years of cleaning up after them, and repairing damage they've done, and not being able to insulate the attic again, because why bother, they'll just tear the insulation down again. All the expensive shoes ruined, all the good winter clothes tossed in the trash after they tore it to shreds, and shit in everything. Do you notice the shit theme that is an undercurrent here? Oh god how I hate those squirrels.
After a month or so of cleaning up the mess they'd made, stripping off the rest of the insulation, sweeping up squirrel nesting sites, bagging over a hundred pounds of walnuts, I set traps. Humane traps. Expensive humane traps-- guilted into it by a friend. And as it turned out she also had a trap. I caught three. Tom had stopped by for a month or so, and while he was here he took the trapped squirrels away to release them elsewhere. Then he was gone, back to Costa Rica. And he'd barely pulled out of the driveway when the next family of squirrels on line for life in the big house moved in.
Then came my mother's final madness and with it my own. So dealing with the squirrels was more than I could handle what with the hallucinations. A year or two of changing the diapers of a eighty something year old infant who weighted more than I, had pushed me over the edge. A woman who fought with all her might to keep her poopie diaper firmly on her dirty butt, and who ran howling through the house and then hid her turds carefully in the dryer, Shhhh, it's a secret--well it captured my imagination and the rest of my senses and all my time. Old black men took up residence inside my head, and they sang (if you could call it that) gangsta rap of the vilest sort--not the sort of thing I had ever liked. I love the blues and these well dressed and dignified old black men looked like Blues Men. Gangsta Rap day and night. But it did drown out the sounds of the squirrels for awhile.
My mother was taken away by a friend of mine to a nursing home that would be, sadly, temporary, the day I went into the luny bin that last time. And when I got out, though I'm sure it didn't actually happen, I felt as if I had been lobotomized. And I suppose in a way I had. I do not remember shock therapy, but I couldn't swear it wasn't part of the treatment. But then wouldn't somebody have to have signed off on it? I did after all call 911 on myself. So wouldn't that be thought of as self-commitment? I remember signing nothing, but once they decided that I was psychotic, maybe they didn't need my permission to do anything. And would I remember shock treatments? Probably not. But when I did come out of the hospital, I was lost in a city as familiar as the map of grief etched on my own sad face. I mean lost close to home. Every trip involved taking a directory and street maps. This is a simple place in which to orient yourself directionally. The mountains are to the east. The Great Salt Lake and the Salt Flats to the west. And once you know that, the rest should just fall into place. I started having to re-memorize my place in this world. And I sunk into a depression I thought was going to kill me.
I was taking Depakote, and Geodone, and Zoloft, and Neurontin. But I was not exactly stable, unless a steady decline is called stable. My progress did all go in one direction. It wasn't so precipitous as to feel like I was tipping over, but each day I lost a little more energy and slept a little more.
The cottony sleep of the profoundly depressed is like the sleep of the enchanted. Like an evil spell cast to make you sleep for a hundred years. And when you emerge to pee and weep and drink some water, it's back to bed you go. I could sometimes hear the squirrels in the attic, but I hadn't the energy to deal in any effective way with them.
This was not intended as the definitive work on the invasion of the squirrels, but ten long years of cleaning up after them, and repairing damage they've done, and not being able to insulate the attic again, because why bother, they'll just tear the insulation down again. All the expensive shoes ruined, all the good winter clothes tossed in the trash after they tore it to shreds, and shit in everything. Do you notice the shit theme that is an undercurrent here? Oh god how I hate those squirrels.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Preparing the Poison as We Speak
What's a technicality like the season, when your poisoning squirrels in the Attic?
Friday, November 14, 2008
Marie Antoinette or Madame Defarge
You be the judge, but I think I more resemble the latter than the former. All I lack is a wine shop and some yarn. I have my knitting needles and have always thought of myself as a character out of a Dickens tale, like A Tale of Two Cities. And what could be more appropriate in this time of enormous contrast between the rich and privileged, and the very poor. All we lack is a gilliotine, and I'm starting to think it's time to bring it back. I'm ready to see some heads roll and I've been making a list. All I need is a front row seat. And yet, I have been given this lovely award--a portrait of Marie Antoinette to hang upon my wall. Hummm. How very revolutionary. Well Marie hold on to your head I'm about to pass you around. So instead of Chimpy's head I'll give Maries to the writers who have shared their own struggles against the Machine that is wealth and greed and gluttony unchecked.
From my lovely friend Liquid Illusion who sends me hilarious email when I'm sobbing and makes me laugh in spite of myself. Miss Liquid is so slippery she can't be categorized. She too may be a little Marie Antoinette and a little Madame Defagre
So to Dcup, who has written very movingly about the hardships of the "Housing Bubble" and "The economic downturn," and the "Credit Crunch" at about the same time John McCain was saying "The Fundamentals of the Economy are Sound"
And to Diva for just about the same reasons. Just as the "downturn" began her Big Soulless Travel Agency laid her off, and in the worst economic climate in my memory she took wings and began her own business. That takes real courage. We are survivors. Would we be this old if we weren't?
And to Freida Bee, for too many reasons to enumerate here, but mainly the poetry in her soul as she contemplates, motherhood, possible bisexuality, mathematics, and whether tis nobler to douche or not to douche. These are the questions.
To Susan she of the gorgeous raven avatar, from whose beak issue forth the most intelligent and thoughtful comments of anyone. Really. I'm quite emphatic about that. She is also an incredible artist and story teller. Go see her. You'll never be the same again. Now all I want to do is go on a cross-continental train trip fifty years ago.
To Non, Je Ne Regrettes Rien because she held her breath and leapt free of this sinking ship at just the right moment and now actually owns her own piece of the French Pie and I'm not talking Quiche
And to Dr. Zaius who just explained the flat tax crap to all of us today and who will probably get the Pulitzer for his groundbreaking work in Economics.
Fire In Paradise
I awoke this morning to news that Montecito is on fire. (The link is in the title.) If Montecito is on fire and the Santa Annas are blowing, it will quickly engulf the canyons and move with lightening speed up the coast into Santa Barbara.
First Love/Last Love (Tom) and I were living in his house at the top of West Camino Cielo in 1990 when the Painted Cave Fire struck. I had been working all day at Robinson's in La Cumbra Mall on upper State Street, a few blocks from San Marcos Pass Road, (highway 154), but had a tennis lesson after work at the tennis courts by Hendreys beach. While on the court, I noticed smoke off in the distance toward the foothills. I immediately cancelled the rest of my lesson and raced for my car. When I got to the base of San Marcos Pass Road, the Highway Patrol had blockaded the highway and would not let me pass. All they would say was there was a fire at Painted Cave on East Camino Cielo (we lived on West Camino Cielo). I told one of the patrolmen I needed to get home to rescue the cat. I didn't mention Tom--I figured he'd rescue himself--but I was worried. The Highway Patrolman told me I could drive up the coast and try the back way in. Which meant taking 101 to Gaviota, then Las Cruces toward the cutback to highway 246 to Santa Ynez, which intersected with highway 154 and was the back way to San Marcos Pass. Another blockade and another Patrolman who refused to let me pass even though I could prove I lived there. He told me the residents living on the roads off the Pass had been evacuated. I turned around and retraced my route back to Santa Barbara. By the time I got back, the fire had come roaring down the canyons and crossed the eight lanes of the coast highway and was burning parts of Hope Ranch which is where Tom's ex-wife and children lived.
The fire moved fast in the Santa Anna Winds, roaring down the canyon, but no one ever thought a fire would cross eight lanes of freeway. I was there just after the fire crossed the freeway heading into town and all of us came to a screeching skidding halt. Cars started backing up and trying to turn. It was chaos. I finally managed to turn and drive back into Golita to find a Motel for the night. I got the last room available. I was there a week. Tom was in Los Olivos. It took us two days to locate each other(this was the world before everyone had a cell phone). He came and stayed with me until we could go back up the canyon to see the damage. Dave the cat was fine.
His ex-wife's house didn't burn, and neither did his house up the mountain. But the trip from home to work and back was a grim, moonscape of ash. There was not a tree, or bush or bit of grass that had survived the fire as it raged down the canyon. It was an arson lit fire. It was the beginning of the end for us as a couple. But that had nothing to do with the fire. Merely the scorched earth that was our relationship.
First Love/Last Love (Tom) and I were living in his house at the top of West Camino Cielo in 1990 when the Painted Cave Fire struck. I had been working all day at Robinson's in La Cumbra Mall on upper State Street, a few blocks from San Marcos Pass Road, (highway 154), but had a tennis lesson after work at the tennis courts by Hendreys beach. While on the court, I noticed smoke off in the distance toward the foothills. I immediately cancelled the rest of my lesson and raced for my car. When I got to the base of San Marcos Pass Road, the Highway Patrol had blockaded the highway and would not let me pass. All they would say was there was a fire at Painted Cave on East Camino Cielo (we lived on West Camino Cielo). I told one of the patrolmen I needed to get home to rescue the cat. I didn't mention Tom--I figured he'd rescue himself--but I was worried. The Highway Patrolman told me I could drive up the coast and try the back way in. Which meant taking 101 to Gaviota, then Las Cruces toward the cutback to highway 246 to Santa Ynez, which intersected with highway 154 and was the back way to San Marcos Pass. Another blockade and another Patrolman who refused to let me pass even though I could prove I lived there. He told me the residents living on the roads off the Pass had been evacuated. I turned around and retraced my route back to Santa Barbara. By the time I got back, the fire had come roaring down the canyons and crossed the eight lanes of the coast highway and was burning parts of Hope Ranch which is where Tom's ex-wife and children lived.
The fire moved fast in the Santa Anna Winds, roaring down the canyon, but no one ever thought a fire would cross eight lanes of freeway. I was there just after the fire crossed the freeway heading into town and all of us came to a screeching skidding halt. Cars started backing up and trying to turn. It was chaos. I finally managed to turn and drive back into Golita to find a Motel for the night. I got the last room available. I was there a week. Tom was in Los Olivos. It took us two days to locate each other(this was the world before everyone had a cell phone). He came and stayed with me until we could go back up the canyon to see the damage. Dave the cat was fine.
His ex-wife's house didn't burn, and neither did his house up the mountain. But the trip from home to work and back was a grim, moonscape of ash. There was not a tree, or bush or bit of grass that had survived the fire as it raged down the canyon. It was an arson lit fire. It was the beginning of the end for us as a couple. But that had nothing to do with the fire. Merely the scorched earth that was our relationship.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Things You May or May Not Know About Me
Zack and Miri Make A Porno made me laugh, especially early in the film. It turns rather predictable about half way through. But a laugh's a laugh and there are damn few of them these days, so I take my laughs where I find them. It's not a great film by any means, but will probably become a little cult classic.
But what I loved most about it was that it brought back the memories from my sordid past. I have written extensively about my sordid past in my "fiction." But I have merely skimmed the surface. There are so many unwritten but related stories that just might make another book. I wrote about my brief career as an entertainment impresario of the mildly grotesque, but fascinating phenomenon of male strip shows durning the declining days of Dicso. Randal knows. That story is called Too Damn Big.
Within that story is another story called A Strange Woman. I actually rewrote A Strange Woman and Too Damn Big for Scarlet Blue. I named the female character Judith Blue, trying to get Scarlet's attention. Scarlet is a big warm strong light. She's nice to have around. I envy Fairlane a bit because he and Scarlet are close. But I'm grateful to him that she still has a voice there. I was very disappointed when she closed her site, The Invisible Woman.
Junior is the husband of Judith Blue and he is a professor at South West Missouri State, in Springfield, MO. I even thought the setting might be close enough to Scarlet's actual geographic location. Now I was not stalking Scarlet, exactly, more like throwing myself at her. And it worked for awhile. I think I might have scared her a little when I threatened to slit Progressive Traditionalist's (could there be more of an oxymoron?) throat right there in her living room when he got into a silly pissing contest with me about a short story Scarlet wrote. PT took to counting words to make his point and I pulled my weapon. I think I said something like, "Yo Mamma Motherfucker! Want to step outside?" He called me names. Well deserved and true, but stupidly obvious and completely unnecessary. I took umbrage. Shit happens.
Anyway, this little movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, reminded me of all the stories I have yet to write. I have barely begun to plumb the depth of my sordid past.
But what I loved most about it was that it brought back the memories from my sordid past. I have written extensively about my sordid past in my "fiction." But I have merely skimmed the surface. There are so many unwritten but related stories that just might make another book. I wrote about my brief career as an entertainment impresario of the mildly grotesque, but fascinating phenomenon of male strip shows durning the declining days of Dicso. Randal knows. That story is called Too Damn Big.
Within that story is another story called A Strange Woman. I actually rewrote A Strange Woman and Too Damn Big for Scarlet Blue. I named the female character Judith Blue, trying to get Scarlet's attention. Scarlet is a big warm strong light. She's nice to have around. I envy Fairlane a bit because he and Scarlet are close. But I'm grateful to him that she still has a voice there. I was very disappointed when she closed her site, The Invisible Woman.
Junior is the husband of Judith Blue and he is a professor at South West Missouri State, in Springfield, MO. I even thought the setting might be close enough to Scarlet's actual geographic location. Now I was not stalking Scarlet, exactly, more like throwing myself at her. And it worked for awhile. I think I might have scared her a little when I threatened to slit Progressive Traditionalist's (could there be more of an oxymoron?) throat right there in her living room when he got into a silly pissing contest with me about a short story Scarlet wrote. PT took to counting words to make his point and I pulled my weapon. I think I said something like, "Yo Mamma Motherfucker! Want to step outside?" He called me names. Well deserved and true, but stupidly obvious and completely unnecessary. I took umbrage. Shit happens.
Anyway, this little movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, reminded me of all the stories I have yet to write. I have barely begun to plumb the depth of my sordid past.
My Treat
Matinee Movie Thursday.
And we have fresh chocolate chip cookies to munch. Maybe munch isn't the best possible word to use here. I'll get back to you on that one.
And we have fresh chocolate chip cookies to munch. Maybe munch isn't the best possible word to use here. I'll get back to you on that one.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I have Baked Cookies with Love and Chocolate Chips
Oh yes I have. Chocolate chips and a cup of butter. UmmmUmm good! I filled a tin and included a little fun surprise. I must be full of the spirit of love as I have summoned a long long distance phone call from First Love/Last Love. Notice how I capitalized that? He was in the plane on the ground In Dallas or Houston, waiting to fly back to Costa Rica for a month. It used to be the other way. He'd fly to the states when he had to get his visa renewed. He's been living in Santa Barbara with his second wife, restoring her house, or so he says. I'm waiting for pictorial proof. Hi Judith. Hi Emily. Your dad and I had a lovely conversation about you. He sounds like a proud and happy father. He says you'll set him up with the pictures and a blogger account so he can comment. I encourage you to do the same.
The point of this little diversion into my past love life, is to prove that there was enough love baked into these cookies to prompt FL/LL to call before flying. I have eaten two of the cookies to make sure they are delicious. I have filled the cookie tin and put it in a box. And tomorrow before I go on a matinee movie date with Nick, I will mail the cookies to Phillip. I do love Phillip, though I have never met him. He is my blog mate and Administrator and taught me everything I know about computing. I know that many of you have tried to help me. But it's Phillip who is the patient teacher. And he can come onto my side of the screen and fix whatever's gone wrong. And in the process he alarms my old dog Cyrus who thinks there's an invisible man in the house.
I'm sorry Phillip, I was an ass. It happens. I wish it didn't. Ask my first boyfriend. He knows what an ass I can be. I don't have great impulse control sometimes and my timing is off. I'd promise never to be an ass again if I knew I could keep the promise, but sadly, I cannot. I didn't mean to hurt you, or piss you off or embarrass you, honestly. I'm thin skinned sometimes in the spaces between being fine and being not fine. And in those moments I blurt out things I wish I hadn't. I hope you'll forgive me.
The point of this little diversion into my past love life, is to prove that there was enough love baked into these cookies to prompt FL/LL to call before flying. I have eaten two of the cookies to make sure they are delicious. I have filled the cookie tin and put it in a box. And tomorrow before I go on a matinee movie date with Nick, I will mail the cookies to Phillip. I do love Phillip, though I have never met him. He is my blog mate and Administrator and taught me everything I know about computing. I know that many of you have tried to help me. But it's Phillip who is the patient teacher. And he can come onto my side of the screen and fix whatever's gone wrong. And in the process he alarms my old dog Cyrus who thinks there's an invisible man in the house.
I'm sorry Phillip, I was an ass. It happens. I wish it didn't. Ask my first boyfriend. He knows what an ass I can be. I don't have great impulse control sometimes and my timing is off. I'd promise never to be an ass again if I knew I could keep the promise, but sadly, I cannot. I didn't mean to hurt you, or piss you off or embarrass you, honestly. I'm thin skinned sometimes in the spaces between being fine and being not fine. And in those moments I blurt out things I wish I hadn't. I hope you'll forgive me.
Another Gem From My New York Friend
Hilarious account of your shopping exploits. I had to go to the local Fairway (aka embarrassment of riches emporium) a week ago today and aside from being joyfully teary all day my favorite anecdote is as follows:
I am doing the thorazine shuffle through the aisles with my fellow shoppers when I hear a boy ask his mother, "Why do we come all the way here to shop?", "Because," she says, "it's the only store that doesn't make me twitch." I crack up and she catches my eye, "See, she knows just what I mean." she tells her son. Oy.
Anyway - I see that you posted the Obama headline link. Oh how I love that. Makes me tear up still! But here is my current favorite.
Had to share it too.
xo~r
I am doing the thorazine shuffle through the aisles with my fellow shoppers when I hear a boy ask his mother, "Why do we come all the way here to shop?", "Because," she says, "it's the only store that doesn't make me twitch." I crack up and she catches my eye, "See, she knows just what I mean." she tells her son. Oy.
Anyway - I see that you posted the Obama headline link. Oh how I love that. Makes me tear up still! But here is my current favorite.
Had to share it too.
xo~r
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Mormon Controlled Businesses
The title of this post is the link for Mormon Controlled Businesses. Why do they have tax exempt status? Just asking. I found this remarkable link at the lovely Franiam's place. Thanks Fran. I'm like a thief in the night.
Am I crazy? Have I Ever Denied It?
I'm bipolar. Have I said that before? I think so. Probably a bit too often, actually. This is the danger time of year for me to have bipolar episodes. And forcing myself to interact out in the public in a time when I'm already pissed off that the day is gone in so few hours is almost more than I can bear. The actual onset of winter depresses me, and all I really want to do is lie in bed, but stuff needs doing. Not cookie making--I like cookie making. But in this particular point in the season, I grow melancholy. And in the transition from feeling fine to melancholy is a minefield of emotion like sparks and loud noises and lots of other irritable people, forced by the season to spend money they don't have. Property Taxes are due. Thanksgiving is almost here. Then Xmas. Sorry. That's how I feel about the holidays.
I forced myself today to maintain an inner calm and to be as kind to my fellow prisoners as possible. I went out of my way to help an old women (even older than I) find Rebocks at the department store that's going out of business. Then I helped her find someone to ring them up for her. The young woman who rung them up for her was sporting a spectacular display of ink on her neck. I complimented her on the beauty of this body art. And she told me her family owns a tattoo parlor in New Jersey. She proudly told me that she too was a tatoo artist, and showed me the canvas of her arm. A line of impatient shoe buyers formed behind us, so I thanked her and moved on. But I'd have loved to hear her story.
Off to the bra department relatively cheerful. That didn't last long. The cheerful part. Oh I remained kind to my fellow prisoners, but I hate the bra shopping experience and am always shocked by the cost.
Then up to bed linens and another pleasant interaction with a women looking for a particular sized and colored top sheet. Easily accomplished, I found what I wanted and went to the check out desk.
On the way out the door, an alarm goes off and a loud voice comes on the speakers telling me to go to the nearest check stand. It took me forever to find someone to tell me what needed clearing so I could leave this part of the prison that is the entire outside world to me. Life is hell. I don't know how you do it. You have nothing but my respect and admiration.
Then it was off to Big Lots! You can imagine how that went. At this point I was not the only cranky shopper. Lets have a round of scowls now. I did not find what I was looking for, but managed to spend near $100 anyway. Now this is a really bad sign. Spending money you don't have on shopping sprees is one in the constellation of symptoms that makes up the disorder called bipolar. Shopping with abandon is a symptom I can't afford. It's often the thing that brings a person with bipolar disorder to financial ruin and causes great stress and strain on families.
The last straw was the grocery store. Yes, I have what I need to bake cookies, and will do so with love in my heart, but I'll spend the rest of tonight recovering from the tantrums that went off all over the store. Not me, oh no I kept my cool, but children of all ages were having fits and their parents were having meltdowns and it was a bad time all round until I got the check stand. And I was able to do one last good deed for the day. I let the alcoholic lady with the cart full of Junior Mints go before me. She said, "Are you sure?" And I nearly got a contact hangover. But I smiled sweetly, I swear, and said, "It's okay, I'm not in a hurry."
And since I got home a couple of hours ago I've had three visitors. So I haven't had my news fix or my cup of tea. I haven't even unpacked my shopping bags. So for now, the doors locked, I'm not answering the phone and I'm resting.
Morning Light In the Little House and Things To Do
I have been up early finishing some bill paying, a bit of cleaning and list making. I'm getting ready to make my once (I hope) weekly trip to the stores. One of the few department stores I shop at (mostly due to it's close proximity to home) is going out of business--it's a sign of the times. They are one of the few places that sell bedding where you can buy single sheets rather than sets. They're having a sale, and it will be a long damn time before I buy more sheets, so before they close their doors, I will buy one top sheet, two king sized pillow cases, a new bra, some undies, and some winter boots.
While I'm in Sugar House, the location for this particular shopping trip, I'll go to Big Lots, to buy some cookie tins for mailing cookies to Phillip. (Since I have become your cookie making, care-package sending friend, you might want to tone down the snark a tad dear.)
And my last stop, out in the world today will be the grocery store to buy chocolate chips, more flour, more butter, and more organic vanilla for your cookie loving pleasure. Are you listening dear? I'll also try to find a box I don't have to buy to pack this care-package up for shipping.
Once home from this adventure, I'll spend what's left of the day baking cookies and getting Phillip's cookies tinned and packed and taken to Kinkos where they have a Fed Ex center for shipping these cookies to Phillip. So next time you have something harsh to say to me, please remember who bakes your cookies.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Take a Look at This
The link is in the title to this post. This came to me in an email from my smart young friend Rachel, who lives in New York.
Thank You My Dear Ms Liberality
Liberality, my favorite librarian, (sorry Randal--I hardly think of you as a librarian, but more a bon vivant. Must be the monocle) and a librarian who loves her job, unlike some librarians, one of whom I just called a Frenchy name, has been one of the most encouraging of blogging friends. Lib gave me my first award ever. Ever, ever. It felt like it was an Oscar, or a Pulitzer. Go ahead laugh. I don't care. That's just how it felt. Mythic, monumental, as if I had arrived at last. And now she's done it again. At that time I didn't know how to even pick up my award and bring it home--it took days and help from my IT friend to get it home. I knew so little I couldn't link or embed, or label or anything. My site was very primitive and slapdash. But with help from all of you, I'm learning a thing or two. And in this (almost) year of blogging Liberality has given me the bookends of two awards. First was the E for excellence in blogging, and now The Superior Scribbler Award. I can't thank you enough for this, and as I sit here typing, tears pool in my eyes at your kindness and generosity.
Along with receiving an award like this is the responsibility and pleasure of getting to pass it on to some of my favorite bloggers.
Dcup of Politits is the tits. Even before I'd ever heard of Dcup, I used that expression to call something great--"It's the tits." Her site Politits, tickles me just to say it. Like Liberality, Dcup is a wonderful writer and a generous blogger who gives even those we don't agree with the opportunity to share their views in a potentially hostile environment under her sheltering kindness. She's a better woman than I in that respect. She is also a blogger with the soul of a serious creative writer. She will publish a book someday. She may even beat me to it. And she's sensitive enough to know when an email is in order. I trust her to tell me if I've lost my mind and am writing gibberish. Unlike some of you. You know who your are.
Non Je Ne Regrette Rien is my favorite Expat. Her writing is superb despite her disclaimers. And she is chronicling her adventures in remodeling an old house in a village in France. When she gets all the hard work done, we should all drop in. She's doing what I wish I had done when I was young enough to have that kind of courage. She's taking pictures of the process, as well as writing about the details.
Dusty, of It's My Right To Be Left of Center, is one very ferocious political writer. I often look to Dusty to find the story no one else is writing about. And it's always something that needs a closer look. She is a collegial blogger, kind enough to host a site for those of us who want to work on new or ongoing creative projects. And she has great technical skills, and is willing to share her knowledge with those less skilled--like me.
Stella of Swiftspeech was my first reader willing to leave a comment. You can't imagine the thrill of that first comment. Her comments are often so intelligent and insightful they often deserve their own post. She read a bit of my fiction, and compared me to Dorothy Parker. You cannot imagine what a thrill that was. I had never read any Parker, but knew of her reputation as a wit and stature as one of the greats of her generation. Some day I want to gather with these women at the round table at the Algonquin. I'll wear red lipstick for the occasion. See you there Stella.
Diva Jood of Journeys with Jood, our own personal travel agent is also one hell of a political writer and a woman who shares her passion and her pain with us. She was our nominee for President and many of us were counting on her taking us with her to the White House. I had plans to be her Big Chief of the Supreems, but even though we lost this time, we are not giving up our ambitions for the future. And needless to say, we are thrilled with our rival's success. We like change, we like hope. And we will continue to scrutinize our government and try to keep it honest. yes, I am an optimist, and so is Diva Jood. She is a friend of mine. Here's to you Diva!
Linda Sama The Ageless Hippie Chick gave me the Rebel Grrrl Award. This was the validation I'd always wanted and I was 63 when it finally came my way. New to blogging, woefully under skilled in computing sense, and thinking my time was so far past--to find myself finally called The Rebel Grrrl and finally getting an award for it, make me feel hipper than hip. Linda is my fierce and righteous spiritual adviser. I can attest to the wondrous workings of karma. And since I did not skydive, learn to ride a Harley Fat Boy, get a tattoo on my ass before I reached fifty, I felt I was a bit of a fraud as a Rebel Grrrl. But that doubt lasted only a moment.
These are my sisters of the traveling pants.
There are so many other great bloggers that deserve praise and awards, but I can hear the music starting to play and the guy with the hook is waiting in the wings. Besides that, when these five get through passing out awards and they pass out awards, well... You know you'll probably be next. So start working on your acceptance speeches.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Check Out This Site
Change.Gov is the best sign of good things to come. I found this link at Big Yellow Forehead's place.
What Stella Said
Stella said...
On behalf of California, I apologize. We have a lot of non-Californians in our state that don't understand our culture and values. Of course I voted against banning gay marriage.
Attorney General Jerry Brown, who was our governor and may be running again in 2010, said that he would stand by the voters' choice, but anyone who got married when the California Supreme Court sanctioned gay marriage would continue to be recognized married. He was against the measure.
Ghost dancing is absolutely correct perhaps the issue of Church-State separation is what truly needs to be examined here. What got voted in were Christian values. Our Founding Fathers were Deists, particularly Thomas Paine, George Washington, and James Madison.
So, I am particularly angered by this proposition and consider the entire matter unconstitutional in violating the Fourth Amendment. The wonderful Margaret Cho stated: I am totally disgusted and furious that now there is a ban on gay marriage in California. So my happiness about Obama is tempered by my anger about Prop 8. Still, we cannot give up on the struggle. This is just a reason to fight harder to make gay marriage legal again. We can overturn the ban. We lost this by such a narrow margin. It was only a few votes. We could take it back.
I feel the same way.
There is already a lawsuit pending by the ACLU and LAMBDA, among others, appealing the vote. Last night, there were 3,000 people in the streets protesting the Yes on 8 win and strong support to overturn this mess: Numerous public figures have spoken out against Proposition 8, including President-elect Barack Obama, Vice President-elect Joseph Biden... It's not over.
And then Stella said this...
Blogger Stella said...
Last decent Republican:
At 85, after a life in politics spanning five decades (he retired from the Senate in 1987), Mr. Conservative has found himself an unlikely new career: as a gay rights activist. While that's not his sole pursuit – he returned to Capitol Hill yesterday to testify in favor of scenic overflights of the Grand Canyon – in recent years he's championed homosexuals serving in the military and has worked locally to stop businesses in Phoenix from hiring on the basis of sexual orientation. This month he signed on as honorary co-chairman of a drive to pass a federal law preventing job discrimination against homosexuals. The effort, dubbed Americans Against Discrimination, is being spearheaded by the Human Rights Campaign Fund, the influential gay lobbying organization.
"The big thing is to make this country, along with every other country in the world with a few exceptions, quit discriminating against people just because they're gay," Goldwater asserts. "You don't have to agree with it, but they have a constitutional right to be gay. And that's what brings me into it."
Her comments were in response to this post by me:
I'm furious that in a moment when we made history by proving to ourselves and the world that we have overcome our racism enough to elect a black President, we want to rescind the civil rights of gay Americans who live in California, a state we like to think of as progressive. I know there were several other states that passed similar measures to prohibit the marriage of gay couples, but they are not states with the reputation for tolerance and inclusion that Californian has. Rachel Maddow pointed out that there were also measures on many states ballots that made the use and possession of small amounts of marijuana legal. But not gay marriage. We are now more afraid of "the gays" having the same civil rights as the rest of America's citizens than we are of the pot smokers. We have a long way to go baby.
I remember a time when it was not legal for a black person to marry a white person in many states. This is no different an issue. It is an embarrassment and shame to all of us that we tolerate this kind of intolerance in our state constitutions.
On behalf of California, I apologize. We have a lot of non-Californians in our state that don't understand our culture and values. Of course I voted against banning gay marriage.
Attorney General Jerry Brown, who was our governor and may be running again in 2010, said that he would stand by the voters' choice, but anyone who got married when the California Supreme Court sanctioned gay marriage would continue to be recognized married. He was against the measure.
Ghost dancing is absolutely correct perhaps the issue of Church-State separation is what truly needs to be examined here. What got voted in were Christian values. Our Founding Fathers were Deists, particularly Thomas Paine, George Washington, and James Madison.
So, I am particularly angered by this proposition and consider the entire matter unconstitutional in violating the Fourth Amendment. The wonderful Margaret Cho stated: I am totally disgusted and furious that now there is a ban on gay marriage in California. So my happiness about Obama is tempered by my anger about Prop 8. Still, we cannot give up on the struggle. This is just a reason to fight harder to make gay marriage legal again. We can overturn the ban. We lost this by such a narrow margin. It was only a few votes. We could take it back.
I feel the same way.
There is already a lawsuit pending by the ACLU and LAMBDA, among others, appealing the vote. Last night, there were 3,000 people in the streets protesting the Yes on 8 win and strong support to overturn this mess: Numerous public figures have spoken out against Proposition 8, including President-elect Barack Obama, Vice President-elect Joseph Biden... It's not over.
And then Stella said this...
Blogger Stella said...
Last decent Republican:
At 85, after a life in politics spanning five decades (he retired from the Senate in 1987), Mr. Conservative has found himself an unlikely new career: as a gay rights activist. While that's not his sole pursuit – he returned to Capitol Hill yesterday to testify in favor of scenic overflights of the Grand Canyon – in recent years he's championed homosexuals serving in the military and has worked locally to stop businesses in Phoenix from hiring on the basis of sexual orientation. This month he signed on as honorary co-chairman of a drive to pass a federal law preventing job discrimination against homosexuals. The effort, dubbed Americans Against Discrimination, is being spearheaded by the Human Rights Campaign Fund, the influential gay lobbying organization.
"The big thing is to make this country, along with every other country in the world with a few exceptions, quit discriminating against people just because they're gay," Goldwater asserts. "You don't have to agree with it, but they have a constitutional right to be gay. And that's what brings me into it."
Her comments were in response to this post by me:
I'm furious that in a moment when we made history by proving to ourselves and the world that we have overcome our racism enough to elect a black President, we want to rescind the civil rights of gay Americans who live in California, a state we like to think of as progressive. I know there were several other states that passed similar measures to prohibit the marriage of gay couples, but they are not states with the reputation for tolerance and inclusion that Californian has. Rachel Maddow pointed out that there were also measures on many states ballots that made the use and possession of small amounts of marijuana legal. But not gay marriage. We are now more afraid of "the gays" having the same civil rights as the rest of America's citizens than we are of the pot smokers. We have a long way to go baby.
I remember a time when it was not legal for a black person to marry a white person in many states. This is no different an issue. It is an embarrassment and shame to all of us that we tolerate this kind of intolerance in our state constitutions.
The Sheltering Tree Is Bare
Only a couple of weeks ago the leaves on the green ash tree were brilliant gold. It is now a bare and fragile looking skeleton of a tree, towering over the big house. It takes several days to get all those leaves raked and bagged and carried to the curb for the city leaf pick-up. So we have one tree bare and cleaned up after, and about thirty to go.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Are You Ready For Some Football?
The official info on Roy Jefferson is linked to the title.
The young man I called the Washington boy, was really the Jefferson boy. Roy Jefferson to be precise. He and Marv Fleming were both Texas boys and both had football scholarships to the University of Utah. Roy and Marv were both handsome young men, smart, charming and kind. I had made a vow early in my high school days never ever to date an athlete or a frat boy. I stuck to my guns on that so I was always the friend of the girl who dated the athlete. Frat boys were beneath contempt in my book, so I wouldn't even have a girlfriend stupid enough to date a frat boy. But my only friend in early admissions who didn't live on campus briefly dated Roy Jefferson. Marv and Roy nominated her as the girl with the best legs and she was unanimously given that honor by the U of U football team of 1962. She was a ballet dancer.
Roy played for the Pittsburgh Steelers, the Baltimore Colts and the Washington Redskins. He played in two Super Bowl games. I think the first was a Colts victory over the Dallas Cowboys. Then there was a Super Bowl VII victory for the Dolphins over Jefferson's Redskins.
Roy married my friend,Victor Gordon's little sister, Candy, and I think she and Roy stayed married and raised a family. My movie matinee date, Nick emailed me to correct the record on Roy. I don't know why I thought his last name was Washington but I knew it was one of those early President's names. I never ran into Roy after he left Utah.
Getting Ready for the Next Storm
The Grape vines have been pruned, the roses too. Time to cut the remaining tall mint, take the gazebo furniture cushions to the storage shed behind the little house. Get as many leaves off the deck as possible. I'm hoping for a long enough stretch of time to let the deck dry to get a coat of linseed oil or Thompson's WaterSeal on it before it's too late. It might be already. It wouldn't be the first time I let winter slip up on me. I hate the preparation. I hate cleaning rain gutters, hate raking leaves, hate taking the cushions in because it means I have resigned myself to winter. No more evenings sitting in the gazebo, listening to squirrels and chickadees and crickets. Short days, long nights. Shoveling snow. Oh yes, I know how you sunbirds love the snow you don't have to shovel. But it's enough to break an old woman's back. If it's really deep and staying, I call the teenage girl across the street and she runs over to shovel for me. She's a most ambitious little entrepreneur, helpful and prompt for the right price. Good girl, Alex. It's nice to know you dear.
Ghost Dansing Left This Comment in Response to This
(Original post is linkied to Title)
Blogger Ghost Dansing said...
the arrogance of humans to think Caesar decides what is bound together in heaven and on earth.......
perhaps there is insufficient Church-State separation in the first place..... let the Churches marry, and the State takes license fees to establish civil unions for legal purposes for all its citizens.....
why should the State recognize the action of any Church? why should the State perform any function in lieu of a Church..... like marriage?
perhaps the State should deny corporate status to businesses involving gays? the Churches don't like gays, so perhaps the State should prevent them from having business licenses or forming corporations.....
are they not applying legal sanction to a social group because some Churches don't approve of them receiving the same equal rights under the Law?
what is marriage from the perspective of the State other than a contract between two people?
is the State recognizing a Religious sacrament? does a Church require the State to recognize a religious sacrament in order for it to be valid?
does God require a Church or the State to unite two people spiritually in heaven and on earth?
are there Churches that will marry gays?
if the State bestows on marriage a special legal status of contractual union, on what basis would that special status be denied a gay couple that was married in a Church.
or if the State insists upon performing Church ceremonies like marriage, to which Church's dogma will it comply?
perhaps the issue of Church-State separation is what truly needs to be examined here.
Blogger Ghost Dansing said...
the arrogance of humans to think Caesar decides what is bound together in heaven and on earth.......
perhaps there is insufficient Church-State separation in the first place..... let the Churches marry, and the State takes license fees to establish civil unions for legal purposes for all its citizens.....
why should the State recognize the action of any Church? why should the State perform any function in lieu of a Church..... like marriage?
perhaps the State should deny corporate status to businesses involving gays? the Churches don't like gays, so perhaps the State should prevent them from having business licenses or forming corporations.....
are they not applying legal sanction to a social group because some Churches don't approve of them receiving the same equal rights under the Law?
what is marriage from the perspective of the State other than a contract between two people?
is the State recognizing a Religious sacrament? does a Church require the State to recognize a religious sacrament in order for it to be valid?
does God require a Church or the State to unite two people spiritually in heaven and on earth?
are there Churches that will marry gays?
if the State bestows on marriage a special legal status of contractual union, on what basis would that special status be denied a gay couple that was married in a Church.
or if the State insists upon performing Church ceremonies like marriage, to which Church's dogma will it comply?
perhaps the issue of Church-State separation is what truly needs to be examined here.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Marv Fleming Was a Friend of Mine
Yes, that's right Randal, Marv Fleming. Five Superbowl wins! Greenbay Packers and the Miami Dolphins. I've linked the wiki site in the title of this post for those of you who are new to the geekatude of FOOTBALL as we so quaintly call the game of gladiators we know of as tackles, point guards, line backers and tight ends. Oh how I loved those tight ends. There was a Washington boy who grew up in the neighborhood who dated the little sister of another friend of mine when I was first at college who was also a Superbowl winner. Marv Fleming dated a dorm friend of mine, Mary... I'm sorry Mary, I just had a bowl and my short term memory is shot for the moment, but it will come back to me. Mary and I used to drive the little sissy girls in our dorm crazy by pretending we were lesbian lovers. She and Marv, who was going to school at the University of Utah on a football scholarship, were great dancers. They entered dance competitions and won prizes. He was a great guy and when I last saw him, about ten years ago in a bar in Salt Lake, he was charming as ever.
The Washington kid's first name escapes me now too, but he played for the Redskins and the Dolphins and had two Superbowl rings. He was, I believe, a wide receiver. One of those flashy players. The kind who cross that line and score. My third husband and I had two things in common--a love of football and great writing. We mainly watched football and then retreated to our corners for the serious reading. It was a strange marriage. But I won millions in monopoly money bets.
I did have the dream about the NFL Baby Farm. I was driving alone along one of those winding forest roads in the Willamette Valley of Oregon on my way home. And as I am a driver who speeds I came upon the taillights of a white van. It's back doors were not properly closed and as it went around a curve one door flew open and out rolled a bundle. I slammed on my breaks and managed to miss the bundle. I got out and discovered that the bundle was a baby a few months old. It was not crying and didn't seem hurt. I took it home with me and decided it was a fine baby and I would keep it. As I was unwrapping it I noticed, stitches here and there and healed scars. This was without a doubt the beefiest baby I had ever seen. And then the doorbell rang. When I opened the door with the baby in my arms, Rosie Greer said, "You have one of our babies. That baby belongs to the NFL Baby Farm."
Let Bigotry and Exclusion Ring
I'm furious that in a moment when we made history by proving to ourselves and the world that we have overcome our racism enough to elect a black President, we want to rescind the civil rights of gay Americans who live in California, a state we like to think of as progressive. I know there were several other states that passed similar measures to prohibit the marriage of gay couples, but they are not states with the reputation for tolerance and inclusion that Californian has. Rachel Maddow pointed out that there were also measures on many states ballots that made the use and possession of small amounts of marijuana legal. But not gay marriage. We are now more afraid of "the gays" having the same civil rights as the rest of America's citizens than we are of the pot smokers. We have a long way to go baby.
I remember a time when it was not legal for a black person to marry a white person in many state. This is no different an issue. It is an embarrassment and shame to all of us that we tolerate this kind of intolerance in our state constitutions.
I remember a time when it was not legal for a black person to marry a white person in many state. This is no different an issue. It is an embarrassment and shame to all of us that we tolerate this kind of intolerance in our state constitutions.
Changeling
This is the best movie in the old film noir tradition I've seen since Chinatown, by Roman Polanski. Eastwood has become one of our best directors. Every detail was perfect. And several performances were superb, but Angolina Jolie and John Malkovitch were terrific, inspired casting, and gave great performances. I loved the casting, lighting, costuming, set decoration, musical score and directing. The were no car chases, no special effects, not explosions, no sex, no nudity. So some of you may not think much of this film, but for old movie buffs it will be a treat. I'm thinking Oscar buzz. And if you're old and going to an early matinee on a weekday in Utah it's only $5. a piece. We smuggle in treats and drinks. I'm a good cheap date.
For more on this film click the title and you'll get all the Wiki details.
For more on this film click the title and you'll get all the Wiki details.
Matinee Movie Friday
Well, I've recovered from my medication screw up Tuesday night and am now as back to normal as I ever get. It isn't snowing, but it's cold. I must now face taking a shower in my cold bathroom. Even with the sun shining in my greenhouse roof, it hasn't yet warmed the room, but this is a look at blue sky and a few gold leaves on the glass above my head. I think we're seeing the movie directed by Clint Eastwood, Changeling.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Snowy Morning
This was what I awoke to November 5th, the day after the election. The solarium or greenhouse is open to the bathroom and technically the room is passive solar with a small electric heater built into the wall in the greenhouse. On a dark snowy morning, with the tile floor, and the south wall and ceiling of glass it's a bit of a shock. Early on a snowy morning it might be in the mid to high fifty degrees. But on a sunny morning it's lovely.
A Peaceful Frame of Mind
I am not peaceful. I'm relieved and thrilled that we have elected Barack Obama. I'm happy with his choice for Chief of Staff. I'm glad he's getting briefed and has learned from the mistakes of others about setting priorities for picking cabinet level posts. But I'm furious that BushCo is going to waltz out of town whistling Dixie on the way to a peaceful obscurity somewhere in the south, maybe somewhere without extradition laws.
I want all the war criminals to stand trial at the Hague and eventually to have that bunch of crooks do time--preferably at Gitmo, getting waterboarded every morning before a breakfast of whatever they hate most, with weevils. Forever.
Other than that, I'm completely in favor of peace.
Michelle Obama and the Fashion Police
Women don't seem to like Michelle Obama's choice for an election night dress. I have to admit it was a tad bit disconcerting to see our next First Lady in a dress that was so... We'll, I have heard it called "The Lava Lamp Dress," "The beam me up Scotty dress," "the these are the mommy parts dress." but so far, my favorite comment came from Phillip in a brief unsolicited email last night. I liked his comment best: I thought it was fabulous. She was on fire! When the sweater thing fell down, shoulder appeared ... wow! I hope she doesn't change.
So here is a review from the American Press:
If you click the title of this post you will see the Brit's response.
So here is a review from the American Press:
If you click the title of this post you will see the Brit's response.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Crazy or Just Euphoric
I'm out of my mind with joy. That's a bad sign if you're bipolar, but if your country had just pulled its head out of its ass for the first time in your memory you'd be euphoric too. Yes, I did forget to take my bipolar drugs last night. But the moment I figured it out this morning, way too early by the way, I took my antidepressant and half my missed dose of mood stabilizer.
I called Nick and told him my dilemma. We rescheduled our matinee movie day to Friday. And then I set my alarm for 2:00 so I'd make it to my doctor's appointment at 3:30. But I couldn't stop watching the news. So I fell asleep with visions of a happy world cellebrating our waking from the slumber of the profoundly stupid.
I somehow missed your emails of concern about the malfunctioning comments thingy until late in the day yesterday. I'm sorry that I didn't get back to you, but I was by then into watching returns with my breath held and tears streaming down my face. But I am moved by the kindness of bloggers. You are a very generous group of people. It seemed I wasn't the only blogger missing in action yesterday due to technical difficulties. Good thing I'm not paranoid.
I'm still unable to talk intelligently about what this election means to me. I think it's gong to be a sea change and not just because eight years of Dubya ruined us. We will be in for hard times. It will take time to turn this wildly off course ship of state around. But I believe we are up to the task.
And just in case I'm talking gibberish, I'll stop now and try to get to bed early tonight.
I called Nick and told him my dilemma. We rescheduled our matinee movie day to Friday. And then I set my alarm for 2:00 so I'd make it to my doctor's appointment at 3:30. But I couldn't stop watching the news. So I fell asleep with visions of a happy world cellebrating our waking from the slumber of the profoundly stupid.
I somehow missed your emails of concern about the malfunctioning comments thingy until late in the day yesterday. I'm sorry that I didn't get back to you, but I was by then into watching returns with my breath held and tears streaming down my face. But I am moved by the kindness of bloggers. You are a very generous group of people. It seemed I wasn't the only blogger missing in action yesterday due to technical difficulties. Good thing I'm not paranoid.
I'm still unable to talk intelligently about what this election means to me. I think it's gong to be a sea change and not just because eight years of Dubya ruined us. We will be in for hard times. It will take time to turn this wildly off course ship of state around. But I believe we are up to the task.
And just in case I'm talking gibberish, I'll stop now and try to get to bed early tonight.
It's a New Day In America
I was so exhausted last night I forgot to take my bipolar meds. So far from what I can tell this morning, it is the biggest win since sometime in the '60's. It's a landslide and that's what we needed to make it clear to those who were so opposed to "THAT ONE" that there will be no question of the legitimacy of this election.
For some reason, sometime yesterday Utah Savage was unable to leave herself a comment and neither apparently could anyone else. So with three posts up and zero comments on all three posts, I thought maybe you'd all decided you didn't like me anymore. I went visiting blogs everywhere looking for crowds and found them here and there, but not a soul at my place. Randal seemed to be missing in action, and so far this morning he still is. I hope Randal didn't get lost in the throngs of voters. Even Ohio voted for President Obama. Yea Randal. Now where is he?
You have to say this for McCain. That man sure can lose well. He seems to take more pleasure in losing than anyone I've ever seen. His most graceful moment of the campaign was his concession speech.
Tucker Carlson had a tantrum on Morning Joe--I'm usually not up early enough to catch the bully that is Morning Joe. But I did awake to a pouting, upset Tucker Carlson. Maybe he's really upset about all the weight he's gained since last we saw him, and is blaming his binge eating on THAT ONE.
It's 9:45 AM and I need a nap.
For some reason, sometime yesterday Utah Savage was unable to leave herself a comment and neither apparently could anyone else. So with three posts up and zero comments on all three posts, I thought maybe you'd all decided you didn't like me anymore. I went visiting blogs everywhere looking for crowds and found them here and there, but not a soul at my place. Randal seemed to be missing in action, and so far this morning he still is. I hope Randal didn't get lost in the throngs of voters. Even Ohio voted for President Obama. Yea Randal. Now where is he?
You have to say this for McCain. That man sure can lose well. He seems to take more pleasure in losing than anyone I've ever seen. His most graceful moment of the campaign was his concession speech.
Tucker Carlson had a tantrum on Morning Joe--I'm usually not up early enough to catch the bully that is Morning Joe. But I did awake to a pouting, upset Tucker Carlson. Maybe he's really upset about all the weight he's gained since last we saw him, and is blaming his binge eating on THAT ONE.
It's 9:45 AM and I need a nap.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
It's official
So lets party. I'm waiting for the speech. I missed talking with you today, but something happened at my place. One more little kink in the ever evolving thing that is the blog. I haven't been paying close attention to my email since I was glued to the tube. We can only talk like this because the moment I hear a cheer go up and Keith shut up, I'm dropping you like yesterdays apple pie. I made it. I'm not very good at making one of my favorite of foods. This is a failing I'm determined to overcome soon.
From one of my Republican friends
I can hear you saying, "She doesn't have any friends does she? But even if she did, would she have a Republican friend? Well, yes and no. We used to work together. He is a voice talent, and I was an actor, occasional voice talent, and make-up artist, and we had the same agent. We don't see each other anymore since I no longer work. But he knows I blog, claims he reads me, and this morning in my inbox was this gem.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Wasting Money in Utah
I don't understand the strategy or tactic of spending money on campaign ads in a State that is the safest bet for McCain in the nation. McCain is in more trouble in Arizona. And yet, night after night I see the Reverend Wright ad over and over. I have been robo called. And if pissing off mormon soccer moms is what your going for, then by all means interrupt dinner with a recorded political message. And if you're not aware of the Reverend Wright flap from the primary, and you are hearing about it now, you are a very low info citizen if you're a voter at all. And if you are that low an information voter, you will probably vote for the guy who doesn't make you feel stupid, and I'm guessing that would be the old man running with the hot babe who looks like Tina Fey. What's their names? Oh yea, it's the "not Obama" spot on the ballot where it says President.
The polls have now opened in some tiny town in New Hampshire called Dixville Notch. All the eligible voters have trooped into the only polling place in town several seconds past midnight, voted, had their votes counted, and Obama won this first round, and in traditionally Republican New Hampshire. It took all of twenty minutes, if that. I thought they loved McCain in New Hampshire? Oh dear. Well, we might not be up all night tomorrow. Wouldn't that be novel? The percentage of the win in the tiny town in New Hampshire that just voted hasn't been seen since the '60's. Or else I've started hallucinating. It might be time to call it a night, but I want to watch The Daily Show and Colbert. These are the really tough decisions.
Oh and by the way, Palin bombed on the SNL Election Eve Special. It was not a pretty picture. I heard the audience gasp.
The polls have now opened in some tiny town in New Hampshire called Dixville Notch. All the eligible voters have trooped into the only polling place in town several seconds past midnight, voted, had their votes counted, and Obama won this first round, and in traditionally Republican New Hampshire. It took all of twenty minutes, if that. I thought they loved McCain in New Hampshire? Oh dear. Well, we might not be up all night tomorrow. Wouldn't that be novel? The percentage of the win in the tiny town in New Hampshire that just voted hasn't been seen since the '60's. Or else I've started hallucinating. It might be time to call it a night, but I want to watch The Daily Show and Colbert. These are the really tough decisions.
Oh and by the way, Palin bombed on the SNL Election Eve Special. It was not a pretty picture. I heard the audience gasp.
Sweeney Among the Nightengales
| T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Poems. 1920. | ||
| 12. Sweeney among the Nightingales | ||
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| CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD |
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Drill Baby Drill
My dear friend Rachel who lives in New York sent this to me in an email. This is especially disturbing to anyone who lives near Canyon Lands. And should be of concern to all of you because it's one more way Dubya can help his buddies in the oil industry and fuck over the rest of us before he leaves office. He must be stopped. He isn't done screwing the American people yet.
Drill Baby Drill
Drill Baby Drill
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